Flattop High part 2 by Ben Aldy

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On the way home from meeting with the guidance counselor I was lost in my own thoughts. Was this really happening to me? Was I going to a high school where all the guys wore flattops?

My dad finally broke the silence. "I know you’re probably mad at me for not telling you about the Plano Flattops. I just couldn’t think of a way to tell you that wouldn’t lead you to hate me for choosing this place. The flattops are actually part of what attracted me here. All the boys coming to the shop to get cleaned up will make the shop really profitable. And plus, who can cut a flattop better than your old man?"

I shook my head in bewilderment. "Do I have to get a flattop?"

"Son, have I ever made you cut your hair short for me?" He paused. We both knew he hadn’t. Even when some of the dads at our prior bases made their sons get crew cuts, my dad never did. "I’m not going to start now," he continued. "If you are strong enough to be the only long hair at your high school that would make me proud, too." He reached across the seat and tousled my hair. But Mr. Jackson was right. You do need a haircut, and you would look great in a flattop!"

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On Sunday morning, dad asked me if I had decided what to do about my hair. I told him that I didn’t want to get a flattop, but that I did want him to give me a trim. He said ok. Later that afternoon, we drove into town to his new shop, so he could cut it.

Back inside Jackson’s Barbershop, I climbed up in the old-fashioned barber chair and waited while my dad unpacked his tools. The shop was small but perfect. Six red waiting chairs lined the wall facing the barber chair. A full rack of men’s magazines and a Coke machine were at one end of the waiting chairs. At the other end, closest to the front window, was a bubble gum machine. On the wall hung a sales display of round pocket combs, with about half of them already sold, and an assortment of school pennants, including one for Plano High. Right next to the Plano Pennant was the traditional barbershop sign that indicated "Flattop Specialist" and another called "Modern Hairstyling" that featured a smiling man with a flattop and a boy with a "Junior Flattop."

Dad unfurled his white and red pin-striped cape over me, wrapped a tissue around my neck, and fastened the cape a little tighter than normal. Then he spun the chair around to face the mirror. I noticed he had put on his white barber coat, which was new, and smiled at me through the mirror.

Laid out neatly on the counter in front of me were his taper and flattop combs, a full set of clipper guards, and his straight razor. Behind these were a blue Barbicide jar, full of of more combs, and various other hair products—tonics, powders, butch waxes. The hot lather machine was to the right. His three sets of clippers—the giant black Oster 76s, his well-worn chrome Andis Masters, and his tiny edgers—all hung from hooks below the counter and were plugged in and ready to go.

He rested his hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eyes through the mirror. "So what are you thinking, Josh? Just a trim?"

"I guess you can taper it a little shorter on the sides and back, but please leave the length on top, parted to the side," I said.

He spun the chair a little past 90 degrees, where I could see Main Street. "One medium regular with a low taper coming up."

I took a deep breath and relaxed, as I knew dad would give me a great cut. I felt fortunate to have a dad that cared about me so much.

As he started to taper my left temple, clipper over comb, a group of boys about my age walked by the front window. If there was any thought in my mind that my dad and the guidance counselor were trying to pull one over on me, it quickly vanished: each and every one of the boys had their hair cut in crisp, classic flattops. They laughed and joked with each other as they passed.

My dad placed his hand on the top of my head and gently tilted it forward until my chin rested on my chest, and I felt the neck taper begin.

To be continued.

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