Visiting Dad by Smart Gent

---

Visiting Dad

The event I’m going to recall took place in the early 1990s. I’d been married three years by that time. My wife, Marianne and I had moved into a newly built house five miles away from where I had grown up. My mother had sadly passed away by then but my Dad was still around, elderly and living in the house he’d been in for the last fifty years.

I loved and respected my Dad and made sure I visited him once a week to make sure he was OK and had everything he needed. I usually enjoyed these visits. Dad would show me what he’d managed to do in his small garden. We’d chat about the latest news. Sometimes though he would make a comment on the length of my hair. My Dad had always been a conservative type of person, sticking to old fashioned values and appearance. When I was a child and teenager I’d never been allowed to follow the latest fashions in clothes and he’d always made sure I visited the barber every three weeks to receive a ‘respectable’ old fashioned short back and sides.
In contrast, my fashion-conscious wife Marianne insisted I should make the most of my glossy dark brown hair and keep it long and full - which I had been doing since I was married. My Dad would say it made me look like a girl and couldn’t understand why all men didn’t just have a proper short back and sides like he had (and I also had) when I was young.

My Dad didn’t think much of the clothes I wore these days either. Marianne preferred to see me in casual clothes, jeans, designer tops and hoodies and fashionable trainers. Marianne would mostly choose and buy the clothes I wore. When I visited my Dad though he would make the odd disapproving comment.
During one visit in September of that year Dad had a surprise for me. It had recently been my birthday and when I arrived at his house I couldn’t help noticing that there was a wrapped parcel on the living room table.

"That’s for you son. For your birthday" he said, gesturing to the parcel.
"Dad, you don’t need to buy me birthday presents. I’m not a kid anymore" I said, wondering what on earth the gift might be.
"I’ve been ordering some new clothes for myself, mail order, seeing as I can’t get out to the shops much anymore. So I thought these would be just the job for you too."
As Dad was saying this I had opened the wrapping to reveal a pair of brown high waisted polyester trousers. They were definitely the kind of old fashioned trousers my Dad liked but not the kind I would ever think of wearing, especially with Marianne’s modern preferences for how I should dress.

"Oh er...they’re great, Dad and you got my size right too. Thank you."
"It’s about time you smartened yourself up and stopped wearing those scruffy jeans" Dad smiled, "These trousers will make you look much more respectable."

I took the trousers home but hid them in a drawer. The next week when I was about to visit Dad I wondered if it might perhaps be a good idea to wear them. Maybe just once and only not to seem ungrateful. In the bedroom I pulled on the trousers and instantly looked like an old man. I knew that my usual t shirt would never match so I took a formal work shirt out of the wardrobe and put that on too.

"What the hell are you wearing?" laughed my wife Marianne as she burst into the bedroom.
"Um, some new trousers", I blurted, feeling shocked and embarrassed.
"They’re absolutely horrible! Where did you get them?"
"Dad bought them for me"
"I might have known. You can’t be serious about going out wearing them. You look like something out of the 1940s!"
"But love, I’m only wearing them for when I visit Dad, to please him."
"Huh! You take more notice of that old fool than you do of me sometimes!"
"Hey, that’s not fair" I stuttered.
But by then Marianne had stormed out of the bedroom and had slammed the door in one of her rages.

As I drove over to Dad’s house I was feeling angry and humiliated. It really wasn’t fair that Marianne called my Dad an old fool. I always accepted what she wanted me to wear so why couldn’t she allow my Dad to have some say? She made no secret of not liking him.

Besides, I had been feeling recently that the casual outfits Marianne chose just weren’t appropriate for me. I’d been brought up by my Dad and Mum to dress smartly and conservatively. Funnily enough, as I was driving to Dad’s, I found myself beginning to think these new roomy brown trousers did actually feel a lot more comfortable than tight jeans.

When I pulled up outside Dad’s house I noticed an old grey saloon car was parked in his driveway. I didn’t recognise it so walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. After a moment’s wait the door opened but I was surprised to see it wasn’t Dad in the doorway. Instead, it was a little wrinkled old man wearing a navy-blue nylon overall. The man had a familiar face which I hadn’t seen in some years but I soon remembered he was Mr. Anderson, once the local barber. Mr. Anderson had been retired from his barber shop for a number of years after reaching the age of 70. I recalled Dad telling me that he still did home haircut visits for his former regular clients. Dad was one of Mr. Anderson’s regulars and so had I been once, years ago when I was a child and a teenager. I realised I had arrived at exactly the same time as one of Dad’s home haircutting appointments.

"You must be Arthur’s son?" said Mr. Anderson as I entered the hallway of Dad’s house.
"Yes, Mr. Anderson, you used to cut my hair a few years ago, but you probably won’t remember me" I replied.
"It must’ve been a very long time ago, judging by the length of that mop!" said Mr. Anderson, eyeing my long hair with some amusement.
I followed the elderly barber into the kitchen where Dad was sitting on a stool with the barber’s nylon cape tucked into his collar.
"Hello son. I shan’t be long. Mr. Anderson is just finishing off my haircut."

On the kitchen bench were some scissors and a soft brush, a mirror with a handle and a tub of Vaseline. The instruments looked well-used and no doubt were from the days when Mr. Anderson still had his barber shop in town. Mr. Anderson picked off the bench some similarly old fashioned looking electric clippers. They were burgundy in colour and their long flex was plugged into the light fitting on the kitchen ceiling. The sight of the clippers took me back to my youth when I used to receive a short back and sides from Mr. Anderson in his barber shop. When he switched the clippers on with a loud clack their humming sound brought back further childhood and teenage memories.
The barber resumed cutting Dad’s hair, pushing the purring clippers high up the back of his neck and then up the sides. Mr. Anderson had always been a unsophisticated type of barber, mainly limited to short or very short, but Dad had always been more than pleased with the results.

As Mr. Anderson worked away and I watched he decided to bring attention to my own appearance, much to my embarrassment.
"Arthur, I hope you don’t mind me saying, it must be a long while since your son had a decent haircut."
"I’ve tried telling him plenty of times. But he’s grown up now and likes his hair long, like a girl. Or at least his wife likes him looking like a girl. I think she has him under the thumb if you ask me…" Dad reflected as the clippers continued to shear off more of his grey hair.
"Hm. That’s never a healthy state of affairs if you ask me" mused Mr. Anderson, as he dipped his fingers into the tub of Vaseline and rubbed it into the remaining longer hair on the top of Dad’s head.

"You’ll never get him to change his mind, I’m afraid. Though I’m glad to see he’s not wearing those scruffy jeans he usually has on"
The conversation between the two old men continued as if I wasn’t standing with them in the kitchen. But as I listened, strong feelings began to rise inside me. I was still angry and humiliated from being laughed at by Marianne a few hours earlier. I found myself thinking that Mr. Anderson and Dad were starting to make good sense. Yes, they were probably right, maybe I was under Marianne’s thumb. I loved her but she really had been controlling the way I looked ever since we had been married. If I was being honest with myself I never felt right wearing trendy clothes…or having long hair!
Completing Dad’s haircut by combing it into a very neat, shiny side parting, Mr. Anderson continued, "I’d be happy to give the lad a quick tidy up if he wanted. On the house."

Dad looked up at me from the stool with a doubting expression.
"Well…I suppose I could do with a haircut, Mr. Anderson" I mumbled, hardly able to believe the words that were coming out of my mouth.
Dad looked taken aback and rose off the stool while Mr. Anderson removed the nylon cape from him.
But before Dad could form any words Mr. Anderson flicked the cape with a flourish and said, "Then take a seat, young man, it’ll be my pleasure to get some of that thick mess off your head."

I obediently sat down, strangely looking forward to something I hadn’t experienced since I was a teenager, getting a haircut from Mr. Anderson the local barber. I was also enjoying for once defying Marianne’s wishes. At the same time though I was trembling a little bit.

"So young man, do you want a tidy-up or a good short back and sides?" enquired Mr. Anderson as he tied the cape very firmly around my neck.
My nerve failed me for a moment in my nervousness and I croaked "J-just a tidy-up, please, Mr. Anderson."

The barber looked a little disappointed but proceeded to comb my long brown locks so they flopped over my eyes and dropped well below my ears, skirting my shoulders at the back. Mr. Anderson started to snip away enthusiastically with his long steel scissors. Although I had no mirror to see how it looked I could feel swathes of glossy hair dropping onto the cape and kitchen floor. With great relish the barber swiftly chopped away at the back so that the length was now above my collar for the first time in years. Then he snipped away so my ears were fully revealed and finally he cut an angled fringe about an inch above my eyebrows.
Lifting up the hand mirror, Mr. Anderson showed off his handiwork to me.

"There you are young man, what I call a light tidy-up. It looks a bit better but it would look better still if you had asked for a good short back and sides. But, of course, the wife wouldn’t approve of that would she?"
I looked into the mirror and although I had lost a good deal of hair it still looked rather bushy, a shape almost like a thick brown helmet.
"It does look better thank you Mr. Anderson."

I looked at Dad, who smiled back at me across the kitchen.

Mr. Anderson removed the cape and brushed the stray hairs off my neck and shirt. Then he began to pack away his scissors and clippers into a brown leather case while my Dad put on the kettle and placed three tea cups on the kitchen bench.
"But I agree a good short back and sides would look better still" I exclaimed, wishing I hadn’t just asked for a trim.

Yes, I now felt ready to take the full plunge and let Mr. Anderson give me the respectable short back and sides I had grown up with and been used to before I got married.
"Did you hear what the boy just said, Mr Anderson?" said Dad.

"I did, Arthur, and I’m pleased he’s finally come to his senses. That cup of tea will have to wait" replied Mr. Anderson as he returned to his haircutting tools.
The nylon cape was wrapped around me once again and tucked firmly into my shirt collar. The clippers were plugged into the light fitting and after a brisk tidy through with a comb Mr. Anderson announced, "Head right down please, young man. You have one long overdue clipping coming up."

Submissively my chin touched my chest in preparation for the arrival of the buzzing teeth of Mr. Anderson’s vintage electric clippers. Without any delay they touched the nape of my neck and were guided upwards, growling, through my thick brown hair, leaving a long strip of bare skin in their wake. The straining clippers returned to make that pass another time and yet another and another until I could feel the back of my head was utterly shorn of any hair whatsoever.

With a sense of shock I realised that Mr. Anderson had decided to give me a short back and sides much more severe than I ever used to get when I was a teenager visiting his barber shop. It was as if the old barber was making up for lost time, making up for the rebellious years when I foolishly went my own way, or perhaps Marianne’s way, in choice of hairstyle. I could feel that the stripping of the back of my head had gone up very high, about one and a half inches short of the crown.
It was inevitable what was coming next. Mr. Anderson was going to mow the same way up the sides with his clippers. The clipper blades were warm now following the hard work they had done scalping the back of my head. My hair on top and the sides was still fairly thick after that first trim and I could sense just how eagerly the elderly barber was wanting to remove my sideburns to match that very high back hairline. This he did swiftly, adjusting my head with some force so he could get the correct angle with those buzzing blades. My sideburns were a thing of the past and I could feel the cool air on the totally bare skin on my sides, which now matched the back.
I stole a quick look at Dad who was watching with serious approval.

The clippers were put down on the kitchen bench so Mr. Anderson could pick up his scissors to blend the thick hair on top with the shorn back and sides. This he did for a few minutes with great care and concentration. Then he created a side parting, leaving some length on top so it could easily be neatly parted and combed flat.
Without any consultation the old barber then dipped two fingers in the pot of thick Vaseline and rubbed the gooey mixture vigorously into the remaining hair. Not satisfied, he added a further two dollops so that my hair became extra stiff, greasy and shining. The side parting was combed perfectly straight and neat, locked into place with the oily Vaseline.

Mr. Anderson briskly brushed the sides and back with the soft brush. It felt so strange, but exhilarating, to feel the brush hitting bare skin. I knew the haircut was finished and what a haircut! I’d had long hair for years and had forgotten how it felt to have a short back and sides, though this was shorter than I had ever had in my life. By this time in the 1990s short hair was coming back but no-one would think the severe old-fashioned cut Mr. Anderson had given me was fashionable in any way. It was from another age altogether, from the days when men’s hair was uniformly bare at the back and sides, greased down flat, either combed back off the forehead or in a neat side parting.

"Well done lad. You look like a man again!" Dad said proudly.

I felt proud too, proud I had made the decision to choose how I wanted to look, for a change, and proud to return to being my real self.

"What you need to do now, young man", said Mr. Anderson wagging a finger at me, "is find out when your Father has made an appointment with me for a haircut and come here at the same time. Then there’s no chance of you growing that silly girl’s mop ever again."

"Yes, certainly Mr. Anderson" I said, "that’s what I fully intend to do from now on."

---