Paul Meador, bronzed bodybuilder who was a Little Village barber for nearly 70 years, has died at 89

The first thing people noticed about Paul Meador was his deep tan. And then his muscles.

Mr. Meador ripened into a shade somewhere in the russet region of the Pantone color charts from years of hanging out at his beloved Oak Street Beach. His bronze epidermis set off his smile and showcased the physique the bodybuilder developed by lifting weights in the back of his Little Village barbershop.

Mr. Meador, once dubbed the “mayor of Oak Street Beach” by then-Mayor Michael Bilandic, died of cancer Aug. 8 at the Scottish Home in North Riverside. He was 89, according to his son James.

He jogged, ate right and worked out, studied judo and competed in the Mr. Chicago, Mr. Illinois and Mr. America contests, relatives said.

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He even competed in the Berwyn-Cicero “Houby Run,” named after the Czech word for mushroom.

And he did it all without chemically enhanced shortcuts, according to his son, who said, “My dad weightlifted every day, and he was doing it before the steroids.”

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By changing with the times and mastering new styles, he also was able to cut hair for nearly 70 years, operating Paul’s Barbershop at 31st and Komensky. Mr. Meador survived the barber’s equivalent of the Great Depression when the crewcut gave way to long hair popularized by the Beatles and hippies. He continued cutting hair for generations of families as Little Village’s ethnic ties shifted from Czechoslovakia to Mexico.

“They accepted him like a mentor,” his son said.

Mr. Meador would counsel kids and customers that “moderation is the key.”

Neighborhood residents gave him plants they didn’t want to tend or those that grew too large for their homes. In the big windows of his barbershop, everything seemed to thrive — even orange trees. He had a tank filled with fish. Another one had turtles and the occasional baby alligator.

On the fence at his shop was a sign that read, “Never Mind the Dog. Beware of Owner.”

The business had an antique barber’s pole that was featured in 2014 by WTTW-Channel 11’s Geoffrey Baer.

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But “the thing my father really loved was Lake Michigan,” his son said. “He would go down there every Sunday” back when he was still working at the barbershop. After retiring, he went every day he could.

In 2007, Chicago magazine included him in a story about the city’s most intriguing beachfront characters, reporting the title Bilandic bestowed upon him.

“Slathered in oil, he holds court every day from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m. at his post just south of the chess pavilion, passing most of the time relaxing and socializing,” the article said.

Mr. Meador’s suntan oil was just that — baby oil with a little iodine mixed in, according to his son.

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He grew up near 31st and Pulaski, the son of Anne and Joseph Meador. His father was disabled from the 1944 wreck of a troop train in Jellico, Tennessee, that killed about 35 soldiers.

He attended Eli Whitney grade school and Crane High School. He boxed with the Catholic Youth Organization and in Golden Gloves competitions.

At 18, after studying at Moler Barber College, he started cutting hair. Even after retiring, he was still doing a little barbering until recently.

“No one [else] cut a hair on my head till two years ago, and I’m 66,” his son said.

Mr. Meador lifted weights at Piotrowski Park and studied judo with Masato Tamura, who was one of the nation’s top-ranked martial arts teachers.

From the late 1940s to early 1950s, he served in the Illinois National Guard, relatives said.

To court his future wife Betty Saliny, he’d rent boats so they could cruise around Douglas Park on the West Side. She died in 1976.

He loved his pets — Beauty the collie and Kimmy the cat.

Mr. Meador is also survived by sons Allan and David and three grandchildren. Services have been held.

At his wake, his family placed jars around his casket with water from Lake Michigan and sand from Oak Street Beach. When they lowered it into the ground at Woodlawn Cemetery in Forest Park, his grandson James said, “Each family member tossed some sand into the hole.”

“There was a seagull up above, squawking,” his son James said.

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