Putting It Off (Part 2) by f35h

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I kept my head down as I tried to slip into the classroom unnoticed. Fat chance; the room gradually fell silent as people noticed me walk across the room. I reached my desk and looked up.

"Hey! Who’s the skinhead!"

"Have you joined the army?"

"Had a fight with a lawnmower?"

I endured the mocking insults for a while, but it wasn’t as bad as it might have been. All of us had, at some point, been subjected to unwanted haircuts when our parents’ patience ran out, and this was just my turn.

The room fell silent again, as Mr. Hobson came in.

"Right, sit down everybody!" He cast a glance around the room, and frowned in my direction, clearly puzzled.

"Excellent haircut, Johnson. That reminds me, I’ve spoken to the Headmaster again. He has always been reluctant to appear heavy-handed, and to seem to usurp your parents’ authority, but he’s finally agreed that the school needs to take some action about the length and untidiness of some boys’ hair."

An uneasy murmur went around the room. Was Hobson finally going to get his scissors out? He waited, a gleam in his eye, letting anticipation build.

"Stevens, Richardson, Hemmings. You three are the worst offenders. Report to me after school."

The three long haired boys looked at each other, fingering the hair hanging over their collars. What did Hobson mean by ‘take some action’? Would they be getting detention? A haircut from Hobson? Who knew? I got a couple of glares, as though this was somehow my fault. I did my best to look offended; it wasn’t like Hobson had never said anything about long hair before today.

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I got through the rest of the day with the expected mixture of surprised approval from teachers, mockery from my peers, and a modicum of sympathy from a couple of good friends. I caught myself feeling the prickly hair on the back of my head a couple of times, unable to reconcile the electrifying feeling with my ingrained hatred of short hair. I didn’t tell anyone about Mum’s insistence that I was to keep my hair short now, with regular visits to Harvey’s. I just told them that she’d been nagging me for ages, and had finally dragged me to the barbers, which was entirely true.

I couldn’t dismiss it that easily in my own mind, though. She hadn’t let up on the way from the barbers to school. She’d been adamant that I wasn’t going to show her up any more, and that I should start taking what she called ‘some pride in my appearance’.

"Now that you’re having your hair cut short again, I’m expecting you to keep it neatly combed, with a proper parting." She’d told me. "And I want your face, hands, fingernails and behind your ears all scrubbed every day - with soap."

I’d rolled my eyes, but I knew that there was no point arguing with her in this mood.

"I want you wearing your uniform properly too; top button fastened, and tie done all the way up."

We’d pulled up at school by this point, and she reached across, tightening my tie a notch.

"You look very smart, dear. I’m so proud of you. Go and have a good day at school. I’m finishing early, so I’ll pick you up, OK?"

"Ok, Mum." At least I wouldn’t have to walk home, showing my embarrassing, clippered and brylcreemed haircut to the world.

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"Hello Dear, good day at school?"

I grunted, still childishly annoyed over my haircut. I knew that it was at least as much my fault as hers; if I’d had it cut when she’d first asked me, instead of ignoring her, I could have had a much more reasonable trim, maybe a bit shorter than normal, but something I could live with. Now I was stuck with the shortest haircut of my life, and a mother who seemed determined to keep it that way.

"It is lovely to see you still looking clean and tidy." She reached across, and despite my protests, pulled my tie snugly up to my collar. "I’m so glad that we’ve finally got your hair nice and short again. I really don’t know why you always make such a fuss about it. You look so much smarter with it cut properly."

"This isn’t the way home, Mum. Where are we going?"

"Oh, we need to pop into town and do a bit of shopping."

"Couldn’t you have done that before you picked me up?" The last thing I wanted was to be traipsing through town in my school uniform and desperately unfashionable haircut.

"Hmmm, not really, dear, I think I need you with me."

"Why?" I was getting a sinking feeling about this.

"Well I was thinking about it today. Now you’re having your hair short again, I want you looking respectable. So no more scruffy jeans and t-shirts, like you used to wear. We’ll go to Marks and get you some nice smart trousers and some proper shirts."

"You must be kidding!"

"I’m afraid not, Michael. I thought I was clear this morning. I’ve had quite enough of you looking so untidy and showing me up. From now on, you’re going to look like a respectable young man. Short hair neatly combed, a clean face, and smart clothes. This is not up for discussion. Understand?"

She looked determined, and actually pretty annoyed with me, so I knew it wasn’t worth arguing. Hopefully she’d simmer down in a few days. In the meantime, there was no need to annoy her any more.

"Yes, Mum."

"Good boy."

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"Really, Mum?"

"Yes, really Michael. You look very smart with a tie on, and I don’t see why you shouldn’t wear it home."

I sighed. I supposed it wasn’t really any worse than wearing my school uniform. Mum had been as good as her word. We were leaving Marks and Spencers with three pairs of smart trousers and half a dozen white shirts, with uncomfortably stiff collars, as well as a couple of ties. Mum was insisting that I should start getting used to being dressed ‘nicely’ in public. I was just desperate to get out of here and back home.

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"Er, Mum, why are we stopping here?"

Mum was inexplicably pulling up outside Harvey’s. I’d only had my hair cut this morning. What was she thinking?

"One more errand, dear. Come on."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes." Her tone of voice brooked no argument. I followed her in.

My immediate impression was that the shop was much busier than this morning. Three customers were sitting in the waiting area, with one more in the chair, receiving the usual severe clippering. There was a lot of hair on the floor, clearly this was another unfortunate like myself, presumably marched down to the barbers by an exasperated parent.

Suddenly, something clicked. The boy with his head down, clippers roaring up the back of his neck, was my classmate, John Stevens. Ben Richardson was sitting sulkily on the bench, his hair clippered as short and high as mine, gleaming with brylcreem and a razor sharp parting.

Next to him, Robert Hemmings fiddled with his hair, which still hung over his collar and ears. Mr. Hobson sat at the end of the bench, a grim smile on his face as he observed the hair tumbling. The three of them turned to see who had come through the door.

"Ah, Johnson, and Mrs. Johnson. I decided that the best thing to do was to take a leaf out of your book, and have these boys’ hair cut short. They weren’t too happy of course, but the Headmaster has agreed that standards need to be upheld, and they realised that they had no choice in the matter."

"And not before time, by the look of all that hair on the floor." Mum replied, severely. "A proper short back and sides for all three of them, I hope. I’m sure their mothers will be very pleased."

"That reminds me," Mr. Hobson put in, pulling some envelopes from his pocket. "I had the secretary type up letters for you three to take home. Making it clear that these haircuts aren’t a punishment, they are simply bringing you into line with the school’s expectations, and requesting that your parents keep you that way. I trust you won’t be needing one of those letters, Mrs. Johnson?"

"Certainly not. Michael already knows that he will be a regular visitor here, and he’s going to be dressing more smartly too. I don’t think that a collar and tie is an unreasonable expectation, when a boy has a proper haircut."

"Is this alright for you, Sir?" The barber had finished with John, and he, too, now sported severely clipped back and sides, with a well slicked down side parting.

"Yes, very good thank you. Hemmings, in the chair."

Robert reluctantly stood up, looking daggers at me as he slowly walked to the chair. I still felt that this was entirely unfair. Even if my haircut had been the catalyst for Hobson’s escalation of the haircut wars, it was hardly something I’d volunteered for. It could just as easily have been one of them who’d been dragged to the barbers by an irate parent.

"Same again with this one, Sir?"

"Yes please. A proper short back and sides, just like grammar school boys used to have."

"And still do. The ones who come here, anyway."

"Quite so. And that’s four more than yesterday."

Robert’s head was firmly pushed down, and he became the latest victim of the clippers. His hair had probably been the longest of any of us, and it rained down and filled his lap. Mr. Hobson nodded approvingly. Mr. Harvey glanced at Mum, still wielding his clippers.

"So what brings you back here so soon, Madam? I trust you are happy with the boy’s haircut?"

"Oh, yes, very happy thank you. I was just hoping that you sold Brylcreem? Michael will be having it on his hair every day, so we’ll be needing a big jar."

Yet another bit of unwelcome news. I rolled my eyes, but no-one paid any attention.

"Oh yes, no problem, Madam. I just need to pop into the back for it."

"No rush. You can finish up this one first. I’m enjoying seeing all these scruffy boys being properly smartened up."

"It certainly makes a nice change, doesn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I had four lads this age in here, I just wish it happened more often."

Hobson cleared his throat. "I think I may have some more for you in the next few days, Mr. Harvey. I’ve got several more boys in my class who would benefit from your clippers."

"That’s all well and good, Mr. Hobson, but will they be back for regular haircuts, eh?"

"This one certainly will." Mum replied, patting me on the head. "And I expect a good few mothers and fathers will take the opportunity to keep their boys looking smart."

She paused. "If you want an incentive though, offer a discount. Half price for grammar school boys."

Mr. Harvey pondered for a moment. "Well I could certainly do with the extra trade. Perhaps I’ll give that a try."

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The Headmaster came to our classroom the next morning to inspect the results of Mr. Hobson’s actions. He was very impressed, and when the four of us reluctantly admitted that our parents, far from objecting to the school’s heavy-handedness, were all delighted with our haircuts, and wanted our hair kept short now, he instructed Hobson to bring the rest of the class into line.

Hobson didn’t need telling twice, and letters were promptly sent home, setting out the new rules:

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All boys are to have their hair cut into a traditional short back and sides, neatly combed and parted. No exceptions will be made.

There will be regular hair inspections, and any boy who fails to meet this standard will have his hair cut under school supervision.

Parents may wish to take advantage of a discount negotiated by the school at Harvey’s Traditional Gentlemen’s Hairdresser, on the High Street.

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Many parents gladly took advantage, and each morning a few more of my classmates would turn up with their ears uncovered and sheepish expressions on their faces. You could tell those who’d been to Harvey’s by the severity of the clipping and the heavy application of Brylcreem.

At the end of the week, the few remaining stragglers, and a few more who had attempted a minimal tidy up were marched down to Harveys, returning clipped, shorn and slicked. Within a month, the rest of the school had followed suit.

Most of us accepted the new situation with tolerably good grace. It was, after all, only hair, and since we all looked the same, no one got any flak about it. There were one or two who resisted, of course, and kept trying to avoid visiting the barber, but with everyone else’s hair short and tidy, they stuck out like sore thumbs. Their parents would be notified, and one way or another, they’d find themselves sitting in Mr. Harvey’s chair, head down and submitting to the clippers.

Harvey’s had never been busier. Mum had stuck to her guns, and I was there every three weeks, without fail, and I wasn’t the only one. School regulations combined with the half-price offer meant that there was always a healthy queue of boys in his shop after school, and regardless of any requests to ‘leave it a bit longer’ or ‘don’t take too much off’, each one left his shop with a regulation short back and sides, neatly parted and gleaming.

I still got told, now and again, that this was all my fault, but I denied it vehemently. Surely, I argued, Hobson and the Head would have done the same even if Mum hadn’t marched me down to Harvey’s that morning.

I did find myself occasionally wondering, though, as I looked in the mirror in the morning, my tie firmly knotted and a comb poised over my Brylcreemed hair. What would have happened if I hadn’t put it off?

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