Small Change, Big Shift

A barber down the street kept a bowl of bubble gum in a cabinet, an incentive for kids in the chair for the first time to sit still for a trim.

Doyle’s Barbershop was a one-man operation. He was a World War II veteran, who came complete with a demand-driven service-based skill, tattoos, white short-sleeve smock with shoulder snaps, and pockets bristling with tools.

Kids from the Wichita neighborhood that was actually called Pleasant Valley could waltz in and snag a piece or two of bubble gum, but at a price. One cent each. Take one, leave a penny on the cabinet; take two pieces, leave two pennies. It was an elegant system. Doyle never had to pause mid–flat top to handle the financial transaction, and the honor code kept the books straight.

Like most barbers, Doyle had a side hustle in product sales. A haircut ran $1.50. A hot-towel straight-razor shave went for a dollar. A 7-ounce bottle of Vitalis could be yours for 65 cents. A plastic head scrubber (“Perfect for shampooing!”) plucked from a cardboard display card was 49 cents. A glass bottle of Pepsi from a standup refrigerated vending machine with a narrow door cost a dime. “Come alive, you’re in the Pepsi generation.” And a piece of bubble gum, one cent.

A penny.

The case for letting it go is hard to ignore. It costs nearly four cents to make one, and you haven’t been able to buy anything for a penny since the Pepsi generation shipped off to Vietnam.

Pennies, it turned out, weren’t just currency, they were also a gateway.

My grandfather had expensive hobbies, or maybe just a habit of going all in. Coin collecting, for instance. Not digging through couch cushions for Mercury head dimes and Buffalo nickels, but ordering pristine, mint-condition sets sealed in Lucite. Why hunt when you can acquire?

But with me, his hobbies came with life lessons. Like Scrooge McDuck, he’d hand me a literal bag of pennies and put me to work, sorting by year, condition, mint mark. I learned quickly that a 1914 Lincoln cent minted in Denver might fetch twenty-five dollars. I was ready to cash in, but none of the adults around me seemed very interested in ferrying me to a buyer. So I slid it into its blue tri-fold coin folder slot and tried not to think about getting rich quick.

Armed with the belief that a penny saved is a penny earned, until a couple of years ago, I kept a massive jar into which I would toss pennies. When it filled, I’d haul it to the bank and turn copper into paper. Then, quietly, I stopped using coins altogether.

I can’t remember the last time I paid for anything with change. Probably a vending machine, sometime in the 20th century? A bag of Cheetos, maybe?

Venmo for your thoughts, worth every Google Wallet, it costs a pretty debit card. I’ll miss the cultural nomenclature connected to pennies, but not the actual coins.

Goodbye penny jars and couch-cushion treasure hunts. Hello tap-to-pay ease. With the penny retired, America rounds its edges, trading copper ritual for digital rhythm.

But the nostalgia still holds its worth.

𝘔𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘵𝘴𝘰𝘯’𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘯 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 The Manhattan Mercury, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴 ‘Within Reason,’ 𝘛𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘞𝘦𝘥𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘛𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘵 9 𝘢.𝘮. 𝘰𝘯 News Radio KMAN.