THREE CENTIMETRES, Part 2 by SEAN BARNET

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THREE CENTIMETRES, Part 2

BY SEAN BARNET


I was most taken with "Three Centimetres" by SteDJ. I was hoping for a Part 2, but nothing so far, so I have written one myself. I hope he does not mind. I have not attempted to imitate SteDJ's inimitable writing style.

* * * * *

We went to get our icecreams, a sort of consolation prize, I guess, and as the three of us sat there round a small table on the cafe terrace I could not resist rubbing my fingers through all those bristles and prickles on the back and sides of my head. I think I must have had some kind of stupid grin on my face.

Observing this, Dad said "So, it's not as bad as all that, is it, Stephen?"

I pulled a face, and muttered something, not sure exactly what it was now.

This obviously pushed Dad to the limit of his patience. He had had enough. "Now, I don't want any more of that attitude from you, young man. It is only a haircut. It looks fine. It is smart. It suits you, and you will get to like it soon enough. I always had my hair short like that when I was your age, so no more gripes, thank you. Is that understood, young man?"

Being 14 and having little discretion, I took things that little bit further. "Yeah, yeah, Dad. OK."

"No, it is not "Yeah, Dad." It is "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Understood, Stephen?"

I knew not to push things any further. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

We drove back to our guest house in silence.

I did not usually call my father "Sir", only when he was in this kind of mood. He was normally "Dad". However, he did call his own father "Sir", and other older men too, like my other grandfather. I had grown up with this, but when I thought about it it seemed a little odd as no one else I knew did this.

* * * * *

My mother was there waiting for us as we got out of the car.

"My goodness! How short you have gone! Don't you look smart!"

And turning to my father she said "How on earth did you manage to persuade Steve to have it cut so short? He always complains so bitterly when I ask him to get it cut, I just give way. But he looks so nice! How did you do it, Reggie?"

My father shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. I expect he was relieved at being "home and dry" without having to "convince" my mother of anything.

I also thought it better to say nothing. I just stood there grinning foolishly as my mother turned me round and about and stroked the little hair left on the top of my head.

* * * * *

The rest of our holiday in France continued uneventfully enough.

As I gradually got used to having my hair short, it was a lot less bother, and a lot cooler in the summer heat. I even conceded, privately, to myself, alone, that it was "not as bad as all that" as my father had said.

* * * * *

By the time the summer holidays were over and it was time to go back to school my haircut had softened somewhat, the back and sides were covered with enough velvet to conceal the skin and the top seemed a little less brutally short - or maybe I was just getting used to it.

Normally I would have a haircut right at the end of each school holiday (Summer, Christmas, Easter) and another one during the week off at each half term, but for obvious reasons nothing was said this time.

Anyway, the first day of term was less of an ordeal than I had anticipated. Nearly everyone had a fresh, back to school, haircut, some as short as my own, and a few unfortunates had it shorter.

* * * * *

The weeks went by. I was looking forward to the half term holiday. My hair was now approaching something like normality, an inch or so long round the back and sides and two or three inches on top, not styled in a layered cut as I normally had it, but something approaching normality in its general effect.

I was, quite naturally, hoping that my mother would let the regular haircut routine slip again this time, as it had last.

* * * * *

Then, during half term week, one evening while we were at supper, my father looked at my mother and said "Margaret, Stephen's hair looks rather long and untidy to me, is he going to get it cut before he goes back to school?"

"But it isn't that long, Roger, as you can see, and, as you well know, he does not like having it cut, he complains so every time I suggest a haircut."

"But it is untidy, My Love. Anyway, when I was a boy my hair was always kept short, very short and tidy, short back and sides every three weeks as a matter of course. We never complained, we accepted a bit of discipline in our lives, and it never did us any harm. Stephen was quite happy with the short haircut he had in France, indeed I could tell he actually rather liked it, though he will never admit as much. And I am sure he will be perfectly happy to get himself another good, short haircut this time - Won't you, lad?"

I had been listening to this with increasing dismay, trying to think what to say to prevent disaster. I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

My father got out his wallet and handed me a note. I still did not know what to say. My father began again "So, what do you say then, lad?" And when I still did not reply he continued "That's "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Stephen."

I had no choice in the matter. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Exactly what was it that I had agreed to?

* * * * *

I did not sleep well. At breakfast I pondered the alternatives.

There was my usual modern place, they could give me a trim that just tidied it up a bit, but they would hardly want to give me the sort of haircut it was apparent that my father had in mind - and I had agreed to get.

Then there were the old fashioned barbers: "Mad Jack" Jones and "Butcher" Barker. My stomach churned as I thought of either of them, and I could not eat.

But what exactly did my father expect? What exactly had I agreed to? I remembered something about "another good, short haircut", the "another" seeming to imply another barbaric shearing like the one I had in France. But Dad had never insisted on really short haircuts in the past. Maybe I could get away with a tidy up from my usual place, off the ears, off the collar, clean round the edges, not a trendy cut, but nothing too unfashionable? If Dad did not like it, I was sure that I could work on my mother to back me up.

So, go back to my usual place and get a trim. It seemed like the rational thing to do. So why did I feel that I ought to take what Dad said at face value, and get the same sort of shearing I had had in France? I did not know. Was I trying to please Dad? Or was I trying to prove something to myself?

Anyway, why was I making such a thing of this? It was only a haircut, wasn't it? What was there to prove? I had had a short haircut before - in France. But somehow that haircut did not count. We were on our own and I had none of my school-mates to make fun of me. And it had come by surprise, an accident. I had not expected it - or asked for it.

I had not given that French haircut my full, voluntary consent and cooperation - that was what was missing.

There was this idea in my head, which would not go away, that the time had come for me to "man up", and put myself into the hands of an old fashioned barber, and get myself properly, brutally scalped - and like it.

And then maybe say "Thank you, sir." to Dad for the privilege.

But then I had another thought - Did I really want to go down this path? If I did get a really short haircut might it just encourage Dad to insist on it all the time? Was that what I really wanted? If I won this hair battle perhaps I could make my own decisions from now on.

* * * * *

I left the house after breakfast, still not knowing where I would go. I started out going to my usual place, Vincente's, but hesitated. I paced up and down outside a few times. If anyone noticed they must have thought it was ridiculous. I walked on and headed to the older part of town, and found myself in the street with "Mad Jack" Jones's shop at the other end. I stopped abruptly. What was I doing? This was where my mother had taken me when I was small, too many bad memories.

Then a couple of streets away was "Butcher" Barker's. Did I really want to go there? Better go back to Vincente's - "Coward!" I said to myself.

I had to do something. I had never been to Barker's before. He had a bad reputation amongst us teenagers, some of us didn't call him the "Butcher" but something else starting with "B". But maybe he would not be so bad? Maybe he did not deserve his nickname(s) after all?

I made my way to Barker's shop, mustered up my courage and went in.

* * * * *

The place was old fashioned, well, I expected that. Two silver haired barbers in grey coats, two elderly gentlemen having their hair cut. A row of polished wooden waiting chairs, another elderly gentleman and a woman with two young boys, maybe 8 and 10, waiting. Faded adverts for Brylcreem on the walls, strip lights on the ceiling, and walls and ceiling stained with years of tobacco smoke.

And it smelled of tobacco and scent. I sat to wait my turn, hoping, somehow, that I had made the right decision.

Isat and looked around me. Although it had obviously not been refurbished or even repainted in years, and though, as I have already said, the walls and ceiling were stained with tobacco smoke, everything else was all kept scrupulously clean. All the wood, the mirrors and the floor were polished. The barbers were immaculate in their grey coats, white shirts, ties, pressed trousers, and their black shoes were highly polished too.

The first edlerly gentleman was finished.

"Next!"

The woman nudged the older boy. The barber placed a wooden plank over the arms of the barber chair, and the boy scrambled up.

"Yes, madam, what will it be?"

"Short back and sides, please, nice and short."

Then a few minutes later the other barber had finished his gentleman, and the younger boy followed his brother's example.

Same again. "Short back and sides, please, nice and short."

I watched as the two boys were shorn, down to skin round the back and sides, and not that much left on top. The boys made no fuss, obviously used to the routine, but I still felt sorry for them. I would soon have to endure the same thing myself.

The older boy was done, and the elderly man took his place, then the younger boy too.

"Next!"

And now I was for it, no backing out now. Don't lose my cool.

I took my place in the chair, trying to look calm and cheerful.

Being caped was somehow reassuring. I was back home. No unpredictable French scalping here - just a good, old fashioned, and all too predictable, English scalping.

"Good morning, young man. I don't think we have met before?"

"No, sir."

"Well, I am Mr Barker, and my colleague is Mr Phillips. And you, young man, are?"

"Stephen, sir. Stephen Armitage, sir."

"And what will it be, Mr Armitage?"

"Short back and sides, please, sir." I did not add "Nice and short." Maybe I thought that was superfluous, maybe I was hoping that I might not be shorn quite as mercilessly as the two young boys.

Mr Barker combed through my hair, then took hold of my head with a fearsomely strong grip and pushed it forwards. He turned on the clippers and proceeded to shave, strip, skin the back and sides of my head. The clippers were sharp, he pushed them in hard, and took them high up the back and sides.

What kind of a fool was I to have volunteered for this?

Once the clippers were put aside I was allowed to lift my head, and I watched in the mirror as Mr Barker slowly, carefully and deliberately blended in the sides with the top, trimmed my fringe at an angle giving me a left-hand parting, and thinned down the hair on top.

My head was pushed forward once again, a brush full of warm soapy water made its way round my neck and ears, and the razor followed. Then the sharp sting of after-shave.

Mr Barker had asked me no questions, and now spoke for the first time. "Dressed, sir?"

I wasn't quite sure what he meant. Vincente always washed my hair and then used conditioner on it.

I nodded.

Mr Barker smiled and nodded too. He then took a great blob ofwhite stuff, rubbed it across his palms, and smeared it into my hair. He combed everything into place, sharp parting, a little quiff, everything gleaming and shining in the glaring strip lights. Still nodding and smiling he showed me the back and sides of my head, shaved white and naked.

It was what I had come for, it was what I had asked for, I nodded my acceptance.

"There you go, Mr Armitage. All nice and smart for you, young sir."

"Yes, sir. Very smart. Thank you, sir." seemed to be the only possible polite reply.

"It has been a pleasure, sir. Not so many young men of your age seem to appreciate a good haircut these days."

"My father is very keen for me to have it short, sir."

"Very sensible of him. Too bad more fathers don't take the same attitude. You are fortunate, young man."

"Yes, sir."

I was released, I paid, we shook hands, and Mr Barker "looked forward to seeing me again soon."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

I walked out into the sunlit street. There was a chilly autumnal breeze round my ears and the back of my neck. The greased-up hair on top did not move. I rubbed at all those wonderful bristles and prickles, it sent a thrilling shudder down my spine.

Why had I called Mr Barker "Sir"? There was no need to call him "Sir", only the masters at school were "Sir", no one else. (Well, and Dad when he was in a mood). And however was I going to face the jeers at school on Monday morning?

* * * * *

At supper that evening Dad voiced his approval. "So I see you got yourself a good, smart haircut, then, my son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not so bad after all is it then?"

"No, sir."

"Well, let's see if we can keep it this way."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

And now I was ever so politely replying "Yes, sir./No, sir." to whatever Dad said. What had got into me?

* * * * *

A few weeks later and it was the same thing again, only this time my father did not involve my mother, but spoke to me directly, handing me some money. "It's time you had a haircut, son."

It looked like I was in for another savage skinning. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

From then on it was Dad, not Mum, who was in charge of my haircuts. I was given no say in the matter. Every few weeks, just as soon as I had enough hair to decently conceal the skin on the back and sides of my head, it would be. "Haircut, son."

To which I would respond "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." and I would have to go back to Barker's to have it all shaved off again.

As I had guessed earlier, Dad was not going to allow me to go back to having anything less than the traditional short back and sides, whether I liked it or not. And I was not at all certain whether I did like it or not.

I always called Dad "Sir" now, not just when he was in a laying down the law mood. I think the turning point was at one family Sunday dinner. I was sitting there self-conscious in my first (recently purchased) suit, having received a fresh severe shearing for the occasion, and with my hair slicked back and glossy with Brylcreem. I was listening to my father and grandfather talking. My father called his father "Sir", as he habitually did, and when it was my turn to say something to him I did the same. Then when I spoke to my father it seemed right to call him "Sir" as well. I was throwing myself into the role of smart, well-mannered young man and leaving behind every trace of stroppy, uncouth teenager. From then on "Sir" was expected of me all the time, but I decided I rather liked it.

* * * * *

I once tried "Mad Jack" Jones's as an experiment. But I could see why I had hated it so much when I was small. He was clumsy and careless, and the results had obvious mistakes.

* * * * *

Looking back, having my hair short, wearing a clean white shirt and a tie, polishing my shoes to a high shine and calling Dad and other older men "Sir" all made me feel more mature, disciplined and confident. They all became life-long habits.

"Yes sir! Thank you, sir!"


THE END

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