- Tate Yohe became an EMT at 24 and a barber at 31.
- He realized that his life's goal is to care for people, and both professions did that.
- Men are uniquely vulnerable in a barber shop, he said.
This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Tate Yohe, an ambassador with Wahl and producer of the Chairapy series. It has been edited for length and clarity.
Dinner table conversations in my house weren't typical. My grandmother was a nurse, my mom was a respiratory therapist, and my stepdad was an EMT. We often talked about the medical emergencies they'd seen that day, but I liked hearing their stories.
Still, I didn't want to get into medicine myself, so I went to culinary school after high school. Then, I joined my local volunteer fire department, and realized I liked the adrenaline of the work. By 24, I was a full-time EMT.
Being an EMT gave me a built-in community — my colleagues were my family. But my brother-in-law got sick with cancer and later died at 32. It was tragic, and for me, it blurred the lines between my work and personal life. I went to a call where a relatively young man died of cardiac arrest. Seeing his wife's grief reminded me too much of the pain my sister was going through. I knew it was time to step away.
Barber trips with my grandfather inspired my career change
I spent a year working odd jobs, like painting, security, and bartending. I searched my soul to figure out who I was when I'm not in an ambulance. I realized that my life's purpose is to take care of people.
I had such positive memories of going to the barber with my grandfather. There would be five or six guys hanging around and talking. It stood out to me that the barber shop was somewhere men gathered and created community.
The idea of touching people's hair grossed me out, but I still applied to barber school. As soon as I walked in, I felt at home. The smell of the talcum powder and aftershave transported me back to those days with my grandfather.
I'm the caretaker for a historic barber shop
To become licensed, I had to complete 1,250 hours of training. During that time, I realized I was learning a lot more than how to cut hair. My mentor told me that the haircut is only 25% of the service; the other 75% is making space for people to be seen and heard. As barbers, we're selling self-esteem. If someone leaves feeling better than they did when they came in, I've done my job.
After graduation, I worked in a barber shop with four other men. I was the youngest, in my early 30s, and the oldest barber was nearly 80. We would joke and learn from each other. The camaraderie wasn't too different from what I'd loved at the firehouse.
Four years ago, I had the opportunity to buy a barber shop that had been in business since 1928. I don't think of myself as the owner of my shop: I'm the caretaker. It was here long before me and will hopefully be here long after.
I used to hold lives, now I hold space
When a new person — usually a man — comes in for a haircut, I greet him warmly. Then, I open up the conversation with a simple "How's your week going?"
The shop's peacefulness sets my clients at ease. I've come to believe men need a third space — a place that isn't work or home, where they can talk about work and home. The barbershop is for my community.
While cutting hair, I hear the most incredible stories. My client, Christina, did multiple tours in Iraq, and my friend George served 17 years in federal prison. These people have such great perspectives on life that I wanted other people to hear their stories, too. I started a YouTube series called Chairapy to share their stories.
People don't need a YouTube video to feel seen or heard, however. That's something I can deliver when they walk into the shop. When I was an EMT, I spent most of my career holding lives in my hand — and too often watching them end. Now, I'm not holding lives, but I'm holding space for men to come in and talk about whatever's on their mind.
I'm still taking care of people, just in a different way.
