The cutting edge of retro

Want to tick John Scioli off? Call one of those mahogany-paneled, manicure-offering, $60-shave-and-a-haircut men's salons a barbershop.

"Any fool can cut hair and overcharge," the 39-year-old scoffs. "All these guys think they're doing something new."

At John's Old School New Skool Barber Shop in Schwenksville, the sartorially inclined gent won't find hot-towel facials, salon-trained stylists, or flat-screen TVs eternally tuned to ESPN.

Instead, Scioli has been churning out pompadours, slicked-back greaser 'dos, and straight-razor shaves the way your father and grandfather got them for years.

Think less metrosexual, more retrosexual.

In the four years since it opened, Scioli's operation has grown into something of an oddball, noisy, but beloved neighbor to the Victorian houses and antiques markets lining Main Street.

The shop - run by a burly, tattooed bear of a man with a case of Tourette's that keeps his face in a state of constant twitch and spasm - might seem more at home in Northern Liberties than this rural enclave roughly 35 miles north.

"It looked like a peaceful place to live," Scioli said of his choice of locale. "I got sick of city living, and saw there were other weirdos up here, too."

Amid the clatter of occasional live music and clinking birch-beer bottles, he and his cutting crew shear and shave while doling out a healthy dose of sharp-edged attitude.

Collectibles cover the walls, ranging from midcentury ads for RC Cola and Fudgie Bars to posters of the psychedelic Sid and Marty Krofft 1970s television show H.R. Pufnstuf - all mixed in with a smattering of pudgy-faced Bob's Big Boy figurines. ("There's something to be said for a fat kid with nice hair," Scioli joked.)

Customers line up seven to 10 at a time, perusing styles as varied as the "Peter Gunn," the "Oliver North," and the "Whiskey Cut," a short crop on top with straight-razored sides.

At the center of it all stands Scioli, perpetually garbed in a guayabera, Havana straw hat, and saddle shoes.

Whizzing vintage clippers in hand, he performs a constant one-man show, ribbing the customer in his 1949 hydraulic chair with as much gusto as he does those waiting for their own shot at a cut and a cutting remark.

His salty humor skewers all ethnicities, religions, and political views with equal good-natured jabs that keep his clients laughing, even when they're the butt of the joke.