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School photography. by Patrick 1


My name is Patrick, in 1972 I was 10 years old. Like most boys, I had longer hair that covered my eyes and large ears and covered the collar on my shirt.
We were supposed to have school photography at school. I knew that if I told my mother she would want to take me to her hairdresser to cut my hair by 1/2 inch. That's why I was silent about photography until I was sure we couldn't make it to the hairdresser.
I went to my mother and said to her: I forgot that we are taking pictures at school tomorrow, I have to bring money for photos. The mother responded immediately. What time is it? Couldn't you say that earlier? You can't take pictures with such hair. I really forgot it, I'm sorry: I said in a sad voice. I was looking forward to how I made it all up and I will have long hair tomorrow.
But my mother didn't give up and called somewhere. About 10 minutes he tells me to dress that I can get my hair cut. When we got out of the house, I wondered which modern barbershop was that way. After 15 minutes of walking I read: Vincenzo barbershop. I was hoping it would be closed here.
When I pushed the door they opened. My knees buckled when I saw an ancient barber shop with one barber chair and several wooden waiting chairs along the wall. Photographs of boys and men with short fashioned hairstyles hung on the walls. The barber was an old gray man in a white coat. On a children's high wooden chair sat about 7 years old boy, who was already finished. There was a gentleman sitting on the waiting chair, it turned out to be the boy's father. When the barber freed the boy from the white sheet in which he was wrapped, his father helped him get out of the chair. The boy sat on the waiting chair until the barber cut his father. I researched the boys' short hair and regretted that my father wouldn't let him have long hair. But I looked at him scornfully.
While the barber cut the master, asked his mother if I was going to have a haircut, she answered. Yes, they have photography tomorrow at school. Then the barber pointed to the baby chair to go down there while he was done with the customer. I felt very humiliated in that chair when my mother and I go to a modern barber, so I sit in a normal barber chair.
So tomorrow you'll be taking pictures, said the barber as he wrapped me in a white sheet. We'll give him a boy's elegant hairstyle, he asked his mother. She replied that she would be very happy. As the barber combed my hair, he told my mother that I had fine and fairly thin hair for my age. Mother said yes, yes, but she doesn't know what to do about it. Then the barber told her that the boy who was here before me about 2 years ago also had such fine hair, but by regular cutting it is normal. I did not like the regular clipping sentence at all. But your mother continued the conversation, and how often the boy comes to you. Well, it was once every 3 weeks and now every other week. Following these words, I assumed the mother would not agree.
When the barber combed my hair, he started to lift it with my comb and cut it with hand-held scissors. Soon I saw my ears in the mirror and I felt very uncomfortable. When he put his left hand on my head and hung the electric scissors off the hook, I wanted to dodge, but the pressure of the barber's hand on my head was great. Now don't move, so we don't spoil your hair. This is the first time the barber has moved from the cheekbone to the top of the head. When he repeated it I saw only about 1/8 inch long hair in the mirror. He shaved my ear and removed the hair around it. Then he went to the other side of his head. As I had my head forward, I could feel my metal teeth sink into my hair all over my back. At the top of his head, he began to lift his hair through the ridge, shoved his hands under the bottom and cut them with scissors. Somehow my head got smaller. The barber brushed my hair off the sheet with a whisk and picked up the other electric scissors. He put my head forward again and the finer metal teeth copied the shape of my head. When he bent my ear and cut my hair over it, I saw a white skin. After changing the scissors and using the comb he made me a gradual transition to the top of my head. He combed my hair, took thin scissors and cut my bangs about 3 fingers above my eyebrows. Finally, he applied a frothed white cream around my ears and neck and scraped it with a razor. He applied some stinking water to my hair and massaged it in my hair and combed it again. He asked his mother if she would do the trick, she nodded in agreement. Before he put my sail down, he stood behind me with a hand mirror on the back and side of my head. I knew it would be a short haircut but I was hairless in the middle of my back and the others were pretty short and because they are soft and I blended so well with the white scalp. Tears pressed into my eyes. When the barber freed me from under the sail, the first thing I did was grab my neck and back of my head with both hands, rub my skin and look for my hair. The barber asked me if he should help me out of the chair or whether I liked it. I quickly jumped and put on my coat and put a cap on my head and walked out in front of the barbershop. When my mother paid for my haircut, I only heard her ask the barber if my hair would really coarse. I didn't hear the answer anymore and I didn't even want to ask my mother about it.
At home, after careful examination, I found myself looking like a little boy and my hairstyle was the same as that boy in the barbershop.
Even though I have classmates who have conservative parents and do not allow them to wear their hair over their ears in a classroom school photo, I had the shortest hair.




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