Giving my First Cut by RicardoBarber

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I grew up in a family of barbers, so the barbershop scenery has always been present in my life. When I wasn't studying, playing or watching TV I was at the shop, helping my father and grandpa or just watching everything. My grandpa used to say I was studying the profession for when it was my turn. He wasn't wrong at all. I always asked about what the job was like and why they did some things, and they always answered with enthusiasm. At age of 12 I had learned a lot about how the barbershop worked.

But theory is just part of learning. Practice was still needed. And although I had good eye-hand coordination, my dad wasn't comfortable letting me handle sharp tools like razors and scissors. The solution my uncle thought was buying me a Barbie doll, one of those that only has a bust, which I would train how to shave someone’ face (eventually we changed it for shaving a balloon). Eventually my dad finally decided that I was ready to finally learn real haircuts. And this is where this story really starts.

It happened in 2008, a few weeks before my birthday. Dad was tidying up the barbershop, and it was weird because it was a Sunday and he didn't work on Sunday. Besides, it was raining, so we probably wouldn’t have a customer.

"What are you doing, dad?"
"Ricardo, you are almost fifteen. I think you're ready to really learn how to cut hair and give us a hand in the shop".
"Really?", I was really excited. This was something I had been waiting for a long time.

My father sat down in the barber chair and told me to pay attention to his orders.

"You're going to clip and back and sides to a #4. Take a little off the top, with a small quaff in front. And trim the sideburns. Understand?"
"Yes, sir".

My dad's hair was thick, with just the smaller hint of gray starting to show up. It was a little longer than he used to wear, an inch on back and maybe two on the top.

I was a little nervous. My dad must have noticed because he assured me that there wouldn’t any kind of punishment if I didn't do a good job. But that wasn't the problem. I was just worried about messing up his haircut. He wasn't vain, but he knew that looking clean-cut and presentable was important to that job. And he was trusting me to keep him nice and smart.

"What if I screw it up?"
"So we just cut a few shorter to fix it."

My father was my hero. He was always and always will. My mother died when I was very young, so I only had him and my grandfather. He always made sure I was okay before anything else and I saw that. I wanted to make him proud, so I took a deep breath and said, "Okay then. I'll do it".

As caped him, my grandfather walked into the shop. And as if cutting my father's hair wasn't pressure enough, my grandfather had the camcorder, ready to record that moment.

"You will thank me for recording everything in a few years."

I didn’t know until then that grandpa was the guinea pig while he was teaching my father and my uncle how to cut hair. Now my dad was following his example, "giving up" on his locks for me. I needed to show him I was trustworthy.

I turned the chair so my dad was facing the mirror, I grabbed the clippers and comb, and attached the guard. Unfortunately, I put the #3 instead of the #4 and didn’t notice that. I run the clippers from dad’s nape to the crown. The clump of hair fell into his lap, and he commented that his hair looked longer than he'd noticed. Done with the back, I moved to my dad's right. After running the clippers sometimes, I noticed a strange look on his face.

"Ric, let me see something," he said taking the clippers. "Son, I told you to use a #4 on the back and sides. This is #3".
"Damn it. I knew I was going to screw it up. I'm sorry daddy. I didn’t mean".
"Hey kid, it's okay. It was just a mistake. It happens to everyone. Just keep cutting".

That’s true. My father and my grandfather were great barbers, but even they made mistakes, although very rarely. I remember once my father was clipping a man's hair and the guard came loose, making a small bald spot in the man's nape. Fortunately, it was easy to fix.

There was no way to undo my mistake, so I kept cutting. Soon the back and sides had been down to #3 and it was time to cut the top. I was more nervous now, afraid to messing up again. But my grandfather told me to relax, that I would do well if I let my nervousness go and enjoy the experience. "Cutting hair is funny after all."

Seeing that my father agreed, I took the advice. I sprayed water over his head and picked up the scissors. The first snip went a little deeper than I'd expected, but my dad didn't seem to mind or notice. Comb, lift, cut. The snips of the scissors was the only sound that filled the shop. It didn't take long to cut everything off. I slicked it all forward and lifted a small quiff, a few longer than the rest of his hair. I grabbed a mirror to show him his back, as I always saw my father and grandfather do with our customers. It was like dad was checking every single square inch of his head, looking for every little flaw in his new cut.

"Nice work, son," he said. "You did very well."

Dad pulled me closer to him, wrapped an arm around my shoulders, and ruffled my hair to show his approval. He said we would train again in two weeks, when his hair grew a little longer. I assured him I would pay more attention to I he was doing. My grandfather just joked that if something went wrong, my dad could shave my head to make up.

Before going in to shower, my dad told me to clean up the tools and sweep the hair. After all, that was also an important part of the job.

After that first cut, my dad still was my guinea pig a few more times. My grandfather also decided to let me cut his hair to learn faster and I took turns cutting their hair every week. Every my uncle came to town or we visited him, it was his turn to train with me. In just over six months, I was cutting the hair of real customers, replacing my father or grandfather when necessary.

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