My Best Friend by Andy

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Every three weeks, Saturday morning at 10am, my dad took me out to the barbershop and we'd get matching haircuts. ‘Two-four' my dad would always say, and our barber, Roger, would clip my dad's head down and then mine. When I was 5 or 6, my dad would lift me up over his shoulders and I would rub his fresh buzzcut. As I got older, and too heavy to carry on his shoulders, my dad would rub my fresh buzz as we walked out.
I didn't go through the rebellious stage many teens do. I love my dad and looked forward to our tri-weekly cuts. By 10, my dad no longer instructed the barber how to cut my hair, rather left it up to me. I still asked for a two-four buzz as always until I was 17.

The summer I turned 18, I remember being one of the best ever. I had a girlfriend, finished high school, and was planning on becoming a police officer like my dad. In late July, before I started at the academy, my dad took me in for our regular haircuts. Instead of old Roger, his son Mike had taken over after retiring from the marines the year before.

"Think I'll go shorter this time,” my dad told Mike. It wasn't too surprising, considering my dad often went down to a one-three or even a zero-two if it was really hot. I always told the barber, ‘same as my pops' and left it at that. Mike began clipping the top of my dad's head, and I was taken aback. A stripe of pure white scalp appeared, buzzed from forehead to the rear. My dad's eyes darted up and I laughed at the sight. My dad had forgotten that he'd gone shorter three weeks ago, zero on the sides and a 1A on top, so naturally Mike used a zero on top this time.

Within minutes, my dad's head was clipped bare, but it was far from over. Mike proceeded to place hot lather on his back and sides, and gently scraped them clean. My dad looked shellshocked, staring straight ahead. He reached up and felt the sandpaper stubble on top and then the smooth sides.
"Came this far, how about you razor the top off as well?” my dad asked. Mike responded by dispensing a handful of hot lather and rubbing it into the stubble atop my dad's head. I couldn't believe my eyes, my dad was having his head completely shaved. He smiled at me the whole time, and seemed to enjoy the cut once it was his idea. Mike wrapped a steamed towel over my dad's head and massaged it until my dad nearly fell asleep. My dad was jolted back to reality as Mike slapped aftershave all over his shaved scalp.

When my dad stood up, I made my way to the chair and rubbed my dad's head as we crossed paths. "Same as my pops,” I told Mike and in minutes, I was bald, too. As we paid and left, my dad rubbed my head and I rubbed his, wrestling him into a headlock, but he merely flexed out of it and wrapped his arm around me.

"You didn't have to get shaved down to the wood, son. But thanks.” My dad told me.

"I think I'll keep it this way, it feels really nice. I can probably shave it myself,” I told him.

"Guess that means no more trips to the barber then,” my dad said, trying to hide his disappointment. I wished I hadn't said what I said, but my dad was right. I changed my mind and decided to go back to whatever cut my dad did.

Three weeks later, I woke up at 7am as usual and had breakfast with my dad. We both had three weeks of growth, so I assumed we would be going to the barber and nothing would change despite what I said.

"Hey, can you help me with something?” my dad asked. I nodded yes and followed him onto the deck. He took a seat and handed me the clippers, taking off his shirt. I smiled and clicked them on. A jolt of energy ran through me as I ran them over his head, over and over until it was all buzzed down to the same length. I wet his head down with the hose, soaking him in the process. I spread shaving cream on his head and slowly shaved it. It wasn't very smooth, so I put on more lather and shaved it against the grain. That did it. I rinsed him off with the hose, and he felt his head.

"Even better job than Mike, you got it REALLY smooth.” My dad said as he rubbed his head vigorously. I could have swore it squeaked like rubber.

"My turn,” I told my dad as I took off my shirt and sat down. I was a little excited and wished I hadn't worn boxers, but I noticed my dad had the same dilemma so I felt less self-conscious. My head was quickly buzzed and shaved twice as I had done for my dad. Instead of gently rinsing me with the hose, my dad let it gush out and soak me. I wrestled him to the ground, but he was too strong. He lifted me up like I was a little kid, and I rubbed his bald head. He smiled, remembering those days, too. Then he threw me into the pool. We played in the pool for a while, then cleaned up the hair and watched some tv.

A week later, after breakfast, I heard my dad calling from the backyard. He was waiting for me on the deck, head already covered in shaving cream and a fresh pack of razors ready to go. I guess we have a new tradition now!

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