Return From the Dark Side I by Just_Me

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This is a story with dark undertones. It tells of the power of a haircut to hurt and separate, as well as its power to heal and unite.
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I had woken up royally pissed. It was haircut day, and I wanted to scream, "I don’t want another haircut!"

To be perfectly honest, getting a haircut had never really bothered me before. In fact, I enjoyed haircut day. It was "our" time together. Dad, Mikey and I would start the day out by having breakfast at a local diner, and then we’d be the first customers at the barbershop.

Short hair was a way of life for me, and I had never questioned it- -until that morning.

I thought, "Paul, getting mad’s not going to do you any good. You have zero choice in your hair style. That’s been decided by someone else."

I nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you’re right. The decision has been made, but why does he get to make the choice? It’s not fair. After all, I’m the one who has to wear the haircut. I should get a say in it."

I muttered, "It’s Saturday, and I should be able to sleep in, instead of getting up at the butt crack of dawn to go to the barbershop." Then I grumbled, "I might as well get up. Dad will be knocking on the door soon, saying, ‘Rise and shine’."

Right on cue, I heard a knock on the door, followed by Dad’s deep bass. "Rise and shine. The truck will be pulling out of the driveway in fifteen minutes."

I threw some clothes on, and didn’t bother combing my hair. I just put a cap on and headed downstairs.

Dad said the same thing he always said on haircut day. "All right, boys. Head ‘em up, and move ‘em out."

We got to the barbershop and he gave another rote speech, "Ready to get cleaned up and look like real men? In we go."

I watched as Dad got "tightened up". After his haircut was done, Dad always tightened his tie, and put his suit coat back on (He always wore a suit and tie) and pulled his pipe out of his pocket. Then he delivered his usual, "Mr. Williams, would you do me a favor and peel the hair off the sides of these boys’ heads? Leave enough on the top comb, but I want those sides white-walled."

I mentally rolled my eyes, and thought, "He says the same damned thing every time. The man has a doctorate. Why can’t he think of something else to say?"

Mr. Williams was as predictable as Dad. "The same as usual?"

I grimaced, and thought, "It seemed like everyone in my life is in a rut. They’re like parrots, saying the same thing, over and over."

Like he normally did, Dad responded with, "Yes, sir. Short back and sides all the way."

I thought, "I have heard the same speech every two weeks of my life…"

I cut myself off. "That’s not true. You did have one year of no haircuts. Of course, you were a baby and don’t remember it." Thinking about that made me remember the pictures of me screaming and crying when I got my first haircut- -on my first birthday. I thought, "I wish I could cry and scream like that now."

I almost laughed out loud, when I wondered what Dad and Mr. Williams would say if I threw a tantrum. Then I thought, "A good conniption fit would break up the routine!"

I started having a pity party. "I’ve gotten a haircut, without fail, every two weeks since my first birthday. Even when we’re on vacation, Dad will still take us to a local barbershop- -damn it!" I sighed, thinking about some of the remarkable haircuts we had got in a few of those shops. I grimaced when I thought, "They weren’t remarkable because they were so good."

Mr. Williams brushed the seat of the barber’s chair with his cape to get rid of any traces of Dad’s haircut. I thought, "Hell, we’re in such a rut that we even get our hair cut in the same order every time: first Dad, then me and Mikey is always last."

Mr. Williams gave his familiar quip. "Hang your cap up and have a seat, Paul. I’ll have you squared away in no time at all."

I sat down and endured the ritual that preceded a haircut- -a ritual that I was well acquainted with: a towel draped over the shoulders, the paper strip around the neck followed by an expert flourish of the cape. The choking sensation of Mr. Williams getting it too tight and then the slight loosening as he got it just right was as normal as taking a breath of air. Then the quick combing of what little hair I had on the top of my head. Right on cue, he said, "Let’s get you cleaned up."

Everything he did that day was normal, but everything set my nerves on edge.I suppressed the urge to scream, "Dammit! I don’t want a haircut!"

I carefully set my face into what I hoped was a mundane look. I didn’t want Dad to see the mutiny that was brewing in me. I began to seriously cuss Dad (mentally).

My conscience kicked in. I thought, "Hell, Paul, it ain’t cool that you’re pissed at Dad. You’ve never even asked if you could let your hair grow out. You should be pissed at yourself."

I justified my anger with the thought, "I don’t have to ask to know what he’s going to say. He’s made his opinion of long hair very clear."

I thought, "I can hear him now. He’d say, ‘There ain’t no way in hell one of my boys is gonna have long hair as long as they live under my roof.’"

I tried to rationalize his behavior. "Be fair, Paul. He’s just doing what he thinks is right. Give him a break."

My rationalization didn’t help any. My resentment toward Dad kept boiling over. I thought, "I don’t want to give him a break, and I’m not in the mood to be fair. I want to blame the bastard, so blame him I will."

The loud click of the clippers being turned on made me jump. I stopped cursing Dad, and started cussing myself. "Paul, why in the world did you jump? You’ve been through this hundreds of times. You know what’s going to happen. Deal with it, you stupid asshole!"

Me jumping made Mr. Williams laugh and say "Don’t worry, Paul. It’s not time for your summer shearing."

Dad piped up. "It’s not time- -yet. Next trip, we’ll get the old one/two."

Just a side note: Mikey and I got a reprieve from short back and sides on Easter weekend. We got the "old one/two". The top was taken down with a #2 guard. The sides were supposed to be a #1, but Mr. Williams always started with no guard, and started tapering it into the #1 somewhere about halfway up our heads. Dad really should have called it the old zero/one/two.

I started fuming about the routine of us getting a crewcut. I knew exactly what would be said. I could hear him. "Ok. It’s time for the old one/two."

Mr. Williams always asked, "Matching crewcuts all around?"

"Yes, sir. Time to get ready for the Texas summer heat. Peel all three of us down."

I had to admit, I always missed Dad’s flattop in the summer. Somehow, the buzzed head made him look too different, and I didn’t like it.

Back to my story: I steeled myself to keep from flinching when Mr. Williams made the first swipe with the clippers. I took a death grip on the arms of the chair when I felt the clippers going higher up the neck than they normally did. It was all I could do to keep from screaming, "Damn it, Mr. Williams. Why did you have to go so high?"

I could feel my heartrate accelerating, and thought, "Goddamnit! I’m going to look like he shaved my head when I put my cap back on."

I settled down after that, thinking, "No need to cry over spilt milk. It’s done now. All I can do is deal with it."

I went into deep thought as he clipped, combed and scissored my hair- -hardly aware of what he was doing.

I wondered exactly how many times I had sat in a barber’s chair to get my hair peeled off. I did the math in my head. "I just turned fifteen, so that’s fourteen full years. Subtract the first year, and that means thirteen years of haircuts. Twenty-six haircuts a year times thirteen years equals…three-hundred-thirty-eight."

I kept thinking. "That’s just the normal haircuts. At least a few times a year I have to get an extra haircut before a wedding or funeral." Another sigh. "Those ‘extra’ haircuts probably takes my total up to somewhere around three-hundred-sixty-four- -give or take. It seems like a helluva lot more than that. Sometimes it feels like I live in a barbershop."

My spirits brightened- -slightly. "At least he’s never made us get a flattop. If I’d had to have a flattop, I would’ve doubled the number of haircuts I’ve endured." (Dad got his flattop "tightened up" every week.) Then I thought, "I wonder why he’s never made me get a flattop?"

I was shocked that the idea of a flattop was not repulsive. After thinking for a moment, I thought the idea might have some interest.

For some reason I looked at Dad, and shivered in disgust. "My god, he’s so outdated looking. Why does he insist on being so old-fashioned? It’s not cool!" (By 1975 almost all the men I knew had longish to long hair, and even the ones with shorter hair didn’t have scalp showing. It was fairly rare to see a man’s ears, and that was mostly on the old farts. In addition to long hair, most men also had some sort of facial hair: a beard, mustache or long sideburns.) I thought, "Hell, even most of the old men at least have sideburns."

Not Dad. He didn’t have a hint of sideburns.

He did have a moustache, but it was as old-fashioned as his suit. It wasn’t nice and full, and it didn’t droop down the sides of his mouth. His moustache was a tiny, David Niven type of mustache- -pencil-thin and antiquated- -just like his flattop.)

I really studied Dad. I had to admit (at least to myself) that his salt and pepper hair (more salt than pepper) looked good in a flattop. It was thick and straight, and was just made for a flattop. I thought about my hair. I knew I had inherited Dad’s hair and looks, and figured I’d start turning grey at a young age like he had. I thought, "I could pull a flattop off if I wanted to." I quickly changed the direction of my thoughts, not wanting such a stupid idea to lodge in my head.

My thoughts wandered off in another direction while Mr. Williams cut my hair. "Paul, ANOTHER short haircut isn’t the end of the world. At least it’s not Easter weekend."

A part of my mind argued with me. "Who cares? Easter is coming. First you’ll have to put up with everyone at school making fun of you from Easter until school is out. Then you’ll have to endure a whole summer of the old one/two, and then you get to go to school for the first day with a fresh one/two, and get picked on all over again. After that, you’ll have to go through the hassle of letting the top grow back out."

I almost groaned when I thought, "Aren’t you looking forward to weeks of harassment and a rooster tail?"

I tried to be optimistic. I started looking for the good in the relationship I had with Dad. "Don’t forget that he bought you that truck, and is helping you restore it. You’re going to have the best truck around when you get your drivers licenses. A truck like that MIGHT be worth all the short haircuts."

Thinking about the good times Dad and I had had while working on the truck helped me relax a little bit.

I started thinking about Dad. He was a real dichotomy. In fact, it was almost like I had two fathers. When we were out in public, he looked like what he was; an ex-jock turned professor. He appeared to be all business…and he was all business. He was also a real stick in the mud- -as old-fashioned as they come. He wasn’t mean, but he was firm when it came to proper behavior. The best way to get on his bad side would be to forget to say, "Yes, ma’am" or "No, sir".

His response was instant. "I will not tolerate rudeness from a child! What are you supposed to say, young man?"

Everything about the way he dressed said, "Old fuddy-duddy." The pipe he smoked just reinforced the old-fashioned, professorial image he projected. I thought, "Thank god he’s got good eyesight. If he needed glasses, he’d probably have black horn-rimmed glasses."

I did think Dad’s cowboy boots were cool. He always wore boots (he didn’t even own a pair of shoes), and he had boots in every type of skin you could imagine: eel, ostrich, snakeskin, alligator, lizard, elephant, goat, water buffalo…just to name a few.

He was fun and goofy most of the time when we were at home. I’ll never forget the day I was standing by the pool, watching some raccoons that had come to get a drink. I had just said, "They’re so cute," when I heard Dad shout, "Geronimo!" I turned just in time to see him do a cannonball into the pool—suit and all. I was drenched by the wall of water he displaced.

The poor raccoons were scared to death, and took off like greased lightning.

You always had to be alert to practical jokes. The best one was when he yelled upstairs, "Hey, Paul. I’m about to get a slice of pie. Want some?"

"Yes, sir." I yelled. "I’ll be right down."

Just as soon as I stepped off the landing, the whole pie plate came flying out of nowhere, and hit me straight in the face.

I stood there with lemon meringue dripping off of me, then a thought hit me. "Hey, Dad. You forgot the fork. How am I supposed to eat this?"

Dad burst into laughter.

He liked doing weird things like playing in the rain, or starting popcorn and pillow fights when commercials came on the TV.

Suddenly I remembered how Dad reacted when I came home from school, and told him about what I had learned about the Alamo that day. Just in passing, I said, "Someday I want to see the Alamo."

Dad turned to Mom. "Marilyn, would you mind packing a bag for Paul and me? We’re leaving for the Alamo in fifteen minutes."

We drove half the night, so we could be there when it opened the next morning. I smiled at the memory, and thought, "We really had a great time that day." My next thought was, "Only a man who really loves his son would do something like that. He does love me."

Sadness smashed the small bubble of happiness that thoughts of the Alamo brought up. "He might love me, but he doesn’t realize what he’s doing to me by making me keep my hair so short. I wish he wasn’t so stubborn, so I could talk to him about it."

Mr. Williams brought me out of my reverie. He had FINALLY finished my haircut. I cringed at what I saw when I looked in the mirror- -the haircut was worse than I had anticipated. It was more of a high and tight than a short back and sides.

Of course, Dad was thrilled. "You did a mighty nice job on Paul’s hair. Cutting it shorter was smart. There’ll be less for you to cut off when we get the old one/two. Go ahead and give Mike the same cut."

I just put my cap on, and sat down and fumed while Mikey got his haircut.

Rev. Langham came in (like he always did) and he said the same thing he always did. He rubbed his flattop, and said, "Good morning, everyone. It’s time for a cleanup. I don’t want anyone mistaking me for a hippy."

Rituals seem to run deep in our family. Mom had her own routine every time we came home from the barbershop, and I was dreading it. I knew exactly what she was going to say before I walked in the door. I was right.

Before the door was even fully opened I heard her say, "Boys, come let me have a look at you."

She inspected us carefully (as she always did), pronounced us acceptable (as she always did) and then ran her hand up our neck (as she always did). "Ah, that’s what a man’s haircut is supposed to feel like!"

She looked at me. "Paul Harris, you have a perfectly shaped head for a short back and sides. You should keep it like this forever. You just look amazing."

Then she looked at Dad, and gave him a kiss. "Paul, the only way you could look any better would be if you’d get a flattop like your father. Doesn’t he look wonderful?" (As she always did.)

Then it was Mikey’s turn to hear the tired same ol’, same ol’. "I swear Mike, if you get any better looking you’re going to be on the cover of many magazines some day."

She shook her head, and said, "I don’t know what I did to be blessed with three such wonderful men in my life. I’m so lucky." (As she always did.)

As Easter approached I really started freaking out about the idea of our annual summer haircut. I did NOT want a crewcut.

I wanted to talk to Dad, and see if he would let me skip the annual shearing. I even imagined a conversation that went something like, "Dad, I think it’s time I start making some decisions for myself, and I’d like to start by letting my hair grow just a little."

I imagined the startled look on his face, and how he would instantly start to say, "Ain’t no way."

In my fantasy, I would say, "Hear me out, Dad. I’m not talking about letting my hair get long. I’m talking about not getting it peeled. I’d be cool, and keep it over the ears, and keep the back neat. I could go with a taper, but I’d really like to block the back. Heck, I’d even be willing to keep the short back and sides through the summer, if you’d let me stop getting it peeled for the winter."

I could imagine him looking at me, and thinking. Then he’d murmur, "Not covering the ears? Keep the short back and sides for the summer?"

Hope would rise in my heart. "No, sir. I’m not wanting long hair. I just want it less short, if that makes sense."

He would think a little more. "You’re a good kid. How’s this sound? I’ll allow it, if you’ll keep the short back and sides through the summer. September first you can start letting it grow some, but I have a couple of caveats. No hair over the ears, and no hair in your eyes and you will go see Mr. Williams at least once a month. If you don’t, we’re going back to the old way of doing things."

That’s as far as my fantasy ever got. When I reached this point, I would always think, "Paul, don’t waste your time. You’re stupid if you think there’s any way he’s going to let you get by without being peeled."

Then I had a thought. "I wonder if Dad would let me get a flattop for summer, instead of the traditional crewcut? It’d be cool to have a little hair left on the top of my head."

After weighing the pros and cons, I thought, "The idea has merit. Dad just might go for it. I MIGHT ask him."

I pulled out the family albums and started studying pictures of Dad. I thought, "I could do this. I’d have to change the way I dress, because a flattop and bell bottoms would look ridiculous, but I could do it."

The rational side of me thought, "A Flattop with bell bottoms is not that much different than a short back and sides with bell bottoms that you wear now. Why worry about it?"

I never got the nerve to talk to Dad about letting my hair grow, or getting a flattop. I just got more and more nervous as Good Friday approached.

Dad noticed how antsy I was, and one day he asked what was going on. I played it off with, "Oh, just lots of homework, and I’m worried about my grades."

I gave a huge sigh of relief when Dad said, "Is that all? I was imagining girl problems."

I laughed. "No girl problems, unless you count them not seeing me when they look at me."

"I doubt that’s true." He ruffled my hair. "You're a chip off the old block, and I never had a problem with girls seeing me. I don’t think you do either."

I mentally rolled my eyes, thinking, "You didn’t grow up in the Seventies, looking like a WWII soldier."

Dad kept talking. "You know I’m here if you need help- -with schoolwork, or girls. I do have a doctorate, and your mom and I have been married a long time, so I have experience with both."

The next Tuesday night Mom kissed me before she left for her weekly bridge game. I snapped, "Mom, I’m not a kid any more. You don’t have to kiss me all the time."

She winced when I said that, but she didn’t give me the slap I deserved. She simply touched my cheek, and said, "I’ve always had a thing for handsome men, and you’re one of the few handsome men I can kiss without your father getting jealous. Don’t take that away from me."

I didn’t bother to reply.

Dad walked into the room as she was walking out the door. She paused and looked back. "In case any of you were wondering, I love my men. Thanks for making me such a proud mom and wife." Then she walked out.

Dad spoke up. "Hey Paul, why don’t you come outside with me? I’m going to have a beer and smoke my pipe, and I would enjoy the company."

Seeing no way out of it, I reluctantly joined him on the patio.

We talked a little, about nothing in particular. I don’t remember exactly what he said, but something he said made me mad, and I snapped at him.

Dad cornered me. "Paul Harris, you’ve been snapping at everything that moves. Even the dogs don’t want to be around you. It’s obvious that something is chapping your ass, and I want to know what it is. Now talk."

I froze. I tried to think of some alternative, but couldn’t. After what seemed like an eternity, Dad cleared his throat. "I’m waiting, son. I can wait all night if I have to, but we’re not leaving this patio until we’ve talked about whatever’s bugging you."

I choked when I tried to talk. Dad was calm. "Here, have a sip of my beer, and see if it will clear your throat."

I guzzled about half the bottle, sat it down with a thump. After drinking the beer I thought, "That’s nasty! Why would anyone want to drink it?"

As fast as I could, I said, "Ok. You-want-to-know-what’s-bothering? I-hate-getting-a-stupid-haircut-every-two-weeks,-and-I-don’t-want-to-get-peeled-any-more!"

I immediately thought, "So much for the carefully reasoned speech I made up."

Dad laughed. "That came out so fast I’m not sure exactly what you said. Slow down, and try again."

Without asking, I picked up the beer and drank some more.

I tried again. "Dad, I’m tired of always going to the barbershop and I’m really dreading our summer haircut. I don’t want to get buzzed down. As a matter of fact, I’d like to let my hair grow out some."

His face told me nothing. I couldn’t read what he was thinking. He sat there for what seemed like forever, and then he cleared his throat, reached for the beer and knocked it over. Beer drenched his pants. In an uncharacteristic burst of emotions, he said, "God damn it to hell! I needed that beer!"

He sighed loudly as he stood up. "I’ll have to change pants. Don’t move. I’ll be right back."

"Aww, Dad. You can’t do that to me. Let me know what you’re thinking."

He smiled for the first time. "I guess that’s fair, although I was hoping for a few minutes to think." Then he grimaced. "I have been dreading this day. I knew it was coming, but I didn’t know how I’d react." After a pause, he continued. "I still don’t know how I’m going to react. I’m really torn about what’s the right way to handle this."

I thought, "Well, at least he didn’t say no right away. Maybe there’s a chance."

He still had no emotion in his face that I could decipher. "I have questions for you. Is this what you want, or is it you trying to join the crowd?"

Well, that stumped me. I had to think for a minute. "I think it’s both, Dad. I want to do something I think will make me look better, and I’ll admit I’m tired of sticking out like a sore thumb. It’d be cool to look like a normal kid." I took a deep breath, and kept going. "Have you ever seen a kid that didn’t want to fit in? I’m assuming you got your flattop because you thought it was cool when you were a kid."

That stumped him. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he thought about what he was going to say. Finally he said, "You’d be wrong about that, Paul. I got my first flattop when I was in my thirties."

A lightbulb went off in my head. "That’s right. Dad didn’t have a flattop when he was little."

Dad seemed to get lost in thought for a while, and then he started talking. "Although I’m not keen on men with long hair…"

I never got to hear what Dad would’ve said about my hair. About that time Mikey came out and said, "Dad, Rev. Langham and a policeman want to talk to you."

Dad gave into another outburst. "Damn it! What do they want?" He answered himself. "Probably a donation for something."

He looked at me. "I can’t have you go out there and meet the preacher and police smelling of beer. It’s bad enough that I smell like a distillery. You go upstairs."

I didn’t mind him, and I followed Dad into the foyer. One look at Rev. Langham’s face told me it wasn’t a social visit. It was like I had ESP or something. I knew something bad had happened to Mom. Tears started flowing and I screamed, "NOOOOO…" A dark tunnel appeared before my eyes, and I couldn’t see anything but a tiny pinprick of light.

I don’t remember anything else for hours. I finally came out of the darkness to the harsh knowledge that Mom was gone forever, and my last words to her had been hateful.

The day of the funeral Dad took us all to the barbershop (I know it sounds crazy, but he was so haircut obsessed that he planned her funeral for the afternoon, so we’d have time to get our hair cut that morning). I guess he didn’t realize it was Good Friday, because he didn’t ask for "the old one/two."

Even in my grief, I was relieved to hear him give his usual speech, "Mr. Williams, would you do me a favor and peel the hair off the sides of this boy’s head? Leave enough on the top comb, but I want those sides white-walled."

I thought, "Thank God I won’t have to be put on public display today with fuzz on my head. I’ll at least have the dignity of a little hair on my head."

Dad looked at the barber. "Marilyn’s funeral is today, and I want us all looking as good as possible for her." Then tears started flowing down his cheeks. He cried so hard that he started to sob.

I had never seen Dad cry before, and didn’t know what to do. I looked at Mr. Williams. He swiped the chair with the cape, and said, "Come on, Paul. Your father needs to cry it out. Let’s get you squared away."

He started the usual routine: towel, paper strip, cape and a quick comb through. Then the clippers went up the back of my neck.

This is going to sound weird, but after the second pass with the clippers, I swear I heard Mom say, "The only way you could look any better would be if you’d get a flattop like your father."

I don’t know. Maybe I had been thinking about it, but I never realized it, but I don’t think so. I’d swear I heard Mom, just as if she’d been standing in front of me.

I yelled, "Stop!"

Without thinking about it any further, I blurted out, "Mr. Williams, Mom always said the only way I could look any better would be if I had a flattop like Dad’s. I want to look as good as I can for her today. I want a flattop. Would you mind?"

He wiped a tear out of his eye. "I can’t imagine a better way to honor your mother." Without bothering to ask Dad if it was OK, he said, "A flattop it is."

Getting a flattop was much different from watching Dad get his "tightened up," and it was much different than the "old one/two." Even though I knew exactly what was going to happen, it felt strange. The clippers went up, up and up, and then out.

He put Butch wax in my hair, and the scent seemed to take over my imagination. I thought, "I’m going to smell like Dad. That’s kinda cool."

He started on the deck, and the vibration of the clippers through the large comb left my scalp feeling tingly. The sensation of him shaping the deck was amazing. I could feel the flattop taking shape.

I enjoyed watching Mr. Williams' eyes as he made pass after pass with the clippers over the deck. It seemed like his grey eyes were darting everywhere, to make sure there wasn’t a single stray hair.

I got lost in the sensation and sound of getting my first flattop, and forgot my grief in the few minutes it took him to cut my hair. The buzz of the clippers and the clicking of the scissors was comforting. I enjoyed watching the tiny hairs that drifted in front of my eyes as he fine-tuned the deck.

I glanced at the cape and was amazed. "Did I have that much hair left on my head? It doesn’t seem possible."

Once he was done, he turned me toward the mirror. "What do you think?"

I blurted out, "I think I’m looking at a picture of Dad."

It was uncanny. I no longer looked like myself. I looked just like Dad. I said, "My hair looks so cool!" I thought for a second, "Well, it might be cool, but you did an awesome job, Mr. Williams. This is perfect. I hope Mom can see me."

He smiled. "Wear this haircut with pride. This is the most perfect flattop I’ve ever cut."

He was right. It was a perfect haircut. The deck was the perfect length, and it showed the thickness of my hair off. My hair gleamed like velvet, and the overhead light reflected off of it, making interesting highlights. The sides were mere stubble, but you could still tell how dark and thick my hair was.

I reached up and touched the top. A shiver ran up and down my spine. I thought, "I understand why Dad wears a flattop. It feels good." I gingerly touched the sides. The contrast of the bristly sides and velvety top was intriguing.

All the good feelings left, and my grief came crashing back upon me when Mr. Williams gave me a sad smile. "I can imagine Marilyn grinning now and saying how wonderful you look."

Hearing that made tears well up in my eyes, and the image I was looking at in the mirror got blurry…and the reflection got blurrier when Dad said, "Marilyn would not only be happy, she would be proud of you, and so am I."

I didn’t realize until much later in life that this was the first time I had ever had a say in how my hair was cut, and that I had asked for it to be cut shorter, rather than being left long.

Mikey was in the chair next. Mr. Williams said, "Do you have any special requests, young man?"

It broke my heart when my little brother sobbed, "I don’t care about my hair. Mom’s dead. That’s all I care about."

We left the shop, and went and got dressed for the funeral. I remember walking into the crowded church with my head held high, determined to make Mom proud of me.

I stopped in the foyer, and looked around the church to see who all was there. I think I had my only coherent thought of the afternoon at that moment. My thought was, "Dad, Rev. Langham and I are the only ones here with a flattop."

I don’t remember anything else about the funeral.

When we left the church after Mom’s funeral, I would’ve laughed if someone had told me that I wouldn’t see the inside of the church for ages.

By the same token, if someone had told me that day that it would be a long time before Dad and I went to the barbershop together again, I would have replied, "There ain’t no way in hell that Dad won’t have me back in the chair in two weeks."

I would’ve been wrong on both accounts.

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