I had, the other day, the need for a haircut – an event that is becoming less and less an occasion with each passing year – an stopped by the local barbershop for a trim. Now, for the male population of a small town, the local barbershop is, for all intents and purposes, the equivalent of a day spa; a place to be pampered (or at least the grizzled male version of pampering) and to discuss the important issues of the day – the fate and future of the local sports team, the weather, crops, the market (farm, not stock), and the general competence (or lack there of) of various and sundry notables.

Now, while waiting for the number 2 chair – general barbershop etiquette, one would never presume to occupy the number 1 chair for just a “sides & back” trim – I had the chance to observe that solemn male ritual of the barbershop shave. Now this is no scrape the foam off with a multi-bladed techno-marvel kind of shave, this is soap and lather, hot towels, cold steel and steady ands kind of shave; there is the scent of danger here, an element of suspense when, at that first critical moment when 4 inches of keen edged surgical steel starts its initial glide down the cheek, conversation quiets in tribute to and recognition of that briefest moment of panic that lights the customer’s eye before fading into contentment as the steel safely starts its downward journey.

That moment of panic, however fleeting, found a echo in my memories – there reflected in those few milliseconds, was the essence of my state of mind during the initial days of my practice. From what had seemed like a good idea moments before the key was put into the lock and the rubicon was crossed now had morphed into  doubt cascading over dread, roiling over uncertainty – exhilaration, calamity, wonderment and elation all warring for recognition, for resolution – leaving an intense rawness behind that has faded into the contentment of a journey safe begun.

A fundamental difference between a small town and a small city is that small towns, regardless of their population, still have courthouses whereas small cities, in their hurry to morph into bedroom communities for some urbane metropolis, have justice centers.

Justice centers are grand buildings, integrating glass, steel and stone into a monument  to bureaucratic judicial efficiency providing one stop shopping for all things legal from the sheriff to the recorder and from the courtroom to the jail cell. These are places designed  for those who assume that the efficiencies of consolidation & modernization make up for chronic underfunding. Here there is a cold sterility to the environment that seems to make courtesy appear artificial and channels the mass of humanity that enters its walls into tired, well-worn roles.

Courthouses, on the other hand, are quiet buildings sitting in silent dignity on the edge of the town square; more cathedral than monument. Newer buildings housing the sheriff, the recorder and the jail sit, like handmaidens, behind and to the side. Courthouses were built out of pride and are maintained out of tradition. There is a warmth within those weathered walls and worn and paneled walls that encourages courtesy – more as an act of devotion than a gentile gesture – and welcomes those who enter.

Recently I’ve had similar matters in both a small city justice center and a small town courthouse. In the former, the matter was concluded in a matter 10 tense minutes – a business transaction handled in the crisp efficiency only a streamlined & work-flowed process can provide. In the later, the matter took about twice as long, but along the way, I got caught up on what’s new in town, the weather, and the health of a friend’s dog. Both matters were billed as fixed fees, only one made me glad to have put on my lawyer suit that day.