Barbershop Duet : In 2 Chairs at Tommy’s Barber Shop, Patrons Get Trim in Traditional Style

For Tommy Ronga’s customers, one of life’s certainties is a clean shave around the ears.

Whatever happens to the stock market, whoever wins the pennant, a man knows that he will not leave Ronga’s chair with a sloppy neck, shaggy eyebrows or hairy ears--nor will he look much different than he did when he last left Tommy’s. Only the world might seem changed--colder, faster--after a visit to his barber.

If this seems old-fashioned in an era of quick-cut style salons, it is. But a Saturday visit to Tommy’s Barber Shop in Van Nuys makes it clear why old-time shops persist, both as temples to the neat-and-clean look and as informal men’s clubs that go out of their way to stay the same.

To the untrained eye, Tommy’s looks unassuming to the point of shabbiness. Its no-frills atmosphere keeps prices down--$8.50 for a regular haircut, $8.50 for the luxury of a hot-towel, hot-lather facial shave.

Situated on a stretch of Victory Boulevard where bail bondsmen rub elbows with tattoo artists, the shop is marked by the obligatory barber pole and by a sign advertising specials for senior citizens. Faded glass beads frame its window, remnants of an effort at pizazz--an effort extending to the bullfight paintings inside and the posters of Elvis bursting his studded jump suit.

Otherwise, little has changed in the 25 years since the shop opened or in the six years that Ronga, a native New Yorker with 30 years in the barber trade, has owned it.

Muzak tinkles constantly from a radio. The air smells warmly of talc and Lilac Vegetal after-shave. Throughout the day, a red Leatherette waiting couch fills, empties and fills again, mostly with Ronga’s regulars or those of Al Kern, who recently joined Tommy’s after his own 40-year-old shop was torn down.

Ronga, 59, and Kern, who prefers to keep his age a secret, look alike in white shirts and knit pants that spill over their shoes. Both have salt-and-pepper hair (they cut each other’s), but Ronga is as short as Kern is tall, and his sunny chatter contrasts with Kern’s melancholy air. Both men greet their regulars like family.

“Hel-lo, Mr. Sorrentino!” Ronga says, whisking a yellow smock over a silver-haired man. “Been behaving yourself?”

“Course not,” replies Joseph Sorrentino, 73, a Sherman Oaks writer. “What fun is that?”

Kern, who has been twirling idly in his own chair, climbs out for a bearded customer in work boots. “Warmed it up for you, Don,” Kern says as Don Oliver, a 49-year-old engineer, settles in.

The barbers set to work with comb and scissors, stooping, thrusting their stomachs out, circling and squinting through sliding bifocals. Shampoos cost extra--and are rarely requested, whereas Old World amenities--a clip of nose or ear hair, a razor shave around the neck--are free.

Several more men arrive, with general greetings, to peruse magazines that are time-honored barbershop fare: Playboy, Penthouse, Superman comics, an ancient National Geographic.

Tom Cincinelli, 25, who works at Payless Shoesource down the street, admits to visiting Tommy’s once a day to talk sports. Today, he’s waiting for a haircut.

Meanwhile, Ronga and Sorrentino discuss their families, their health, Italian food. Kern and Oliver drift from football to weight--how much they’ve weighed, how little, Kern’s voice a subtle buzz above his clippers.

‘Doctor of the Shears’

Not one word has been exchanged about hair, no orders given as to length or style.

“I trust Tom,” says Sorrentino, who has placidly removed his glasses. “He’s the doctor of the shears.”

“You watch,” Ronga agrees. “I’ll make him a movie star.”

“That’s Tommy,” Cincinelli says from the sidelines. “In a bum, out a movie star.”

Oliver interrupts to say that Kern has cut his hair the same for 20 years. Oliver followed Kern from his old Van Nuys shop, the Flamingo, to Tommy’s “because I like things to stay the same. If it works, I keep it.”

“Men are like that,” he says philosophically. “More risky than women in business, more conservative in life style.”

‘Little Village in Big City’

A favorite topic has been raised and, soon, all present voice opinions on the differences between the sexes. The conversation extends to barbering (Ronga: “I hate to say it, but women are ruining this profession”) and evolves into praise for a place where men can talk, uninterrupted, to other men.

“Coming here is like walking into a friendly pub,” says Sorrentino. “It’s a little village in the big city.”

Ronga shakes his head, lathering Sorrentino’s neck. “In the old days, barber shops were real hangouts. Now . . . we’re a dying breed,” he laments.

Whether barber shops truly are dying out is a matter of debate. According to Lorna Hill, executive officer of the state Board of Barber Examiners, the ranks of licensed barbers have remained relatively constant--from 20,000 to 22,000--over the last 20 years. In the last dozen years, however, the number of licensed barbershops has dropped from 7,500 to 6,500. The same period has seen styling salons increase--from 17,500 to 23,000, says Jeff Weir, program analyst for the state Board of Cosmetology.

“I bet three-quarters of the guys I went to school with are working other jobs now,” Ronga says.

Kern agrees. “When I started 24 years ago at the Flamingo, customers took a number. We had to lock the doors to get ‘em out.”

Now, says Ronga, with rising rents and competition from salons, “barbers are lucky to keep their heads above water.”

Ronga, a second-generation barber, adds: “I wouldn’t want my own son to do it.”

He acknowledges, however, that the satisfactions of barbering go far beyond one’s earnings. “There’s a pride to it. You do your job; people go away happy.”

Often, he is called on for advice, or plain sympathy, when a customer has a problem. Says Ronga: “They’ll tell me, ‘Tommy, you’re a good man.’ Naturally, I like to hear that.”

Ceremonial Nature of Work

He also enjoys the ceremonial nature of his work, especially during a service that many old-school barbers have dropped--the shave.

Late on Saturday, Corey Clark, a semi-retired Van Nuys taxi driver, climbs into Ronga’s chair for one. A special headrest is produced and Clark, eyes closed, is tipped back into full recline as Ronga whispers: “Hot towels are being prepared. . . .”

During the next 20 minutes, in ritualistic order, Clark’s face is patted with Noxzema, wrapped in towels, lathered and stroked with a straight razor, toweled again, moisturized, then massaged to get the blood going. Under Ronga’s careful ministrations, Clark falls into a light sleep.

Ronga steps back, folds his arms and smiles. “This is what a man needs--you see? This is my reward. The man is happy.”