My wife was picking up her pills in the Port Ewen Pharmacy. I waited outside on Broadway admiring Sojourner Truth Park, which is across the street, next to Antonio’s Pizzeria. A cool November drizzle came and went. I was considering moseying across the street to admire the statue and read the plaque, wondering if I had time for all that. Just then, my wife popped out of the drugstore, took my hand and we proceeded to walk to the library, which is on the way home. They were holding our copy of Kung Fu, season III.

We passed a striped pole on a storefront and discovered a barbershop, which was open. The sign on the door read, “A1-Instructional Barbering.”

My wife said, “Have you ever been inside this barbershop?”

I took that as a hint, because my old haircut was overgrown. “Why don’t you get a haircut and meet me in the library when you’re finished.”

I said, “Okay. I guess you can browse.” We parted ways and I opened the door.

A tall, slim, well-groomed, brown-skinned man stood before me with straight posture. He was about my age, which is 72. He narrowed his eyes through his Malcolm X glasses and observed me with quiet intensity. It occurred to me that because I was white, I might be in the wrong barbershop. It did not matter. Soon I was sitting in front of the big mirror, reviewing haircuts from collages with white men, Asians, Africans and Latinos, but I couldn’t find one that suited me.

I said, “George, can you make me look like Elvis?” George wasn’t smiling.

“Do what you can with the pompadour,” I said. “I know there isn’t much to work with there, but where the hair is long, like on the sides, let’s go kind of rock ’n’ roll. Fenders. Not exactly Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos, but I think we can have a shape that resembles fenders. I am going to trust you to make me as handsome as you can, given what little you have to work with.”

I thought that I was being funny, but the humor was landing flat. It was like telling a joke to a professional comedian. “My customers are mostly firemen,” he said. (The firehouse is on the next block.) “And policemen. I have professional men. Doctors, lawyers.”

“Well. Let’s see what you can do with a retired salesman.” I took off my glasses and let the man work.

The radio was playing and we talked a bit about music. I must have said the magic word, because George’s mood went from taciturn to friendly as he changed the station and turned up the volume, just a bit. The singer was not Billy Paul, but the song was “Me and Mrs. Jones.” It was well-done and after we discovered together that it was just a good cover, from an unknown artist, George sang along, harmonizing in a beautiful falsetto. His vocalizing was cool and relaxed, and as natural as humming a fond old song. He was cool and unselfconscious, but every bent note was centered and his spontaneous composition was balanced. I was reminded of the Woody Allen movie where he discovers an astoundingly talented opera star who can only sing in the shower.

George has talent. He had grown up in Kingston, where his father had a horseback riding academy, but in the ’60s, George was an angry young man. He left home at 16 to become a drummer, and then a singer. He showed me his picture with Al Jarreau, the jazz singer. His recent hobby is making collages and he had many showing him with other musicians.

I was impressed, but considering his obvious talent, not surprised. Kingston is loaded with talented musicians and artists. We swapped stories. I too had some talent, but like him, not enough of it, not to mention the special combination of drive, ambition, determination and luck that it takes to make it as a professional.

The phone rang and he took the call. It was a customer on 9W who could be there in 10 minutes. It was a friendly and warm exchange from a repeat customer. It was obvious that George is a man who enjoys his profession, which I took as reassurance since I was trusting him completely with my hairstyle.

As the trimming continued, I heard insider gossip on my favorite soul music stars, like Marvin Gaye. I won’t share the shocking secret here, but George is a convincing storyteller, among his other entertaining talents.

We were looking at collages, digging the radio and talking about music like old friends hanging out when my wife came in the shop. I had forgotten about meeting her at the library. “I was wondering what could be taking so long,” she said.

My haircut was over. I got the usual double-mirror view and complimented George on his neat work, but really thought that he had not paid attention to anything I said about Elvis, pompadours, or fenders and sideburns. My wife said later, after I told her about my instructions, that if I looked like Elvis, it must have been when he was in the Army. Actually, I looked more like a cop or a fireman, which is not necessarily a bad thing, but not the style that I had ordered.

I took a couple snapshots of George and told him I might write an article about him for Kingston Wire. He stood at attention and posed with his serious, no-nonsense face. I hope he likes this.