The 1 / 5 by keepingitreal

---

It'd been about two months since I'd gotten my first crew cut, and while I'd gone back once to have the sides trimmed down, I hadn't had the top cut. I was still in school, and my senior photos were right around the corner, and I wasn't sure if I'd look good for my photos with another crew cut - it was too new to me. However, my sides had grown out again, and were now long enough to touch my ear, which bugged me to no extent. It was time for another haircut. So, on one of the days I wasn't working, I hopped onto the highway and headed to the barbershop.

As I pulled into the parking lot, and found my spot, I checked my wallet. I had $25 in cash, because the shop wouldn't take cards, which was a bit of an inconvenience, but I figured they gave the best haircuts, so it was worth it. I had a moment of self-doubt. I'd been growing my hair out in the front so that I could comb it nicely for my photos, and I was afraid it'd be cut too short. For a moment, I considered getting back into my car and going to the SportsClips nearby. That idea was quickly quashed when I remembered I'd have to pay $15 more for a generic salon haircut. Before I could question myself more, I took hold of the door handle and entered the barbershop.

Like most times I've came in (three times now), there was an old man getting his haircut. The barbershop, at least in my town, isn't a popular site for most boys my age, aside from the JROTC kids who get their hair cut every week. I wasn't as offset by this as the last time I came it, and I wrote my name on the list, checking "Any Barber" without worrying too much. Before I could sit down, a barber called me to her chair.

We exchanged small talk as she caped me up, tying a white strip of paper firmly around my neck. When she asked what I wanted, I told her I'd like a crew cut with a #1 on the sides. I also asked her to leave the front of my hair as long as it was, but to give the rest of the top a good trim. This, evidently, confused her.

"That's not a crew cut," she said. "A crew cut is one length on the top."

I tired to explain to her that I *did* want the top cut like it was when I'd gotten my crew cut, just not the front, and eventually she caught on. She asked how much I wanted taken off the top. I wasn't sure how much specifically, so I ruffled through the length that had built up, and told her I wanted the bulk cut away.

"So a #5 on the top," she said.

Feeling a bit annoyed, I agreed and hoped she wouldn't do any terrible. I hadn't really paid attention to how long the top was beforehand, aside from the front, so I had no idea how much she would be cutting off. I needed the front to stay long for my senior photos, and I didn't know what I'd do if she buzzed the front down. To make matters worse, this barbershop didn't face their seats toward the mirrors, so I wouldn't be able to see how much she was cutting off.

I was a bit tense as she got ready, but I tried to relax. She clicked the clippers on, and a weird mix of contentment and anticipation filled me. First she shaved my side with the #1. With each pass I could feel more of the cool air in the room. I imagined the little clumps of hair falling from the side of my head, leaving an almost-bare strip in the clipper's wake as I felt her move around my head. When she was done, she clicked the clippers off and switched the guard to the #5. As she began cutting the top, I felt the motor of the clippers rumble against my skull. I hoped the cut wouldn't be too drastic. She made passes from side to side, each swipe making me feel a bit lighter. A rhythm began to settle in with the sounds of the clippers. They'd run openly, make a little sound which I really can't describe as the hair built up in the guard, and then as the hair fell and onto the cape they'd open back up. It was nice to listen too and a bit comforting.

As she got closer to the front, a I started to feel a bit antsy. She hadn't specifically said she'd leave the front long, and I was worried. Was she going to buzz me all the way? Instead of going side to side, she was now running the clipper down my head, from back to front, getting closer and closer to my precious front every swipe. Because there was no mirror, I couldn't see how far she'd done and it worried me, as I couldn't see any hair on the cape on me. Eventually, she stopped. I head a two clicks, and the clippers buzzed to life again. They began running from the back of my head to the front again, going further forward and lifting off like an airplane takes off from a runway at the front. I saw bits of hair fly forward and into the cape, and I wondered if all of my front had be shorn. After a few passes of that, she stopped the clippers again, and I head a click as she removed the guard from them.

With a comb in her hand, she made her way in front of me. She turned the clippers on, and the buzz of the motor became intimate. She began combing the front down to rest on my forehead, and I closed my eyes. There was some left in the front, but how much would be left? I heard the sound of clippers catching on hair a few times, then I felt what was left of my hair being brushed up off my forehead. The damage was done, but I wouldn't be able to see it until she turned the chair around when she was done. She wasn't.

She got the clippers back out, and began running cutting the sides again, cutting the lower parts shorter. She then took her comb and blended the top and the sides together. After that, she unbuttoned my cape and undid the strip of paper, trimming the edges of the cut. I had thought she was done, but she went back to her station and rubbed a wax onto her hands and then into my hair, tidying it up with a comb, like she was polishing the merchandise one more time before presenting it. Then she turned me around.

"Do you like it?" she said.

I took a look at myself. My front had been spared, standing up nicely. I knew she had cut some off, but I couldn't tell, so I couldn't complain. My sides were shaved almost-bald (my mother would have an aneurysm if I had them #0'd) and the rest of my top was short enough to lay nicely.

"I like it," I said. "Thank you."

I didn't want to leave her with a bad impression of me, as the miscommunication at the beginning was a bit rough. I took out my $25 and handed it to her, with another "thank you", and I made my way out of the shop and back to my car. I resisted the urge to feel the back of my head, because there was always little hairs that would need to be washed out in the shower that would stick to my hand. I did, however, take another place at my cut in my rear-view mirror.

I was happy with the front, as it'd still be long enough for photos, but with the rest of the short top, it seemed a bit uncouth. Unfortunately, I wasn't sure I was ready to commit to a short top until after senior photos. I guessed I'd have one more haircut before senior photos, where I'd get the same cut. After that, I told myself, all bets were off. I'd been itching to try a proper high and tight, and without school happening, I felt safer trying one. I'd even considered a longer buzzcut, like a #2, but wasn't sure, as one of the kids in the same social circle as me had one, and he got a lot of his fair share of negative comments on it. However, there were a good number of people outside of my social circles at school that had gotten buzzcuts grown them out during the school year, and they seemed happy and accepted. I was even considering visiting the old barbershop in my town that seemed to have no internet presence online, as a wild roll of the dice - it'd save me half an hour of driving. But from now on, I knew I'd ask for a one on the sides and a five on the top, if not shorter. I'd be back to the barbershop.

---