Joe Morais’ wispy white hair fell just over his ears as he settled into the leather chair at Senior Citizens Barber Shop. He’d come down all the way from Windham, as he has every six weeks or so for who knows how long, because … why?

“He’s the only one who cuts it,” Morais said while Norm Millette moved in with his scissors.

Meaning there’s no one in Windham who can give Morais a quick trim without all that driving?

“I don’t know,” he replied. “I’ve never tried anybody else.”

Fifty years ago today, at the tender age of 24, Norm Millette opened this timeless shop at 664 Congress St., directly across from the landmark Joe’s Smoke Shop in downtown Portland.

Now 74, Norm’s still here. And business, if Thursday’s line was any indication, is still booming.

Make no mistake about it. This is not one of those appointment-only men’s “salons” with the hour-long sessions that include a trim followed by the neck-and-shoulder massage and oh by the way, would you like a wine cooler or mineral water while we blow dry?

This is, was and always will be a barber shop. Where you walk in without calling ahead, take one of the half-dozen seats lining the walls and wait for Norm to snip his way down the line — at a rate of one head every 10 to 15 minutes — until eventually it’s your turn.

Over there by the window sat Curran Candage, 19, with a big scalp tattoo behind his “shadow on the sides with a little on the top” and two-and-a-quarter-inch-wide hoop earrings set inside each earlobe. (Yes, you read that right — what’s left of the lobe stretches all the way around the hoop.)

Then there were Paul Murphy and David Mason — actors up from New Jersey and Brooklyn, N.Y., respectively, to perform in Portland Stage Company’s upcoming “Trouble is My Business.” The Raymond Chandler/Philip Marlowe adaptation, Murphy explained, requires “1940s-style” haircuts.

Did someone say actors?

“The butler did it!” exclaimed Norm.

Replied Murphy, whose multiple roles actually include the butler, “I can tell you right now — no, he didn’t.”

Chuckling along with everyone else was Tim Tarbox of Buxton. He just turned 50 in September — meaning when Norm cut his first head of hair here, on Jan. 20, 1962, Tarbox was all of four months old.

“I like the simple haircut,” Tarbox said.

Don’t they all.

They come, as many of their fathers and grandfathers did before them, not just for the haircuts — still a bargain at $11 (or $9 for seniors and kids).

They come for the endless banter. And the political debates. And the jousting between Red Sox diehards and the occasional Yankees fan.

And if everyone’s in agreement, not to worry. Norm will happily take the other side.

“Just to get ’em riled up,” he said.

More than anything, though, they come for the stories.

There’s the one about the shop’s name — it was called “Longfellow Barber Shop” until one day in the late 1960s when the lady from the Yellow Pages called to renew Norm’s ad.

With all the hippies growing their hair long those days, Norm told her, “I want to put in that we cater to senior citizens.”

“You can’t do it,” she replied.

Norm proposed a few alternatives. But with each one, she repeated, “You can’t do it.”

Finally, the Yellow Pages woman said, “Let’s start all over. What’s the name of the shop again?”

“Hmmm,” said Norm. “Senior Citizens Barber Shop.”

“When did that change?” she asked.

“A few minutes ago.”

Then there was the day when a teenager named John came in with his buddies and, despite Norm’s repeated pleas, refused to sit still while Norm applied shaving cream around the boy’s ears and neck for a little tidying up with the straight razor.

“He’s moving his head all around and talking to everyone,” Norm said. “And I’ve got to shut him up for a minute here.”

Norm turned to the sink and held the razor for a few seconds under piping-hot water.

“John, don’t move!” he said as he turned back around, flipped the razor over to its dull backside and slowly drew it across the side of John’s neck.

“You slit my throat!” screamed a horrified John.

“Not yet,” replied Norm. “But I’m working on it!”

“Thank God he didn’t have a bad heart,” Norm recalled as the shop rippled with laughter. “He’d have stopped moving, period.”

Which brings us to the most memorable story of all.

It happened, to the best Norm can recall, about 10 or 12 years ago. The shop was full of regulars — Sarge, the retired Army veteran who lived next door at the Lafayette apartments; Bernie, who’d had a stroke; and a military recruiter named Aaskov.

Norm had just run across to Joe’s to get Bernie a cheeseburger and some smokes when, upon his return, Aaskov, a former Army medic, announced, “Sarge is dead.”

Norm moved closer to examine Sarge, still upright in his chair, leaning slightly against the sink with the newspaper open in his lap.

“Yeah,” Norm replied softly. “He is.”

As if on cue, more customers arrived. Norm thought about covering Sarge up, but what would he say if everyone started asking what was under the sheet?

Besides, all these guys needed haircuts. So Norm got back to work.

“You’ve got to do something!” hissed Aaskov. “You’ve go to do something! You can’t keep him here forever!”

Norm finally relented, picked up the phone and dialed 911. “We’ve got a person that passed away,” he quietly told the dispatcher.

Not good. If he’s already dead, the dispatcher told him, they’d have to send the detectives to investigate and all that. It would get very complicated very fast. Was Norm absolutely sure the man was expired?

“Wait a minute,” said Norm, thinking on his feet. “We’ve got a slight pulse.”

Aaskov volunteered to step outside and wave the emergency crews in. At the same time, a young man, about 30, walked in and sat between Bernie and Sarge.

Turning to an apparently napping Sarge, the newcomer observed, “You need a beard trim and everything!”

Nothing.

“Don’t bother him,” said Bernie. “He had a rough night.”

The young man then noticed the flashing lights outside.

“Look at that!” he marveled. “Firetrucks, an ambulance and a police car!”

“Oh yeah,” mused Norm, still clipping.

“Well,” the young guy said, “they’re all pointing in here!”

Norm finally turned to the young man.

“You know old Sarge you’ve been talking to? He’s been dead for 20 minutes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“You didn’t ask me that,” replied Norm. “You asked me how many people were waiting for haircuts.”

Later, an incredulous police officer asked the whole gang exactly what they all were doing while Sarge breathed his last. How could they not have noticed?

“Well, we didn’t know he was dying,” Norm explained. “I was cutting hair. Aaskov was doing the crossword puzzle. And Bernie was eating a cheeseburger!”

It’s not the first time the tale of old Sarge has sent the shop into not-so-muffled hysterics. And it won’t be the last.

A month or two back, someone smashed the old-fashioned barber pole that for decades sat outside the Senior Citizens Barber Shop. Its replacement arrived in a big cardboard box this week and, in fitting coincidence with Norm’s semicentennial, will be installed today.

Meaning Norm’s staying put. And so, despite the fact that he’s getting a tad bald around the top, is Joe Morais.

Speaking of baldness, do guys like Joe get a discount when things start to thin out up there?

“No,” Norm replied flatly.

Why not?

“Because,” he deadpanned, “the hair is harder to find.”

Columnist Bill Nemitz can be contacted at 791-6323 or at:

bnemitz@mainetoday.com