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Album: Part 2 by Domko

Sorry for my weak English, not my mother tongue
I recommend reading Part 1 of the Album first.
My name is Raul Anderson and in 1987 I was 13 when I found my father's secret diary from his adolescence. I was tempted to be forced to have a short haircut like my father did when he was 15, but at the same time I was very afraid of how my friends and classmates would react to it. I found an old-fashioned barber shop called: Nelsov Barber Shop. But I didn't know if the original Mr. Nelson or another younger barber was still working on it. I often went to this barber shop, but I didn't have the courage to go to bed. Once I was walking around, a father with two sons was walking towards me. One was about my age and the other was about 9 years old. The elder begged his father that they did not yet have long hair to cut. I was fascinated by their debate. I turned and stood still for a moment. All three soon entered Nelson's barber shop. I sat down on a bench near the barber shop. I couldn't wait for the father and sons to leave the barber shop. I reacted to every opening of the door, but so far only older short-cut men came out. Finally the door opened and the boys and their father left the barber shop. I was enchanted with the boys' hairstyles. Their hairstyles were similar to what I saw in my father's photo. I got up from the bench and watched them from a safe distance. I imagined touching their freshly smooth shaved back of my head.
One evening my father looked at me for a long time. I already knew that look. It was always when he was not happy with my hair. He said: Raul, you should visit your barber. As always, I just whispered that I would try, but for the first time I was looking forward to it. I had a plan ready.
I knew my modern barber was closed on Mondays. I wrote a ticket for Barber Nelson on behalf of my father. Mr. Nelson, my son Rual is taking pictures at school tomorrow. I ask you to give him a decent boyish hairstyle. Well thank you . Eric Anderson.
For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to going to the barber. I walked into Nelson's barber shop, greeted myself, and sat down on a waiting chair. There was an older man in the barber's chair, and another gray-haired man was sitting on a waiting chair. I estimated the barber to be over 60 years old. He was slim with a short haircut, wearing a white coat. The room was decorated with old pictures with short hairstyles for boys and men.
The longer I sat on the waiting chair, the panic from the expected short hairstyle gripped me. I wanted to get up and leave, but the barber called. Boy, it's your turn to come sit here. My legs began to break and I took an uncertain step to the barber's chair. I handed the barber a prepared ticket, but I told him that all I had to do was fix my hair. The barber wrapped me in a white sheet and replied to my request that he knew what to do. He combed my hair, which he then began to shorten with the help of comb and scissors. The fear of a short haircut was ultimately greater than the desire to get it, and I was finally glad I wouldn't get a drastic haircut. The barber tucked his comb into his coat pocket and set down his scissors. The barber tilted my head and I felt the cold of the metal blades of electric scissors on my forehead. At the unpleasant sound, the scissors blades passed over the top of my head. It was repeated several times until the barber tilted my head to my side and began to cut my hair on the left side. He leaned his head forward, placed the scissors over the collar of his shirt, and the metal teeth of the scissors rose from my neck to the top of my head. About 10 inches of hair began to fall into the lap of the sail. He finally removed my hair from the right side of my head. There was a pile of my hair on the sheet and on the ground. When I had the opportunity to look in the mirror for a moment, I saw another boy with uniformly short hair all over his head. I sat down in this chair a while ago with beautiful long hair and now I am sitting there with sad eyes looking at the boy in the mirror. But the barber is already pushing my head to my side and with the other electric scissors cuts about 3/8 of the remaining hair from my cheekbone. He shaved my ear and walked over the scissors above him and saw a large arch of white skin. He continued to drive his back to the right side of his head. With the help of scissors and a comb, he made a gradual transition to the top of his head. He put a white sheet down for a moment to dust it off and I wanted to jump. Well, his powerful hand put me back in my seat. We're not done yet boy. He applied a foamed white cream over my ears and neck, crossed the razor several times over the leather belt and began to remove the white foam with it. Finally, he wiped the foam off me. He stood behind me with a small mirror and I saw about a 2.5 inch smooth shaved back of my head and large white arches over my ears. After being released from the sail, I longed for the back of my shaved head. It was a wonderful feeling. I paid and ran home. On the way, I stopped by the photographer and told him that I had to bring photos to school where I was taken in profile and from the side. Later, when my hair was growing, I often looked at these photos of me.
I received great praise from my parents for my new hairstyle, but I looked very angry that my father had sent me a haircut and my barber was closed and I went to another, old-fashioned one. When I was alone with excitement I rubbed the shaved part of my head and it was a beautiful feeling.
The worst was the meeting with classmates and friends. They made fun of me every day until the back of my head gradually grew. The humiliation was greater than the joy of shaving the back of his head.
I had no plans to have Nelson's haircut again. But I used to come here to watch, and if the boys left the barber shop in amazement, I watched their perfectly short hairstyles. All the boys' hairstyles were very similar.

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