Devonne Brown

Believe it or not, the eighty year old cash register on the hutch still worked. Yeah, it needed cleaning up and oiled real good, but the buttons pushed down and the metal tabs inside the windows popped up to tell you how much it was going to cost, up to ten dollars. The barbershop didn’t take more than a hundred dollars in one go. I’m sure the proprietors did take more than a hundred dollars at a time for other services, but that money wasn’t run through the cash register, and it was more than a hundred dollars. That money was collected and put in a paper bag. They didn’t make change and they certainly didn’t take coins, not for the extra services compensations. Bills only, the larger the better, people didn’t make counterfeit money so much back in those days, not in St. Albans anyway. 

The proprietor was my Dad. He worked with his best friend who became a Senator and millionaire.

When I pushed down upon the button that opened the drawer for change and dollar bills in the cash register, the smell of the barber shop wafted right up to my nose. The aroma of shaving cream, aftershave, and snips of ancient fresh cut hair lingered in the bottom of the drawer. 

Somebody decided to paint the lead cash register with a very thick coat of mint green paint that’s peeling off. It matched the barber shop. Everything that couldn’t move was that color green, except the sinks and mirrors. My mom was probably responsible for that decision. She was always decorating something. Heaven forbid anyone got in her way.

Dad had to trade it up for a cash register that took more than ten bucks a wack fairly quickly after acquiring the shop and repainting everything, but he kept the antique. I got the register via the scenic route after he died. Believe it or not, it still works.