When I saw Scott Lefton’s post, I froze. A wave of memory came rushing back with just a few words:

“Ralph’s still cutting hair.”

Ralph Clausner. My barber. Or more precisely — the man who gave me my haircut the morning of my bar mitzvah.

I hadn’t thought about that moment in decades. But suddenly I could see it clearly: the chair, the feathered center part, Ralph’s dark mustache, his calm hands. It was Oct. 17, 1981 — a Saturday morning — and I was sitting in the same chair that many Jewish boys in West County seemed to know.

And Ralph? He’s still working.

A haircut and a whole lot more

That Facebook post came from my friend Scott Lefton — and it turns out I wasn’t the only one holding on to this memory.

“Anyone remember Ralph the barber at Mosley Square? I wouldn’t be surprised if he literally cut the hair for every Jewish male in West County in the ’70s, ’80s and ’90s. I have just the best memories of going to Mosley Square to get my haircut as a kid… and of course, the Bagel Factory next door — I’d go get a salt stick afterwards.”
— Scott Lefton, Jews in the Lou Facebook group

Another commenter mentioned that Ralph was still cutting part-time at Creve Coeur Barber Shop. I had to find him.

Finding Ralph

I called. A man answered.

I asked for the manager. A woman came on. I explained: “A man named Ralph cut my hair in 1981 — the morning of my bar mitzvah. Is he still there?”

She paused, then handed the phone back.

“It’s for you,” she said.

It was Ralph.

More than just a cut

We started talking — about Mosley Square, the kids and the moms. And I realized Ralph wasn’t just my barber. He was part of something bigger — a quiet thread woven through Jewish childhoods in West County.

“If one Jewish mom finds out that you’re a good barber,” Ralph said, laughing, “you’re going to have a lot of other Jewish kids.”

No ads. No social media. Just synagogue-lobby word of mouth.

“They always meet — and they talk,” Ralph said. “That’s how it happened.”

The bar mitzvah cut

Bar mitzvah day became his quiet specialty.

“They’d come in all dressed up — and I figured it was something special,” Ralph said. “Sometimes the moms brought a photo. Other times it was just, ‘Pictures at 9 — don’t mess it up.’”

Most boys didn’t know what to ask for. The moms stepped in: “Just make it nice.”

Even if we didn’t realize it, those cuts were part of the ritual.

Mosley Square moments

Mosley Square wasn’t just a place to get your hair cut. It was part of the rhythm of Jewish life.

The buzz of clippers. The ding of the bell. The post haircut visit to the Bagel Factory. It became a ritual.

But inside, there was always chatter.

“Ralph always engaged genuinely with his customers,” said Scott Berzon of the Jewish Federation of St. Louis.

“What I remember most was our goofy banter and how he’d pull in commentary from Benny and John. Mosley Square Barbershop was always full of laughs.”

Scott also remembered Benny — the barber who worked beside Ralph.

“He had numbers tattooed on his arm. He was a Holocaust survivor,” he said.

“He told stories about cutting hair for Nazi soldiers. I used to think — one bad move and that could’ve been the end.”

Still working, still remembered

Ralph spent over 50 years at Mosley Square. Now, he cuts part-time in Creve Coeur, three days a week. But even today he finds himself at the center of multi-generational sittings.

“I’ve had David, his dad and now David’s son,” Ralph told me. “That doesn’t happen much anymore. But when it does, it means something.”

Newcomers felt it too.

“My son Daniel started seeing Ralph when we moved here in 2005 — he was just three,” said Nancy Lisker of the American Jewish Committee.

“He continued until he graduated. Ralph even gave him a free cut for his bar mitzvah. He’s the kindest soul and so good at his craft. I took Daniel somewhere else once — never again.”

When I asked Ralph what it feels like to be remembered four decades later, he paused.

“People said, ‘Go out west, make more money.’ But I said no. I’ve cut so many people’s hair — they’re friends now. I wasn’t starting over.”

Still working. Still part of the story.

Sometimes, a haircut isn’t just a haircut. It’s a thread — from mother to son, from generation to generation — and it runs quietly, steadily through the chairs of people like Ralph Clausner.