Good boy. by chovanec

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Good boy.
Please excuse the bad English, it's not my native language.
My name is Ben. I was a good and decent boy. I was the only child of my parents who took care of me and gave me everything I needed. I've never been to a barber, as was the rule with other boys. My aunt Klára cut me from a little boy. It was always just a small haircut and that's why my hair got longer and longer.
Many girls envied my hair. In 1978 and I was 13 my hair was long and many times people thought I was a girl. My mother and I were proud of my hair but my father started to hate them. Every time he told me to get a haircut, my mother called Aunt Klara, who adjusted my hair.
I was almost 14 years old when I was with my father in town and we met his colleague, Mr Burrell. He told his father that he thought he had a son and not a daughter. I proudly boasted that I was a boy and my name was Ben. Mr. Burrell told his father that his sons went to a good barber, who gave them suitable hairstyles for the boys every 6-7 weeks.
In the evening, I heard my father and mother talking about my hair. I believed that my mother would win again and that Aunt Klára would continue to cut for me.
In the morning, I found a message that I had to teach him to work. After school, I went to see my father in robots. He told me that he and his mother agreed yesterday to go to the barber's with me, but he has a lot of work to do there alone. He gave me a barber's ticket that required my father to give me a good boyish haircut. Then he told me that I was going to the Morrison barber shop, where my son's colleague Burrell also went for a good boy's haircut. He said it was only a 10 minute drive. Before I could say anything, my father pushed me out the office door.
I followed the route as my father had told me and entered the Morrison barber shop. It was the first time I was at the barber's, so there was something new for me. I sat on the waiting chairs where several older gentlemen and a boy of about 7 years with his mother were waiting. I looked at the old gray pictures on the walls, I looked at the magazines on the table. When the barber called the little boy, he gave him a higher wooden chair, which his mother put him on. The boy didn't even have very long hair, they just touched his ears a little. When the barber wrapped the boy in a cloak, his mother said something to the barber and he cut the boy very briefly in a few minutes. I regretted him having such a strict mother. When the boy and his mother left the barber shop, the barber called another elderly gentleman to cut his hair.
Soon the barber called me, come in and sit down and pointed to his chair.
I listened and sat down in his chair. I handed him the ticket my father had written for him. He read it and smiled at me. He wrapped me in a tarp that he tightened around his neck. He combed my hair and made a tail, which he put in a rubber band. He took the mechanical scissors and slowly cut it. He showed it to me and asked me if I wanted to keep it in memory. I had my throat constricted from fear, so I just nodded and indicated that I would want him. He wrapped about an 11-inch-long tail in a newspaper and left it on the counter. He lifted my hair with a comb, which he then cut with scissors. I kept looking in the mirror and watching my hair stay shorter and shorter. The barber picked up the electric shears, and with his left hand tilted my head forward. When he put the scissors around his neck and fastened them, I moved sharply. The barber grabbed my head harder and told me to sit still and not move. The barber walked on the back of my head and my hair fell on the tarpaulin. Later, he put my head on my side and began to cut my hair from my temporal bone and around my ear. Then he put my head on the other side and chased the other side of my head. I finally saw myself in the mirror. I still had long hair on the top of my head but I had only 1/4 inch long on my hips and my ears were hairless. The barber continued to cut the hair on the top of his head and then combed it to one side. Tears welled up in my eyes. Most boys in the class now have longer hair than me. The barber took more electric scissors and again he tilted my head forward. He cut the remaining hair on my neck. Then he shaved my ear and made an arc around my ear and then around my other ear. I saw my white skin. He began to make a gradual transition to longer hair on the top of my head. I couldn't wait to leave this barber shop. Well, the barber put white foam on my neck and around my ears. He had a piece of leather belt hanging on the side of the chair, on which he sharpened the razor and began to remove the foam with it. When he had finished, he wiped the remnants of the foam on a towel, applied the liquid to the bare head, and applied another liquid to the remaining hair and combed it. I turned my head to see the side of my head in the mirror. Above my ear I had about an inch white stripe completely without hair and on the top of my head there were about 1a1 / 2 long hair. Then the barber took the mirror and stood behind me. He showed me the back of my head, which was 3 inches above the collar, completely hairless. My hairstyle was like that sure the 7-year-old boy had. I paid and took my braid in memory.
On the way home, I thought that only two classmates had such short hair as I have now. I had my hand almost always on the back of my head and above my ear, stroking my perfectly smooth skin.
My father was proud of my hair and said I finally looked like a boy.
I was at the center of ridicule at school, and I told myself I would never go to a Morrison barber shop again.

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