Tennessee Flattop by Kyle Shearing

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Getting out of the car, I can see the hair falling into my eyes in my reflection in the window. Long shanks of hair, tipping down over my eyebrows and curling around into my eyelashes like they're trying to blind me. Pulling my fingers through the bangs like a rake does little to control them, and I toss my head back as I start the long walk across the parking lot to the barber shop.


Of course, the move had taken so much more time than I'd thought it would, closing out everything and packing. Leaving the big city for a small town in Tennessee, trying to start a whole new life. It'd probably been close to 3 months since my last haircut, stretching my already *generally shaggy*​ appearance into a new level.


I know I have to go to the barber. I have to. But something about getting in the chair, being under that long cape that they tie super-tight around your neck, still scares me at a basic, bone-deep level. In a way I can't really suss out. So I park all the way on the other side of the parking lot and approach the only barber shop in town slowly, with a level of apprehension most people save for the dentist.


Of course I don't know it at the time, but that choice, dragging my feet, my long, slow, haunted procession, ends up changing my whole life.


A large black truck turns sharply in-front of me, parking as close as possible to Kent's Barber Shop's windowed front. The engine shakes and roars, shattering the quiet peace of the mostly abandoned parking lot, and leaves a notable absence when the driver turns it off. Like the thick quiet after an explosion.


It's his cowboy boots I see first as he gets out; a dark, rich mahogany, the same color as my hair. Well, when it's longer. Brown boots, dark blue Wranglers, white polo shirt and a small gut tucked in behind a large silver belt buckle. An incredibly short flattop, jet black and shiny, standing straight up, with just a hint of hair on the sides. He looks a lot more at home here than I do, with my flip-flops, baggy beige shorts and some t-shirt I found wrinkled up on the bedroom floor.


He looks born-and-bred Tennessee, and walks toward the barber shop door with a strong sense of purpose. It strikes me almost immediately that he is a man that knows exactly who he is, and it just as quickly strikes me that I don't think I've ever felt like that in my entire life.


That thought gives me pause, and I actually stop walking, standing still as my brain rolls around in my head. "Have I really never known who I am before? Have I never really felt comfortable with myself?"


It's right at this moment when he sees me.


I watch his reflection lock eyes with me in the frosted glass of the barber shop door. We're only maybe 7 or 8 feet away but I can feel a chasm between us, the ground dropping out as he looks into my reflection and into me. He stops for a second, too, and drops his head down, seeming deep in thought. I can see his scalp right through his flattop since it's already so short.


In one swift motion he turns to me and pulls Kent's door open. He smiles and juts his chin up at me.


"I think this is where you're headin', son."


It could be a question but he says it like a statement. I stand still for another beat, like my feet are frozen. He takes a step toward me and reaches his arm out.


"I think you're well past due, son, come on."


I inch a bit toward him, still in a weird sort of shock, and his arm slams across my back. His hand locks onto my shoulder as he guides me through the entrance to the barber shop.


Everything in here is old-fashioned, from another time. Like in a black-and-white movie. The barber chairs look enormous, covered in worn red leather and bright chrome. The wall behind the chairs is one solid mirror, broken up with deep white sinks and bright white countertops, covered in a surprising amount of clippers blades and scissors for what appears to be a one-man shop.


Kent leans on the back of the giant barber chair closest to the door, one leg crossed over the other. He's got jeans and cowboy boots on too, and a old-tyme barber smock with his name sewn onto the breast. He must see me looking, and he runs his fingers down the large buttons that close across the collar and sleeve.


Kent: "They don't make 'em like this anymore."


He winks, and the wrinkles on the side of his face stretch all the way behind his ears, with no hair to hide them. His sides and back are completely bald, and the hair on top is only a little longer, ash blond, buzzed down like a soldier.


Kent: "Hey there, Bill, here for the weekly?"


Bill, now directly behind me, closes the barber shop door with a tight tug. I hear the metal clack.


Bill: "I sure am, but this young man needs a haircut something awful. And he was in first."


He slaps both hands on my shoulder, gives them a strong squeeze, and saunters over to the waiting area. I sort of stare and watch as he settles into the chair directly across from the barber's chair, leaning his head on the wall.


Kent: "You were first, so I think this ones for you."


He turns the barber chair so it points right toward me, and I realize I feel like I'm on a conveyor belt. Leaving, or running away as fast as I can, it isn't an option. "I drove myself here," I think, "I planned to get a haircut. So why does it suddenly feel like I'm under someone else's control?"


I bend over and lean into the barber chair with every muscle in my body tensed. My hands find the cold, chrome armrests and lock down, my fingers spreading out like a web. Kent turns the chair and I'm looking directly into Bill's eyes again, seeing him watch me in the chair. Seeing him watch as Kent throws the blue pinstriped cape over me and cinches it tight across a waxy paper strip. I sit up straighter, I realize, because I feel like Bill isn't happy with my posture.


Kent sprays a couple misty jets of water into my hair and begins to comb it. This way, that. Up off my face into a sort of pomp. And then to one side, and another, with frustrated grunts that only get louder and deeper as he goes on. He pulls the bangs up again but straight up, showing off the length. Now Bill joins in grunting, his lips dipping down at the corner with visible disgust.


Kent: "Well, I guess we're cuttin' some of it off, right?"


He rests his hands on my shoulders, the long barber comb between his fingers tapping against my neck. For the second time that day a complete stranger, an older man, has grabbed my shoulders and filled me with a set of emotions I wasn't ready for. Something I can't put into words. Even already knowing what I'm going to say, what I always say, it comes out in a stutter, as I realize I'm afraid to disappoint them both.


Kyle: "Y-yes. For a trim. A trim."


Bill knocks his tongue against his teeth and winces, uncrossing his legs and rising up.


Bill: "I don't think that's gonna cut it, son."


The barber's chair is at the lowest setting, down to the ground, and Bill stands above me. I look up to him.


Kyle: "No? N-no sir?"
Bill: "No, son. You stick out like a sore thumb, like you don't belong.
Around here, proper young men look like proper young men."


He steps closer to the barber's chair, jabbing both thumbs behind his belt buckle and leaning forward.


Bill: "You're gonna need to lose a lot more hair before you look right like that."


I feel my body weighed down again, like my bones are made of heavy steel. I barely manage to nod my head, and watch as a wide smile spreads over Bill's face.


Kent: "What kinda cut we thinkin?"


At this point he's pulling my hair up from my head, letting it fall, pulling it up again and letting it go, like some kind of nervous tic. Bill runs his knuckles over his chin and does a half-circle around the chair, staring at my head like it's a slab of marble he's about to carve.


Bill: "It'll have to be short, that's for sure."
Kent: "How about a flattop like Dad's?"


And there it was. The sensation that had been boiling in my brain and my guts, since Bill had first stared at me, and into me, through the barber shop's glass door. Even though I knew this man was not my father the resemblance was uncanny. The same button nose, the same wide-set eyes. His hair the same dark black mine gets when it gets short. Kent had seen us, and had seen how Bill was treating me, and assumed we were father and son.


Kent: "I end up giving most boys their Dad's haircut anyway. It's just easier.
And maybe the boy ain't happy but Dad always is."


I looked to Bill and waited. And kept waiting. Surely any second he was going to tell Kent I wasn't his son. And admit he didn't have any right to choose my haircut for me, like a little kid. Any second now that was gonna happen.


Bill: "You know what? You're right. A flattop it is.
Make sure it's a short one so his hair gets trained right."


And just like that, the conversation is over. The barber's chair is turned toward the windows and Kent begins unceremoniously hacking off huge chunks of my hair, letting them fall where they may. Every new handful of hair is treated like trash, dropped to the cape or the floor behind me with little care, and maybe a hint of loathing.


When Kent scoops some green, shiny gel out of a large plastic tub, I notice he only takes a quarter-sized amount. Maybe a little less. I realize this is because that's all he needs for my now much shorter hair.


The gel is cold and thick, and followed quickly by a hot jet of air from the hair-dryer. A large flat comb, the size of my head, comes into view and is pushed over my head again and again. I can feel all the hair up there, all the hair that's left, getting pulled up higher and higher, sticking up proudly over the comb. A quick sense of relief bubbles through my body. There's still some left. Just as quickly, though, I realize that Kent is only combing up that hair to chop it off.


He brings the comb through again. And again. Again I feel my head tug back with the force. Kent clears his throat roughly and brings his clippers up. The long power cord smacks against my chest and the cape. He brings the comb through one more time and then begins his assault.


The sound is like nothing I've ever heard before, metal skating over ceramic, chopping through my thick hair. With every swipe across the large, flat comb he dumps huge balls of hair. The hair slides down the nylon cape with a high-pitched scream.


Bill: "We're starting to look like a nice young man, there."
Kent: "Yes sir. Under all that mess."


Kent tips my head down with the heel of his hand and pushes the comb into the hair on my crown, slicing that away just as forcefully. The hair that's already been collected in my lap is weighing into the pinstripe cape.


A part of me, a small part of me, sees the hair and starts to feel the same disgust Bill and Kent feel. They've made it very clear how upset they were with the shaggy, unkempt way I looked. And it's becoming clear to me, now, how much I crave their approval.


I've only met them minutes earlier. Bill may look like he's my Dad but we have no familial relationship. No shared DNA. He's a good-ole' boy in a small, southern town who's used to getting everything his way. And Kent's job is to give men short haircuts, so of course a guy like me that forgets to get regular haircuts and can go months without a barber shop visit would tick him off.


I can rationalize it all I want. But that small part of my brain that sort of *does*​ see Bill as my Dad is getting bigger. I think about Bill when he first saw me, reflected in the barber shop door, looking like his son but one that's been away a long time. It makes me feel ashamed. Knowing that he'd disapproved of how I looked, how I let myself get, hits me as strongly as if he'd put me over his knee.


Kent turns the chair toward Bill while he switches blades on the clippers.


Bill: "Lookin' better already, son."
Kyle: "Yes sir?"
Bill: "You bet. Definitely. It was time for you. Well past time."
Kyle: "Yes sir. ... Th- Thank you, sir."


I'm not even sure where it came from, tumbling out of my mouth. Bill's eyes narrow, and if he'd been assessing me before, judging me bit by bit, now he's grading me. I feel a shiver travel up from my feet, vibrating through my whole body. My mouth gets dry and I have to swallow, hard, just to keep from coughing.


Bill stands up, closing the small distance between us. He runs his hand over the top of his incredibly short flattop, biting his bottom lip, before crossing his arms over his chest like a football coach.


Bill: "We're makin' sure it's short enough, right? I want him to start off right, here."


Kent's been going over my sides with what I now realize is a very short clipper blade. Sharp splinters of hair spread over the longer hair in my lap like a cloud of black mist. Kent still hasn't turned me toward the mirror at any point during the haircut. So I can only imagine what I look like. But I know the mahogany highlights my hair gets when it's longer are gone. Whatever hair I'm being allowed to keep is the same dark black as Bill's.


Kent: "We can always take him shorter. More like shaved over the sides...
Gotta make sure Dad's gettin' his money's worth."


Bill rubs his knuckles over his chin, again. I notice his whole face is freshly shaved, probably this morning right when he woke up. And probably every morning, without fail. Remembering I hadn't shaved for at least the last 2 or 3 days causes another rumble in my stomach.


Bill: "Mmmm, somethin' to think about for next time.
I'll see how he wears it and we'll get back to it next week."


My eyes get wide and I stare up at him. He's staring right into my eyes, with a calm certainty.


Bill: "You can go 'head and think of my weekly appointment as a twofer. From now on."


He nods his head curtly, just once, like it's a punctuation on a sentence.


Kent slides a smaller comb into the little tufts of hair on top and begins buzzing them shorter. More square. He goes over it again and again. Shorter and shorter. Eventually he gets the comb so low that it's resting on top of my head. Which means whatever hair is left there can't be more than a millimeter. He holds the comb tight to the sides of my head and slides the clippers over them, making them square, too. Everything is squared off with military precision.


A few finishing touches, a little bit on top with the scissors, and Kent finally turns the chair toward the mirror. I can't stop myself from letting my jaw drop. The sides are buzzed almost completely clean. There's just a light shadow over them, halfway up my whole head. The incredibly short top is faded into the sides, maybe 3/4ths of an inch sticking straight up.


Kent spreads his fingers out and perches them over my ears like spiders. He pushes my head to the left, and then to the right in a slow, even circle. He's showing Bill his handiwork. No matter what angle he bends my head to the top sits like a flat square on top.


I don't look like me. It makes me feel like a stranger, someone I don't even know. I feel shell-shocked, like I'm not even sure how to move my own body. I can see Bill smiling behind me in the mirror, taking it all in. He's practically glowing with pride. Pride over his transformation of me into... whoever I am, now. He's so sure of himself, I can see it, and maybe that makes me feel a little sure, too?


Kent: "What's the verdict Dad? Did we get it right?"
Bill: "You did a great job, Kent. He's finally startin' to look like a Tennessee boy should.
We'll take care of those clothes he's got next and that should do it."


The barber's chair is turned back toward the waiting area. Kent folds the cape away from my chest, dumping all my hair on the floor, and clears his throat. His way of telling me I'm allowed to get up from the chair.


Kent: "You can take one of those magazines while you wait for your Dad, young man."


My head feels like it's wrapped in a cloud, which is funny considering Kent just spent 45 minutes making sure there's nothing left on my head. I can barely string one thought together. So I do what Kent said and sit, and thumb through a magazine, as Bill gets his already short flattop carved into an even shorter one. Kent shaves his sides with an electric razor, pulling at the skin to make sure it's taken extra tight.


Bill's flattop takes a lot less time than mine. When we leave I realize I don't even think to reach for my wallet. It doesn't occur to me. Bill pays for both of our haircuts and leaves a hefty tip, thanking Kent for all his "hard work."


I step out into the harsh sunlight and stop at Bill's truck. I'm at a loss for words, looking at him dumbfounded. He just smiles.


Bill: "You can follow behind. We need to get those clothes sorted out, son.
Then we'll get you some lunch."


He pats my shoulder and gets into his truck, never looking back. I guess because he knows he doesn't have to. I jog quickly over to my car and pull out of the parking lot.

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