Three Centimetres by SteDJ

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This story is based on true events but has been exaggerated in places for dramatic effect.

It was the summer of 1979, and we were on our annual family holiday in the Dordogne district of France. We had been going to the same place for as long as I could remember, staying in a little guest house in a small village not far from the market town of Bergerac. We spent the same fortnight every year enjoying the sunshine, canoeing, sightseeing and generally spending an idyllic time in a beautiful part of the world. I should explain at this stage who ‘we’ were: our family consisted of my parents, my twelve-year-old sister Susan, and me, Stephen, aged fourteen. So all in all a fairly typical family unit who got on pretty well most of the time. Despite our frequent visits to France though, Mum and Dad spoke almost no French, and neither did Susan nor myself, both of us having opted to do German at school. Still, those summer holidays in France were carefree times full of happy memories â€" with just the odd exception, and what follows was one such exception.

We were sitting round the breakfast table on the terrace one morning enjoying the usual delicious baguettes and croissants served by Madame Dupont, the owner of the premises. As usual I had taken a shower and spent some time trying to tame my haystack of blond hair into some sort of order. It had grown considerably since I had last had it cut and I was amazed that I had managed to dodge the usual pre-holiday scalping at the barbers back at home. The top must have been getting on for six inches long, my ears were completely covered, and long hanks hung over my collar at the back, so not all that unusual for a boy's haircut in the late 70s. As my long fringe kept falling into my eyes, I shook my head to flick it out of the way. I guess it had almost become a nervous tick as without thinking I repeatedly performed the same movement, only for my hair to fall back into my eyes again within seconds.

"So, what are we doing today?" asked Susan. There was a long silence, as my dad fixed me with a piercing stare.

"I think we’re going on a little sightseeing trip to find a barber’s," said my dad. "I’m sick to death of watching your brother flicking his head about. How come he didn’t get his hair cut before we set off? The kids' Haircuts are usually your department, aren’t they Margaret?" he said, addressing my mother.

"Yes, I know," sighed my mum. "You know how it’s been lately. I haven’t had a minute to myself."

"Right, then," announced my Dad. "Stephen and I are off to Bergerac when we’ve finished breakfast. I’m sure there’ll be a suitable barber’s there where he can get it done."

"Can I come and watch?" eagerly pitched in Susan.

"No you can’t!" I angrily retorted. "And I’m not having it cut anyway. We’re on holiday. Holidays are for enjoying ourselves, and going to the barber’s doesn’t count as enjoyment. And besides, none of us speaks French, so nobody will know what to ask for. So forget it."

With that, I left the table, and set off up to my room to sulk.

"Stephen!" yelled my dad. "Get back down here. We ARE going to Bergerac and we ARE going to find you a barber, and Susan CAN come and watch if she wants, and that’s FINAL."

"It’s not fair. Nobody has their hair cut on holiday. Why can’t we wait until we get home?"

"Enough!" snapped my dad. "Come on, get in the car. Let’s go."

"What are you going to ask for?" interjected my mum, ever the practical member of the family. "As Stephen says, you don’t speak French."

"Where there’s a will…" replied my dad. "Don’t forget, we all speak sign language, the universal means of communication."

"Well good luck. I’m staying here to write some postcards, so I’ll see you when you get back. Don't make him get it cut too short."

We were soon on our way down the narrow country lanes heading for Bergerac, dad at the wheel with a look of grim determination on his face.

"This is really exciting," said Susan. "I’ve never been in a French hairdresser’s before. What do you think it will be like?"

"Oh shut up and stop rubbing it in," I replied.

"How short’s he having it, Dad?" persisted Susan. "Are you going to get the barber to cut all his hair off like Kojak?" Of course, she was referring to the popular 1970s TV series featuring the bald detective played by Telly Savalas.

"I said shut up!"

"Both of you, that’s enough!" shouted my dad. "Stephen, stop being rude to your sister, and Susan, stop winding him up. And no, he’s not having a Kojak. He’s just having a trim, an inch or so off all over to tidy him up a bit, and some off the front to get it out of his eyes."

"They don’t have inches here," continued Susan, smugly showing off her substantial knowledge of the cultural differences between the UK and France. "So he’ll have to have three centimetres cut off instead; that’s about the same as an inch."

"Susan, it’s my hair and I think I should have some say in what’s cut off and what isn’t. So keep your thoughts to yourself."

I was becoming increasingly irritated and scared at the same time the closer we got to Bergerac.

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After fifteen minutes of wandering up and down the streets of central Bergerac, Susan suddenly cried out:

"Look, Coiffure Masculin! Masculine Hairdressers! Barbers! Over there!" Sadly, her sharp eyes had spotted what was undoubtedly a French barber shop tucked up a small cobbled sidestreet.

As we approached the little shop, my heart sank and my mouth became dry. I suppose it was obvious that they would have barber shops in France, but part of me was holding out for the impossible; that we would have to go back to the hotel, mission unaccomplished.

"Brilliant, well spotted Susan," said my dad, striding out like a man with a mission. "Come on Stephen, let’s get you in there."

Dragging my heels, I resigned myself to the inevitable and trudged along behind my dad and annoying sister.

As we got closer, it became painfully apparent that this was far from a trendy unisex joint like I was used to at home, rather a very old fashioned and slightly run down-looking small-town establishment with grubby net curtains at the windows and flaking brown paintwork. A sign above the door read 'H. Laurent, Coiffure Masculin, Hommes, Garcons'. Dad grabbed the door handle and pushed the door open, which set off the sound of a tinkling bell. I reluctantly followed him into the old barber shop, and soon found myself in a small dingy room dominated by a single old fashioned barber chair opposite a tarnished mirror, and the smell of putrid French cigarette smoke.

The barber, an ancient looking white-haired man dressed in a long white coat, was busy attacking the hair of the only customer in the shop who was also the occupant of the chair, a boy who appeared to be about my age. The barber was vigorously running his noisy electric clippers with gusto up and down the back of the boy's head, causing avalanches of brown hair to fall to his shoulders. The boy was wearing an unusual white nylon smock-type garment with sleeves, which covered him down to his feet and which looked to be firmly secured with ties at the back of his neck. This was all rather different from the blue sheet I had to wear for a haircut at the hairdressers back at home. On seeing us, a quizzical look spread across the barber's wizened face, he switched off the clippers and greeted us,

"Bonjour Madamoiselle, Messieurs. Qui voudrait une coupe-cheveux?" (Good morning young lady; gentlemen. Who's having a haircut?)

My dad took charge, clearly not having understood a word beyond the "Bonjour", and he pointed at me, mimed a scissors-type gesture with his fingers around my head, and clearly taking advice from Susan's earlier comment, proudly announced "Trois centimetres, s'il vous plait" (three centimetres, please), continuing his mock haircut impression around my head.

With a bemused look on his face, the barber put the clippers down on the counter, and disappeared into the back room, leaving the miserable looking half shorn teenager in the chair, scowling at his reflection in the mirror. Seconds later, the barber reappeared clutching a floor-length gathered white nylon smock identical to the one being worn by the boy in the chair, and held it out in front of me, gesturing for me to put my arms into the long wide sleeves. In no time, the strings were tied tightly round the back of my neck, and the barber pointed to a row of waiting chairs in front of the window, muttering something that none of us understood. The three of us sat down and I awaited my turn in the barber's chair. At least Dad had reassured me that it was only going to be a trim. What could possibly go wrong?

Meanwhile, Susan was clearly amused by what she had seen of my humiliation so far.

"You look like a church altar boy dressed in that long white thing," she giggled. I said nothing, and sat staring at the floor, red with embarrassment. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt under the smock, and could feel the heavy cold nylon rubbing over my arms and legs - a not entirely unpleasant feeling if I was honest.

My dad tried to lighten the mood, "I bet none of your friends have had their hair cut in a French barbers. Just think, you'll have something to tell them when you get home."

I sat and said nothing, quietly pouting.

"Le prochain s'il te plait" (Next please!)

I was jolted out of my sulk by the barber gesturing at me to take a seat in his big black chair. The previous customer was just leaving the shop looking miserable as sin, rubbing the back of his head and sporting a severe short back and sides.

I made the journey to the chair. I eased myself up onto the worn leather cushion, the barber adjusted the voluminous smock to ensure that I and most of the chair were properly shrouded, then he proceeded to pump up the chair. I rose upwards in a series of mechanical jolts, and stared dejectedly ahead as my reflection came into view in the mirror. There was no going back now.

The barber had obviously remembered Dad's instructions, so I wasn't especially perturbed when there was no further attempt at communication regarding the cut he was about to give me.

You can imagine my shock and horror then, when without even combing my hair, he grabbed the clippers, still hot from being used on his last customer, switched them on and plunged the roaring beasts straight into the long hair around my right ear. In seconds, huge chunks of my blond hair were raining down on my smock, and my right ear was suddenly exposed for the first time in years. Things weren't improved when I clearly saw in the mirror Susan's shocked reaction to the unfolding spectacle, as she gasped,

"Wow, Dad, I thought you said he wasn't getting a Kojak.... Look at all that hair falling off!! He's going to be bald!!

"Don't be silly Susan. He's just getting a trim. It only looks like he's losing a lot because his hair is so long. There'll be plenty left on."

I knew that was a lie, and I'm sure my dad did too as the hungry clippers continued their trail of destruction up the back of my head and round my left ear, the barber roughly steering my head around to ease their passage. The white smock was now covered in mountains of blond hair, some of it slipping down the front and plunging onto the floor at my feet. After what seemed an eternity of highly determined clipping, the barber finally switched off the machine of destruction and put it back down on the counter. It was then that I took the opportunity to run my hand up the back of my neck - the strange French sleeved garment that I was wearing made it easier to do this than if I had a normal English style barber sheet on, with my arms trapped beneath. On feeling the results of the clippers' onslaught, I was horrified.

"Oh my god!!!! What's he done to me?" All I could feel were bristles where minutes earlier there had been six inch long tresses of my blond locks. Tears welled up in my eyes.

"Dad, can't you stop him? This just isn't fair. Please Dad, please tell him...."

"It's fine, Stephen. You're going to look great. Don't cry, honestly, it's going to be fine."

So far, the top and the fringe had yet to receive the barber's attention, so my dad obviously felt it opportune to remind the barber of how it needed doing. Accompanied by Susan, who appeared rather shocked and had gone rather quiet, my dad stood up and walked over to the chair, and pointing at my remaining hair, he repeated his instructions, using the only few words he knew in French,

"Trois centimetres, s'il vous plait. Oui?" (Three centimentres, please, yes?)

"Oui, oui, bien sur. Asseyez-vous, Monsieur s'il vous plait." (Yes, yes, sure. Please sit down, sir)

The barber was now hovering over me clutching a huge pair of shiny scissors and a black comb, and he wasted no further time in digging the scissors into the long hair on the top of my head, scooping up a huge section, then scissors over comb and with a loud rasping snip, he deftly sliced off a huge hank of hair several inches long and sent it tumbling into my already hair-laden lap. My heart missed a beat and I went into instant panic mode.

"Oh mon dieu, Non, Monsieur. Trois centimetres. Only. Trois centimetres!!!" (Oh my god, no sir. Three centimetres. Only. Three centimetres!!!)

"Oui, oui, Monsieur. Comme ton pere vient de demander, il va rester trois centimetres. Aucune probleme." (Yes, yes, young man. As your father just asked, I'll leave three centimetres. No problem.)

I was shocked at my sudden ability to speak French, but had no idea what the barber said back to me. It didn't stop him from continuing his orgy of destruction all over my poor head though. As the scissors snipped loudly and my hair continued to fall in abundance, the penny finally dropped. Through my continuing tears, I fixed my dad in the mirror,

"Dad, when you told him three centimetres, he thought you meant LEAVE three centimetres, not CUT OFF three centimetres. Look at me. I'm nearly bald. I'll never forgive you for this. I hate you!!!

Three or four minutes of continued snipping and the hair finally stopped falling. I had no more than three centimetres of hair left on top - not much more than an inch. My fringe had been reduced to a severe hard line high up on my forehead, and all in all I felt naked and embarrassed beyond words. The torture was almost over, though. I say almost, because the final stage of the whole sorry process was administered as the barber scraped round my neck and ears with a razor, decisively removing the remains of my sideboards and trimming off the fuzz above my ears.

The barber undid the ties on the back of my smock, gave me a vigorous brushing down, then showed me the back of my head in his hand mirror. I could hardly bear to look. What had taken minutes to obliterate would surely take years to grow back.

The chair was let down with a clunk, and the white smock was finally dragged off me, spilling mounds of my blond locks onto the floor, and I was finally released from my ordeal and free to stand up.

Somehow or other, my dad and the barber managed to conclude the payment process, and I was finally outside in the sunshine heading back to the car.

Susan put her arm round me and rubbed my bristly head.

"I'm really sorry, Stephen. I think Dad messed up a bit with this one. I didn't really enjoy watching that old man cutting off all your hair, honest. I do feel sorry for you."

Overhearing Susan's rather heart warming reassurances, Dad pitched in,

"Oh come on Susan, it's not that bad, in fact I think it really suits him. We've just got your mother to convince, then we're home and dry. Let's go and get some ice creams."

"Sorry, dad, but no amount of ice cream is going make up for this. Three centimetres, my a*se..."

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