Several decades ago I was quite taken by “The Great Good Place,” by Ray Oldenburg. It suggested people need a third place to hang out that is neither work nor home. It can be the local saloon or pub where everybody knows your name, the sidewalk café or diner. Anyplace that can act as social adhesive and grassroots forum.

Today for a lot of people it’s Starbucks, which seems kind of sad. You’d think a third place ought not to be mass produced and generic but of, by and for its particular community, an authentic part of the neighborhood.

In my long lost hometown, there were several third places. The Campus Snack Shop was one, and ironically it catered not to gown but to town. Behind the counter it had a row of monogrammed coffee mugs waiting for the mayor, the police chief, the fire chief and so on.

Schuerlein’s was a bar and pool parlor that was off limits if you weren’t of drinking age. My dad didn’t drink, but he once said the only thing he’d done in 18 months of college, before the Great Depression forced him to seek a job, was shoot pool. One day coming home from school I was stunned to see him emerge from Schuerlein’s and head off for the second shift at the plant. Apparently, the pool hall like the bowling league was one of his third places.

In those gender segregated days, ladies had their hair done and gossiped at the beauty parlor and the men did the same at the barbershop. Today, there are lots of coed clip joints, but many all-male or female establishments still remain — the better to encourage the free flow of gossip and opinion. My barbershop today is all but indistinguishable from the one I frequented fifty years ago.

Then, as now, I didn’t say much as I sat in the chair, content to listen to the talk around me as the regulars dissected the news of the day. A barbershop is better than any focus group for checking up on the vox populi. Then I got a flat top. Today, no need. I have more hair on my neck than on the top of my head. I often suggest that bald guys really ought to get their tonsorial work done for half off since their hair is already more than half off. So far, no sale. One price fits all.

My current shop has a large American flag on the wall, as well as a folded tri-corner flag in a display case to commemorate a vet who has left the shop for the last time. The walls have pennants for all the college and high school teams in the state that a patron might have a rooting interest in. In the old days there would have been a radio in the background. Today, there’s a big screen TV, generally tuned to a fishing channel, but to basketball during March Madness.

Classic barbershops tend to be conservative places, culturally as much as philosophically. Religion and the military are rarely questioned. Politicians are rarely approved. Change is almost always viewed with suspicion. The boys are still not sure about this women’s lib stuff, for example.

Opinions are offered freely. Evidence to back them up is almost never demanded, no matter how outlandish they are. Sports are discussed passionately, outdoor adventures described. A mildly risqué joke sometimes arises, but women are almost never mentioned. You often get the feeling they aren’t so much off limits as a trifle daunting or intimidating. One appeal of this kind of third place is the absence of a female presence.

Younger patrons probably hang out at unisex establishments, but my shop is strictly stag and a lot of the patrons and a majority of the barbers are getting on in years, so it is segregated by age as well. Last time I was there, getting my ears lowered as my Dad used to say, there was a lively discussion about the failures of the local emergency room. And almost everyone had his own personal experience horror story to offer.

There’s something restful about a place that never changes. The only differences from the barbershop of my youth are minor. There is hair gel now instead of butch wax or Brylcreem. They are debating Hillary and Jeb instead of Kennedy and Nixon. They worry about Islamists instead of Commies.

But Washington and taxes are stir denounced. The state school’s team is still the greatest. The home town has its share of piquant scandals and characters. Its opportunities and perils are still the center of attention. And despite any hometown flaws, it is still the only place one would ever want to live, no matter what those big city wise guys think. All the place needs is a spittoon and a barbershop quartet and we’d be in 1915, not 2015.