Remembering Bill, Part III by Just_Me

---

Author’s note: This section of "Remembering Bill" is dark, and filled with raw emotions.
***************************
No one was there when Bill and I got to the house.

Bill said he was going upstairs to shower and change clothes, and I sat down at the dining room table to work on an English paper. I was so engrossed in what I was doing that I didn’t hear anyone come in. Suddenly, an excruciating pain shot through me as something slammed into my shoulder. My arm went numb, and I froze for a second. A long, loud, piercing scream like you hear in the movies, followed the pain. I looked up just in time to see a cast iron skillet coming at my head, with both of Mom’s hands on the handle (I know a cast iron skillet is cliché, but that was the weapon Mom first found). I ducked in time to avoid the skillet, and I heard a cracking sound as it hit the table.

I guess the adrenaline was pumping, because I managed to jump up and pull the skillet out of Mom’s hands.

Then she screamed. "You sorry bastard! How dare you?" (To this day, I don’t know if she was talking about me taking the skillet away from herâ€"and possibly saving my life, or if she was talking about my haircut, but in the moment, I assumed it was me taking the skillet from her.)

Something came over me like I had never experienced before, and never again. I got ice in my veins. "Sorry, Mom. I’m NOT going to let you kill me today. You can just forget about it. If you wanted to kill me, you should’ve done it the last time you tried."

She slapped me hard, and reared back to slap me again. The evil in her eyes registered with me before I acknowledged the fact that she was about to hit me.

I don’t remember making the decision to do it, but I raised the skillet that was still in my hand just enough that she hit the skillet instead of me.

Mom howled like a banshee when she hit the skillet, but she didn’t let the pain stop her. She raked her nails down my face, and then punched me in the gut. Damn! She had some strength in her. It doubled me over for a second. As I was beginning to stand back up, I saw another slap was coming. I dropped the skillet, and grabbed both of her wrist. I gave her an evil grin. "You’re not going to beat me either."

I let go of her hands. She screamed, "I’m going to rip your big ears off your goddamned head. You know I hate them." She grabbed both of my ears, and twisted them hard enough that I thought she was going to succeed. The pain made tears fill my eyes.

I hit her arms hard enough that she had to let go of my ears, and then I grabbed her hands again.

About that time, Bill came running down the stairsâ€"in his underwear. (I’ve often wished I had been in a mental state to fully enjoy the sight, but even with the fear and adrenaline coursing through me, I thought, "Damn! I wish I had a chest like that.")

Mom screamed, "Let go of me!"

I let go of her hands, and she went to hit me again.

Bill’s rumbling voice cut through her screams. "Jean, if you don’t want a bullet in you, I’d advise you to sit downâ€"immediately."

I took my eyes off Mom, and saw that Bill had a pistol pointed at her head. "Don’t, Bill. Please don’t kill her. She’s my mother."

Mom’s eyes got real big when she saw the pistol, and she slowly dropped her hand.

Without taking his eyes off Mom, Bill said, "R. W., right now, I could gladly kill your mother, but I’d do it with my bare handsâ€"ripping her limb from limb in the most painful way I could imagine. If I shoot her, it will be to maim and disfigure her. I’d love to blow both of her hands off, so she can never hit someone again." He stopped. "How would you like that, Jean? Do you want me to shoot your hands off?"

She just looked at him.

I heard the same steel in his voice that I had heard earlier in the day. He wasn’t loud, but his voice cut through the air like a hot knife cuts butter. "Jean, I asked you a question. Do you want me to shoot your hands off? I’m an expert marksman, and I can guarantee you that you’ll lose both hands in one second if I fire this pistol."

Her voice wavered when she said, "No. Please don’t."

The steel continued. "Then do not raise your hand to hit R. W. again. Is that understood?"

She nodded.

"Good. Sit your ass downâ€"NOW. We’re going to have a little conversation." His next question threw me. The iron left his voice, and he sounded like a perfect southern gentleman. "Would you like a cup of coffee while we’re talking?"

She shook her head.

The iron returned to his voice. "Then sit, and keep your mouth shut until I tell you to open it." He glared at Mom. "I have never hit a woman, but right now I would give everything I own for the chance to beat you. Do NOT try me. Do you understand?"

There was only the faintest hint of a nod from Mom. She sat.

(What I’m going to write is a very condensed version of what happened over the next few hours.)

Bill looked at Lisa. "Would you go upstairs and get the pants and shirt that are laying on my bed? While you’re at it, get the first aid kit, and put some medicine on R. W.’s face."

Bill got dressed when Lisa brought the clothes down. I’m not ashamed to admit I watched every move he made, and I enjoyed every second of it.

Bill sat across from Mom, and watched as Lisa treated my scratches. "What happened to the dining room table?"

Lisa spoke up. "I’ll tell you later, Dad."

"I guess it’s not important right now, anyway." His voice had no rancor. "OK, I guess it’s time for this meeting to come to order. Jean, I’m assuming your first line of defense will be that you have anger issues, and cannot control them. We are going to agree that that is not true, since you are sitting there like a perfectly normal person. You can control your anger if you want to. Is that correct?"

Mom just looked at him.

"I said, is that correct, Jean?"

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no sound came out.

In a perfectly calm voice, Bill said, "Jean, we cannot continue our conversation until you answer me. I think the question on the table is ‘can you control your anger when you want to’?"

She squeaked. "Not always."

"Hmmm…I thought that was what you were going to say." He looked her dead in the eyes. "Let me guess. You can always control your anger when your society and church friends are around, but for some reason you haven’t been able to control it when it’s just Ed, Gracie or R. W. Is that correct?"

"I-I-I don’t know."

"Well, let’s think about it. Have you ever slapped one of your society friends?"

"No."

"Have you ever slapped a church lady or the pastor?"

"No"

"Have you ever slapped or beat Ed, Gracie or R. W.?"

"No."

"Do not lie to me! I’ve heard you slap Ed, and I just heard you slap R. W. The question remains, have you ever beat Ed, Grace or R. W.?"

"Yes."

"You’ve just proven my first point. You can control your anger when you want. You just don’t want to. Is that right?"

"I’ve never thought about it like that."

"You have to be honest with yourself. Am I right that you can control your temper when you want?"

She looked like she was going to choke, but managed to say, "Maybe."

I thought, "Who is this woman? This is not my mother."

Bill kept up the attack. "I’ll take that as a yes. Now, let’s really get started. What happened down here before I came down the stairs?"

Mom showed the first emotion she’d shown since Bill pointed the pistol at her. "I swear, Bill, I just lost it. I lost my sanity for a moment. I saw red. I didn’t mean to hurt the boy."

"First things first. He is no longer a boy. He’s a young man, and a damned good one. Don’t call him boy again. Secondly, do you mean to tell me that if the sheriff had been sitting at the table talking to R. W. you would’ve reacted the same way?"

"Well…"

"How about if your preacher had been sitting here having coffee with a bunch of your society friends?"

She thought for a minute. "Probably not. I would’ve waited until they were gone."

I was proud of her for being honest.

Bill was relentless, but very calm. "Tell me again what happened."

"Well, when I saw R. W.’s haircut, I just lost control."

"Wait, wait, wait. You just agreed that you can control your anger when you want to. Tell me the truth. You chose to lose control."

A hint of the mother I knew showed up. She glared. "Ok. I chose to lose control."

"And why did you choose to lose control?"

She wailed. "Because he went against my expressed wishes…"

Bill cut her off. "Did you do every single thing your parents wanted you to do?"

"Of course I did. I was a good girl."

"I seem to remember you washing off makeup before going home, because your parents didn’t want you to wear makeup. Now, did you do everything your parents wanted you to do?"

"That was harmless."

He glared. "I did NOT ask you if it was harmless. Since you’re not answering that question, I’ll ask another. I very distinctly remember nights when we were younger than R. W. is now when you were so damned drunk you couldn’t see straight. Did your parents give you permission to get drunk?"

"Of course not."

"Would they have been happy to see you drunk off your ass?"

"No. Dad probably would’ve beat me half to death."

"If he had beat you, would it have stopped you from getting drunk again the next Friday night?"

It seemed like a lightbulb turned on in her head. "Probably not."

"So, do you think beating R. W. is going to keep him from going to a barbershop again if he wants to?

She shook her head. "I see your point. Probably not."

"Now, I will ask you again. Did you do every single thing your parents wanted you to do?"

"I guess not."

"You guess not? Since you’re still not answering my questions, I’ll ask another way. I don’t think getting a haircut ranks higher than the sins you were committing at his age. Is getting a haircut worse than you fornicating with me in the backseat of my 57 Chevy, or you and Al Jennings fornicating in the barn? Who knows how many other guys you lured into your arms?"

"That’s crude and offensive, Bill."

He leered. "If I remember correctly, you didn’t think it was offensive at the time. You were saying, ‘Yes, Bill, yes’." He stopped and looked like he was remembering something nice. Then he started talking again. "…and…my question wasn’t crude and offensive. It would’ve been crude if I had asked if your parents would’ve approved of your mouth being wrapped around my dick, or if they would’ve approved of my face being buried between your legs. It would’ve been offensive if I asked if they would’ve approved of Al’s cock pumping…"

I thought, "I was right! Mom did have a thing for Bill, and she came out here to see if she could rekindle it." I suppressed a laugh. "I don’t think she’s liking him very much right now."

Mom cut him off. "No. They wouldn’t have approved. Are you happy now?"

"Don’t glare at me. You brought it on yourself. All you had to do was answer the question."

"Anyway, all of that is irrelevant now. God has forgiven me."

"Don’t you think God will forgive R. W. for getting a haircut against your wishes too."

She looked like someone was torturing her. I could hear the reluctance in her voice when she said, "I’m sure He will."

"Then maybe you should follow God’s example and forgive R. W."

I thought, "​​He’s getting her to agree to what he’s saying. Maybe it’s to get her used to saying he’s right. That fricking brilliant. He really should’ve been a lawyer," and then turned my attention back to what Bill was saying.

Bill cleared his throat. "We’re getting off the subject. Now, tell me, what did R. W. do so bad that you felt you had to punch him in the gut?"

She was snarling when she said, "He got a haircut, and not just a haircut, an ugly, extremely-short haircut." Then she whined, "All of his beautiful hair is gone!"

"And what is wrong with getting a haircut? Lots of people do it every day."

"It’s just so old fashioned. It’s disgusting!"

He patted his head. "Thanks for saying I’m disgusting, but I’ll ignore that for now."

He continued. "Is his haircut illegal?"

Mom glared, and folded her arms.

"Come on, Jean. Is it illegal?"

"No."

"Is it immoral?"

She shook her head.

"Is it unethical?"

She screamed, "No, but it’s wrong! I don’t like it!"

Without raising his voice, Bill said, "So, anything you don’t like is wrong, huh? Well, I happen to know you don’t like Brussel sprouts, but that doesn’t make it wrong for me to eat them. The same is true of R. W.’s haircut."

Mom got an "ah-ha" look in her eyes. "He’s supposed to mind his parents. The Bible teaches that!"

Bill grinned. "I wondered how long it would take you to quote scripture. Exactly where does it say a child is supposed to mind his parents?"

Mom pounced. "It’s one of the ten commandments."

"I think you’re taking a little liberty with what it says. Exodus 20:12 says, ‘Honour thy father and thy mother…’ It doesn’t say mind thy father and thy mother. If you asked me, I’d say that R. W. does honor you. He’s very respectful, and does what you say most of the time. He seems grateful for what you give him, doesn’t he?"

Another grimace, and then a reluctant, "Well…yes, but he wasn’t honoring me when he went with you to that barbershop today. He knows how I feel about his hair."

Bill was still calm when he said, "Maybe, maybe not. We’ll address that in a moment. He’s had long hair for years, despite hating it, because that’s what you want. That’s showing honor, isn’t it?"

"Maybe…"

"I’d be willing to bet that during those years that he was honoring your wishes, there’s been many times he’s stood in the bathroom with clippers in his hand, wanting and wishing to cut his hair off, but he always stopped himself because he wanted to respect, or ‘honor’ your wishes."

I thought, "How in the hell did he know that?"

Bill had kept talking. "Not many kids show that kind of deference to their parents. If they want to do something, they do it, and deal with the consequences laterâ€"just like you admitted to doing. Has R. W. ever done something like that?"

"No. He’s never done anything like that. He’s a good kid."

Bill cleared his throat. "I thought I said we would not call him a kid any more. He’s a man."

Mom ignored him. "This is all your fault. R. W. would’ve never thought about doing something like this if you hadn’t led him astray."

Bill looked at me. "Is that true, R. W.?"

"Mom, he’s right. I’ve wanted to buzz my hair hundreds of times, but I was afraid of you. In fact, when we first got here, and you told me to comb my hair, I thought, ‘I wish I could buzz this crap off’." I kept going. "Do you remember the gum in my hair, the time I got too close to the campfire and the time I caught my hair in my bike chain?"

She nodded.

"Those were all deliberate attempts on my part to get a haircut just like I’m wearing now. I was also the one behind the haircut that led to the summer from hell. Dad didn’t give me a summer haircut because he wanted to. I tried to cut my hair, and messed it up. That was all he could salvage."

"That’s not true!"

"Yes it is, Mom." I thought for a second. "Dad lied to protect me from your wrath." I threw a zinger. "As we both know, he failed."

I decided to try to reach her another way. "You’re my mother, and I will always love and respect you, but you can’t be my conscience any more. I have to live with myself before I live with anyone, and you’ve made it almost impossible for me to live with myself. I wish you could understand that who you created is not me. I was living a lie, and I will not keep doing it."

She just stared at me. I thought, "What would Bill say right now?" An idea struck. "Think about it like this. You remember when you got all cowboyed up to go to the rodeo? When we got in the truck after the rodeo, you said, ‘I’ve never felt so foolish in all my life. This cowboy gear just isn’t me.’ Well, that’s how I feel every day when I put on all the disco clothes you’ve bought me. It’s just not me. All I need is a pair of Wrangler jeans, some boots and a baseball cap. That’s me."

She grimaced. "You look so good in your fashionable clothes."

"Mom, I know that stuff is important to you, but it would be impossible for me to care less about what’s in fashion than I do. I just don’t care. In fact, I think it’s stupid to dress according to what someone else says is right. Everyone should dress how it makes them feel best."

I took a deep breath, and thought, "Use her own words against her."

I looked at her. "You know how you’re always asking me if everyone jumped off the bridge, would I jump too?"

She nodded. "I imagine I’ve said that before."

"Well, I feel like everyone jumped off the bridge concerning their hair, and I never wanted to jump, but you made me."

She didn’t even acknowledge that I’d said anything. Another thought popped in my head. "Mom, do me a favor. Rub my neck. It feels remarkable."

She snarled, "I don’t care how good it feels, it’s still repulsive looking."

I looked at Bill. He mouthed, "Nice try. Let me back in the game."

I nodded.

He picked up a cigar and lit it.

Mom gave an exaggerated cough. "Bill, I wish you wouldn’t smoke those vile things around me."

With a wicked grin, he said, "Lisa, do we have a vileness meter?"

Lisa looked puzzled. "Huh?"

He grinned. "I want something to measure the vileness of me smoking a cigar in my own home against the vileness of Jean scratching her son’s face with her nails, punching him in the stomach with her fist, and then slapping him. I also want to add the vileness of her assaulting a guest in someone else’s home."

He acted like he was weighing something in both hands, then he looked at Mom. "Nope! I don’t think my cigar is as vile as your actions."

He kept talking. "That’s what you did, Jean. You unlawfully assaulted someone in my home. That is unacceptable to me." He continued in a soft voice, "My cigar may be vile, but what you did is pure evil."

Without a pause, he said, "Jean, I have a few questions for you. You consider yourself to be a good Christian woman, don’t you?"

"I try."

"Do you believe everything in the Bible?"

Rather proudly she said, "Every single word, cover to cover."

"I Cor. 11:14 says, ‘Does not even Nature itself teach that if a man has long hair he brings dishonor on himself?’. Do you want R. W. to bring shame on himself so he can honor your wishes?"

"His hair wasn’t that long."

I saw the first hint of emotion that Bill had displayed all night. He sounded exasperated when he said, "Jean, I thought you agreed to be honest. His hair was several inches longer than yours. In anyone’s book, that’s long hair, right?"

"Well maybe, but did he have to cut it all off?"

"Look at it this way. He could’ve gone shorter. In fact, the barber practically begged him to get a flattop."

Mom got pale at the thought.

"I think he’s disgusting looking, and I refuse to be seen in public with him."

I spoke up again. "Mom, that’s your choice, but you're going to miss a lot of important moments in my life. You won’t get to see me walk across the stage when I graduate, because I guarantee you I will still have the same haircut." I laughed. "I will still have the same haircut, unless I decide to go shorter."

Mom turned ghostly white.

I thought, "Go for the kill, R. W." I kept talking. "You also need to think about how you’re going to explain to your friends why you weren’t there. Do you think they’ll understand you skipping my graduation because you didn’t like my haircut?"

She didn’t answer.

"Do you want to miss my wedding?"

She sneered. "There’s no chance that any girl in America will marry you while you look like that."

Lisa spoke for the first time that night. "Jean, that’s where you’re wrong. Any girl in their right mind would be honored to marry a man of R. W.‘s caliber. They’d be a fool to pass up on him because of the length of his hair."

Mom said, "Et tu, Brutus?"

Lisa surprised me. "Jean, not every woman is as shallow as you are. Most women want their husbands to be happy, and would consider short hair to be a small price to pay to have a happy husband. Even if they disliked short hair, they’d put up with it to get a great guy like your son. Plus, you’re not being logical. What guys always have short hair? I’ll tell you, soldiers and police. Girls meet and fall in love with soldiers and police all the time. Short hair does not mean love and marriage are excluded."

For the first time that night I felt sorry for Mom. I thought, "She must feel like she’s facing the Inquisition, First Bill, then me, and now Lisa. She’s going to fight us like a cornered animal. I understand why Bill is being so gentle. He’s trying to keep her from feeling like we’re all attacking her." Then I rather snidely thought, "She deserves it though. She tried to kill me tonight."

I thought, "Is Bill trying to keep her off balance by constantly going back and forth between us, and changing the subject all the time?"

Bill started his next round with, "Let’s get back to the scriptures. How do you feel about the scripture that says, ‘Wives, submit yourselves unto your own husbands’."

She grimaced. "To be honest, it’s not my favorite scripture, but I try to live up to it."

"How would you feel if Ed said he hated your hair and insisted you wear a flattop like mine?"

"There’s no way! Even if I wanted to make Ed happy by doing thatâ€"which I don’tâ€"I wouldn’t because people would make fun of me."

"So, what you’re telling me is that what your husband thinks is of no consequence to you, but you’re worried about what total strangers think." He shook his head. "Jean, your priorities are messed up. You need to think about that."

Her reply was heated. "It’s my hair, and I get to wear it how I want to. No one gets a say in it but me."

"Why not? The Bible teaches you to submit to your husband."

"There’s no way. I would hate it."

"Yet you want R. W. to follow the scripture and honor you, even though you’re making him do something he hates. Are you saying it’s ok for you to ignore what the scripture says, but it’s not ok for R. W. to ignore what the scripture says?"

"Uh, uh, uh…"

"I thought so." He kept going. "Let’s follow this trail for a moment. Suppose you decided to be a good Christian, and submitted to Ed and got a flattop. Wouldn’t you resent him every time you looked in a mirror, or felt the stiff, bristly hair? Could you be a good Christian and forgive him, day in and day out, for making you wear your hair in a style you hate?"

"I don’t think I could. I would hate him within a week."

"I thought so, but you want R. W. to look in a mirror every day, see a hairstyle he hates, but continue to ‘honor’ you. Seems a little disingenuous to me, doesn’t it to you?"

He waited for Mom to answer. When she didn’t say anything, he said, "Somehow, R. W. has looked at his hair for six years, hating it, but he still manages to love you. If it were me, I’d hate your guts by now."

"He didn’t even tell me he was going to get his haircut!"

Bill pounced on that. "Do you tell Ed every time you’re going to the beauty shop?"

"No."

"Do you tell Ed every time you’re going to try a new hairstyle?"

"Of course not. It’s my hair, and I can wear it however I want it."

Bill let that comment hang in the air for a minute. "You’re right, Jean. It’s your hair, and you can wear it however you want, but you want to deny R. W. that same right. That seems a little strange to me. Doesn’t it seem odd to you?"

He kept going. "While we’re talking about the Bible, St. Paul said, ‘...provoke not your children to wrath...’

The mother I knew showed back up. She screamed, "I’ve had enough of this! Bill, you’re a bastard, and I’m done with this." She jumped up and started throwing anything she could get her hands on.

Bill slowly stood up. He walked over to Mom and grabbed her wrists. They stood nose to nose. "No, Jean, you’re not done with this, but I’m not engaging with you while you’re acting like a damned fool. Go to your room, and come back when you can be civil, instead of acting like a spoiled two-year-old who isn’t getting her way."

She screamed, "You can’t send me to my room. I’m an adult."

"Aren’t you forgetting where you are? This is my house, and I can do whatever I want in my own house, and as long as you’re under my roof, you will obey my rules."

She screamed at me, "Come on, R. W. We’re going home."

"Jean, you can leave if you want to, but R. W. is not going anywhere."

"He’s my son, and he’s going with me."

"Go ahead and leave. I guarantee that you will be arrested before you get to the county line. There are two witnesses to your abuse, and R. W. probably has the bruises to prove it." He glared. "I will have you in jail before the night is over if you do not sit down and talk this out in a calm, rational manner."

Very conversationally he said, "I hope you do try to leave. I can imagine it now. Every headline in the country would read, ‘Woman Jailed for Beating Son Because He Got a Haircut.’ The anchors on every TV station would be saying, ‘In tonight’s news, a Louisiana woman is in a Texas jail because she beat her son for getting a short haircut’. Hell, maybe even Walter Conkrite will read your story on national news."

He looked at Mom. "You’d be the laughingstock of the nation. Hell, you’d be made fun of the world over."

I thought, "That’s the way to get her attention, Bill. There’s nothing in the world she hates worse than people thinking badly of her."

He continued. "I can see couples sitting at the dining table saying, ‘I can’t imagine what she was thinking. I’d pay good money if we could get our son to get a haircut’."

"When it came time for you to go to trial, the judge would wish he could throw your ass in jail without a trial, and I can damn near guarantee you that you couldn’t find twelve people in this county who wouldn’t vote guilty."

He looked at her again. "Is that what you want? If it is, pick up your purse, and get in the car. I’ll be on the phone with the sheriff before the car is out of the driveway. He’s a personal friend, and I have his number memorized."

Mom looked defeated. She sat down.

"You don’t even know what a wonderful son you have, because you don’t see him as a person. You see him as your dress-up doll, that you can do what you want to with. I’m going to tell you, I’d be mighty damned proud to call him my son. He’s smart, he’s funny. He has more ethics than any person I know, and his sense of responsibility is remarkable. I would hire him to work for me, and after training him for two weeks, I’d leave on a three-month vacation, and never worry about the shop, because I know he’s capable of handling it." He shook his head. "You need to open your damned eyes, and see what you’ve been blessed with."

He sat down, and I could see the weariness in him.

I mouthed, "Bill, let me back in." He nodded.

I took a breath and thought, "Don’t get emotional. Keep it logical."

Of course I failed to keep it calm. I started attacking, and she bristled from my first word. "Mom, you’ve quoted scripture to me all my life. Now, I’m going to quote scripture back to you. I Peter 5:8 says, ‘Satan is like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.’ Well, I’m letting you know, I think you’re influenced by Satan, but from now on, I am one you may NOT devour."

I took a breath. "You’ve been gnawing on me all my life. It stops now. You’re going to start treating me like you would treat any other human. If you don’t, I’ll walk away from you."

Bill came to my rescue. He cleared his throat, and of course I looked at him. He mouthed, "Too emotional."

I dialed it back in.

I started again, being careful to keep my voice moderate and not make her feel like I was attacking her. "I’ve always been a pretty good boy, and haven’t given you much trouble, right?"

"That’s true, except for the haircuts."

"I made good grades, and never got in trouble at school, right?"

She nodded.

"I’ve met every curfew, haven’t I?"

"You’ve never had to come get me out of jail, right?"

"I’ve never done drugs or brought any unexpected grandkids home, right?"

Bill gave me a thumbs up.

"No drunk driving either, right?"

"If I’ve never done any of the bad things that many teenage parents deal with, you shouldn’t be worried about a haircut, even if it’s a short one, right?"

I almost laughed when she said, "Yes." The look on her face was priceless, and I heard a suppressed laugh come out of Bill.

"Mom, I apologize for surprising you. I guess I was wrong for not telling you what I was going to do, but I do not apologize for doing it. You’ll never convince me it was wrong for me to do it. I hated, loathed, abhorred and abominated having long hair. I had to cut it, for my own well being."

"Why? Everyone always loved your hair."

"I know." I could hear the disgust in my voice when I said, "I’m sick of hearing how Farrah Fawcett would be jealous of my hair." I thought, "Reel it in, R. W."

"Mom, let me try to explain what the last several years have been like for me. Every time I have looked in the mirrorâ€"and I mean every timeâ€"I have felt like a stranger was looking back at me. The reflection I saw did not match who I knew I was inside. I’m not a David Cassidy wannabe. I’m not a disco king. I’m just a simple man, who likes simple things."

"I’ve resented having to spend thirty minutes every morning washing and blow drying my hair. I’ve hated having to comb it every time the wind blows. I despised how my hair looked and felt, and I’ve blamed you every time I’ve had to do it."

"I have thought about this a lot, and I don’t know exactly why I have always wanted my hair short. I just know that I’ve wanted it kept short since I was a kid, and I enjoyed every haircut Dad gave me. I don’t know for certain why I like short hair on men, but I have some ideas. Would it be OK if I shared them with you?"

She looked bored, but nodded.

"I think the way I was raised is part of the reason I like short hair."

She bristled, "I most certainly did NOT have anything to do with this strange obsession of yours."

"No disrespect intended, Mom, but I think you did, at least in part. You taught me to respect my elders, didn’t you?"

"Of course I did. It’s the proper thing to do." I thought she sounded a little grudging when she continued. "I have to admit you have always been very respectful to your elders."

"Thanks, Mom. Let me explain what I mean. When I was little, it seemed that every time I got a haircut some sweet old lady, or a nice elderly gentleman would tell me how nice I looked with my fresh haircut. That always thrilled me. Maybe I began to associate short hair with my elders approving of me. I don’t know, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?"

She nodded, but her answer was far from complete acceptance, "Maybe it does."

Bill nodded his head in approval.

I kept going. "I think another reason I like short hair is that all of the men in my life that I really respect have had short hair. The ones who have shown me what it means to be a real man have set the example for me. Uncle Henry was one of my favorite people. I really loved him. I know he kept his hair short because he was in the army, but he always told me he liked the way it looked. I’d be willing to bet that at least twenty times he said, ‘Boy, if you ever show up looking like a damned hippy I’ll hogtie you and drag you to the nearest barbershop’. I knew he was joking, but it still sank into my head. I never wanted to see him if I didn’t have a fresh haircut." I sighed. "As bad as this may sound, I’ve often thought that I was glad he died before you made me let my hair grow out. I wouldn’t have wanted to face him with long hair." I let the fact that I didn’t want her brother to see me with long hair sink in before I continued.

Without stopping, I moved on to my next hero. "Do you remember my third-grade teacher, Mr. Franklin? He always kept his hair cut just about like mine is now."

She nodded. "He has always been a hero of mine, and I mean hero in the truest sense of the word. Mr. Franklin was crippled in Pearl Harbor, saving some of his fellow sailors. He’s lived with the scars and the limp ever since, but he’s not a hero just because of that. Despite what he’s been through, he’s still a kind, caring man, who’s willing to help anyone, and he’s helped hundreds of kids through lots of things."

I looked at Bill. "Even though I only get to see Bill every year or so, I’ve always held him in high esteemâ€"and I’ve never seen him with anything but short hair. I like the way his personality is a mixture of toughness and gentleness. I don’t know anyone else who has achieved that balance. Maybe some day I can learn his approach to life. I hope so."

I saw Bill wipe a tear away.

"I would be remiss if I didn’t include Dad in this list. The Dad of my youth always had a sharp haircut, and I know he would still have short hair if he had his way. He’s the man I admire most. He’s a good man, with a heart of gold. He’s one of the smartest, hardest-working men I’ve ever met, bar none. He lives up to the biblical injunction to love thy neighbor as thyself. You are married to one of the greatest men I’ve ever known, and I’m proud to call him my father."

Mom wiped a tear at that point. I thought, "I am finally getting somewhere. R. W., keep going!"

"I don’t know. None of that may have anything to do with why I like old-fashioned things. I just know I’d much rather see a man in an old-fashioned suit and hat than someone in bell bottoms and a silk shirt. I’d rather see some skin on their neck than see hair hanging in their eyes." I paused. "Maybe I’m just wired differently, but it makes sense, doesn’t it?"

I almost passed out when she said, "It does, son."

"Mom, I don’t expect you to understand, but there’s something thrilling about the sound of clippers cutting off my hair that makes it worth the censure of the people around me. The feel of a freshly shaved nape is almost sensual. Seeing myself in the mirror looking sharp makes me proud of who I am. I’ll happily put up with some snide comments and rude stares to be able to experience that."

Bill nodded, and whispered, "I understand."

I couldn’t believe it when she said, "Son, I can’t pretend to understand why you don’t care about fashion. I wish I couldn’t fathom your fascination with short hair, but I can’t." She sighed. "It just doesn’t make sense to me." She looked down. "I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m going to try to respect your wishes, and not say any more about it. I’ll even try to get used to the way you look." She laughed for the first time that night. "Who knows? I might learn to like seeing you look like this—in about fifty years."

I hugged her, as I said, "Thanks. That’s all I can ask of you."

"Mom, I just have three more things to say to you, and then we can get some supper."

Bill snorted. "Typical teenager."

Mom said, "Go ahead, R. W. I want to hear what you were going to say."

"First, I know you thought you were doing the right thing. I honestly believe your heart was in the right place. You were trying to give me all the things that are important to you and I really do appreciate the fact that you tried so hard. Your mistake was in not listening to me when I told you that it wasn’t important to me. If you had been as generous with the things that mean something to me, I would’ve been the happiest boy alive. Secondly, I’m a man now, maybe a young man, but a man nonetheless. From now on I’m going to look like a man, and act like a man. I’m going to be me, and you get to decide if you like the real me. I hope you do, but if you don’t, I’m not going to stop being me. It’s that simple. I hope you can find it in your heart to still love me, and finally accept who I am. I really hope that, but if you can’t, I’m going to have to make the journey into adulthood the best way I can. Thirdly, and most importantly, I love you. Always have, always will."

We hugged and cried for a long time after that.

---