Happy Birthday, Kid by Chip

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Short haircuts had always been an interest of mine but I never had the nerve to try one. But that all changed one Saturday last spring.

My partner Tom travels a lot for his job. And he had just arrived home on a Friday night. While Tom was away I had discovered that the net was a good place to explore my fascination with haircuts. From message boards to story sites I explored and explored. Still on European time, Tom had gotten up early worked out, showered and was quietly catching up on his mail and stuff while I slept-in on a cool, rainy Saturday morning. An innocent search on his part for hairballs. (His sister’s cat we were sitting for a couple of months while she was out of town had been coughing a lot) had turned up a few of the hair sites I had visited and he took note. So when he asked what all the interest in haircuts was, I fessed up. I told him that with the warm weather coming I was thinking of getting a really short haircut and had been researching styles. “Like when we were kids?” Tom said with both a question and a laugh in his voice. I explained that I never did have short hair as a kid. Bor n to counter-culture parents and educated in progressive schools, I simply went from long curls to over-the-ears blow-dried locks. I settled on a longish businessman’s cut in my twenties and stuck with if for the last fifteen years or so. Then Tom shrugged his broad shoulders and said “Why not?”

After a leisurely breakfast, Tom suggested that after I showered, we ride over to a pet store in the next town to get some medicine for the cat. When I came out of the shower, Tom had changed out of sweats into a pair of dress pants and a sweater and had laid out my blue blazer, a clean pair of khakis, an oxford cloth shirt, a striped tie and loafers for me. Since he isn’t in the habit of being my valet, I asked “What’s with the Ken goes to prep school look?” He smiled and said it was part of my birthday celebration. I had turned 37 while Tom was away. For each other’s birthdays, we try to surprise each other in fun ways. This winter when he turned 41, I had met him after work with a packed suitcase and two tickets for a weekend in Miami. So I slipped into my pants, tied my necktie and caught up with Tom downstairs excited and full of anticipation. Waiting for me by the garage door was another surprise. Tom had dug through the closet and found a long yellow rubber buckled slicker I hadn’t seen in years. I wore it when I walked the dog my roommates and I had right after college. He also had pulled out a pair of stretchy black storm rubbers his dad had left behind when they visited this winter. In a no nonsense tone Tom insisted I wear them like I was a little kid. “Where was this all leading?” I thought to myself.

It really was raining hard as we drove over to the pet store. We found a parking spot about a block away And started walking. I was beginning to like splashing through puddles in galoshes. Wonder why they ever went out of style? Just as we approached the pet store, Tom stopped pulled a twenty out of his pocket and pointed at the barbershop across the street and said in that same no nonsense tone he had used earlier this morning “Go get a haircut, and if it’s anything less than Ivy League you are in big trouble.”

I was stunned, but secretly pleased. Center Square Barbers was as about as old fashioned as you get.

I remembered that it was avoided like the plague by my high school friends and nicknamed the Cut Square. The two barbers who worked there had been there since the late fifties. I had just read an article in the local paper about how that the older of the two had been barbering for 50 years and said retirement was a dirty word in his book. Judging from the cut he was giving to the guy in the chair, so was long hair.

My web exploration had made me an armchair expert so I knew that the guy in the chair with the thick graying blond hair was getting a flattop and a good one at that. The second barber looked like he was finishing up on a very short tapered businessman’s cut. I had mastered the short hair cut lingo if not the courage to get one.

When he snapped the cape and said “Next,” I sat like a deer in the headlights. Until he barked “Get over here young fella” I wondered if he was always this gruff. Deciding it was best to make friends with the executioner I introduced myself to Frank as the name on the plaque on his chair said. He looked at my hair and said “What will it be?” Tom’s words still rung in my ears so I parroted them and said “An Ivy League. With my prepster get-up it made sense. “Number three or two?” he asked. I said “Whichever was shorter.” I waited all these years and I wasn’t going to let myself off that easy. He clicked in the Number 2 blade and turned on his Oster Classic. The initial buzz and first swipe was a sensation much better than I had imagined it. Soon the inches started falling off. First the right side, then gradually he turned me around until he slid the clippers up the back and considerably over the crown. Just then Tom walked in. Already excited by my haircut, the feeling just g ot more intense.

Tom sat down in a chair that gave him a great view of my cut as the Oster Clippers continued to take several thick inches down to a 1/4 inch . I could see him in the mirror and he was grinning.

Gino, the first barber, gave his customer with the perfect flattop the brushing off only a minute or two after Tom sat down. He looked at Tom and said “Next.” Tom always gets his thick very lightly salted hair cut by Shelia who works at some hair salon near his old office. He so much likes the way that she cuts his hair that he now drives the extra 40 minutes round trip once a month rather than change. So I knew he wouldn’t be getting a cut here. Or would he?

Gino, who I think is a little hard of hearing, then said loudly “Over here sir.” I made note to kid Tom a about that. I got young fella, he got sir. Tom seemed powerless to decline and sat down. What happened next shocked and pleased me. Tom’s response to what will it be was “Same as the last guy.” The barber seemed thrilled by his choice as he first ran a comb through Tom’s hair than proceeded to buzz Tom into square perfection. I would say a number one on the sides and about 3/4 inch on top.

I kept trying to see Tom’s reactions in the mirror. But sooner than I liked, my first short haircut experience was over. I paid Frank and slid back into my slicker and headed outside to wait in the car.

When Tom arrived he smiled and reached over and rubbed his hand up the back of my neck and I felt such a charge go through me that I thought I would explode. I reached over and did likewise and started to really admire his new cut. The angles fit him well. Tom, I could see, was pleased, too. He pulled out an envelope that had 24 Center Square gift certificates and said “Happy Birthday, kid.” He said I could use them all or, that I could decide if I wanted a regular haircut buddy. A birthday that repeats itself every month, what more could any kid want.

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