Remembering Bill, Part I by Just_Me

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I recently had the privilege of delivering the eulogy for Bill. He was a great personal friend and wonderful mentor.

I started the eulogy with, "Today we come to celebrate one of the most unique men I’ve ever known. Anyone who was around Bill for more than five minutes knew he was passionate about his family, short hair and cigarsâ€"traits we had in common. I’m proud to say I was a son of his heart. He unofficially adopted me more than forty years ago, and always introduced me as, ‘R. W., my other son.’ I will be speaking to you today as ‘Bill’s other son’."


I’ve been thinking about Bill a lot since his funeral, and decided to write about when our friendship first started to blossom. I considered telling this story at Bill’s funeral, but didn’t, because I knew some of the people involved would be there, and it would hurt them. When writing this story, I changed a few details and most of the names to protect those who needed it. However, I didn’t change Bill’s name. I felt like he deserved to be honored under his rightful name.

Ok, on with the story.

I was getting ready for school one day in late November when Mom stuck her head in the door and said, "R. W., I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things have been really bad between your father and me."

I mentally rolled my eyes and thought, "Yeah, I’ve noticed, and so has the whole damned neighborhood."

Mom didn’t see my reaction, and kept talking. "I went to the doctor yesterday, and he told me to take a month’s vacation, so we’re going to go stay with Bill and Lisa for a while. You’ll have to miss a few weeks of school." She handed me a note. "I want you to give this to the principal today. I’ve told him to have your teachers give you all your homework for the time we’ll be gone."

Knowing I was going to get to see Bill put a huge smile on my face. Even though I only got to see him once a year (or less), he was one of my favorite people. I’m sure the idea of getting to miss so much school made my smile bigger.

When I got to school that morning, the principal started preaching, instead of teaching. "That much absence will probably ruin the rest of your academic career. I’ve never had a student survive that long of an absence without detrimental consequences." He went on and on for about ten minutes, and ended with a dire prognostication. "You’ll never get into college because you’ll be so far behind that your grades will suffer for the rest of your school years." I left the office with the principal’s saying, "Make sure and tell your mother I believe this is a horrible idea."

All I could think was, "Mister, I ain’t gonna be the one who tells Mom we can’t go. If you want her to know you’re against it, you’re going to have to call her and deal with her wrath. It ain’t gonna be me!"

I conveniently "forgot" to tell Mom what the principal said.

A few days later, we were on the road, and the twelve-hour drive seemed like it took forever. We finally got there, and I groaned with relief when I got out of the car and stretched.

I knew what Mom was going to say before she said it. "R. W., comb your hair. I don’t want you looking like a ragamuffin when we go in."

"Yes, ma’am." I reached in my back pocket, pulled out my comb and ran it through my hair, thinking, "God, I wish I could buzz this crap off!"

Bill came out to meet us, and he looked as handsome as I remembered. My first thought upon seeing him was, "Thank God he hasn’t given in to the Seventies. He looks so good with his short back and sides." I silently whispered, "Thanks for not changing, Bill."

Mom went running up to Bill, and gave him a big hug. She stepped back and looked at him. "Bill, you still look as good as you did twenty years ago, but why in the world are you still wearing that ugly, old-fashioned hairstyle? Times have changed since you were a kid."

I thought, "Mom always has the ability to ruin anything, and she’s doing it again. She definitely started off on the wrong foot."

He wasn’t rude, just matter of fact when he said, "Jean, times may have changed, but I haven’t, and since you’re not my wife, it’s none of your goddamned business how I wear my hair. However, to answer your question, I like my hair short. No other reason needed. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to look at me."

I inwardly gave a fist pump, thinking, "That’s the way to tell her, Bill!" I kept thinking. "I like the way Bill unapologetically admitted he liked his hair severely short, and didn’t take crap from Mom. He didn’t use any excuses. It was just, ‘I like my hair like it is’ with a ‘you can go to hell if you don’t like it’ attitude." I admired his actions for a second, and then thought, "That’s going to be me someday."

Mom looked shocked, but didn’t say anything. He looked at me. "Hey, Jean. Who’s this pretty girl you brought with you?"

I blushed.

Mom sounded like a teen-aged girl when she said, "Oh, Bill. Stop it. He does not." I swear she was batting her eyelashes like a southern ingenue in a silent film.

"He damned sure does. Lisa’s hair is not as long as his." He walked up to me and shook my hand. "Good to see you, R. W." He grinned and picked up my hair. "I should’ve said good to see what little of you I can see behind this long mess." He grabbed Mom’s suitcases. "Come on in and get settled. Dinner’ll be ready in a few."

Dinner was a torment, and my mind raced the whole time. "R. W., don’t stare. It’s not polite." I answered myself. "It’s hard not to stare. Not only does Bill have that great haircut, he’s so damned good looking that it’s distracting. Hell, he’s the most masculine man you’ve ever met, R. W."

I managed to look away, until he said, "R. W., would you mind getting the tea pitcher out of the kitchen?"

I thought, "Bill, thanks for giving me an excuse to look at you."

I jumped up. "I’ll be happy to." I sat the pitcher next to him, and caught a whiff of scent, and my next thought almost escaped out of my mouth. "Damn! He reeks of sexiness and cigars." ( I had as much a thing for cigars as I had for short hair).

I decided I was going to have to stay as far away from Bill as I could. I was afraid I’d do something foolish, like ask if I could touch his hairâ€"or worse yet, beg him to take me to see his barber.

I was almost asleep that night, when I had a thought that made me sit up. "Mom and Dad are having trouble. What if she came out here to see if she and Bill are compatible?"

The thought was so audacious that it literally took my breath away.

I immediately chastised myself. "That’s a helluva thing to think about your own mother, R. W." However, I got lost in the idea of Bill being my step-father. I felt guilty for liking the idea, but the guilt didn’t stop me from thinking about it. I loved Dad, but knew that if I was living with Bill a lot of my problems would be over. Bill had already proven that he could stop Mom in her tracks. I was sure there’d be no emotional or physical abuse from Mom as long as Bill was around. I also knew he wasn’t as trusting as Dad, so Mom wouldn’t be able to fool him.

My cock sprang up when I thought, "One of the first things he’d do as my step-father is take me to the barbershop."

The logical next thought was, "I wonder how short he’d have the barber go? Would he stop with us having matching haircuts, or would he have me taken down to a flattop? A crewcut? A burr?"

I enjoyed the fantasy for a few minutes, imagining us going into the barbershop, and Bill delivering precise instructions to the barber. My mind kept racing, and I thought, "IF Mom and Bill hook up, should I act like I’m being forced to go see the barber, or should I tell him I want a haircut before he gets around to it?"

I played it out both ways in my head. First I imagined Bill saying, "Come on, R. W. We’re headed to the barbershop, and we’re going to do something with the crap on your head."

I imagined saying, "I’ll go live with Dad if you try to make me get a haircut." I quickly changed my mind, thinking, "Bill won’t put up with threats. He’d throw my ass on a bus as soon as I threatened."

Then I thought, "I could whine about not wanting to go. Bill would get really stern and say, ‘Listen to me, young man. As long as you’re living under my roof, you’re gonna have a real haircut. I already have one daughter living with me, and I don’t need another one. I won’t put up with more hair dryers, hairspray and loose hair all over the bathroom. Now get in the truck, or am I going to have to make you get in the truck? I’ll do it if I have to, but I don’t want to start our relationship off like that’."

I could envision me slinking to the truck, and imagine how elated I would be on the inside. Then I thought, "R. W., you’d never be able to pretend you didn’t want to get a ‘real’ haircut. You’d better play it like you want to go."

My fertile imagination immediately supplied the scenario. I decided I would keep it simple, and surprise Bill by saying, "How about a trip to the barbershop, Bill?"

I imagined his smile, and how his grey eyes would light up. "Thanks for saving me the trouble of dragging your ass in for a haircut, because I sure as hell was going to. Let’s get the hell out of Dodge."

After thinking about both possibilities, I decided that me beating Bill to the punch was definitely the winner. I knew that would make him happy, and would be a bonding moment between the two of us.

After enjoying the fantasy for a while, I thought, "R. W., stop it. This is all wishful thinking. Mom and Dad are going to be together forever, and you’re going to have to find your way to deal with Mom. You can’t depend on Bill or anyone else."

Not fully convinced, I muttered, "It’s not stupid. It makes perfect sense. Why else would Mom spend a month with a newly divorced man and his daughter?"

The next morning Bill said, "I’ve got some errands to run, and I’ve got to go to the shop for a while. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, but y'all make yourself at home while I’m gone."

I almost shot a wad in my pants when Bill came home. Once again my thought almost escaped out of my mouth. "Holy crap! I thought he looked good last night, but that fresh haircut makes him look even better!" I tried to examine his haircut, without looking like I was. The sides and back were shaved part of the way up his head. His part was razor straight, and the hair on the top of his head laid perfectly flat. The light gleamed off the oil in his hair. I wondered if he used Vitalis or Brylcreem. Then I thought, "Whatever he uses, it looks good on him."

I was mesmerized. His dense five o’clock shadow contrasted strangely, yet nicely, with the completely bare skin that the barber’s clippers had exposed over his ears and on his neck. Somehow the difference increased his raw masculinity and made him even sexier.

I looked at him again, and thought, "Damn! Even his ears are sexy. How the hell do you get sexy ears?"

His haircut was, quite literally, the stuff of my dreams. I had had countless dreams where my hair would be peeled down to the length of Bill’s hair. (I mentally called them "sticky dreams" because I would wake up to a sticky mess in my bed.)

Those dreams were in addition to all the hours I spent imagining different scenarios where I would get a haircut like his. I shook my head, and thought, "Admit it, R. W. All you think about is barbers and haircuts." I was eaten up with jealousy of Bill’s haircut, thinking, "I wish I was brave enough to get a haircut like his." Then I thought, "You’ll do it someday. That’s a promise!"

His work uniform was crisply starched and his muscles were so big that the sleeves were tight. The ever-present cigar rounded out the look.

Everything about him fulfilled my idea of what a man should be. I thought, "I’d gladly trade my height and runner’s build for his square body shape."

I couldn’t help myself. Before I thought, I blurted out, "You’re looking mighty sharp there, Bill."

I instantly regretted it, thinking, "Way to go, dumbass! You shouldn’t let him know you think he looks good."

Bill looked startled, but didn’t seem suspicious. "Are you referring to my uniform or my hair? If it’s my uniform, you caught me on a rare good day. Normally I come home covered in grease, oil and mud."

Then he laughed. "I’d be surprised if a Farrah-Fawcett-wannabe like you is talking about my haircut, but if you are, I’ll have to agree with you. It does look pretty damned good, doesn’t it?" His amazing grey eyes twinkled with merriment. "I’d be happy to take you to see my barber. I know he’d love to get his clippers in that damned hair of yours and make you look like me."

Once again my big mouth opened before I thought. "I’d do it, if I thought It’d make me look as good as you do." I shook my head. "I don’t think Mother Nature gave me the looks to pull it off though." For about the millionth time in my life, I thought, "Damn it! Why did I say that? I wish I could put a lock on my big, fat mouth!"

It was like Bill read my mind. He laughed. "I’d be willing to bet you didn’t mean to say that out loud." Then he kept talking. "Hell, You’ll never know how good you’ll look until you try it. Let me know when you grow some balls and are ready to look like a real man."

I cringed when he said, "Seriously, R. W., think about getting a shorter haircut. It’s pretty damned obvious that you like the look, and It’ll make you look like a man."

Mom piped up. "I think R. W. is right. He wouldn’t look good with hair as short as yours. He likes his hair shorter, but I made him grow his hair out, to hide those big ears of his."

Bill had some steel in his voice when he said, "Jean, hush! You were dead wrong to encourage him to let his hair grow." He shook his head. "Making a boy let his hair grow out is about the stupidest damned thing I’ve ever heard ofâ€"especially letting it get that long. Hell, Farrah Fawcett would be jealous if she saw his hair."

(He wasn’t the first person who had said that to me, and he was right. My hair was about as long as hers.)

I braced for the storm I knew was coming. I had no doubt that Mom wasn’t going to take kindly to Bill telling her to hush, much less saying that one of her ideas was stupid…but nothing happened.

He glared at her. "I think he’d look better with short hair. You’re a woman. You should know that his stupid-looking hair is hiding his best feature, his eyes."

Mom looked startled. She’d obviously not thought about that. Bill kept talking. " I think all men look like damned fools with long hair."

I was shocked when he said that. I didn’t want to look like a damned fool in front of him.

He kept going. "Jean, go help Lisa in the kitchen. I need to talk to R. W. alone."

Without waiting to see if Mom said anything, he led me to the living room. "How you wear your hair is really none of my damned business, but I see potential in you, and I don’t want you to waste all your energies being what Jean or anyone else wants you to be. I want you to be who you want to be. If you wanna be a hippy, that’s your choice. However, if you want to be a short-hair in a long-haired world, I say you should do it."

Then he looked at me again. "Like I said, you’ll never know if you look good until you try it. Let me know when you’re ready." He got the twinkle in his gorgeous eyes again. "Hell, my barber would probably give me free haircuts for a month, just to thank me for bringing you in. You’d be doing yourself a favor, and me too."

I squirmed at the thought. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"It’s your choice, but I think you’re wrong. Good night, R. W."

I couldn’t go to sleep that night, because I was thinking about what Bill had said. I thought, "I do like looking like the rest of the world, but I really hate having long hair." My vanity kicked in. "Hell, I have better hair than most of the people in the world, but that doesn’t matter. I want to take Bill up on his offer."

Thoughts whirled around in my head, like leaves in a windstorm. Every time a thought would land, it would be blown off again.

I knew I was too agitated to sleep, so I got up to do some homework. I picked trigonometry, thinking, "R. W., you’re in a bad mood anyway, might as well work on the worst subject."

I opened my book, and looked at the page, but the emotional upheaval I was in made it impossible to see anything. Then I ripped a piece of paper out of my notebook and started writing. The paper looked like this.

SHORT HAIRCUT:
Pros:
I WANT IT!!!!
No more seeing a stranger in the mirror. I will see the real me.
Not only will I not see a stranger, I won’t feel like a fraud every time I go out.
I could sleep longer in the morning, because I wouldn’t have to fix my hair.
Dad would be happy.

Cons:
Mom will freak out.
People (friends and strangers) will laugh, stare and point at me. I’ll undoubtedly get called names.
The odds are good that I’ll look like an aberration of nature.
My friends will probably drop me.
I don’t know a barber at home who can do a decent short haircut.
It’s December, and it’s cold outside. My ears will freeze.
Who wants to go out with a freak with short hair? Short hair=no dates. No dates=no sex.
Wanting short hair is abnormal in our society.

Rebuttals to cons:
You can’t live under her thumb all your life. You’re going to have to eventually break away from her. Why not now? It’s your hair, and if you want it short, get it short, damn it. Mom will just have to deal with it.
No one has ever died from stares and snide comments, plus, you’d be doing those people a favor, by giving them something to talk about. Obviously their own lives are so boring they have nothing else to worry about.
Who gives a damn if you look like an aberration? If you like it, it’s no one else’s business. Besides, the flip side of this is true. You may look better than you ever have.
You know it’s what you want. Just do it. If people stop being friends with you, they weren’t really your friends anyway.
Stop being a dumbass. There’s three answers to this. First, your father is a damned good barber, and he’d love to cut your hair. Secondly, if you decide you want to go to a barber, you can ask men you see that have good haircuts who their barber is. Thirdly, If asking men who their barber is doesn’t work, you know where a lot of barbers are. Just try them until you find one you like. A few bad haircuts won’t cause Armageddon.
Stupid reasoning. Men wear short hair in much colder climates than this, and it doesn’t hurt them. Note to self: You can always wear a hat.
If they’re dating you because of your hair, they’re not worth dating anyway. There’s always Rosy Palm and her five sisters.
You’ve never been normal, and never will be. Why not celebrate the fact, rather than try to hide it?

Then I scrawled across the bottom of the page, "Goddamn it! I want to get rid of all of this crap on my head!"

I gave up on homework, and went back to bed, but Bill’s voice kept resonating in my head, saying, "Grow a pair and stand up to her".

After hours of debating with myself, I clinched the deal with myself when I thought, ""You’ll never have another chance like this. You might as well take advantage of it. You know it’s time. Hell, it’s past time."

I mentally shook hands with myself, thinking, "Congratulations, R. W. You’re about to join the short hair club, and it’s about damned time."

Fear hit me. I whispered, "What if Mom kicks me out?"

Rational thought came to the rescue. "She’s too worried about what people think. She might make your life hell, but she wouldn’t want others to think badly of her. You’re safe, at least when it comes to living on the streets."

Another thought hit me. "If she did kick me out, Bill would probably let me live with him until I graduate."

I gave myself an out though, thinking, "I’m going to try it. I have a month before I have to be back at school. My hair won’t be long by then, but if I hate short hair, it’ll have grown back some. I can make up some excuse for it being shorter, and I’ll get by."

After jacking off to the thought of the haircut I knew I was going to be getting, I went to sleep with the thought, "This time tomorrow, I’ll have a real haircut…finally."

I woke up in a cold sweat. "Damn it, I forgot to hide my list!"

I imagined that Bill had come downstairs and saw it. I could envision his look of scorn as he read it. I could hear him saying, "What’s the big deal? If he wants a damned haircut he should just say so, instead of making a damned Broadway-worthy production out of it."

I hopped out of bed, and scanned the kitchen. There was no sign that anyone had been in there: no empty dishes in the sink, no cup on the counter. I didn’t detect the smell of fresh cigar smoke.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, God."

I went to the table, and panicked, because I couldn’t find the list. I finally opened my trig book, and the list was there. I breathe my second sigh of relief for the night, thinking, "I don’t remember putting it in there, but I must’ve."

I woke up (for the third time) trying to figure out a way to get alone with Bill, to ask him to take me to the barbershop. I knew Mom would forbid it if she knew what I was planning.

It was like Bill had read my mind (again), and he solved my dilemma for me the next morning when he said, "R. W., I’m sure Jean and Lisa are going to be out shopping today. How the hell would you like to go to work with me today? I’ll be happy to have the company. December is a slow month in the oilfield, and everyone is taking the month off." He laughed. "Make that everyone but me."

I jumped on the idea like a duck on a June bug. "I’d really like that. I’ve never been around the oilfield."

"We won’t be going out in the field today. I have some pumps that I’m rebuilding. I figure you could help me out."

"Let me get dressed. It won’t take long."

Bill laughed. "I’d be willing to bet a month’s wages that it takes you at least thirty minutes to do your hair."

He was right, but I wasn’t going to miss this opportunity. "I’ll just comb it and throw some clothes on. Time me. I’ll be done in five minutes or less."

I made it downstairs in 4-½ minutes.

Bill looked at me. "You got five more minutes to get upstairs and scrape that crap off your face. I make sure all my employees shave every day, and I’m not making an exception for you."

I shaved in record time, and miraculously, I didn’t nick myself.

I kissed Mom bye (and like I knew she would), she said, "R. W., you be a good boy."

I cut her off. "Yes, ma’am. I’ll be good, and mind my manners. I will stand up straight, because people hate to see a slouch. I will keep myself neat, because a slothful appearance is an outward sign of inner chaos. I don’t want to reflect poorly on you and Dad, and I’ll remember that God is watching. I will do nothing that will bring disgrace on you, Dad, God or the church."

"Thank you, son. I’m counting on you. I don’t want Bill thinking I raised a heathen."

"He won’t think that. I promise. I will work hard, mind my manners and do all you’ve taught me."

Bill spoke up. "Jean, he’s not a boy. You need to have some faith in him. You’ve raised him right, and it shows."

Mom looked remorseful. "I know he’s almost grown, but he’s still my little boy."

Bill shook his head. "He’s not almost grown. He’s grown. Look at that beard. That’s the face of a man. Your little boy has been relegated to memories and pictures."

As we walked out the door, Bill said, "I think you’ve heard her instructions a few times. You had them down pat."

I grimaced. "I hear those same words every damned time I walk out of the house. It’s been going on for years."

I growled, "Someday I’m going to say something I’m going to regret, like, ‘Mom, I’m planning on being good. I’m only going to have an orgy with six people at the center court of the mall. Oh yeah, I was going to take a dump in the Railroad Park fountain, and leave a turd floating. Then I’ll go streaking into the mayor’s office. Finally, I want to get drunk enough that I puke on the altar at church tonight, while I’m begging God to forgive me for my drunkenness, and promising Him I’ll never get drunk again. Other than that, I have no plans for anything you’d disapprove of."

Bill roared with laughter. "Oh, my God. I’d pay good money to see her face if you said that. However, I must advise you to have your jogging shoes on, and run like hell if you ever do say something like that. My God, she’d kill you, just for thinking about it."

I laughed. "Seeing her face might make it worth dying."

We got in the truck, and drove awhile. I was frantically trying to think of a way to ask Bill if he’d take me to the barbershop. Once again, it was like he read my mind.

"You’re being mighty quiet over there, R. W. Are you still trying to decide if you want to get rid of that mop on your head, or are you trying to figure out how to ask me to take you to the barbershop?"

I laughed and blushed. "No sir, the deciding is done. I wanna go to the barbershop, but couldn’t figure out how to ask you, without it seeming strange."

"Hmmm…that seems kinda easy to me. Try, ‘Bill, would you take me to the barbershop before we go to work?’. It might work."

I ignored his comment. "How much does your barber charge? I don’t have a lot of money."

He grinned again. "Hell, I’ll pay for your haircut myself, but my barber will probably give you the haircut for free, just to rid the world of another hippy."

"No, sir. I was raised to pay my own way. I have ten dollars. Will that cover it, and leave me a little spending money? I might need a few things while I’m here."

He gave me a look I couldn’t understand. "Hell, boy. My respect for you just went up. I like that you’re not a taker."

Then he laughed. "Ten dollars will get you lots of haircuts. He only charges $1.25. Does that mean we’re going to the barbershop?"

"Yes, sir! Put the pedal to the metal, and get me there before I change my mind."

He got serious. "There ain't gonna be no changing of your mind. Do you want a haircut or not? I ain’t wasting my damned gas driving over there if you’re just gonna chicken out. I have to warn you though, Walt doesn’t do fancy cuts. If you sit down in his chair, you’re coming out with short hair."

"Whoa! Hold your horses, Bill. I ain’t chickening out, and I want a short haircutâ€"a real short haircut. I’m just gonna point at you and say, ‘I wanna look just like him’."

He seemed impressed. "Really?"

"Unless…"

He growled. "There ain’t gonna be no ‘unless’."

I laughed. "Hear me out. I was going to say, ‘Unless I tell him I want it a little higher on the sides and shorter on the top."

Bill’s jaw literally dropped. "You would do that?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve been thinking about it though. This will be the only time in my life I’ll ever get a first short haircutâ€"at least the first one I’m getting because I asked for it. I might as well make it memorable."

"I’ll be damned! I can’t fault that reasoning."

He shook his head.

"What’s the matter, Bill?"

He laughed. "I was thinking about last night, and how you turned red as a damned tomato when I said I’d take you to the barber. I never dreamed you’d have balls enough go through with it."

"Well, honestly, I’ve wanted a short haircut for years, but knew Mom would throw a hissy. I figured it was just easier to deal with longer hair than deal with her fits."

"Don’t worry about Jean. I’ll deal with her, if she says anything."

"Thanks for offering, but I think this is going to give me the courage to stand up to her myself."

"Damn me to hell. You’re just full of surprises today. You’re my type of man. I wish my boys were more like you, both in their desire to get a real haircut, and their willingness to stand up to their mother." He growled. "You know the only reason they live with their mother is because I won’t let them have long hair, and she will."

I nodded. "I figured that."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said, "If it helps any, I have faith in you, and I’ve got to say this. It’s about damned time somebody stood up to Jean. She’s bullied everyone in her life. I want to see her deal with someone who’s stronger than her."

He pulled into a gas station. "Sorry, but gotta fill her up, if you don’t want to walk to work."

I laughed. "Riding is better than walking. I’m going to go grab a Coke. Be right back."

While at the checkout, I saw the cigars behind the counter. After a quick inner dialogue of "Bill won’t mind. He smokes too…and if I’m going to get a haircut, I might as well own up to it to Mom tonight. She’s going to be upset anyway." I said, "Give me two King Edward cigars and a box of matches."

I lit up before going outside. Bill looked at me. "I wondered if you were a cigar smoker. You’ve been looking at this cigar like a man dying of thirst looks at a glass of water."

"Yes, sir. I normally smoke a couple a day, and I haven’t had one since we left home."

He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. "You should’ve asked for one of these. They’re much better than what you bought."

I ignored his comment.

"What did Jean say about you smoking?"

"Honestly, she doesn’t know. I’m pretty careful not to smoke when I’m going to be around her. She can smell smoke a mile away. The only reason I lit up today is because she’ll expect me to smell like cigars after spending a day with you." I reached into my pocket and pulled out my can of Copenhagen snuff. "This is how I get my nicotine when she’s around."

"Well, you can smoke any time you want to while you’re with me. Let me know if you decide you want one of mine."

"I appreciate that, but I can’t afford these types of cigars."

He grinned. "Hell, it’s a rare day that someone doesn’t bum one or two off me. I don’t mind."

"You don’t have to worry about that with me. I don’t bum. I pay my own way, or I do without."

He was quiet a few minutes, and then asked, "How did Jean act when she found out you were dipping snuff?" He laughed. "I can imagine what that was like."

"Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. She yelled more when I made a "B" in algebra. It went down like this. One day I forgot to take the can out of my pants, and Mom found it when she went to wash them. Oh, she yelled some, and accused me of betraying her, but that was about it."

"That shocks the hell out of me."

"I reckon she didn’t say much because she thinks it’s fashionable. In case you didn’t notice, Ruston, LA. is about as redneck as it gets. About half the men in town have a faded ring on their back pocket caused by this." I held up my Copenhagen. "Mom only gets mean when she considers something old-fashionedâ€"like cigars and short haircuts."

He laughed. "She’s always been like that, even as a kid."

"Of course, she told me I was going to hell, and then gave me a long list of "Thou Shall’s" and "Thou Shall Not’s".

"She does love to doom people to hell, doesn’t she?" He grinned. "Let me guess. The first commandment was, ‘Thou shalt not let my friends know that thou art partaking in such an evil activity’."

I laughed. "Commandment one, two, three, four and five are always about not letting friends, family or church members know that anything that she deems an unsavory activity is happening in our lives."

We drove in silence for a while. I got to thinking, and I said, "Hey, Bill. Do you have time to take me to the barbershop before we go to work?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. "We’re damned near there now. What the hell are you trying to do?"

"Well, I know how Mom’s mind works. The first thing she’s gonna do is blame you. I want to be able to honestly say I asked you."

He smirked. "It’s funny you said that, because I was thinking along the same lines. I was about to ask you if you were sure, because I didn’t want you to think I’m making you go to the barbershop."

"No disrespect intended, Bill, but there’s not many people who can make me do something I don’t want toâ€"other than Mom, and she uses guilt on me. No, sir. You’re not making me do a damned thing I don’t want to." I looked him in the eye. "I can promise you this, you’d be bloody and bruised all to hell if you tried to get me into a barbershop if I didn’t want to go. This is all on me. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time, and I’ll make sure Mom knows it."

"The way you’re taking responsibility for your own actions is impressing the hell out of me, R. W. You’re the type of man that I admire."

We pulled up to the barber shop about then.

At the door he said, "Ready?"

"Ready, willing and able, sir!"

He walked in, and I trailed behind him.

Since Dad had usually cut my hair, I hadn’t been in a barbershop that often, but the familiar smell struck me when I walked in. I stopped just to enjoy the fragrance, trying to identify each one. "That’s hair tonic, and I think that must be the oil he uses to keep the clippers going. That smells like Rev. Langham, so that must be butch wax." (Rev. Langham wore a flattop, and always used lots of wax in his hair.) I kept identifying scents. "Lots of men have been smoking in here. I smell stale cigarette smoke, a hint of pipe and more strongly, Bill’s cigar." Then I grinned when I thought "Make that Bill’s and my cigar."

I heard a gravelly voice say, "Bill James, what hell are you doing here today. I put up with your sorry ass yesterday, and I sure as hell wasn’t planning on seeing you again today."

"Walt, pull your company manners out. I brought you a new customer."

Bill stepped out of the way, and I got my first look at the barber, "Holy crap, this man is ancient!"

He wore a white barber’s tunic, and the closely cropped fringe of hair that circled his head was as white as his tunic. He had a few strands of long hair greased up, and combed over, in a futile attempt to hide his bald scalp. His face was lined, and the wrinkles around his eyes made me think of a piece of paper that had been crumpled into a ball and opened up, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

The barber took one look at me, and said, "Did you tell him I don’t do modern cuts?"

"Walt, you’re a stupid old cuss. Do you think I’d be bringing you a customer who wanted a modern cut? Why don’t you ask him what he wants before you judge him?"

"Huh? I didn’t think about that." He looked at me. "What did you have in mind, son?"

I pointed at Bill. "I was thinking about a haircut like his."

Bill cleared his throat in a meaningful way.

I grinned at him. "To be perfectly honest with you, I wanna make Bill look like a hippy. Can you cut my hair like his, but higher on the sides."

A huge smile spread over Walt’s face. "Oh, I expect I can do that. Have a seat, young man."

Bill spoke up. "By the way, Walt, this is R. W. He’s a family friend from Louisiana. R. W., this is Walt. He’s cut my hair every Thursday since I was knee high to a grasshopper."

I walked over, and put my hand out to shake his. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Walt. I really appreciate you helping me out today."

He gave me a big smile. "Nice to meet you too, and believe me, it’s going to be my pleasure to help you out today." His next comment made me giddy. "My hands are itching to get some clippers in that hair of yours. Have a seat. Have a seat." Then he turned to Bill. "This young man has got good manners, and sense enough to get rid of this mop on his head. You might want to keep him around. I expect he’s going to go places."

While Walt was putting the cape on me, I looked around the shop. It was a typical barbershop, with the exception of the two church pews he had for his customers to sit on and a large, ornate mirror that looked like it came out of a Victorian pub. Everything else seemed to be in line with what The Universe had decreed a tonsorial parlor should look like: checkerboard tile floors, a few cheap paintings (covered with dust) that looked like he had picked them up at a garage sale, a poster showing different, old-fashioned haircuts, a hatstand, pictures of babies getting their first haircuts and overflowing ashtrays.

After I was caped up, he combed my hair a bit. "All right, young man, you said you wanted your hair shorter than Bill’s. How much shorter are you wanting it?"

I thought, "Damn, the barber in my fantasy didn’t ask me that when I was thinking about it last night."

"Well, sir, you did an excellent job on Bill’s. Like I said, I want it like his, just shorter." I paused, not knowing how to explain myself. Then I had an idea. "Bill’s hair is what my dad called a two-finger cut." I put two fingers over my ears, and ran them around the back of my neck. "Everything around the neck and over the ears is shaved about two fingers high. I think I want a four-finger cut. Does that make sense?"

"Your fingers or mine?"

I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand."

"My hands are quite a bit bigger than yours. You wanna use four of my fingers, or four of yours."

I looked at his fingers. "Wow! You do have big hands. Four of your fingers would be a jarhead cut." I smiled. "Let’s say three of your fingers, four of mine."

"I can do that, but it’s still going to be a mighty short cut." He touched my head shortly below the crown. "I’d be taking pretty much everything off from here all the way down. Is that what you want?"

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

He picked up a pair of clippers, and turned them on. The familiar sound of a pair of hair-hungry clippers filled my ears. My cock instantly sprang to attention, and I was glad to have the cape to cover up the bulge in my pants.

He pushed my head forward, making my bangs fall in my eyes. I went to put my cigar in my mouth, and couldn’t, because of all the hair hanging down.

I sighed, and said, "Hang on a second, Mr. Walt."

Bill glared at me. I grinned at him, and said, "I ain’t backing out. My hair’s falling in my face, and I can’t smoke. I need to put my cigar down." I sighed again. "Mr. Walt, I can’t wait until you get this mess cut short enough that it’s not falling in my face all the time."

He laughed. "I’ll take care of that right now." He quickly made a part on the left side of my head, and then combed my hair forward. A pair of scissors showed up in his hands (almost like magic) and he made a snick. I looked down, and about nine inches of hair was laying on the cape. After a few more snicks, most of my bangs were on the cape. I looked in the mirror, and I had a diagonal line running across my forehead. On the side where the part was, my bangs were slightly below my eyebrows. They were whacked off almost at the hairline on the other side of my head. I thought, "Damn! I had forgotten that Dad used to cut my bangs at an angle."

"I’ll bet you can get that cigar in your mouth now."

"Ah, that’s so much better. Thank you, Mr. Walt."

He grinned. "Serves you right. You shouldn’t have let your hair get that long. You deserve the misery of dealing with hair in your eyes."

I laughed. "If I’d had my way, my hair would’ve never been this long. Mom made me let it grow out."

The look on his face was funny. "You mean to tell me that your mother wants you to have long hair?"

"Yes, sir. Dad and I both like short hair, but Mom hates it. One day Dad and I were in the den, and Mom walked in and said, "R. W., your father won’t be cutting your hair any more. I’ve decided you’re going to let it grow into a more fashionable length."

I whined, "Why, Mom? I like the way Dad cuts my hair."

"She got ‘that tone’. You know what I mean? It’s the tone mothers everywhere use when they’re announcing that there’d better not be any arguing. Anyway, she said, ‘I didn’t ask you what you like. I told you what’s going to happen. That’s the end of the subject’."

"Then she turned to Dad. ‘In addition, you are going to stop cutting your hair so short, I want it fuller on the sides and blocked in the back. I also want you to let your sideburns grow and I think a moustache would look good on you’."

"Well, Dad fought her for a while. In fact, the next day he came home with a four-finger cut, but he didn’t keep it that way. Mom gave him so much hell that he eventually let his hair grow out some, and not long after that she got the rest of her way. He’s now sporting long sideburns and a big, handlebar moustache."

I laughed. "Dad kinda put Mom in a quandary though. I know Mom hates his handlebars, especially when he waxes them up, but she’s afraid to say too much, because she thinks he might shave it off to spite her. I guess she thinks a handlebar is better than no moustache, but that doesn’t stop her from giving him hell about it."

"Personally, I think Dad got off better than I did. At least he gets to keep his hair cut over his ears, and combed off his forehead."

"I didn’t get that lucky, but it could’ve been worse. Mom wanted me to grow a beard, but the school dress code won’t let me. Boy, was Mom unhappy when she heard that."

He looked at me strangely. "What college won’t let you have a beard?"

"Oh, I’m not in college. I’m still in high school."

"Well, you sure as hell look older than that. I thought you were in your mid twenties, and was wondering what kind of man lets his mother tell him how to wear his hair."

"No, sir. I’m almost seventeen. My hair would’ve been cut a long time ago if I was in my twenties."

He shook his head. "I’ve heard of some strange things in my life, but that’s about the strangest thing I’ve ever heard of."

"You know what they say, ‘If Momma ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.’" I paused. "Like lots of folks, Mom’s into keeping up with the Joneses. She’s gotta have the latest and greatest, and right now, long hair is what’s in. If the fashion started changing, she’d have us in a barbershop quicker than greased lightning.’"

He grinned. "I keep praying for styles to change, but so far, the Big Man in the Sky hasn’t answered my prayers."

Without another word, he grabbed the clippers again, and turned them on again. He pushed my head forward, and I felt it when he picked up the hair that was hanging about six inches over my collar. The next thing I felt was the clippers vibrating on my neck, and I knew the second the clippers bit into my hair, because of the change in the way they sounded. I thought, "God, it sounds good to hear those clippers in my ears again."

I felt the difference in the weight on my head after the third trip the clippers made up my neck. It felt awesome!

He laid the clippers down after he’d stripped the hair off my neck, and brushed my neck off.

Bill spoke up. "Walt, you’re creating double work for yourself."

"What do you mean, Bill?"

"I think you’re going to have to cut that again. I don’t think R. W. wanted a guard around the back."

"Is that right, son? You want it shorter?"

I felt around my neck. It was bristly, instead of smooth. "Mr. Walt, I don’t know how to politely say this, but you’re damned straight I want it shorter. I don’t wanna feel any hair around my neck."

"Sorry about that." Then he laughed. "I only have about four or five customers who don’t complain about me going too short. I guess I’m getting rusty. I’ve damn near forgot how to give a real haircut." He pushed my head forward again, and started over. I could tell the difference. It felt right. Without stopping, he pushed my head to the side and took the clippers up the side of my head. I watched as my long sideburn disappeared beneath the assault of the clippers. Big clumps of hair started falling in my lap. I thought, "Thank God he cut my bangs. I want to see this cape when it’s full of my hair."

After he had the hair on the back and sides cut, he stepped back and looked at what he’d done. He muttered, "Might have to take that up a bit."

I grinned. "I like the sound of that. My philosophy is ‘better too short than too long’."

He grinned back. "I like your philosophy, son."

Once the sides were to his satisfaction, he combed the top. "How short are we taking the top?"

Ever a smartass, I said, "Short enough to keep it out of my eyes."

We all laughed. Mr. Walt said, "I think I’ve already taken care of that. It’s going to be a long time before you have to worry about hair in your eyes again."

A big smile spread over my face at the thought. "I don’t think I’ll ever have to worry about that again. It’s short hair for me from now on."

Bill piped up. "Thank God for small favors!"

I ignored him. "Mr. Walt, to answer your question, I want a little longer than Bill’s. I remember as a kid it stood straight up if it got too short. I want it long enough that it’ll lay down, but short enough I don’t have to worry about combing it every five minutes. Is that a good enough answer for you?"

He gave me a quick smile. "I think I know exactly what you mean." He picked up the clippers and a comb, and quickly got rid of the bulk. After that, he took some thinning shears, and spent what seemed like forever just randomly cutting.

Next, he put some hot towels around my head. After a few minutes, he pulled the towels off, spread some shaving cream around my ears and opened his straight razor. He very carefully shaved all around my neck and over my ears. The last traces of my sideburns disappeared. Then he picked up a pair of clippers and did some touch up work with them.

After saying, "I think that’ll do," he picked up one of the bottles on the counter, and shook something in his hand. Then he rubbed his hands together and rubbed it in the hair. I recognized the smell from when I first walked in the door.

After a few moves with the comb, he turned the chair toward Bill. "Is this short enough for you, Bill?’

"Why the hell are you asking me? I’m not the one who told you how he wanted his hair cut."

Walt laughed, and patted me on the shoulder. "I’m sorry, young man. It’s been close to fifteen years since a young man your age has asked for a haircut like this. Nowadays, when I cut hair this short, it’s as a punishment, and there’s a pissed off father or grandfather that I have to please. I guess I assumed Bill had some say in this."

I shook my head. "No sir, Mr. Walt. This is all on me. The only thing Bill has to do with it is to be an example of what a man should look like."

He looked at Bill. "This young man just paid you a mighty nice compliment."

He held a mirror in front of me and said, "Ok, tell me what you think."

Seeing myself made me flash back to the last time I’d had a short haircut, and I burst out laughingâ€"which is not what Bill and Mr. Walt were expecting. I could tell it hurt their feelings.

Once I stopped laughing, I said, "Mr. Walt, the haircut is perfect. It’s just what I was looking for. I couldn’t have asked for a better cut. Seeing myself just reminded me of the last time I got a four-finger haircut."

Bill spoke up. "It sounds like there’s a damned good story behind that."

I laughed again. "I don’t know if it’s good or not."

"Tell us. We’ll let you know if it’s good."

Mr. Walt chimed in. "I’m with Bill. I wanna hear this story."

"Well, if you wanna hear, here goes. I was about nine, and Mom had started her campaign for me to have longer hair. She had started taking me to the salon with her. She still kept it over my ears, but the back was fuller and the top was longer. My bangs were past my eyebrows. It was typical hair."

"Anyway, it was the first day of summer. Dad said, ‘Son, I’m going to save a few bucks and cut your hair myself. I can do what they do at the beauticians’."

I remember being excited and saying, "Can you cut it shorter than she does?"

He thought for a second. "I’ll cut it a little shorter, but not too much. Remember, we still have to deal with your mother."

"Dad cut my hair, but didn’t get it as short as I wanted. He went outside to work in the yard. I kept looking at myself, and I just wasn’t satisfied with the way I looked. I took the clippers and tried to cut it myself."

Mr. Walt groaned. "I’ve had to deal with a few of those haircuts. Ain’t much you can do but shave it off."

I laughed. "Yes, sir, Mr. Walt. It was one of ‘those’ haircuts. I had no idea how to use clippers, but I turned them on, and put them at the nape of my neckâ€"with no guard on them. I ran them up the back of my head a good ways."

Walt groaned again.

"I looked behind me, and saw a big clump of hair on the floor. I was proud of myself, until I got a mirror, and saw what I’d done. Needless to say, I had made a huge mess of it, and there was a massive chunk of hair missing out of the back."

"Once I got over my initial fear of imminent death by Mother, I decided I would try to even it out, and made another stab at it. Another wad of hair fell on the floor, and I looked again. My head looked even worse than it did at first." I took a deep breath. "I panicked, but eventually convinced myself it would be OK. I remember thinking, ‘I won’t let anyone see the back of my head until it grows out’." I laughed. "Somehow, I thought I could keep my face toward the entire world, and never let anyone be behind me."

Walt said, "How long did it take you to figure out that was impossible?"
I kept on with the story. "I managed to get through dinner without anyone noticing. I went to bed early that night, of my own free will."

"Mom left to go to town the next morning, and it was just Dad and me. He finally noticed something was wrong with me, although he hadn’t seen my hair. He said, "R. W., you look scared. What’s going on?"

"All my fears came tumbling out. I literally screamed, ‘Don’t let Mom kill me!’"

"Of course, Dad didn’t know what was going on, and he said, ‘What in the world are you talking about? Your mother is not going to kill you’."

"I screamed, ‘Yes, she will. I know she will!’"

I looked at Bill. "Bill can tell you. Dad is almost always patient, and he doesn’t let much get him worked up. He didn’t get excited that day. He just said, ‘Tell me what you’ve done, and together we’ll figure out a way to fix it’."

"I said, ‘I wanted my hair shorter like you used to cut it, and I messed it up’."

"He said, ‘Let me see what you’ve done’."

"By then I was ashamed of what I’d done. I said, ‘I don’t want you to see it. You’ll get mad’."

"Very calmly, he said, ‘Son, you know I don’t get mad easily. Now turn around and let me see the damage’."

"I slowly turned around. Dad let out a whistle. ‘Damn, son, you really messed it up’."

"I asked the all important question. ‘Can you fix it, Dad?’."

"Dad has always been honest with me, and that day was no different. I remember what he said vividly. He said, ‘Honestly, I don’t know, but let’s go try’."

Walt looked like he was going to cry. "Your poor father. I feel sorry for him. It sounds like you had created a mess for him."

"You’re right, Mr. Walt, but Dad never made me feel bad about it. He took me out onto the back porch, sat me on the stool, and spent a long time trying to fix me. Finally, he said, ‘Son, I’ve done all I can do. I’m going to have to go real short’."

"At first, I was excited, because I liked it when my hair was short…but then I remembered Mom, and burst into tears."

"Dad knew why I was upset. He hugged me, and said, ‘Don’t cry. We’ll make your mother understand’."

"All I could say was, ‘She’ll never understand’."

"Anyways, Dad gave me a four-finger cut, and by the time he got done, you really couldn’t tell I had messed it up. I thought it looked pretty good, and asked him if I could keep it like that all summer."

Mr. Walt chimed in. "Your Dad must be a pretty good barber if he could fix that."

Bill spoke up. "Ed is a damned good barber. He’s the only one who’s ever cut my hair as well as you do, Walt." Then he looked at me. "How did it go when Jean saw it?"

I grimaced. "Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty around our house for a few days."

I guess Mr. Walt didn’t want to hear any more. He picked up a mirror. "You haven’t seen your hair all the way around. Anything you want me to change?"

I sat in the chair for a minute, just looking at the mirror. I was trying to absorb the change in the way I looked. The haircut was perfect. The way he had blended the shaved part into the longer hair on the top was exquisitely done. The tonic on my hair gleamed in the light. I was beyond thrilled.

"Hot damn! I look so much better! I wouldn’t change a thing."

"I have to say I agree with you. There was a mighty fine looking man hiding under the mess of hair."

Bill finally said, "You going to sit there and admire yourself all day? If so, I’ll leave you here. I have a business to run."

I hopped out of the chair. "Oh, I’m sorry! Let me pay up, and we can get out of here."

I went to get my wallet, and my big comb was in the way. I pulled the comb out and looked at it. "Mr. Walt, I don’t think I’m going to be needing this any more. Can I throw it in your trash can?"

He pointed at the trash can. "Help yourself."

I walked over to the trash can and it felt good to throw that comb away. I thought, "No more having to comb my hair every time the wind blows."

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