THE neighborhood craftsmen who repaired shoes, fixed umbrellas, duplicated door keys and cut hair were once respected fixtures in the daily rhythm of Old Shanghai's stone gate lanes, or shikumen.

The quintessential back-alley communities have mostly gone, but odd-jobbers still ply their crafts along the sidewalks of Shanghai.

Nowadays, they are mainly migrants from poorer areas of China, who come to the big city seeking a better life, only to find themselves stuck in the bottom tier of society where they receive no health or other social welfare benefits.

They are still called shifu, or "master craftsmen," by local residents. Though the dignity of their specialized skills has faded into the past, they still retain pride in their work no matter how much adversity they face.

Meet Xu Jinliang, a cobbler, and Zhou Mou, a barber - two shifu who thrive on the thrift of others.

The Cobbler

"My customers have always been mainly older and retired residents of this neighbourhood. People who watch their pennies. That hasn't changed much in all the years I have been here."

Xu Jinliang, who's in his late 50s, repairs shoes and umbrellas from a canvas he spreads on the ground every day along Qufu Road in Shanghai. Atop the canvas, sit his various tools and two small stools for him and his customers.

Xu is from a rural village in Jiangsu Province, where he learned his trade as a teenager. He came to Shanghai in 1992.

"As in olden times, much of our business depends on the weather," said Xu, "Sometimes I pray for heavy rain because it means I can stay home and relax. But then again, I can't afford a loss of income."

Weather permitting, Xu works 10 hours a day and earns about 2,000 yuan (US$293) a month. His wife does cleaning for a nearby company. The couple have used their meager income to send their son to college, hoping to give him a better life than they had. He graduates this year with a bachelor's degree in interior decorating.

"Of course people earn more in other businesses," Xu said. "But I've been repairing shoes for more than 60 years and I don't want to give up the craft. Besides, I don't have money to start anything more significant."

Xu said he has seen cobbler shops come and go along this street. His business is so small that he couldn't afford to rent a shop or hire any assistants.

Several months ago, a new shoe-repair chain store opened several blocks away. Using machines instead of hand craft, the store provides a broader array of services than Xu can, including changing the color and shape of shoes. Even for those services duplicated by Xu, the chain store charges more. He's not worried about the competition.

"My customers have always been mainly older and retired residents of this neighbourhood," he said. "People who watch their pennies. That hasn't changed much in all the years I have been here."

As he talked, a middle-aged woman dropped by to have her high heel mended before she went to a dancing party.

He briefly greeted her and fixed her heel expeditiously, charging her 6 yuan after some bargaining.

"A big city, of course, means better income," Xu said ruefully. "But I'm a nobody here." Xu and his wife live in a cramped 20-square-meter flat.

"We are poor," said Xu. "We don't have any medical insurance here. To be honest, we miss our hometown and hope to return there after we have paid all our debts and seen that our son can support himself."

Sidewalk tradesmen like Xu don't have business licenses and don't pay taxes.

As old buildings are torn down to make way for the city's soaring skyline and as traditional trades become more commercialized in fancy shops, sidewalk craftsmen have become increasingly marginalized. But some, like Xu, linger on in the lanes and streets of Shanghai.

The Barber

"I don't worry about money. Haircutting is mostly to keep myself occupied and to provide a service to old people who can't afford those fancy styling salons."

However, not all shifu work because they need the money.

Zhou, 77, operates a sidewalk barber shop in a crowded residential area on the north side of the Huangpu River near the landmark Yangpu Bridge. His barber's chair sits in a shabby shelter along Hangzhou Road.

Zhou hails from Yangzhou, a city famous for traditional head-shaving skills. He left Yangzhou in his teens and through a family acquaintance became a barber's apprentice in Shanghai.

"In the first two years, I was not allowed to cut hair," he said of those old times. "Instead I had to do all the cooking, cleaning, and babysitting until a new apprentice came on board to take up all the menial chores of the master's household."

The apprenticeship wasn't lucrative. "We didn't get paid because barbers were fairly esteemed professionals and it was considered a privilege to become an apprentice," Zhou said, citing an old Chinese saying: "If you learn a trade, you will never starve during hard times."

After the founding of the People's Republic of China in 1949, new factories sprang up and Zhou, who was in his 20s, found he could earn more in a textile factory than in a barber shop.

He didn't return to barbering until he retired from the factory 17 years ago.

"I started this barbershop because I hated to waste my skills," he said as he seated a customer and got out his scissors. "I now work at my own pace. I am here most days, but I don't have to force myself to come if it's raining or gets too hot, or when I am not feeling well."

His income from barbering adds about 1,000 yuan a month to his pension.

"I don't worry about money," he said. "Haircutting is mostly to keep myself occupied and to provide a service to old people who can't afford those fancy styling salons."

Zhou shrugged off competition from a nearby hair styling shop.

"They do their business, and we do ours. Seniors like me just want a simple, short hair cut," he said. "Besides, I know most of them and I'm happy to talk with them."

After the haircut, without much communication between Zhou and his customer, Zhou adjusted the chair, laid his customer down and shaved his face.

Ten minutes later, Zhou helped his customer sit up straight again, refreshed. "We both get what we want," said his customer as he smiled, paid 5 yuan and waved goodbye. Zhou swept up the loose hair and sharpened his scissors.

"My sons want me to quit," he said, adding with a twinkle in his eye, "but I think I will stick to it until I really get old."