Figaro in Wonderland

“In some areas,” said Barber Bert Oakley, “my new shop would scare the trade away.” But not in fashionable Westwood, a Cadillac’s spurt away from Hollywood. With searchlights, clouds of soap bubbles, and a few cinemactor customers (Allan Jones and Pat O’Brien) to give it atmosphere, the grand opening of “the world’s swankiest tonsorial parlor” last week drew thousands of spectators.

What they saw through the purple glare of the neon signs more than warranted Oakley’s remark. In the yellow-floored, blue-walled shop were 20 barber chairs upholstered in pastel-blue leather. Behind them stretched long strips of mirror topped by germ-killing lamps. Above each chair, from the sound-proofed ceiling, shone a spotlight. On the small pink-&-blue mezzanine in the rear there were two more chairs for children, surrounded by giraffe-shaped palm pots.

Done with Air. Barbers, nattily dressed in white poplin smocks and two-toned shoes, showed off such innovations as electric clippers attached to cords which pulled back into wall cabinets when not in use; air hoses to blow off bits of clipped hair; and swinging “rumble seats” attached to the customers’ chairs on which the barbers sat while clipping. On request, porters wheeled carts loaded with tonic bottles from chair to chair. A phonograph played hit tunes; portable telephones could be plugged in anywhere. Just inside the plate-glass doors, Oakley proudly flicked the switches of an intercommunication system through which he could converse with the occupant of any chair.

Dapper, graying, 46-year-old Bert Oakley sold out his shop in Salt Lake City in 1928 to move to California, settled in

Westwood when it was just an ambitious real-estate scheme superimposed on a field of lima beans. He sank his last $450 in a two-chair shop.

Done by Reaching. As the community expanded, Bert moved along with the rest of Westwood’s small businessmen. He added a few more chairs, expanded again to 14 after a customer pointed out one day that six millionaires were at that moment sitting in his chairs. When his son came back from service and took over the operation of the shop, Bert began building his $162,000 dream castle across the street. He thought up most of its fancy gadgets himself, had them custom-made.

Most of Bert’s competitors shake their heads over such an outlay and predict a crippling overhead. But Bert and son are satisfied. Last year they netted $21,000; they hope that the new shop, charging regular prices, plus a branch to be opened at the new Los Angeles Municipal Airport, will boost 1947’s profit to $30,000.