Your Brother Wants It Short, Part 3 by Jonathan

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I was 15 years old at the time. It was the mid 1970's. My name is Jonathan. My soccer team had won their league's championship the previous year. I was now getting really good at soccer. I had even scored several goals during some games. I was now ready to start the new soccer season this year.

At fifteen I was now trusted to ride my bike all over. I'd go to the store, school and even soccer practice on my bike. I was treated more grown up than my brother Eric. He was two years younger and was still in Jr. High. I was a sophomore in high school now.

I was feeling pretty good about school. I even had a girlfriend now. She was sort of a girl friend, that's what I called her any way. We hung out together and had kissed, that was it. I was looking pretty cool now. I had let my light brown hair get well over my ears and pretry long now. I had all A's and B's on my report card now. High school was going well.

My hair had gotten really long now. It was over the ears and the bangs were down to my nose. Just a year ago I had been keeping it clipper short and liking it that way.
The clipper short thing started when I was 13. My brother wanted his hair clipper short up over the ears. In the 1970's not many kids did this. Everyone including me had it long over the ears. I have big ears too and didn't want it that short. Well the barber and my brother twisted my arm and convinced my to cut my hair basically making me look like a Marine. I was horrified at first, but then grew to like it. For nearly two years I had my hair super short. Now I was 15 and a real teenager. I wanted long hair again.

I loved the freedom of going anywhere I wanted on my bike now. I was in driver's training at school and would be driving a car next year. I couldn't wait! I still had not gotten a job, I was too young still. I did chores around the house and earned some money that way. I had a black ten speed bike I loved riding everywhere. I even road it to the bike shop to buy spare parts for it sometimes.

It would soon be my very first soccer practice of the new season. My hair was now just rediculously long. It nearly touched my shoulders and the bangs covered my eyes. I realized I would not be able to see to well on the playing field. I needed a haircut bad. I wanted to ride my bike to the barber shop alone. This was the first time I'd be allowed to do this. My mom had always taken my brother and I in the car.

I asked my mom for some haircut money and money for the tip. She gave it to me and said I could ride my bike to the barbers after school. I told my girlfriend at school about the haircut. I said I was getting a trim only. She said no, you need it shorter for the soccer season. I still had my mind set on a trim though.

After school I went to the bike rack area to get my bike. I unlocked the bike and checked my pockets to see if the haircut money my mom had given me was still there. It luckily was!

I set out on the way home. I realized Ron's Barber Shop was not on the way home. It was too far the other direction. I could stop at any barber shop now. I had my bike and freedom. I also had the money in my pocket, even a little extra money.

I decided to go to a barber shop in the Mexican neighborhood close to my school. It was a place called Sanchez Barber Shop. It was in an old beat up strip mall that looked like it was built in the 1950's. There was a beat up barber pole out front that wad cracked and broken. The shop had a large glass front window. I locked my bike up in front of the liquor stone in that beat up strip mall. As I walked to the barbershop my heart was pounding. I was so nervous about going into this place. I thought about going to my bike and riding off to another shop. I told myself, walk by once and look inside.

I walked by and looked in the shop. I saw one latino barber in his 30's with straight black hair over his ears. He was cutting an older man's hair. There were three barber chairs in there and it looked beatup like the rest of the shopping center.

"Should I go in?" I asked myself.

"Walk back by, and if you open the door you have to go in," I said to myself.

I grabbed the door handle and opened the door. It was too late, no turning back now. I noticed some old beige waiting seats with metal cigarette ash trays in them. The two men immidiatly looked my way.

"Hello, how are you?" said the barber.

"Fine, hi," I said.

"Jew want a haircut,si?" the barber asked with a strong accent.

"Yes," I said.

"Ok, jur next," he said.

I sat there listening to the two men speaking to each other in Spanish. I had two years of high school Spanish up to this point. I could basically understand what they were talking about. Some words I didn't understand, but got the whole context of the converstation.

I realized the haircut had just started. I would be waiting there awhile. I did notice the barber was a very good looking hispanic man in his late 20's or early thirties. He was dark skinned and anyone could not notice he was nice looking. I sat looking around the shop a bit. Many of the flourescent light bulbs were burned out. The place was clean, yet well worn. There was very little on the walls. It had been here decades.

I started to worry now. What if too much hair gets cut off? Should I cut it short? It's getting warm now and soccer is starting too. This guy may not understand the haircut directions I tell him in English.

"Jonathan, just tell him you're going to the store and I'll be right back. Then just ride off on your bike, go!" I told myself.

"No, just stay," I said.

"You'll be sorry, just go now Jonathan," I said to myself.

Suddenly the blow dryer was blowing the loose hair off the man. He was done, I'm next! The man got up to pay and then said adios and left. I nervously walked over to the barber chair. I sat down. The good looking barber swept some hair away, then applied the cape to me.

"How do jew want jur hair a cut?" he asks.

"I'm starting soccer season in two days and I need it cut, but I'm still not sure how I want it," I tell him.

"Si, jew should cut it short then he says," he tells me with his accent.

"I don't know, maybe just a trim," I say.

"Really short is more better for soccer," he says.

"Why did I let him pick?" I asked myself.

"I should have said just a small trim when I sat down, how stupid Jonathan!" I told myself.

"We cut it short amigo?" he asks.

"Well ok, I guess," I tell him.

He gets the clippers and brushes them with a small brush. Then they start up. He takes a black comb and lifts the hair up around my left ear, then digs the bare bladed clippers into my head. I realize then I never really made it clear to him exactly how short this haircut was going to be! I was going to be sheared again! I felt the hair coming all off around my big left ear, then the back of my head, and finally the big right ear.

Then to my horror, he takes a big comb type thing on the top of my head and lifts and cut the hair there.

"Oh no Jonathan, he's giving you a crew cut!" I tell myself.

I had never had a crewcut, just clipper short. The hair is already nearly gone from my forehead, no bangs left.

"Oh sir , I didn't want a crewcut, just short, " I tell him.

"Jur hair is already started to cut for the flattop, it too late now, " this man says.

"Flattop! oh man," I say.

This guy clippered and clippered my hair for 15 more minutes. I could see in the mirror I was looking like some football player out of the 1950s. All my long 1970's hair was gone again. Finally he was done. He handed me the mirror. I looked at the damage. In the mirror I saw my big ears, skin and a little flat landing strip on the top of my head. My head was flat!

I got up and paid. I said thank you, tipped him, then left. The minute I got outside my bare head felt naked. I got on my bike and road the rest of the way home feeling the wind on my freshly shorn head. This is the way I Jonathan accidently got my first flattop.

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