THE LAST GOOD HAIRCUT.

Early in December, a sign went up at Michael's Children's Haircutting Salon, on Madison Avenue between Ninetieth and Ninety-first Streets, announcing that three days before New Year's Eve, after ninety-two years of tending to the towheads and mop tops of Carnegie Hill (and points well beyond), Michael's would be shutting its doors for good.

In New York, venerable establishments with loyal customers close pretty much every other day; if they didn't, people would have little to say to each other as they went out on their neighborhood rounds (if people still do go out on neighborhood rounds). Nonetheless, the passing of Michael's bears notice. There are many reasons that most private-school boys in Manhattan look alike, or similar, and one is that they all seem to get their hair cut at Michael's, by one of four barbers: the owner, Nick Di Sisto, his brother Pat, Salvatore Olentino, or Tony DiMaggio. The Michael's haircut is the classic you-got-a-haircut job: partable bangs, shorn neck, ears free and clear, but enough of a thatch left on top to signify to doormen and piano teachers that the head on which the hair sits belongs to a kid who has money and a tendency to get his own way. Michael's is legendary among parents for having the mojo to get kids to sit still for scissors. For the most part, the barbers eschew bribery in favor of firm cajoling and spirited patter, though they do deploy lollipops: if you're good, you get one (or even two) when the cutting is done.

The decor is that of an old-fashioned barbershop: six chairs, bright lights, marble walls, faded newspaper clippings, bottles of Pinaud Clubman styling gel and talc. There are also three metal cars from the thirties, for the little kids to sit in. The place achieved some renown in the mid-sixties, when it was owned by Sam Michael Fiscella. (Di Sisto took over in 1974.) The young John F. Kennedy, Jr., had his hair cut there, and patrons came in asking for the John-John cut. In 1965, Women's Wear Daily did a piece on the place, taking note of the "dried lollypop drool" on the old leather seats.

The other day, a half hour before closing time, the place was full (it was visiting-Grandma season). Nick Di Sisto, a keen-eyed, gray-haired sixty-one-year-old who came to New York in 1957 from Campobasso, Italy, was working comb and scissors through the bangs of a black-haired thirteen-year-old named Jonathan. Jonathan stared straight ahead at the mirror as Nick told him about the wonders of the Amalfi Coast ("nice fresh pasta"). Pat Di Sisto was at the next chair, dabbing the back of a boy's neck with talc. "He likes the powder," said the boy's mother, who was waiting by the door. Pat tapped him on the shoulder, and the boy stood up. "Say thank you," his mother called out.

"Thank you," the boy said.

"Thank you for helping me out my entire little life," the mother prompted.

"Thank you for helping me out my entire little life."