Machinations, Plots and Schemes--Part 1 by Just_Me

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As the end of the school year approached, Mom surprised me one day. "How would you like to spend a couple of weeks with James and Rose this summer?"

I went on an emotional roller coaster during the next few seconds. First, I flushed with excitement, "Hot Damn! Maybe Uncle James will finally make me go to the barber shop with him!" (Uncle James was a firm believer in short hair on boys, and was infamous for saying, "My house, my rules" when it came to short hair.)

The emotional high crashed when fear exploded in my brain. I thought, "Will people make fun of me if I come home with short hair?"

I soared high again when I thought, "I’m finally going to get a short haircut, after all these years."

I plummeted. "What if I don’t look good with short hair?"

I obviously couldn’t decide if I hoped Uncle James would or wouldn’t make me go to the barbershop with him.

Mom was looking at me expectantly. I slowly said, "That could be cool. When would I go?"

"James and Rose are coming up here to spend the weekend the day school lets out. You could go home with them."

I thought, "Perfection! I could spend the rest of the summer letting my hair grow back out, and very few people would have to know I’d had a short haircut!"

I smiled. "I’d like that. Sign me up."

Mom called Aunt Rose to confirm my trip. After talking for a few minutes, Mom said, "James would like to talk to you."

Fear struck again, and I shuddered. I knew what the conversation was going to be.

I picked up the phone. My voice was weak when I said, "Hello?"

"I hear you’re wanting to come spend some time with us."

My voice quivered, "Yes, sir."

"We’ll be mighty glad to have you."

"Thank you, sir. I’m excited about getting to come stay with you."

I knew what he was going to say before he said it. "You know the deal. My house, my rules."

I thought, "Oh crap! Here it comes."

He kept talking. "As long as you’re staying here, you’re going to look like you belong with the family. If Curt can’t get you to the barbershop before you get here, I’ll be taking you for a flattop as soon as I can. I won’t have a long-haired hippy living under my roof."

"Yes, sir. I know that."

His hoarse, smoke-roughened bass seemed to vibrate through every cell in my bodyâ€"especially in the groin area. I had to turn away so Mom wouldn’t see my reaction.

"OK, just so we’re clear. You’ll be getting a flattop, just like the rest of my boys."

I suppressed the urge to say, "Finally." I just said, "Yes, sir. I’m OK with that."

"Good! Just know this, I won’t put up with any shenanigans once we’re at the barber’s. You’ll sit quietly, and take your haircut like a man."

"Yes, sir. I give you my word. There will be no problems from me. As long as I’m there, I’ll follow your rules."

Inwardly I groaned, "Oh, hell. What did I just get myself into?"

I hung up the phone. Mom looked at me. "James told me what he was going to say. Are you OK with this?"

"Yes, ma’am. I’m fine."

"I’d be lying if I said I was thrilled about the idea, but as long as you’re OK with it, I’m OK. If you change your mind, let me know, and I’ll cancel your trip."

I thought, "There ain’t no way in hell I’m changing my mind." I didn’t say that though. I said, "Honestly, I’m OK with it."

Dad came home, and I met him at the door. "Guess what, Dad?"

"I don’t know."

"I’m going to look like I’m from the Fifties soon. I’m going to spend a couple of weeks with the Skippers, and Uncle James said I’d have to get a flattop."

"Your mom told me." He ruffled my hair. "I can’t wait to see you without this mess on your head." He chuckled a bit. "Earlier today I was talking to someone at work about you, and I told him you were pretty level-headed for a teenager. You’re really going to be level-headed now."

Let me give you a little background about this story. "Uncle James" and "Aunt Rose" weren’t really my aunt and uncle. They were long-time family friends. Not long after we met them, I stopped calling them "Mr. and Mrs. Skipper".

I’ll never forget that hot summer day that they moved in next door to us. Mom looked out the window, and saw them first. "I can’t believe this! Wayne, come look at this."

Mom started counting. "One…two…three…" She whistled. "Oh my goodness, I think there’s eight boys out there."

My ears perked up, and I went running to the window. "EIght boys? Thank you, Jesus."

Mom looked surprised, so I explained. "I’ve been praying for someone to play with, and God answered my prayers." (We had just started going to church, and I was entranced with the idea of being able to ask for things, and them magically show up. In addition, we lived on a street where there were only older people.)

Mom laughed. "If God answers your prayers that fully, I’m going to give you my prayer list, and you can start praying for what I need."

She continued her monologue. "The youngest one is only a toddler, and the oldest is no more than eight or nine." She shook her head. "Surely all those kids don’t belong to that couple. Why, look at that poor woman, she’s no bigger than a minute. It’s a wonder she’s still alive after pushing out eight babies in as many years."

She paused, "Maybe they’re babysitting some kids. Surely that’s not all one family!"

Mom kept up her monologue. "They sure are a strange looking couple. Why, it’s a study in contrasts. He’s so big, and she’s so little. I’d be willing to bet he’s at least 6’, 4" and she can’t be more than 5’. He’s got that coal-black hair, and her hair is fair. There seems to be a contradiction between his dreadful short back and sides and her long blond hair. He’s tanned, and she’s got the most delicate peaches and cream complexion I’ve ever seen. Why, I’d give everything I own to have that kind of skin."

I didn’t understand half of what she was talking about, but I dutifully said, "Yes, ma’am."

Mom continued. "She’s as delicate as a hummingbird, and he’s burly as an ox." She giggled. "Make that he’s burly as a bear. All that dark hair on his chest and back makes him look like a bear."

I looked at him. "Mom, does he have tattoos on his arms?"

She laughed. "Son, I don’t think that’s tattoos. I think it's the hair on his arms."

I started looking at the boys. I was fascinated. I had never seen boys their age with hair so short. Every single one of them had really short hair. The five youngest had what I now know to be a #1 buzz cut. The three oldest had short flattops. I looked at Mom. "Why is their hair so short?"

Mom looked at me. "That’s none of our business, Wayne, but I’m sure their Dad has a reason." She grinned. "But I’m like you. I wonder why too." She paused. "Maybe he just got out of the army. Maybe it’s because they’re too poor to go to the barbershop regularly, so the father gets his money’s worth when he goes."

"I’ll ask them."

She gave me "the look". "Don’t you go asking. It would be rude."

I pondered that. I couldn’t figure out why it would be rude to ask, but Mom had firm ideas about what was right and wrong…and I knew there’d be consequences for me if I didn’t mind her.

Mom kept talking. "Keep your ears open. They’ll probably drop some hints that will let us know." She winked at me. "If I hear anything, I’ll let you know. You be sure and tell me if anyone says anything that lets you know the story behind their haircuts."

Mom went into hostess mode. She turned to Dad. "Curt, take Wayne next door, and help them get their furniture unloaded. I’m going to get something started to feed them for lunch, then I’ll be right over with iced tea and lemonade for everyone."

Dad and I went over, and Dad introduced us. The man called all the boys over, and started introducing the boys. "This is Andy Griffin, and the one with the almost white hair is Benjamin Franklin. We call him Ben. The dark-haired one is Clark Gable. Standing next to him is David Niven. Elvis Presley is the one with the black hair. Frank Sinatra is the one with auburn hair. The ginger is Gregory Peck, and last, but not least is Henry Fonda."

Dad whistled. "That’s a lot of names to keep up with. Whatever made you decide to name all of them after famous people?"

"That was my ex-wife’s doing. She thought it would be fun."

"Ex-wife? You mean Rose is not these boy’s mother?"

"No sir. Rose and I just got married this morning. This is our honeymoon. My ex disappeared two weeks after coming home from having Henry. I’ve never seen her again."

"You mean she left you with eight boys to raise by yourself?"

"Yes, sir. That’s about the size of it."

Dad whistled again. "Holy, shi…" He looked at Mrs. Skipper. "Sorry about the language, ma’am."

She laughed. "James was in the navy. I’m used to rough language."

Dad smiled. "Either way, I think you must be a saint to marry a man with eight boys. I wish you lots of luck!"

Her smile was as pretty as she was. "I’m not sure if I’m a saint or senile, but thanks for the good wishes. I have a feeling I’m going to need all the luck I can get."

I was about to burst with all this information. I said, "Excuse me, Dad, but I need to go home."

He looked startled. "OK, but hurry back. We’re going to need all the help we can get to get this truck unloaded."

I ran home, full of gossip. "Mom, you’re not going to believe this. That lady ain’t the boys’ mother. They just got married…and you were right. He was in the navy."

Mom shuddered. "She’s not the boys’ mother? She married a man with eight kids? I cannot imagine." She pointed at the door. "Go back over there, and see what else you can find out. I’ll be there as soon as I can."

It didn’t take long to get everything unloaded and set up. There were two sets of bunk beds in two of the bedrooms, so it was four boys to a room.

After everything was done, we all sat on the back porch. Mom showed up with lunch, and after everyone ate, Mom quickly got busy being nosy. "Your boys are so cute. How old are they?"

James answered, "Henry, the youngest, is twenty-two months, and Andy just turned nine." He smirked. "What you really want to know is how far apart they are, right?"

Mom looked a little embarrassed. "I guess so. They just seem so stair-stepped."

"They pretty much are. Greg is not three yet. There’s a thirteen month gap between him and Frank."

Mom gasped. "Only thirteen months? That’s fast to be having another baby."

James laughed. "Thirteen months is the biggest gap between the boys. I had eight boys in less than seven years. Frank and Elvis are both four. There’s ten months, and ten days between them. Elvis and David are exactly nine months apart. Clark and Ben share the same birthday, just a year apart."

"I don’t know how you keep up with them all." Mom turned to Rose. "When you come over for coffee in the morning, remind me to put the boys’ birthdays on my calendar."

Dad changed the subject. "We should be heading home now." He shook James’ hand. "Welcome to the neighborhood. If we can help you folks get settled in, just let us know." He looked at Rose. "I’m sure Marie will be happy to show you around town. She can show you where the grocery store is, the best hairdressers, or pretty much anything else is." He grinned at Mom. "I don’t think there’s a store in town Marie hasn’t bought something in. She loves to shop."

James piped up. "Rose will love that, but I have a question for you Curt."

Dad cut him off, with a grin. "You’re looking for Sarge’s Barbershop. I think you’ll like him. He’s a retired first sergeant, and he only does really short haircuts."

"How in the hell did you know I was going to ask about a barber?"

Dad laughed. "I’m not a psychic. I grew up with a father who hated hair as much as you seem to. When you rubbed the back of your neck, and looked at your boys, it reminded me of him."

It was James’ turn to laugh. "It seemed like you were reading my mind."

"No mind reading, but was I right?"

"You hit the nail on the head. I can’t stand it when my hair starts getting long, and it drives me crazy when my boys’ hair starts looking shabby."

Mom spoke up. "I noticed your boys were freshly barbered."

"Yes, ma’am, and they’ll stay that way as long as they live under my roof." For the first of many times I heard him say, "My rules are a burr until they’re six, a flattop until they’re sixteen. After that, it’s short back and sides until they move out. No exceptions." (I heard him say that countless times through the years.)

Mom bristled. "That seems a little strict. After all, we live in the Seventies."

James was blunt. "My house, my rules. If they don’t like it, they can move out."

He turned to Dad. "This Sarge’s Barbershop sounds like the perfect place for me. How do I get there, or do you even know? From the looks of you, you haven’t seen a barbershop in years."

Rose broke in. "Curt, just ignore James. He’s always trying to find ways to con a man into getting a shorter haircut."

James grinned. "You’re damned right! I think a man should look like a man."

Dad grinned back. "Oh, I know how to get there. He cut my hair for years." Dad rubbed his neck. "I still have nightmares about how short he peeled me the last time I saw him." He looked at James. "Sarge’s shop is in the backwoods. Let me know when you want to go, and I’ll take you…but I ain’t getting out of the truck. I don’t trust that man within fifty feet of me."

After that, the lives of the two families were intertwined. If Mom couldn’t cook supper, Aunt Rose would. If Aunt Rose needed help, Mom prepared the meals. They’d wash clothes together, and spend all day with their ironing boards set up side by side. After supper, Dad and Uncle James would sit on the porch drinking beer and smoking cigars.

Ben and Clark (Benjamin Franklin and Clark Gable) were about the same age as I was, and we became best friends. They often spent the night at my house, and I occasionally got to spend the night at their house. They preferred staying at my house, for some reason.

Anyway, I developed a fascination with their haircuts, and soon wanted to look like I belonged to the Skipper family. I tried to figure out a way to get my own hair cut like theirs.

It seemed like the universe conspired against me, when it came to getting a flattop. Several times I planned to spend the night with them on the night before they were supposed to get a haircut. I figured if I was at their house, Uncle James would just load me in the van, and take me to the barbershop with them. (I’d heard him say, "My house, my rules" often enough to believe he would take me to the barbershop without a qualm.)

One time chicken pox broke out at their house, and I didn’t get to spend the night. The next time I thought my plan was going to happen, my grandfather got sick, and we had to go to Oklahoma to check on him. My frustration was so great that I cried half of the trip. Anyway, things had never worked out, and I was still wearing my hair long.

Enough about that. Aunt Rose and Uncle James were always a part of our life after that, even after we moved apart. We moved twenty miles away, and then they moved to Houston. They’d drive up at least once a month, and spend the weekend with us.

Every time I would see the Skipper family, my first reaction was a longing to look like them. Well, to be perfectly honest, I always wavered between longing to have a haircut like theirs, and total disgust, thinking, "Those poor boys. I feel so sorry for them."

The desire to go to a barbershop just kept increasing as I got older, and every time I saw the Skippers, I’d have a huge spike in haircut lust. I even started dreaming about getting a short haircut.

Somehow I knew Dad felt the same way. Looking back, the way he wore his hair showed his mixed emotions. My earliest memories are of him with short back and sides—which is how my hair was cut too. Then he started letting the top get longer. Copious amounts of Brylcreem were applied daily, but his hair still fell in his eyes. He developed the habit of flicking his hair out of his eyes when it fell forward.

After a while, the sides started getting longer, but they were combed back. It was a classic greaser look, and looked like something straight out of the Fiftiesâ€"except for the back. He kept the back extra short: shaved up about two inches, just like it had been when he was wearing a short back and sides.

I had watched in fascination, as between 1973 and 1976 his sideburns gradually went from being cut off at the the top of his ears to reaching mid-ear. They stayed there for a while, then gradually began to lengthen again. They stopped a while when they reached his ear lobes.

I’ve always called 1976 "The Year of the Sideburns". That was the year Dad’s sideburns started getting longer and wider. He developed some truly impressive mutton chops. His sideburns were big, even for the Seventies.

After not shaving for a week while on a hunting trip, he left his mustache, and I thought he looked cool with the friendly chops. Soon the mustache had morphed into a massive handlebar. His sideburns kept growing, and it looked like he had a long beard, except for his chin area. He shaved that every day. Eventually, his sideburns got long enough to brush his chest.

No matter how long the sideburns got, he kept the back peeled. I thought the short back clashed with the long sideburns, and the pompadour seemed at odds with the neatly barbered nape.

To me, his haircut looked like it had been quilted together from different decades. It was a mixture of the Forties and Fifties of his youth mixed with the Seventies. When he threw in the 1870’s Dundreary sideburns, it really got chaotic.

It was a unique look.

During the same timeframe, Uncle James had let his hair follow about the same path Dad had. Every time I’d see him, his hair would be just a little longer than it had been before. His short back and sides had gradually grown into a massive, heavily greased pompadour with long sideburnsâ€"but his sideburns weren’t nearly as big as Dad’s. He didn’t keep his neck peeled either.

Sometimes I’d look at him and think, "It just ain’t fair. He probably doesn’t even realize what a bastard he’s being. Here he is wearing his hair any way he likes, but making his boys keep theirs short. It’s just wrong!"

Back to the story. Uncle James (and the whole family) came to pick me up, and he and Dad were sitting on the back porch smoking cigars when I heard Dad say, "James, I’ve never seen your boys with such shaggy hair. Are you going to let them join the Seventies now?"

James exhaled some cigar smoke before answering. "Oh, hell no! We were supposed to go to the barbershop Tuesday, but I postponed it until next week. I figured I’d let Wayne see what it’s like to go to the barbershop as a part of the Skipper family."

I wanted to shout, "It’s about time!" I kept my mouth shut though.

He kept talking. "There’s a reason the boys look so shabby. The damned barbers in Houston charge too much. I’ve had to go from us getting a haircut every three weeks to every six weeks. A man could go broke paying $3 for nine haircuts every three weeks."

Dad laughed. "I’ve never thought about it that way. You’re right. I fuss because Mr. Callahan went up to $2, and I’m only paying for one haircut."

James laughed. "Speaking of haircuts, Wayne is in desperate need of a good shearing. I can’t wait to get him in a barber’s chair."

"I’m glad you’re going to take care of that for me. Marie throws a hissy fit every time I mention him getting a haircut, but she didn’t say a word when you insisted. It seems she thinks you can do no wrong."

A huge grin split Uncle James’ face—and mine too. I thought, "Yes! It’s finally going to happen now!"

He replied, "I’m more than happy to take care of that. I’ll enjoy seeing all that hair fall on a barbershop floor." He took another draw on his cigar. "Curt, you really need to do something with that hair on your head. Those sideburns of yours are ridiculous. They need the attention of a real barber. Hell, I’ll pay for it, as long as I get some say in what kind of cut you get."

Dad laughed. "I know what kind of haircut I’d have if you had any say in it." He pointed at Henry. "I’d look just like him."

Uncle James smirked. "You’re damned right! I’d have you looking just like him if I had any say in it."

Uncle James ignored Dad’s middle finger salute and kept talking. "Wayne’s coming home with a flattop, but is there any particular way you want it? Beveled? Boxy?"

It was Dad’s turn to grin. "I’ll leave that up to you."

"How old is he now?"

"He’s fifteen."

"I thought so. I’ve already told him he’ll come home with a flattop. That’s my rule. All the boys wear a flattop until they are sixteen." He kept talking. "Just one thing. I’ve been having my boys’ hair cut a little shorter, since I’m going so long between cuts. You ok with that?"

"Hell! I don’t care if he comes back with a horseshoe, or even a shaved head. Just get rid of that mop on his head."

James' eyes lit up. "I like the idea of a horseshoe. Let’s give the boy a real taste of the barbershop."

Dad quizzed. "Shaved sides and all?

James nodded. "Definitely. Shaved sides and all!."

Dad was all smiles. "A horseshoe it will be." He shook his head. "I’d give my eyeteeth to see this happen. Boy, is he going to be surprised." He chuckled. "Hell, I may have to call off work, and drive down to see this." He shook his head. "Damn it, we’re short-handed next week. I can’t take off work right now, but I want a blow by blow of everything that happens."

"You got it, Curt. I’ll call you as soon as the deed is done."

Dad’s smile told me he relished the thought, and I thought the conversation was over. However, Dad went a step further. "If Wayne gives you any trouble, just have the barber shave his head. I mean it."

"I don’t think he’ll give me any trouble. He’s expecting to get a haircut, and you’ve raised him to mind his elders." Then he chuckled. "Hell, the boy probably doesn’t even know what a horseshoe is. He’ll have no clue what’s happening." He took a swig of beer. "I don’t foresee any problems at all." He paused. "A horseshoe…why didn’t I think of that?"

"Just one more thing, James, be ready to defend yourself if Marie gets pissed."

"Don’t worry about her. I’ll have her convinced it was her idea before it’s over."

Dad laughed. "You probably will, you sneaky bastard! I wish I could manipulate her like you do." He reached in his back pocket, and pulled out some money. "Marie and I want you to take this. It’ll help pay for what he eats. Take the price of the haircut out of this."

"I’m not that poor! I can afford a few groceries and a haircut or two."

Dad shook his head. "James, how can you possibly forget how much a teenaged boy eats? Shut up and take the damned money!"

Hearing what Dad said thrilled me, even though a horseshoe was a little more than I had reckoned with. Then suddenly, I got royally pissed, thinking, "Why is Dad doing this to me? He knows I’m going to get a flattop." I fumed for a few minutes. "The lousy bastard! It’s just wrong for him to be sneaky like that. I would’ve respected his decision if he’d just told me, but I don’t like this sneak attack!" A few minutes of thinking made me decide to thwart himâ€"even if it cost me the haircut I had so desperately wanted.

I caught Mom as she was coming out of the bedroom the next morning. "Hey, Mom. Can I talk to you in private?" (Finding privacy in a house with nine boys and four adults is a challenge.)

"Sure, Wayne. Come on in."

She shut the door. "What’s going on?"

Tears formed in my eyes. "Is it too late for me to change my mind about going to Houston?"

She looked concerned. "You were so excited about going. What made you change your mind?"

I took a deep breath. "Well…you know how when we first started talking about the trip, you said I’d probably have to get my haircut?"

She looked impatient. "Yes. I know that. Don’t tell me you’re wanting to chicken out over a haircut."

I took another deep breath. "Mom, I don’t want to get Dad in trouble with you, but I heard Dad and Uncle James talking last night. They’re not talking about just a flattop. They’re planning on making me get a horseshoe flattop. Dad even gave Uncle James the money to pay for it."

She got "the look" in her eyes, and I knew Dad was in trouble. "Oh, he did, did he? We’ll see about that!" She started out of the room, and then stopped. "Wayne, don’t worry. You will NOT be forced to get a horseshoe flattop. I can promise you that."

She stormed out, and I giggled when I thought, "Oh, crap! I just unleashed Hurricane Marie!"

I followed her, hoping to find a place where I could hear her, without being seen. I giggled again when I thought, "Wayne, you don’t have to worry about hearing her. Half of the county is going to hear this!"

Mom surprised me. She was much calmer than I had anticipated. She called Aunt Rose over, then started talking. "James, I want to make sure we’re clear on one thing before you leave, and I called Rose over, so there could be no misunderstanding. Wayne and I agreed to him getting a flattop, and he was OK with that. I just found out that you are planning on being a sneaky rat, and make him get something shorter. I’m not OK with that. In fact, I’m pulling my permission for you to take him to the barbershop unless you agree to some ground rules."

"What did you have in mind, Marie?"

Mom frowned. "I don’t want him coming back with hair that’s shorter than yours. As a matter of fact, I hope you’ll respect my wishes, and leave him with QUITE a bit more hair than you have. Is that clear?"

"I don’t like it, but as long as I can get his hair over his ears, I’ll live with it."

Mom nodded. "To remove any doubt, there will be no buzz cuts. No burrs. No brush cuts. No flattops of any length. In fact, I want you to remember this. You will tell the barber he can cut Wayne’s hair over his ears, but there will be no high arches. No taper. It will be blocked. The bangs will be cut no shorter than the top of his eyebrows." She stared at him. "Can you remember this, or do I need to write it down?"

Uncle James looked at Dad. "Well, Curt. It looks like we got outmaneuvered." He turned to Mom. "Ok. You won the battle, and no. You don’t have to write it down. I can remember."

Mom got "that tone" in her voice. "I mean it James. If you can’t live with my rules, Wayne will stay here."

"Marie, I’m not going to do something stupid, and ruin our years of friendship. I wouldn’t even if I wanted to, because I know Rose would make my life a living hell."

Aunt Rose piped up, "You got that right."

He ignored her, and kept talking. He looked at Dad, and then Aunt Rose. He said, "Curt and Rose, I want you to be my witnesses. I’m swearing an oath of honor to Marie that Wayne’s hair will not be cut shorter than mine."

Mom looked relieved. "Thanks, James. I really appreciate it."

"I gave you my word, and I’ll keep it. Wayne will come back with more hair on his head than I have on mine."

Uncle James cornered me the second day I was in Houston. "Wayne, I want you to know I am not happy with you. You should’ve been a man, and came and talked to me, instead of sneaking around and hiding behind Marie’s skirts."

I got pissed. "No disrespect intended, sir, but I don’t care if you’re not happy with me. I’m not happy with you either. You and Dad could’ve acted like men, instead of sneaking around behind Mom’s back, and plotting like a bunch of ball-less eunuchs. You have no right to be mad at me for following your example. In fact, I found the way you bragged about being able to manipulate Mom disgusting. You should be ashamed of yourself, and you should be ashamed to be talking to me about acting like a man. Come see me when you you decide to act like a man." I took a deep breath. "I knew your rules when I agreed to spend two weeks with you. I knew that since I was only fifteen, I would be getting a flattop—and I was actually looking forward to it. I’ve always wanted to be a part of your family, and thought the flattop would make me fit in. You and Dad didn’t have courtesy to even ask me about it, and tried to force me into something I didn’t want."

I looked him in the eye. "I am my mother’s son. I don’t take manipulation well."

He couldn’t have looked more shocked if I had thrown a bucket of ice water on him. He sputtered a moment, then looked down.

I braced myself, thinking, "Oh, hell, Wayne. You are going to catch it now."

He finally looked up. "You’re right, Wayne. I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for the way I acted. You’ve proven you’re more of a man than I am. I’ll call Marie in a few minutes and apologize to her too. Thanks for calling me out."

I didn’t know what to say. I finally muttered, "No problem, sir."

He put his hand out. "Shake on it?"

I shook his hand, and then he pulled me into a hug. After releasing me, he said, "You’ve been a part of the family for years, but I want to make it official. Welcome to the Skipper family."

Tears came into my eyes. "Thank you, sir…and you’re right. I’ve been part of the family for years."

I had a thought. "Uncle James, can I ask a favor of you?"

"Sure. What’s up?"

"Well, I told you that I’ve always wanted a flattop. Mom put a kink in that plan, but I think I know a way where I could get my hair a little shorter."

"What are you thinking?"

"Well, sir, Mom said your hair had to be shorter than mine. if you went a little shorter, I could get mine a little shorter, and we’d still be obeying Mom. My hair would still be longer than yours."

"Wayne, I like the way you’re thinking. I’ll do that for you."

"Thanks, Uncle James. That’s so cool of you! Now when are we going to the barbershop, so I can make the fact that I’m joining the Skipper family official in my mind?"

"How about in the morning?"

I grinned. "I’m looking forward to it!"

He grinned. "We’ll be at the barbershop at six in the morning."

"Six o’clock? No barber in the world is open at six a.m.!"

"My barber will be open."

I shook my head in dismay. "Why in the world would he be open at that ungodly hour?"

"Well, he normally opens at eight, but he says it puts him too far behind if all nine of us come in first thing in the morning. He always opens early when the Skipper family is coming." He grinned at me. "He wanted me to come in at 5:30 when I told him I was bringing a hippy with me."

"OK. I guess I’ll survive getting up that early." Then I looked at him. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure. What’s on your mind?"

"This may sound rude, and I don’t mean it to be."

He nodded. "Go ahead and ask your question. I can take it."

"OK, sir. I will." I took a deep breath. "Why do you insist on your boys having short hair, when you’re not setting the proper example for them?" When he didn’t answer, I kept going. "Look at you. You’re wearing the pompadour that was popular when you were young, and you’ve got those long sideburns that are popular now, but you’re making your boys peel their heads practically bald. I think it’s wrong for you to not set an example for them. In fact, I think it’s hypocritical of you."

He started to say something, and I cut him off. "Let me finish, please."

He nodded.

"Last night I was so excited about getting a haircut that I couldn’t sleep. I started looking through the photo albums on the coffee table, and your whole life is in there. I could tell your father didn’t make you cut your hair. Sure, you had a flattop for a few years, but before that, your hair wasn’t peeled. I assumed you got the flattop because you thought it was cool, not because someone made you. Then you soon started looking like Elvis. I’m reasonably sure your father didn’t make you let your hair grow out, did he?"

"No." He paused. "No, he didn’t."

I kept going. "You were a part of the popular group. You were always surrounded by jocks and cheerleaders. You took the prettiest girl to the prom, and was even crowned prom king. You had a letterman jacket on in most of your pictures. It looks like you had great teen years." I paused to let that sink in. "None of your boys will ever get to experience any of that, because you make them wear haircuts that gets them picked on, and called dorks, dweebs and nerds. They will never be part of the ‘in’ crowd, because of what you’re doing to them. To be blunt, you’re ruining their childhood, and I’d like to know why."

He looked troubled. "Do you really think I’m doing that to them?"

"Yes, sir. I do. Every day that you make them wear their hair peeled is a day they are tormented, picked on or pitied by those around them. Every. Single. Day."

He looked shocked. "I never wanted that for them. I wanted them to be disciplined. I want them to look like strong men. I thought others would look up to them for standing out in the crowd."

"I’m going to reply to all of those points, but before I do, I have one more thing to say. Your generation cracks me up. You act like our generation is the first one to ever have long hair or beards. Look at your history books. Short hair on men is a relatively new thing. It hasn’t been around but about a hundred years. For centuries men either had long hair, or wore wigs that made them look like they had long hair. George Washington and Thomas Jefferson had ponytails, and hair over their ears​​. Even Jesus is depicted with long hair. Your generation, and the one before you, are the only generations that have had really short hair in the history of the world."

I started quietly. "Now, I’m going to answer your comment. Your boys are disciplined, but it’s not because they get a haircut every few weeks. Your oldest three boys mow lawns, have paper routes and work a part-time job, as well as going to school, and maintaining better than average grades. Do you know why they’re so disciplined?"

He shook his head. "No, but I expect you’re going to tell me."

"Yes sir, I am. Have you ever noticed that they never spend much of the money they make? Do they go to movies, or out to eat? Do they buy lots of clothes, or have a fancy car? I’ll answer that for you. No, they don’t, and they don’t do any of those things because they’re saving every dime they can to get an apartment, and get away from you and your constant haircuts. Hell, at least one of them is planning on dropping out of school as soon as he turns eighteen, just to get away from a peeled head. Is that what you want for them?"

I didn’t give him a chance to answer, and I got a little loud. "How are you teaching them discipline by making them get haircuts? From my understanding, discipline is when you have enough self-control to do something, even when you have other options. Me brushing my teeth three times a day, without having to be told to do it is discipline." I realized I was getting angry, and stopped to pull myself together. "Your boys have no options, so what you’ve taught them is blind obedience to your commands, not discipline. It would be discipline if they took it upon themselves to go to the barbershop. Has that ever happened?"

He slowly shook his head.

"Has even one of your boys ever came up to you and said, ‘Hey, Dad. I’m looking pretty shaggy. I need to go to the barbershop’?"

He shook his head again. He whispered, "No."

"So, how has having hundreds of haircuts made them disciplined, if you’re having to tell them they’re going to get a haircut?"

"You’re right. It’s not discipline if I have to make them do it. I completely missed that point." He kept going. "What other points have I missed? I hope they’re not as obvious as that one."

"You were wrong when you said short hair would make them look like strong men. Being a strong man makes you look like a strong man. It has nothing to do with the length of your hair. Do you think all those men through the centuries who had long hair looked weak? No, of course not. They were strong, confident men. Their confidence in themselves made them look strong."

"I’ve watched your boys. They’re not confident. They’re scared. I can see it in their faces. Every time a stranger comes up to them, you can see that they’re thinking, ‘Is this person going to make a snide remark about my hair?’ Sure, there’s a few old people who like their haircuts, but have you ever heard one of their peers say anything nice about your boys’ hair? I’d be willing to bet I’m the only young person on the planet who likes the way they look, and would be willing to get a flattop."

I kept going. "One final point. You said you wanted others to look up to your boys, because they were willing to stand out in the crowd. Why aren’t you willing to stand out in the crowd? Is it because you know that people will pity you, and make fun of you…just like they pity and make fun of your boys? Is that why you aren’t leading by example?"

Uncle James let out a deep breath. "Damn, Wayne. You don’t pull any punches."

"What do you think about what I’ve said?"

He sighed. "You’ve given me a lot to think about, and I honestly don’t know where I stand right now. All these years I thought I was right, and you’ve shown me I might not have been as correct as I thought."

"I just have one more thing to say, Uncle James. From my perspective, you only have two options. First, you could ease up on the boys and let them pick their own hairstyles. They’re good kids, and I’m sure they’ll make smart decisions."

"I’ll think about it. Honestly, I really don’t like that idea. What’s your other option?"

"Well, if you’re going to stick with the ‘my house, my rules’ idea, you need to lead by example. If it’s your house, you need to follow the rules. Walk your talk. Practice what you preach. Get rid of that pompadour and those sideburns. Let the boys know you’re with them, not on the other side."

"Do they think I’m against them?"

"Think about it, Uncle James. Their tormentors all have long hair, and you have long hair. Of course they think you’re on the side of those who make fun of them. Hell, they probably think YOU are making fun of them."

"Ouch!"

I laid awake that night, thinking about my conversation with Uncle James. Even though I was still mad at him for his underhandedness, I knew I really wanted to be a part of the family…and to look like I was a part of the family. An idea popped into my head, and I sat up, trying to figure out if I had the balls to go through with what I was thinking. A huge smile spread across my face when I thought, "I’m going to do it!" I could kill two birds with one stone. I’d pay Uncle James back, and still get the haircut I desperately wanted.

I got up, and went to the bathroom so I could look at my hair in the mirror. After running my hands through my hair several times (and admiring how the light reflected off of it), I relaxed as the rightness of my plan filled me with a sense of euphoria. I whispered, "Bye-bye, long hair. It’s been nice having you around." I went back to the sofa and soon relaxed into a peaceful sleep.

I was up before Uncle James came into the living room. I had already dressed and tried to comb my hair, but my hair just wouldn’t cooperate. I cussed my hair a little bit. To my vivid imagination, it seemed like my long hair was begging me not to cut it. I looked at it in the mirror, and said, "You’re wrong if you think not cooperating is going to save you. Go ahead and act up. I don’t care. You'll be on the floor pretty soon."

I walked back into the living room and took advantage of the universal cure for a bad-hair day. I put a baseball cap on.

We got to the barbershop, and Ben said, "Sit between me and Clark."

"Why?"

"We always get our hair cut in the order of our age."

"Why?"

"It’s just the way we’ve always done it. I think it started because the youngest ones would get restless. Dad would get their hair cut first, so if they got too antsy, he could take them outside."

I thought, "Damn. Everyone’s too old for that to work now." I sent up a silent prayer. "God, please let Uncle James go outside for something when I need him to."

Henry was getting caped up, when Uncle James walked into the shop. The barber looked at Uncle James and said, "The usual?"

Uncle James grinned. "Why are you asking me? I’m not the one getting my hair cut. Ask Henry what he wants."

A huge smile spread across my face. I knew I had gotten through to Uncle James.

The barber looked confused. "What do you mean?"

"Boys, listen to me. I’ve been wrong to make you get haircuts of my choice. Today, for the first time in your life, you’re going to get to tell a barber what kind of haircut you want."

Stunned silence filled the shop. Finally, Andy spoke up. "Are you serious, Dad. We don’t have to get peeled?"

"You can get it peeled if you want to, but you don’t have to. You can just have him trim it off the ears and neck, or you can have it shavedâ€"or anywhere in between. It’s up to you."

Andy yelled, "HOT DAMN! Thank you, Dad."

General bedlam followed for a few minutes.

Uncle James walked up to the barber chair after order was restored. "Henry, I know you haven’t had much time to think about it. Do you want your normal flattop, or do you want to let your hair grow out, so you can look like all the other boys at your school?"

Henry looked like he wanted to cry. "Will I get in trouble if I say I want to let my hair grow out?"

I saw a tear in Uncle James’ eye. "No, son. You will not get in trouble."

Henry sniffled. "I don’t know what I want, Dad."

That’s OK. How would you feel if I told Mr. Anderson to just trim you up, so you look neat? That way, you can have time to think about what you want, and next time you can tell him. But know this, whether you let it grow, or if you keep it short, I will always love you."

He turned to the barber. "All right, Gus. You heard what I said. Just neaten him up a bit. Go ahead and block the back, so he looks a little more modern." Then he said, "I want you to give each boy whatever haircut he wants."

Mr. Anderson looked at James. "Well, I’ll be damned. I never thought I’d hear those words come out of your mouth."

Ben turned to me. "What in the hell got into Dad? Is he on drugs?"

I guess I looked smug. He punched me. "You had something to do with this, didn’t you?"

I just smiled and said, "I’ll never tell." I looked at Clark. "What look are you going to go for?"

"I guess I’ll go for the only look I can achieve with hair this short. I’m going for the grown-out flattop look." He sounded bitter when he said, "I hope I never have to see butch wax again."

I looked at Ben. "What about you?"

He shrugged. "I don’t know, but I may keep the flattop for a few weeks. I’ve been looking forward to my sixteenth birthday, so I could start letting my hair grow out. That’s only a few weeks away. I might as well wait until then." He grinned at me. "Anyway, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s hot in Houston, and I don’t want to have to deal with sweaty hair all summer."

Clark sneered. "You’ve always been a damned fool."

I ignored Clark and Ben after that. I knew they could argue all day long. I watched Henry’s haircut, with keen interest. He kept his dazed look through the whole thing.

I heard an unfamiliar whirring sound. Mr. Anderson was standing in front of a small machine, and I could tell the sound was coming from it. I thought, "What in the world is that?"

I was surprised when he walked to the side of the barber chair, and spread what looked like shaving cream all around Henry’s ears and neck. I thought, "What the hell?"

Mr. Anderson picked up a straight razor, and started going around Henry’s hairline. I was intrigued. I didn’t remember the barber doing that when Dad had taken me to the barbershop with him when I was little. I had to smirk when I thought, "You haven’t been in a barbershop since you were about six. Of course you don’t remember everything."

Greg was next, and he grinned like a possum as he got settled in the chair. Before Mr. Anderson even asked, Greg said, "I want my hair just like Henry’s."

Frank got in the chair. "Mr. Anderson, I just want it trimmed, but I don’t want it to look like a flattop any more. Can you make the top look less like a flattop?"

"I can do that, son, but I’ll have to cut a little length off here. It’ll be a little more rounded, like the shape of your head. Does that sound OK to you?"

Frank grinned. "Yes, sir! That’s what I want."

A bad case of nerves hit me, and I thought, "I can’t do this!" I looked at Uncle James, and remembered him and Dad plotting. I finally thought, "If they can scheme, so can I. Wayne, just stop thinking about it, and do it. He deserves it." Then I snickered. "After all, you did promise Uncle James you’d get a flattop."

Frank was next, and his smile was so big that he lit up the room when he saw himself after his haircut. I heard him mumble, "Maybe I won’t look like a geek by the time school starts."

Elvis’ instructions were clear. "Cut the least amount you can. I want to have hair like the real Elvis!"

"Next," called the barber, and David sat down. "What do you want?"

David grinned. "It’s the story of my life. I want a haircut just like my brothers’." After the barber trimmed around his neck and ears, he was released. David said, "That’s the fastest haircut I’ve ever had."

I was getting nervous. I needed Uncle James to leave the shop, so that I could put my plan into action.

Clark’s normally sour expression was almost beatific after he got out of the chair. He even went up to Uncle James, and stuck out his hand. "Thanks, Dad. I want to shake your hand. You acted like a gentleman today, instead of a dictator. I really appreciate it."

For the second time that day I saw tears in Uncle James’ eyes.

Uncle James said, "I’ll be right back. I left my cigars in the van."

I thought, "Uncle James, you’re a lying bastard. You’re emotional, and you want to go outside, to pull yourself together." I grinned. No matter what the excuse was, the timing couldn’t have been better, and it worked perfectly with my plan to extract a little revenge on him.

The barber growled, "You ain’t fooling no one, James Skipper. You left your cigars outside, so I couldn’t bum one."

Uncle James laughed. "You may be right about that. Do you want me to bring you one?"

The barber smirked. "Is the Pope Catholic? Of course I want you to bring me a cigar. I deserve something for putting up with you." Then he called out, "Next!"

For the first time in years, I sat in a barber’s chair.

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