Loyalty had a big part to play in the longevity of the career of Tipperary barber

I went to meet Adrian Logue in his shop, a permanent fixture on William Street in Clonmel for more than half a century.
I scan the street and the red and white barber’s pole provides the beacon I need. As I arrive I notice the sign above the door says, ‘Adie Logue’.

HIGH STOOL
I would soon discover that anyone and everyone who knows Adrian calls him Adie. As I enter he’s seated on a high stool reading a newspaper and I can’t help but wonder if this man, who looks like he’s in his late fifties, is really who I’m looking for.
Looking over the top of the paper he greets me with a hello and an appraising look until I introduce myself. “We spoke on the ’phone, I’m here to have a chat about the Elders of Clonmel book.”
“You’ll have to drag me screaming” is his first comment and so our chat begins, only to be interrupted by the arrival of his first customer of the morning.

“Where were you last week?” the elderly gentleman asks. Adie throws his hands in the air and points at the several bright yellow signs placed strategically around the shop.
“I'm just back from holiday, a week away,” he exclaims. “In March I put up seven of these signs but you might as well be idle, no one noticed them, not even the one on the mirror in front of them.”

He stabs his scissors towards the sign stuck to the mirror proclaiming the shop closed for the last week in June.
“I close on Thursdays, the old traditional day in Clonmel, and on Sundays, and still they turn up on Thursday morning wondering where you are. You’re wasting your time talking to them. Those signs go up every year and every year they ignore them.”

DANCE
Adie casts his hands up to heaven, “wasting your time”. I get the impression that it’s all part of the dance between him and customers who have been coming to him for 50 years.
I take a seat on the brown leather L-shaped couch in one corner and wait listening to the chat flow.
Holidays, racing, rugby, especially rugby. It lights the air as he talks and there’s no mistaking the passion in Adie’s voice.

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CUSTOMER
I notice that he works without asking what the customer wants. It’s clear he already knows but 55 years in the business will do that. The Tipperary Minors’ All-Ireland win the weekend before makes an appearance, too.
The scissors clip with a reassuring rhythm and the chat continues with a mixture of good-natured banter and general holiday discussion.

I note the corded muscle of Adie’s forearms, clearly defined from decades of repetition, thick wrists, hands steady and sure, as he takes the electric trimmer from its station on the tiled wall in front of him and deftly sculpts a hairline without letting the conversation drop for a second.

RUGBY CONNECTION
A quick glance around the shop confirms the rugby connection. A mirror, emblazoned with the Munster rugby crest, a gift from Tony Cronin R.I.P., sits above a console table on which rests a Clonmel RFC donation bucket.
There are numerous sepia-tone photos of rugby teams and one prominent in black and white in which there is no mistaking a younger Adie, beaming out with his comrades.
He finishes with his customer and I declare that I need a trim so he ushers me to the chair. I open the conversation saying, “The theme of this year’s book is about what your passions are and what still motivates you and brings you joy. Rugby seems to figure quite highly.”

Adie smiles, “Yeah, I played a lot of rugby. I used to play with Clonmel and then Tipperary back when there were county teams. I played for Munster too.” The casual way in which he absently mentions playing for Munster catches me by surprise.
“Munster, that’s impressive!” is all I can muster in response, before adding, “you certainly haven’t lost the physique.” Adie still has a commanding presence, strong broad shoulders and an energy that belies his 72 years.
“How did you wind up as a barber?” I ask, “with something like that in your locker, so to speak, and after all these years, what keeps you turning up every day?”

UNCLE
“My uncle died in a car accident and my grandmother wanted one of us to take over the business,” Adie says wistfully. “So I was taken out of school, because you did what you were told in those days. I thumbed out to Cahir to a fella called Patsy Gregg, who trained lads from all over the country.
I explained the situation and he took me on and so I thumbed in and out to Cahir every day for three years. I would have worked in both Rockwell and St Joseph’s, Ferryhouse, during my time training,”
I comment that thumbing was easier then. “Oh yes, I was 14 or 15 years of age but you had no choice,” he replies. “No one had a car. My own father rode a bicycle. When I told my two daughters that they looked at me like I had two heads.” He laughs.

“I qualified when I was 17.” He gestures towards the door. “The shop used to be there, where that wall is, next door in the house. When my grandmother heard the scissors or the machine going it was as if he was still there, her son who had been killed. For her sake I was glad I did it and that’s how I became a barber.”
When I ask what keeps him motivated Adie replies, “You can’t let people down.” I see that there’s a loyalty to his customers and as I do I'm gaining a clearer insight into the man standing behind me as he clips away at my hair.

LOYALTY
“There are lads who have threatened me,” he says jokingly, continuing in a gruff imitation of one of his regulars. “Don’t you ever retire,” he growls, before asking “Why?” with feigned innocence. He answers himself in the same growl, “Because I’m not going down the town to any of those other feckers.”
I prompt that the loyalty is a two-way street. “It is,” he replies. “There are a couple of my older customers who are in nursing homes and I do house calls to them. I wouldn’t do it for everyone but for them it’s different. I’ll never retire. I might cut back a bit though. I can’t attend Clonmel Rugby Club anymore since the team is now senior and all matches are on Saturdays.”

SATURDAYS
I ask if that’s because he’s working in the shop on Saturdays. “Absolutely, but things are way quieter now than they used to be so I might start taking a half day,” he says. And there it is again. The love of rugby is the only thing that might tempt Adie away from his chair and his customers.
I ask if it’s because there are so many barber shops in Clonmel now. “I suppose it is,” Adie pauses before continuing. “People might think that as long as there is new business opening in the centre of town it’s all great, without wondering what another barber shop might do to existing barbers who have been there for years and paid all their dues.”
It doesn’t sound like a complaint as Adie says it, more of a statement of fact, and again there’s a sense of reciprocal loyalty in his views, a statement that businesses take care of the town and so the town should take care of them in return.

TEAM
I’m reminded very much of someone who still sees himself as part of a team with all the interdependency and a sense of duty and loyalty that teamwork requires.
“I’m in St Mary’s Choir too.” Adie throws that into the conversation as though the juxtaposition is a natural transition.

TENOR
I ask if he’s a bass or baritone, making the assumption that his deep, round voice would find a home there. “Oh tenor,” he replies quickly. “I’ve been at it now for about 12 years.”

CHOIR
I say that 12 years is a good innings. “Oh God no,” he replies, “There’s some members in the choir over 50 years. But it’s great craic, especially if someone makes a joke just before we start singing and you’re cursing them trying not to laugh and getting that particular look from the conductor or organist. We often meet after practice for a sing-song in Carey’s bar.”
Our conversation stretches on, well beyond one of the best haircuts I’ve ever had, with advice on what to ask for when getting a haircut or dealing with the more challenging customers, “Just ask, with a smile, ‘What can I do for you?’” Adie recounts many more stories about the customers, the banter, the real characters and a half century of Clonmel life.

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HEALTH
“I’d like to thank my customers for all their loyalty over the years, especially during the six months where I had to close because of a cancer diagnosis,” he ends simply.
The door opens and another older gentleman steps in asking, “Where were you on Saturday? I came down and the shop was closed.” Adie just throws his hands skywards and that’s my cue to leave. As I pay him I let him know I’ll be in during the week with a first draft. “Probably on Thursday,” I call over my shoulder as I leave. Adie gives an eye roll and laughing, turns back to the customer saying, “Can’t you see the fecking signs?”