Remembering Bill, Part II by Just_Me

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I got my wallet and turned around to give Mr. Walt his money, just as Bill sat in the chair.

Mr. Walt looked startled. "Why the hell are you sitting down? I cut your hair yesterday."

Bill grinned. "You don’t think I’m going to let that young whippersnapper show me up, do you? Give me a haircut like his."

I started laughingâ€"again.

Bill looked at me like I was crazy. "What’s so damned funny?"

"If you’d told me last week I’d ever inspire you to get a haircut, I would’ve called for the guys with the straitjackets."

He laughed. "Hell, if you’d told me that last night that you’d inspire me I would’ve called you a damned liar." He looked at me, and I saw the twinkle in his eyes. "Double hell. Last night you would’ve never convinced me that anyone would ever inspire you to get even a decent haircut, much less a damned fine one like you got. I would’ve died laughing, and said there ain’t no damned way. Life sure is strange, ain’t it?"

I handed $5 to Mr. Walt and said, "I’ll pay for his haircut too. I don’t want him wasting his money because of me."

Bill said, "You don’t have to do that."

I cut him off. "Yes. I do. It’s the right thing to do."

"Hell, it’s just a haircut. It’s not much money, and I don’t want you to."

I got some steel in my voice. "I don’t care if it’s just a piece of gum. It’s the right thing for me to do. Besides, I’d feel guilty if I didn’t pay for your haircut, and wouldn’t be able to enjoy my new look." I looked him in the eye. "I’m not going to let anything spoil this. I’m going to do this." I turned to Walt. "I’m paying for his haircut. No questions asked."

Walt laughed. "Bill, I think you’ve met your match in the stubbornness department. He’s paying for your haircut."

Bill muttered, "Ok, Damn it. I don’t like it, but I guess I’m outnumbered." Then he looked at me. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

Walt started cutting Bill’s hair, and I enjoyed watching as Walt revealed more of Bill’s neck…until I started rubbing the back of my neck. I got distracted by the smoothness of the skin and the prickly feel where hair first started showing. It felt goodâ€"really good. I thought, "I wish I could rub my cock too. I’m never going to get through this day without blowing a wad!"

I had gotten lost in thought, and wasn’t paying attention to what was going on in front of me. Bill’s loud, "What the hell are you doing, Walt?" brought me out of my reverie.

I looked up, and Mr. Walt had a flattop comb and the clippers on the top of Bill’s head—and a large chunk of hair was missing from the top of Bill’s head. "I thought I’d give you a flattop and see if you could inspire R. W. to follow your example again. If there was ever a man who’s made to wear a flattop it’s that boy."

Bill sputtered, "Me? A damned flattop? I’ve worn the same hairstyle all my life. I’m too old to change now!"

Mr. Walt grinned. "I guess you’re not too old. Ain’t nothing I can do but finish it up now." Then he ran the clippers over the comb again.

It was obvious Bill was not happy, but he sat there and blew smoke like a chimney. "Well, finish up then, damn it!"

The bell on the door rang, and a huge, pipe-smoking man in a uniform walked in. Bill said, "Hey, Gene. How in the hell are you?"

The man took his Smokey the Bear hat off, and patted his very grown-out flattop. "I believe it was Oscar Wilde that said ‘Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay to greatness’. Thanks for recognizing my greatness and copying me, Bill."

Bill laughed. "You’d be the last damned person I’d copy if I had my way. Our illustrious barber decided I needed a new hairstyle without asking me my opinion."

The man bowed to Mr. Walt. "I compliment you on your wonderful taste, good sir. Thank you for attempting to make Bill look somewhat better."

Walt returned the bow, and kept cutting.

Bill said, "Gene, this is R. W., a family friend from Louisiana. R. W., this is Gene Tabor. He’s our county sheriff, and one of my best friends."

I stood up and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Sheriff Tabor."

"Just call me Gene."

"How about I call you Mr. Gene?"

"I can live with that." He looked me up and down. "Bet or trouble?"

"Huh? Sorry sir, I don’t understand."

"In my profession, I get paid to notice things. The whiteness of your neck and ears tells me this is the first time you’ve had a decent haircut in years, and I always assume a young man with a fresh, short haircut is trying to get out of trouble, but sometimes they tell me they just lost a bet. I was just wondering which is the case with you. "

"Mr. Gene, I can’t fault your powers of observation. This is the first short haircut I’ve had in years, but I can promise you it’s not the last. It’s like this, I’ve always liked how men look with short hair, and decided to get mine cut. I didn’t lose a bet, and I’m not in troubleâ€"at least not yet. You may have to come rescue me after Mom sees me tonight."

He obviously thought I was joking. He gave a big belly laugh. "Call me, and I’ll be there." He reached up and rubbed my neck. "I like that you decided to get a haircut on your own, and I’m glad you’re not in trouble. I’d hate to have to handcuff a friend of a friend the first time I met them."

I pointed at my cigar. "About the worst thing I’ve ever done is smoke a few of these. I’ve never even had a drink."

"There’s nothing illegal about a cigar in Texas, as long as you’re at least sixteen."

I laughed. "You can keep your handcuffs put away then. I can truthfully say I’m legal in the state of Texas. Talking to you would be pretty awkward if I wasn’t." He laughed. I kept talking. "Fortunately, I grew up in Louisiana, where there’s no age limit on buying cigars. If I’d grown up here, you would’ve arrested me a long time ago."

"Son, if I arrested every underage smoker in this county, I’d have to have a jail at least a thousand times bigger than what I have." He laughed. "Hell, I would’ve spent most of my misspent youth in a jail." He kept talking. "Sometimes I’ll give kids a talking to about the evils of smoking." He reached up and took his pipe out of his mouth. "It’s kinda hard for the kids to take me seriously when I have one of these sticking out of my mouth."

We both turned our attention back to the haircut going on in front of us. Mr. Gene seemed to be as enthralled as I was.

After Bill’s hair was cut, Walt turned the chair so Bill could see it.

All of Mr. Walt’s skill as a barber was evident in Bill’s flattop. It was boxy on the top. The deck was plush and perfectly level. The shaved part on the back and sides blended into the top just right. This haircut was a work of art. I knew it.

Mr. Walt looked at me. "What do you think?"

I whistled. "That’s the most amazing flattop I’ve ever seen. I didn’t think Bill could look that good." I stopped for a second. "Mr. Walt, you sure know what you’re doing."

"Thanks, son. In all modesty, I have to say I agree with you. I’m a damned good barber."

He grinned at me. "Does seeing this amazing haircut inspire you to jump in the chair again?"

I laughed. "Maybe some other time, but a flattop is not in the cards for meâ€"at least not today. I’ve spent the last six years wanting exactly what you gave me. I’m going to enjoy it for a while."

"Damn! I was afraid you were going to say that. Either way though, you look a helluva lot better than you did an hour ago."

I laughed. "I won’t argue with you about that."

We walked outside, and I shivered. "BRR! It’s cold out here."

Bill had a smart remark handy. "That’ll teach you to think before you act. You should’ve waited until summer."

I shivered again. "With temperatures like this, I sure can’t use the old excuse ‘It was too hot, and I got a summer haircut’."We walked outside, and I shivered. "BRR! It’s cold out here."

Bill had a smart remark handy. "That’ll teach you to think before you act. You should’ve waited until summer."

I shivered again. "With temperatures like this, I sure can’t use the old excuse ‘It was too hot, and I got a summer haircut’."Bill and I got in the truck, and he pulled out another cigar. "Want one?"

I pulled out my can of Copenhagen snuff. "This will do me."

He put a cigar in my pocket. "This one’s on the house. Consider it a congratulatory smoke. Let’s say we’re celebrating you becoming a man, and cutting the apron strings."

I grinned. "You’re a stubborn old coot…but thanks."

"If you want another, you can work for me while you’re here and earn the money. That way you can buy as many as you like, and keep a clear conscience."

"I like the idea of that. I’ll take you up on that offer. I was going to do some work around the house, anyway, to pay you back for your kindness."

"That’s not necessary. You’re on vacation."

"I can’t help it. I need to keep busy. I can’t stand not having something to do."

He laughed. "I can relate to that."

He handed me his cigar cutter. "Do you know how to use one of these?

"I’ve read about them, but I’ve never actually used one."

I pulled the cigar out of my pocket. "The way you drive, I might die before I can enjoy this. Might as well go ahead and try it." I clipped the end and lit it. "Damn! You’re right. This is much better than the King Edward’s I’ve been smoking."

He just grinned.

We drove in silence for a minute, then both started talking at the same time.

"What did you…"

"I appreciate…"

We stopped at the same time. Then I said, "Go ahead. What were you going to say?"

He said, "I was just going to ask you what you thought about Walt."

I rubbed my hand up my neck and looked in the rear view mirror. "Walt did a great job."

"Yes. He did. Do you have any regrets?"

I grinned. "Not an ounce of regret, unless you count me wishing I’d been man enough to do this years ago." I paused. "Maybe I do have one regret. I wish that Dad had got to see all of that mess fall on the floor, or better yet, that he would’ve been the one who gave me the haircut. Either way, I know he would’ve enjoyed it."

Bill laughed. "I can see it now. Ed would’ve been grinning like a possum the whole time you were in Walt’s chair." He looked like he was thinking. "R. W., don’t beat yourself up for not standing up to your mother. Jean is a strong woman, with a mean streak a mile wide. Not many forty-year-old men would be willing to tangle with her. I’m amazed that you found the strength to do it while you’re so young. That tells me a lot about what type of man you are inside."

I laughed. "I’m glad I did it, and I’d do it again, but insIde I’m still a scared little boy." I kept talking. "I’d be lying if I said I’m not dreading facing her tonight. I know all hell is about to break out."

"I noticed you skirted the issue when I asked you how Jean reacted when you messed your hair up. I’d like to know more about that."

"You really don’t want to hear about it."

He bristled. "Don’t tell me what I want, damn it. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know."

I sighed. "I try not to think about that day…or even that summer. It was, without a doubt, the worst summer of my life."

"You’d probably be doing yourself a favor if you’d talk about it…and you might be doing me one too. It’ll help me prepare for how she reacts when we get home."

"Well, if you really want to know…"

"I do."

Before I started talking, I thought, "R. W., keep it dispassionate. The story is bad enough without you throwing a bunch of emotions in it." I took a deep breath, and started talking. "OK. Here goes. As you can imagine, it wasn’t pretty when Mom got home. She screamed so loudly they probably heard her blocks away, and then gave Dad the worst look I’ve ever seen. Honestly, I was scared. I thought she had demons looking through her eyes." I shuddered at the memory. "It looked like everything evil in the universe was inside of her, struggling to get out."

"Anyway, she punched Dad and howled, ‘What did you do to my son, you bastard?"

"I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face. It was like he’d rather be in hell than standing there facing Mom, but he didn’t throw me under the bus. He just stepped away from her and said, ‘It’s summer, and I gave the boy a summer haircut’."

"I felt awful that Dad was taking the blame, and I tried to save him. I said, ‘Mom, it’s my fault. I…’."

"Dad cut me off. ‘R. W., this is between me and your mother. Go to your room’."

"I tried again. "Really, Mom, it’s my fault’."

"Dad cut me off again. ‘Your room. Now!’."

"I went to my room, and I’ve always regretted that I was a coward, and left him to deal with Mom."

Bill spoke up. "R. W., you were just a boy, stuck in a situation that most adults couldn’t handle. You’ve got to forgive yourself."

I shook my head. "You’re wrong, Bill. I knew I should’ve taken responsibility for what I’d done, but let fear get the best of me."

I kept talking. "Going to my room didn’t help me any. I still heard everything that was said and done."

"Mom started slapping Dad, and calling him every name in the book. I don’t know how many times she slapped him, but it was a bunch, probably twenty or thirty times, if not more. Finally Dad said, ‘Jean, if you hit me one more time, you’re going to regret it’."

"Either Mom didn’t believe Dad, or she was so worked up she didn’t hear him. She slapped him again, and I heard Dad slap her backâ€"just onceâ€"but he hit her."

"She started screeching, ‘You son of a bitch, you hit me. You hit me, you sorry bastard. What kind of man hits a woman?’."

"I remember thinking, ‘Mom, what did you expect? Did you really expect him to let you slap him all day long?’"

"Anyway, you get the picture. They screamed for hours. I went to bed, and tried to drown them out with a pillow over my head." I paused. "It didn’t work."

"I finally fell asleep. Mom woke me up at some point during the night, screaming at me. The gist of her yelling was that I had ruined her life, and I was not to step outside of the house until my hair grew out."

"I thought she was just saying that because she was mad, but I was wrong. She meant it. I wasn’t allowed outside all summerâ€"no church, no friend’s houses, no nothing. I couldn’t even go in the back yard…and our house faces a forest. No one would’ve seen me."

I looked at Bill. "She even put very heavy curtains in my room, so no one could see if the lights were on in there." I sighed. "You can’t imagine how long each day was. I literally thought I was going to die from boredom. I’m surprised I didn’t go insane."

I paused. "I stayed in my room all summer. She’d let me out to eat and go to the bathroom, but otherwise I was in my room. I had to be especially quiet if Mom had company. She gave me a bottle to pee in, if someone was there."

"I’m surprised Ed allowed that."

"Dad never really knew. He was driving over-the-road, and was barely home that summer…and you know Mom. She’s sneaky. When Dad was home, she’d make me pretend to be sick."

Bill had tears streaming down his face when he said, "I’m sorry, son. No kid should ever have to face that." Then he growled. "I’ve never heard of anything so damned barbaric in my life…and all over a god-damned haircut."

I sat there for a minute, debating whether to tell him more.

The rest of the story was bottled up in me, and it came bursting out like a rocket. "Being locked up wasn’t the worst part about that summer."

He looked shocked. "What in hell could be worse than that?"

"It still hurts to think about what she did, and I’ve never told anybody this. I don’t know if I should say anything."

"If my opinion counts for anything, I think you damned well should get it out. If it’s worse than being kept in the house all summer, it must be eating at you like a frigging cancer."

I started crying. Then I screamed, "Goddammit! I hate to freaking cry!"

Bill turned my head toward him. "Look at me. I’m crying with you. Let the tears out."

I cried for a long time. I don’t remember thinking anything coherent. It was just emotions: anger, sadness, disgust and hatred. Finally I got myself together, and my next rational thought was, "So much for being dispassionate."

I looked at Bill, and then had to look away. The pain in his eyes made me sob. I thought, "I should shut up now." I couldn’t be quiet though. It was like the dam had broken, and I couldn’t stop the flow of words. They just kept tumbling out of me. "You know how long Mom’s fingernails are, right?"

"Yes. She’s always had long fingernails. What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

"Mom didn’t just yell that night. She woke me up by twisting a plug of flesh out of my arm with her fingernails. She followed up with a fist in my belly. Then the yelling started. She beat and yelled at me for hours."

Bill said a very bad word. "I was afraid of that."

Then he said, "Why the hell was she beating you, if she thought it was Ed’s fault?"

I shook my head. "I don’t know. I’ve wondered that too. Maybe she just had so much rage that she felt she had to let it out."

Bill shook his head. "Where was Ed?"

I shrugged. "I guess Mom yelled so much that he left the house. He’d do that sometimes when Mom got in a rage."

All emotions left my voice. I kept talking. "The beatings were mundane. I was used to them. What she made me do was what was so bad." I looked at him. "I think you know I can be pretty stubborn. Well, that night I decided to out-stubborn her, and refused to do what she wanted." I shuddered at the memory. "She told me she would beat me to death if I didn’t do what she wanted."

"What in the hell did she want you to do?"

I looked at him, trying to get the courage up to say it. Finally, it came out. "It sounds stupid that I wouldn’t give her what she wanted. All she wanted was for me to say, ‘Mom, I do NOT love you. If I loved you, I wouldn’t do things like this that make you mad’."

Bill said another very bad word. "That’s the stupidest damned thing I’ve ever heard of."

I looked ahead, but to this day I couldn’t tell you a single thing I saw. "I told her I wouldn’t do it. I said that I did love her, and that telling lies would send me to hell."

"She screamed, ‘You’re going to hell tonight if you don’t say it. I’ll kill your sorry ass if you don’t say it, so make up your mind’."

"Well, I dug in, and refused. She was like a dervish, going round and around me, hitting me with her fist, screaming ‘Say it! Say it!’ Then she said, ‘If I can’t knock the truth out of you with my fist, I’ll see if I can beat it out of you with a belt’."

"I remember the relief I felt when she left the room. I was so grateful she had stopped hitting me." I snorted. "The relief was short-lived. She came back in with one of Dad’s belts, and I don’t think there was a square inch on me that she didn’t hit with that belt." I paused. "That’s not true. She never hit my face and head. Even in her fury, I guess she knew she couldn’t leave a mark where it would show."

I closed my eyes. "I felt it when she cracked my ribs. I passed out for a while."

I took a deep breath, and continued. "At first, Mom had the belt doubled up. When she couldn’t get me to give in, she opened it up, wrapped one end around her hand and started hitting me with the buckle end." I shuddered. "I still have scars where the buckle cut me."

Bill was literally growling, and I looked at him. His grip on the steering wheel was so tight I thought he might break it, and his jaw was so tightly clenched I was afraid he’d crack his teeth.

"I don’t know how long it took, but eventually I broke. I whispered, ‘I don’t love you. If I loved you I wouldn’t do things to make you so mad’."

"That wasn’t enough for her. She screamed, ‘I didn’t hear you. Say it again’."

"I said it again, a little louder."

She started beating me again. ‘I’m going to beat you until you die, or until you say it loud enough the Andersons can hear you’." I looked at Bill. "You remember the Andersons. They live at the end of the street."

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

"Eventually I couldn’t take it any more. I screamed it as loudly as I could, over and over, until I was so hoarse I couldn’t talk." I sighed.
"That satisfied her. She left my room. I remember curling into a little ball and crying once she was gone." Another pause. "You wouldn’t believe it from the way I’m acting now, but that was the last time I cried without fighting it."

I shook my head. "I’ll never forgive her for making me say it, and I’ll never forgive myself for not letting her beat me to death before I told a lie of that magnitude. Even now, I still love her, and saying I didn’t love her was the most gargantuan lie I’ve ever told." I took a deep breath. "Saying that was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do."

"I honestly believe she would’ve killed me that night if I hadn’t finally given in." I stopped for a second, and then kept talking. "Nothing I ever learned in school, church or Sunday school taught me how to deal with the fact that my own mother was willing to kill me." I thought, "R. W., shut up. He knows enough." However, the story kept coming out of my mouth, no matter how many times I told myself to shut up.

"I was bleeding, and in my head, the bleeding was bad. I kept hoping I would bleed to death, so I wouldn’t have to go through another night like that. In fact, I begged God to let me die." I shook my head. "As God has done so many times, he stubbornly refused to answer my prayers."

Bill touched me on the shoulder. "Look at me, R. W."

I looked at him. "I for one am glad your prayer wasn’t answered that night."

I hung my head. "I’ve often wished God had answered my prayers…and that night wasn’t the only time I’ve prayed it. I’ve prayed that prayer other times when Mom was in a rage and torturing me, both physically and mentally." I paused again. "I’ve also wondered if Mom would’ve been happy if I had died that night."

Bill started to say something, and I cut him off. "I’m sure you’re going to say she would regret it. I don’t know. It’s a helluva thing to say about your own mother, but I can never decide if she would be happy that she wouldn’t have to put up with all the disappointments I have caused her, or if she would be sad that she wouldn’t have a punching bag any more. I don’t know if she would miss me though."

I looked at him. "You wanted to hear it. Now you’ve heard it. That was the worst night of my life to this point." I gave a bitter laugh. "Who knows? Tonight might be worse. Mom is going to be royally pissed." Then I started crying again.

He pulled over, and hugged me, while I cried it out.

After the tears had stopped, I said, "I’m sorry I told you that. Mom is your friend, and I shouldn’t have. Now you won’t like her any more."

I’ve never heard more steel in a voice than what Bill had in his when he said (in a very soft voice), "Do NOT defend that bitch!"

He opened the truck door. "I’m sorry. I need to pull myself together before we talk about this." He walked over to a fence post and started hitting it like it was a punching bag. I saw blood on his hands after he hit it a few times. Then he started kicking it.

He finally came back to the truck, and got in. He looked at me. "I’m sorry for what you went through, R. W. I wish I had known. Maybe I could’ve helped."

I glared at him. "I don’t want your goddamned pity."

He glared back. "I’m not offering you pity. I’m offering you sympathy and understanding. The one I pity is your mother. She’s so self-involved that she can’t see what an incredible person the real you is. That’s sad to me."

Then he said, "I’m also sorry I judged you for giving in to Jean, and letting your hair grow out. I can understand why you didn’t fight her."

I laughed. "Oh, I did fight her, for a long time. One time ‘someone’ threw a piece of gum on the bus, and it got stuck in my hair, right up at the top. I really rubbed it in. Another time I went camping with some friends. I made sure to put lots of hairspray on my head before leaving, and I ‘accidentally’ got too close to the fire. The last time I was working on my bike, and my hair ‘accidentally’ got caught in the chain." I grinned. "None of my ‘accidents’ led to a four-finger cut, but my hair got cut shorter than Mom liked it a couple of times. Unfortunately for me, she was able to get the gum out of my hair."

He grinned. "Good for you! I’m sure that really bugged the hell out of Jean, but she couldn’t over-react, because they were logical ‘accidents’."

We sat in silence for a minute. Then Bill spoke up. "Do you mind me asking how she explained your absence? Surely someone missed you."

"Well, Mom’s pretty smart. She told everyone I had gone to spend the summer with Aunt Joyce. My only social contact that summer was when Mom would burst into my room, and make me rehearse all the fun things I was supposed to be doing, so I’d have stories to tell everyone." I snorted. "Well, we talked about that when Mom wasn’t telling me what a sorry son I was, how I was going to hell and moaning about how I had ruined her life." I kept talking. "I guess I lied to you. The week before school was supposed to start, Mom made me go lay out in the sun, but in the backyard. She had realized that all the things I was supposed to be doing at Aunt Joyce’s were outside things, and people might question why I didn’t have a tan."

Bill’s face was grim. "I’ll never respect that bitch again. I can’t imagine doing that to a kid." Then he grinned. "Want to go to jail with me for kidnapping?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I was thinking about tying her up for a summer, and screaming at her all day, every day. I almost think it would be worth going to jail over."

I laughed. "It might be fun, but I don’t think it’s worth going to prison over. I got over it, and I think I turned out OK."

He got serious. "You’re more than OK, R. W. You’ve lived through seven kinds of hell, and still managed to turn into someone who’s pretty damned amazing."

Then he said, "I can guarantee you she won’t react like that tonight. You can count on it. Things might get rough, but it will NOT reach the level of that night."

"Honestly, I don’t care how she reacts." I looked at myself in the mirrorâ€"again. "Getting to see myself looking like this again is worth putting up with another one of her tantrums."

Bill: "Leave it to me. I was married to someone just like her for more than twenty years. I know how to handle her."

"You don’t handle Mom. She explodes if you try."

"R. W., watch and learn. Before the night is over, she’ll have her tail tucked between her damned legs and be running for cover, like the goddamned bitch she is. Watch me, and see if you can figure out what the hell I’m doing."

"No disrespect meant, Bill, but my money is on Mom."

He laughed. "We’ll see, son. We’ll see."

When we got to Bill’s shop, he showed me around, and then said, "I’ve got some work to do in the office. Make yourself at home. If you were serious about helping me out, you can do some straightening up, or you can just read or watch TV."

"I was serious about working. I don’t like sitting around doing nothing. Where‘s the mop and broom?"

"Don’t worry about doing too much. This is an oilfield shop, and it’s always going to be dirty."

He looked at me. "Damn! You look strange with your short hair and disco outfit."

I grimaced. "You can thank Mom for the outfit."

He ignored me. "Before you get started, put on a pair of those coveralls. I don’t want you ruining your clothes." He grinned. "I’m going to catch enough hell from Jean about your haircut. I don’t want to add ruining your clothes to it."

I grimaced. "I don’t like these clothes anyway. It won’t matter if I ruin them."

He smiled. "Let me give you a word of advice. Never argue with the boss. Now, put the damned coveralls on."

I muttered, "Yes, sir" and put them on. Then I tried to get busy, but the ache in my groin kept me from being able to focus. I went into the bathroom, admired my new haircut and dealt with the ache. Then I started working. I put all the pipes and hoses that were scattered around together by their size and length and emptied the trash can. I tried to organize the parts that were all helter skelterâ€"even though I didn’t know what most of them were. Once that was done, I swept the floors, and mopped. (I never did get them clean that day. The mop water was still dirty after four tries. I tried again the next day, and finally got the floors clean.)

I worked hard for a few hoursâ€"with a couple of breaks to admire my new look. For a long time, I just stood in front of the bathroom mirror, admiring the way I looked. Every reflection in the mirror brought a sense of euphoria. I remember thinking, "I can’t believe I finally did it. I love it!" Another look in the mirror made me think, "It’s admittedly old-fashioned, but damn it, it’s sharp looking!"

I couldn’t get over how much darker my hair was. I hadn’t realized the sun had bleached copper and auburn highlights into my hair until they were cut off. The change in color was almost as drastic as the change in length. My whole head was a dark brown—so dark it was almost black. I looked at myself again, and thought, "Your whole head is NOT dark. You’ve got some mighty white skin showing around the sides." Then I noticed something. I looked closely, and whispered, "Mom was wrong. My ears aren’t that big, and they don’t stick out. She just used that as an excuse to get her way, and I was stupid enough to fall for it."

I wondered how long it would take me to get out of the habit of thinking I had big ears. Then I thought, "Get to work, R. W. Bill’s not paying you to admire yourself in the mirror."

Once I had the workroom looking decent, I went into the office and Bill looked up. "Damn! You look nice with your new haircut. I can’t get over the difference in how you look."

"Thanks. Your flat looks awesome on you too, but you’re looking frazzled. What’s up?"

"Oh, I’m trying to reconcile my damned checkbook to my god-damned bank statement, and I can’t get it to balance. How are you with numbers?"

"Not bad. Want me to see if I can figure it out?"

He stood up. "Have at it. I’ve been looking for the difference for hours."

I sat down, and had to suppress a whistle of surprise when I saw his bank balance. I thought, "Maybe I should get into the oilfield equipment repair if you can make this kind of money."

I put the thought out of my head, and focused on finding the mistake. It didn’t take me long. I did the math in my head, and knew I was right. "Here it is, Bill. You transposed the numbers when you wrote this check down."

"I’ll be damned! Didn’t take you long. How’s your typing skills?"

I nearly laughed. "I’m not the best, but I’m not bad. Got some correspondence you need typed up? I’ll be happy to help you."

He showed me what he wanted. I threw a piece of paper in his typewriter. Within two minutes I was done.

"You son of a bitch. You’re a god-damned show off. Your typing skills are ‘not bad’? What can you do? Eighty words a minute?"

I modestly said, "I only did one-hundred-eighteen words for my typing final. I only placed fourth in state contests, so I’m not the best."

"Like I said, you’re a god-damned show off! Here. Type this up for me too."

After I finished the second letter, I said, "Why don’t you come into the shop and see if you think it looks good enough. If it passes muster, I thought I’d tackle the flower beds outside. I noticed there’s lots of weeds out there."

"Let’s go look, but I’d rather you help me in the office than work on the outside. Anyway, it’s too damned cold to work outside without a hat. Remember, you don’t have a mop to keep your ears from freezing."

I laughed, and rubbed my headâ€"reveling in the feel. "I remember."

He walked into the shop and gave a whistle. "How the hell did you get all this done in a few hours? I would’ve been happy if you’d just got the floor swept in that amount of time. I certainly didn’t expect you to organize everything."

I looked around. "It’s still not pristine, but I’ll get it there."

"It looks good to me. It’s damned near miraculous."

"Good enough to earn me another cigar?"

He reached in his pocket and pulled one out. "Hell! I’ll buy you a box of cigars just for what you’ve done already. I don’t know what I’ll have to pay you if you keep up at this rate."

"I had good teachers. Mom and Dad both are hard workers, and instilled the desire to do a good job in me. If I’m going to work, I’m going to do it as well as I can."

"Well, you sure as hell did a good job in here."

After we’d had lunch, we sat and smoked for a few minutes, and then a burning question hit my mind. I got a little queasy, thinking about asking Bill, but finally I blurted out, "I have a question for you."

"I could see your wheels turning, and wondered how long it’d take you. What’s your question?"

"Do you think Mom’s right? Is there something wrong with me mentally that makes me like my hair like this?"

"Hell, no! She’s the only thing that’s wrong with you." He shook his head. "Mother Nature sure dealt you a poor hand when she assigned you to Jean."

I ignored his comment. "I’ve always felt like a freak because I like my hair so short. I’ve really wondered if I should be in a mental institution." I thought for a minute. "This may sound strange, but when I looked in that mirror after Mr. Walt finished cutting my hair, I wanted to say, ‘Oh, there you are.’ It’s like I was seeing the ‘real’ me for the first time in a long time. For years, every time I’d look in a mirror, it seemed like a stranger was looking back at me."

"Well, first of all, you don’t belong in a damned mental institution. People like what they like. I don’t know why, but it’s how things are. Some people like spinach, others hate it. Some like purple, and some like blue." He paused. "Look at me, R. W. If you don’t hear anything else I say today, I want you to listen and hear what I’m saying now." I nodded. He said, "My only words of wisdom for you are this: you like what you like, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Hold your head up proud, and tell the rest of the world to F-off if they don’t like it."

I muttered, "I like what I like, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of." I let that sit in my head a minute, and then said it againâ€"louder. "I like what I like, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of."

I grinned at Bill, and shouted, "F-off world! I like what I like, and I ain’t ashamed of it, damn it!"

Bill grinned. "That’s the spirit." Then he got serious. "Growing up is hard, even in the best of circumstances. You’ve had to grow up mighty damned fast, and under circumstances that would’ve killed most people. Be proud of the man you are."

I thought for a minute. "I guess I’ll always be a dichotomy to most folks, but I’m ok with that."

Bill started laughing. I said, "What’s so damned funny?"

"You crack me up. You’re sitting here in an oil-stained coverall, looking like a typical roughneck, smoking a cigar and cussing like a sailor, and yet you toss around $5 words like ‘pristine’ and ‘dichotomy’ like you’re a damned college professor. To use your words, I find the dichotomy to be funny."

"Well, I’ve always liked to read, and the vocabulary gets stuck in my head." Mischief popped into my head, and out of my mouth. "In the future I shall endeavor to refrain from any words that are not monosyllabic, so that I do not tax your miniscule brain’s circumscribed capacity. I wish to neither overwhelm nor overstimulate you with the eloquence of my speech. By the same token, I do not desire for the vastness of my intellect to cause you to overexert your limited cerebral capacity. " I grinned. "How’s that for $5 words?"

He shot me the finger. "I think I’ve just been called a dumb ass, but I’m not sure." Another grin. "I’m mighty glad you don’t talk like that all the time. Hell, I’d have to hire an interpreter to translate what you said if you did." He pointed at the workroom. "Now, get your ass back to work. I want to see exactly how much you can accomplish in a day."

I saluted. "Sir, yes sir!"

As the day wore on, I began to see a side of Bill that I had never imagined existed. It started slowly, but by the end of the day I saw that under his gruff exterior was a big goofball.

"Hey, Hippy! Come in here. I need your help with this motor."

"Who you calling hippy? Have you seen how short my hair is?"

He grinned. "Have you seen how short my hair is? You’re a hippy in comparison to me."

I laughed. "Are you in cahoots with Mr. Walt, trying to get me to go shorter now?"

"Nope. It ain’t my place to tell you how to wear your damned hair. Just reminding you that your hair is still long in comparison to mine."

"Damn! I supposed You’re not going to let me live it down either."

"You’re damned right I’m not, you damned hippy."

"I should’ve gone with the jarhead cut!"

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