Some of you might be familiar with the term Third-Places. This term was coined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg and refers to informal public gathering spots outside the home (“first place”) and work (“second place”). Pubs, bars, barbershops, cafés, parks, fraternal lodges, bowling alleys, or neighborhood hangouts are common third places but they can be anywhere that people hangout, kill time, interact casually, around conversation or low-key shared activity.
Listen: these particular places—the neighborhood bar, the barbershop that still smelled like bay rum and bullshit, the bowling alley that has seen better days, the lodge hall with the sticky floors and the stained coffee pot—they used to matter. For men, especially. And a combination of the glowing rectangles we carry in our pockets and the way the pandemic quietly murdered so many of the small businesses on Main Street has just about wiped third-places off the map. The result isn’t some abstract sociological footnote. It’s measurable loneliness, worse health, and a whole lot of guys staring at screens who used to have somewhere to go that wasn’t home or the office.
Why in the world do these third-places matter so much to us?
I think it's because most men don’t sit across a table, lock eyes, and start confessing their deepest problems like characters in a therapy session from some Netflix series. We’re wired to bond side-by-side. Talking shit while waiting for the next frame, or the next haircut, or the next round of beers. Idle, low-stakes chatter. Friendships grow out of showing up again and again in the same place, not from calendar invites labeled “emotional check-in.” The regulars, the guy behind the counter who knows your order, the stranger two stools down who becomes less of a stranger over time. Those are the weak ties that eventually turn into something stronger without anyone having to force it.
These were neutral ground. No significant other, no boss, no kids demanding anything. Just camaraderie, banter, practical talk, the occasional quiet mentorship over a beer, cocktail, or a bad cup of coffee. Belonging without the status games or the obligation. Conversation itself was the point. And when life kicked you in the teeth in the form of—retirement, divorce, a pink-slip, a move to a new town—third-places were the buffer. A little recognition. A little light maintenance on the social machinery. Especially useful for men who wouldn’t be exactly open to laying down on a therapist’s couch.
What’s gone is the cheap, spontaneous infrastructure that made it possible. Suburban sprawl and cars killed the walkable version. Sky-high rents killed the lingering. Everything got redesigned for families or efficiency or Instagram. Civic groups withered. Remote work and screens finished the job. What’s left is louder, faster, more expensive, often mixed in ways that change the chemistry in a way that just sitting there feels like loitering.
The numbers are ugly. The share of men with six or more close friends has been roughly cut in half since the early ’90s. Zero close friends? Way up. A lot of guys now just ping-pong between home and work. Face-to-face socializing time is nearly non-existent for a large part of us.
Isolation’s downstream effects—depression, worse physical health, higher suicide rates—don’t get the everyday soft landing these places once provided. The remaining options are often pricier, more performative, date-oriented, or mediated by a screen. Not exactly built for unhurried male connection.
I realized the other day that since moving out to the suburbs a few years ago that I only have one third-place left. My barber shop. And it is a particularly spectacular place that I’ve been frequenting for years. This barbershop drips with the kind of quiet strength and tradition that used to be common in my dad’s time and his father’s time before him.
When I'm in the chair my barber, Jeremy (and sometimes other patrons and barbers), and I talk about everything from politics to watches, cars to conspiracy theories and it’s soul-cleansing. I always leave smelling of cheap barbershop aftershave and somehow feeling lighter, and walking taller. A haircut at Elizabeth’s Barbershop somehow restores my faith in the world and reminds me—Yeah, everything little thing's gonna to be alright.
All for now. Make this a wonderful day.
