Freedom by Stu

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"Number 3 back and sides, trim on top please". I don't know how many times I'd uttered those words in my life. It was the same, dull haircut I'd had throughout my 18 years on this planet. Whilst friends were growing their hair out, I stuck with the style. When they experimented with other haircuts, I stuck with the style. When I say 'I', I really mean my parents, who seemed to disapprove of anything other than the aforementioned once every four weeks. Deep down, I knew there was always one thing I'd wanted to do: get rid of the hair on my head, just to see what it would be like.

Anyway, earlier this year, I began at university, about 120 miles from home. Whilst I had initially experienced regret and homesickness, I soon settled in, meeting some amazing people at freshers week and making good friends with my 7 flatmates. Some of us arranged to go out one Friday night, after about 6 weeks of university, and what started out with me vowing not to drink too much saw me doing Jägerbombs by 10 o'clock, so you can imagine the state I was in come 8 o'clock next morning.

I woke up feeling dreadful. I slipped into some clothes, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The stubble on my pale face was approaching a beard-purely student laziness with regards to shaving, not a fashion statement- whilst my hair, which was getting overgrown, was pointing in about 17 directions. I left my bedroom, and knew my first task for today would be curing my hangover. The best way I've found to do this is with a fried egg sandwich, which is just about manageable with my culinary skills. I got the pan going, and the second I cracked the shell, I knew I'd made a mistake. These weren't my eggs to fry. They belonged to a girl (a girl I liked a lot) called Elizabeth. As if on cue, she emerged from our corridor of bedrooms into the communal kitchen. "Lizzie, morning!" I exclaimed, panicked. "Listen, there's been a mix up. You see, I wanted an egg, and, err, y'know, I, urm..." I babbled. "Used my eggs?" She finished my sentence, smug in the knowledge she wouldn't need a hangover cure after refusing to go out last night. "Yeeaahh, kind of" I replied, nervously trying to stay in her good books. "Oh well" she giggled "just pick some more up in town some time" smiling, almost flirtatiously. "O-of-of course, I'll go now" I said, leaping up, grabbing my phone and wallet from the table, and heading towards the front door.

The nearest supermarket was just down the road, in the middle of the student-heavy town. All I could think about on the way was the girl I was buying these eggs for. "Lizzie, do you fancy, I don't know, coming out for a drink some time, just me and you?" I was practising sentences like that over and over in my head, knowing full well, I'd never have the bottle to actually say them to her face. I couldn't stop thinking about her. Then my thoughts were abruptly ended, by the prospect that all students love, the prospect of saving money. A huge sign was placed high up in a narrow alleyway off the main street, exclaiming "£5 bu". The wall obscured the remainder of the word. I moved round to see the rest of the letters. "zzcuts". It read "£5 buzzcuts". Any other day, I'd have carried on walking, but I didn't. I was drawn in. Eggs in hand, I walked down the narrow alley. Why was I doing this? Lizzie will be expecting me now. Stop. STOP. But I couldn't.

I saw the classic barber's red and white pole outside, which had somehow bent upwards. The wooden shop front had had its paint badly chipped away over the years, and the filthy window had it's corner covered by a piece of wood, presumable covering a smash. I walked in and sat down, taking in that unmistakable barber shop smell. I sat down on the torn leather sofa, and took in my surroundings. The single person on shift was a tired looking, middle aged woman, finishing off trimming a 10 year old's hair. Sat next to me on the sofa was presumably his dad, sporting a new short back and sides. I'd be up next. "I might change it up a bit, get a 2 back and sides instead of a 3" I thought to myself. But deep down, I knew what I wanted.

"Next", the barber shouted. I stood up, with so many thoughts going through my head. I subconsciously knew I'd bottle it and ask for the 'usual' style. I was preparing to say "3 back and sides...". "What can I do for you today" she asked, in a monotone voice, after placing the sweaty, black cape over me. Out of nowhere, I blurted "number one all over". "What are you doing!?" I thought to myself. "You sure? You do know that's very short" the barber told me. "SAY NO, CHANGE YOUR MIND" I told myself. "Yeah, I know. I'm sure" I replied, surprised with myself that I had the confidence to say so. She raised her eyebrow. "OK, if you're sure" she said. She began searching through her clipper attachments, finding by far the smallest one, and clipping it onto the shaver. She looked at my reflection. "Are you sure you want me to do this? Once I start, I can't stop." She seemed almost concerned. "Come on, last chance, just say no. Get a short back and sides and get out of here. JUST. SAY. NO" I told myself. "I'm sure. 100%". She sighed. The clippers roared into life. What had I done?

She placed the clippers at the bottom of my sideburn, and began to move up my head. A huge clump of brown hair cascaded down the cape. I was shocked. She moved in for the next two strokes, reducing the hair above my ear to a dark stubble. I glanced at my reflection. The scruffy hair covering 90% of my scalp was juxtaposed with the almost bald patch rapidly growing on my left hand side. She moved the clippers around to the back of my head, driving them through the inch or so of growth back there. I felt a mountain of hair build against my neck. She moved the buzzing clippers around to the right hand side of my head, and shaved her way through the remainder of the hair on the side of my head. The barber stepped back, and I stared at my reflection, sporting a style that now resembled a mushroom. I was scared, but at the same time, really, really excited. The barber changed her grip, and placed the clippers on the side of my forehead and pushed them back. More hair tumbled down. Piles of my thick brown locks were rapidly building on my lap. I'd never had this much hair removed all at once, and she'd only just passed the halfway stage of my 'trim'. She moved the clippers centrally, and again ploughed through my hair, leaving my stubbly widow's peak exposed. A strip about 2 inches wide was left on top of my head. 2 strokes later, and my transformation was almost complete. The clippers continued to dance over my now bald head, removing any stray hairs that remained where my fringe had stood just minutes before. The clippers stopped, leaving an eery silence in the tiny shop. I was shocked. I didn't recognise myself in the grubby mirror. I didn't recognise myself, but I liked what I saw. She removed my cape, and sent the huge pile of hair flying forwards. "That's the last I'll see of you for a while" I thought. I got up, thanked the barber, paid and walked out, almost on auto-pilot.

I felt a crisp winter breeze whip around my now shaved head. I don't know how I had plucked up the courage to be transformed like this. But I had. nd it wouldn't be the last time. I looked down at my polythene bag, where 6 eggs were nestled inside. Perhaps I could ask Lizzie for that drink after all.

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