The Long Hot Summer of 76 by Sean Barnet

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The long hot summer of 76

By Sean Barnet


As a teenager in the 1970s I wanted my hair long, like the vast majority of my contemporaries.

However, we were surrounded by a vast conspiracy of adults - parents, teachers, relatives, neighbours - who all wanted us to have our hair short, as the only thing that was respectable, masculitne and disciplined. But as they say "Nothing is so unlovely as what has just gone out of fashion." Short hair for boys had just gone out of fashion. We wanted our hair long, that was what looked good in our eyes.

So there was a constant battle with us pushing at the boundaries of what was allowed, and being pressurised in return.

In addition in my case, and I suspect many others, I remembered all too well from my childhood being taken to an old fashioned barber's and having short haircuts, short haircuts which were roughly, clumsily, and sometimes downright painfully, inflicted on me. My barely articulate protests were ignored, overruled and dismissed.

* * * * *

Now, with changing fashions and teenage self assertion, haircuts had been reduced to six times a year, before the start of each school term and at half-term. They were at a trendy unisex salon not a barber's. They were feather cuts, razor cuts or layered cuts, all of them covering or half covering the ears and forehead, brushing or covering the collar at the back and with a centre parting.

But with adolescence, and at least a partial victory in the haircut wars, came internal strife. I started to get more and more interested in haircuts, short haircuts, very short haircuts. I would peer into barber shops as I went past, my mind filled with imaginings of being dragged in and being given the kind of short back and sides that had been inflicted on me as a child.

Then there was school. School demanded certain standards for the boys' hair, and we had the same battles with authority at school as we had with our parents at home. I say "We", that is most of us. Some boys did not seem to mind and always kept their hair short, a few had it very short, precisely that kind of short back and sides that was filling my imagination.

The teachers at school were a varied lot too. Some had a laid back approach to enforcing the headmaster's decrees about hair, others were more enthusiastic, things really depended on who your form master happened to be, other teachers tended not to intervene in things that were not within their territory.

* * * * *

When I was 14 a new teacher joined the staff, Mr Bradshaw. Mr Bradshaw was young and full of energy and enthusiasm. But although he was young he dressed very conservatively, and his hair was short, and I mean very short, short back and sides short. Generally there was nothing much more than stubble on the back and sides with skin showing through, but sometimes it was shaved completely clean round the ears and up the back of his head. The top was kept fairly short too, and always immaculately in place.

I really did not know what to make of this. I was both repelled and drawn. The out of fashion cut seemed so wrong on someone young and good-looking (I could not deny he was good-looking), but with my growing interest in haircuts I was fascinated.

I did not have much to do with Mr Bradshaw, he did not take me for any class that year, but later in that same school year he moved into the house across the street.

My mother of course was eager to make the acquaintance of our new neighbours. Soon she was telling us all about "Terry" and his young wife Cecilia. When we came upon them in the street I noticed that although she called him "Terry" he always called her "Mrs Deddington". My father, he called "Mr Deddingtonr," or "Sir", and my father called him "Mr Bradshaw" or "Sir" in return. It was a piece of oddly old-fashioned formality which both of them seemed to enjoy. There would have been no point in me calling him "Terry". Though he referred to me as "Matthew" when he was talking to my parents, he addressed me baldly as "Deddington", and I had to call him "Mr Bradshaw" or "Sir", just as we did at school.

* * * * *

When it came to that summer, the long, hot summer of 1976, Mr Bradshaw said to my mother that he could do with some assistance getting his garden in order, and would Matthew be interested in earning some extra pocket money, working with him each morning, until lunch time when it became too hot?

Adults had this habit of talking about you as though you were not there, even when you were.

My mother turned to me, and I agreed, and I would start on Monday morning.

Then, turning to me directly himself, Mr Bradshaw brought up the subject of my hair. I had not had a haircut since half-term (early June), it was now the end of July and my hair was getting long, thick and heavy. Would it not be better if I had a haircut before we started work in this heat?

Before I had a chance to speak, my mother answered for me. "O, no, Terry, Matthew hates getting his hair cut. He has a regular aversion, and he complains whenever he has to have it done, but I will make sure he has it cut before he goes back to school in September."

I really did not know whether I was relieved or disappointed, I would have had no ready answer, so maybe it was just as well my mother answered for me.


But I felt sure Mr Bradshaw was not going to leave the matter

* * * * *.

Haircut? Yes or no? Over the next few days I thought of little else. I could imagine the sort of haircut Mr Bradshaw had in mind for me. Part of me craved it, for what reason I did not understand. Part of me was repelled, repelled by fear, by the sense that the fashionable cuts simply looked so much better, and by the quite rational desire to fit in with my classmates. I felt more and more nervous, more and more unsure of what I wanted to do. I knew I would have to make my mind up and have an answer ready when the question came up again, but I was young, unsure of what I wanted, unsure of myself, and I could not decide.

* * * * *

The first week of working for Mr Bradshaw went fine. I sweated away in the sun with my hair falling in my face, constantly pushing it back. Nothing was said about me getting a haircut - maybe I had been wrong?

* * * * *

The following Monday Mr Bradshaw announced that he needed some things from the garden centre, and I was to come with him to help carry stuff.

On the way back he took a detour and parked the car in a side street, outside an old-fashioned looking barber shop.

"This is my barber, Deddington, and it is time for my regular haircut. So, why don't we get that mop of yours dealt with while we are here?"

Here it was, crunch time, and I still had not made up my mind. I did not like the look of this old fashioned place, but I had no answer.

Mr Bradshaw did not wait long for a reply. He continued "Your mother says that you have an "aversion" to getting your hair cut. I cannot believe that a boy your age has not outgrown childish fears of going to the barber, so what is she talking about? Anyway it is hot, I can see you suffering in the heat, you must be dying to get rid of that mane of yours. So how about a good short haircut for you then?"

I had been rumbled. I don't know quite how Mr Bradshaw had worked out that I had this fear of barbers, particularly old fashioned ones who cut your hair short, but he had.And now I had to prove to him that he was wrong and show that I had no "childish fears".

"Er, yeah." I said, "I suppose so. OK then." completely forgetting the proper way of speaking to one of my schoolmasters.

"Good, some progress. But you know very well that is not how you speak to your seniors, Deddington. Now, "Yes, sir. I would like that very much, sir. Thank you, sir." would be more appropriate. So, Deddington, try again, please."

I now had little choice in the matter. So I said "Yes, sir. I would like that very much, sir. Thank you, sir." committing myself, irrevocably.

We went into the barber's and sat down together on the bench.

* * * * *

I sat looking round. I was old. It was awful. Two old barbers working, and an old man waiting. It seemed every bit as threatening as that barber's shop I remembered as a child.

However, there was one brighter note. Though one of the barbers was cutting the hair of an elderly gentleman, in the chair directly in front of me was a boy about my age with a mop of hair like mine, caped up, waiting for the barber who was taking money at the till. OK, I thought, if young people like myself come here maybe it is not so bad after all.

* * * * *

The barber returned. Then, without saying a word, he pushed the boy's head down, picked up the clippers and ran them up the back of the lad's head. He flicked a large lump of hair off the clippers onto the floor and revealed a great long strip of shaved, white skin.

The back was shaved, the sides were shaved, then round again clippers over comb, blending in.

I could not look away.

Then the thinning shears, hacking and hacking away at the top. I continued watching as enormous wodges of hair fell to the floor.

Very little was said, by the barber, or by the boy, who sat there, impassive, as the barber pushed his head this way and that, cutting, clipping and shaving.

It was a real 1950s army-regulation scalping.

How could I get out of this?

Brylcreem, mirror. A nod of approval. The chair was turned round, the cape removed, and the boy was released.

As he looked around the lad saw me sitting there, ran his hand up the back of his head, grinned and gave me a thumbs up. I did not have it in me to respond.

I then realised that the elderly gentleman who had been waiting had long since replaced the other elderly gentleman in the further chair. Mr Bradshaw was looking at me, pointing at the chair, it was now my turn.

Still wondering if there might be some possible means of escape, I walked over. I sat in the chair.

Mr Bradshaw came over and stood beside us.

The barber fastened the cape. "Ah Mr Bradshaw, good morning, sir? Are you well, sir?"

"Very well, thank you, Mr Pritchard."

"The boy's hair, sir?"

"Short back and sides for the lad, please, Mr Pritchard. Nice and short, just like you did the last lad."

"Certainly, sir."

Then my own head was pushed down. I was given my own scalping, my very own, no leniency, 1950s army-regulation scalping.

Brylcreem, mirror. I gave my own nod of approval - what else could I do?.

I was released from the chair and brushed down. I looked at the enormous pile of hair lying on the floor. Mr Bradshaw reminded me that I must thank Mr Pritchard for my "excellent" haircut, which I did.

Mr Pritchard shook my hand, smiling. "A pleasure, young man."

I did my best to smile back. "Thank you, sir." Then a "Thank you, sir." to Mr Bradshaw.

I sat on the bench rubbing at shaved skin, stubble and bristles, wondering what it was I had done. I had colluded in my own punishment. I watched, riveted, as Mr Bradshaw got his own skinning.

And another "Thank you, sir." to Mr Bradshaw as we left.

I had learned adults loved to hear those words "Thank you", you could never say them enough. Better to say it too many times than too few.

* * * * *

On the way back Mr Bradshaw told me that if my mother asked about payment, I should tell
her that the haircut was a small bonus for my hard work, and there was no need to worry about any reimbursement.

"Thank you, sir."

"And another little something for you, Deddington." He handed me a small brown paper bag.

I looked in. Brylcreem. Yeuk!

I politely said "Thank you, sir."

Would I be expected to actually wear this stuff?

* * * * *

Back home I had to deal with a whole load of questions from my mother and some rude remarks from my sister.

* * * * *

After lunch I had a shower and washed out the Brylcreem. My hair dried in almost no time, but the barber had cut the fringe at an angle, down to the eyebrow on the left side and high up on the right, and with no Brylcreem to hold it in place, it kept falling down over my forehead however much I brushed it to the side. It was impossible.

* * * * *

My father, at the dinner table, was more approving than either my mother or my sister had been. "I see you've got yourself a proper haircut at last, Matthew. Well done. Congratulations, my son!. This, I think, must be Mr Bradshaw's influence, was it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very good, indeed. Splendid, quite splendid."

"Thank you, sir."

I had called Dad "Sir" - twice. I never called Dad "Sir", but I had been calling Mr Bradshaw "Sir", incessantly, all morning, and it must have become practically automatic.

By myself, later, I thought about the way my father and Mr Bradshaw called each other "Sir", and it seemed quite appropriate for me to call Dad "Sir" too, it had a "man to man" feel about it. Anyway, it seemed to go with the front I was adopting, that I was far too mature to be at all fazed by this severe haircut and the new image it presented.

Inside, of course, things were different. I was reacting against this haircut in an agony of self consciousness, wishing I had my own long hair back, wishing I had my own old self back.

I got some sympathy from my friend John, who had had a shearing of his own a few days before. He told me not to worry as it would "look OK by September when we go back to school".

It was easy enough for John to see the bright side. John's haircut was nothing like as bad as mine. Yes, it was short, the top had been cropped right down to half an inch, but the back and sides, though a bit shorter than the top, were still respectably covered with hair, there was no white skin showing through anywhere.

* * * * *

I worked with Mr Bradshaw most of that summer, apart from our own family two weeks away.
He was completely redoing a garden that had received little attention for years and there was a lot he wanted done, landscaping, paving and planting, watering (with watering cans, there was a hose-pipe ban).

The weather remained hot. I had to admit it was cooler with short hair, but I was seesawing emotionally, one moment rather liking it short, and the next regretting that I had not stood up for myself and simply refused point blank.

* * * * *

At dinner, the evening after that encounter with the barber, I had called Dad "Sir" for the first time ever in my life. After that first time nothing particular happened, not straight away anyway. I just went back to "Dad", most of the time, or nothing at all. But then one evening my father asked me to do something, to run some small errand, I cannot even remember what it was, and I just grunted and nodded and said "Yeah, OK." in reply, like a typical teenager.

Then, quite gently, my father said "A good, clear "Yes, sir." would be nice, thank you, Matthew."

I was taken aback, but never one to be openly disobedient, I did say "Yes, sir."

From then on all it took was a look from my father to get a "Sir". He did this with increasing frequency, until it became routine, and I found I was required to include a "Sir" in everything I said.

* * * * *

There was a family gathering that Sunday, the Sunday directly after my haircut. I was wearing my suit, as was usual at these things, but I was extremely conscious how conspicuously different my appearance was from usual, despite, or because of, the general approval my new "shorn within an inch of my life" look was getting.

I was particularly complimented by my grandfather, who told me that I looked "Immaculate" and I was "the perfect image of a young gentleman now".

Without really thinking, I answered "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir".

This was not just a carry over from me calling Dad "Sir". These were early days, and calling Dad "Sir" was not yet established routine. There was something about standing there dressed up in a suit and tie, clean white shirt, shoes highly polished and especially with my hair brutally shorn, which kicked in an impulse to call all older men "Sir". So Grandad was "Sir" a couple of times, as Dad had been, and then, just like Dad, he began to expect it.

Then it mushroomed, uncles, and older men generally, all became "Sir".

There seemed to be an unspoken consensus among the older men that this formal, somewhat military sounding, display of respect was now to be required of me. They had all done years in the Services, and it felt like I was being drawn into their disciplined, army-style world.

All this only applied to the men. There was no impulse like this from either side when it came to the women. My mother remained "Mum", my grandmothers remained "Grandma" and "Nan", and aunts all remained "Aunty".

* * * * *

Like Mr Bradshaw with my haircut, when it came to calling them "Sir", my father and the other men were pushing at an open door. But I still experienced misgivings, none of my friends had haircuts like this, or called their dads "Sir". I did not want to seem odd, and I wondered if I should ever have started down this path. I could not deny that it had been my own choice. My problem was of course my age. I wanted everything, I wanted everything all at once, however incompatible the alternatives were.

My teenage angst was heightened considerably by the fact that our generation's attitudes and those of our parents were so different. They valued discipline of behaviour and appearance, we wanted freedom and self-expression.

And then there were all the adolescent hormones coursing through my body, making everything so much worse!.

I don't know if those a few years older had quite the same problem. My cousins were two boys 10 and 12 years older than me. Schools generally had strict haircut regulations back then, and family photos show smiling boys with the mandatory, close-shaved short back and sides throughout their childhoods and teenage years. But thinking again, these photos were often holiday snaps, out of school. Did they keep it that way by choice? Or did their father insist on it, school or no school?

They were grown men in their 20s now. Both of them kept their hair pretty short for young men by the standards of the time. But not conspicuously short, not like Mr Bradshaw's - or like mine!

* * * * *

A few weeks after that first haircut I had a second at Mr Bradshaw's instigation. Just like the first time we drove into town on some errand. Coming back we again parked in the street with the barber shop, and Mr Bradshaw announced that it was time "both of us" had our hair cut.

I could hardly object. I had conceded the main point with the first haircut, I would certainly have had no support from my father, or even my mother, who although she had originally spent some time exclaiming over how short my hair was, and then had wanted to know all the When? Where? Who? How? and Why? and had now announced that having it short made me look "Grown-up", "Handsome" and "Masculine". And then of course Mr Bradshaw himself was not a man to take "No" for an answer.

* * * * *

I sat back down on the bench, rubbing at newly shaved skin, stubble and bristles, watching Mr Bradshaw in the chair. Well, I really had nobody to blame but myself, I had a pretty clear idea of what Mr Bradshaw had in mind when I had first said "OK". I just hadn't thought through the obvious, and worked out that Summer, Hot Weather, and Mr Bradshaw would all continue for some time.

* * * * *

My father scrutinised me over the dinner table. "You've had another good haircut, I see, Matthew."

"Yes, sir."

"Keep up the good work, son."

"Yes, sir."

When summer was over things would go back to normal.

* * * * *

Mr Bradshaw suggested to my mother that once school started again in September he could give me a regular lift, and it would save her driving my sister and me to two different schools. She naturally accepted.

* * * * *

During my final week of working with Mr Bradshaw we had another trip into town, and ended up once more parked near the barber shop. I had been hoping for some reprieve for my hair before going back to school. I knew I would have to face a load of flack from my class-mates, even with my hair the way it was then.

Mr Bradshaw looked at me. "So, let's go and get ourselves tidied up ready for the new term starting."

So, no quarter for my hair then.

Mr Bradshaw pushed open the barber shop door. "After you, Deddington." and I was ushered in.

"Resistance is futile." as they say. This was certainly true in my case.

* * * * *

That evening, after supper had been cleared, my father called me back into the dining room. "I have a small matter I wish to speak to you about. You know that Mr Bradshaw will be giving you a lift to and from school from now on?"

"Yes, sir."

"It will save your mother a great deal of time and trouble, I think."

"Yes, sir."

"I have been pleased to see how very smart and well groomed you have looked since you started working with Mr Bradshaw. He has taken you to his own barber more than once I think?"

"Yes, sir. Today was the third time, sir."

"And with excellent results, I see. A proper, traditional short back and sides ."

"Yes, sir. Short back and sides is how Mr Bradshaw likes it, sir."

"And you are beginning to rather like too, I think. Is that not so, Matthew?"

I was not going to fall for that one, and commit myself by giving the very obviously expected reply of "Yes, sir."

Trying a bit of diplomacy, I said "It is good for the hot weather, sir, and easier to manage than when I had it longer, sir." Then, realising I had conceded too much, I added "But, as you can see, sir, "short" is an understatement, it is shaved, sir."

"As it should be, young man."

"Don't you think it's too severe, sir."

"Not at all, Matthew. Mr Bradshaw judges very well."

"Yes, sir."

"And what is it you have put on your hair now, to make it shine so?"

"It's Brylcreem, sir. The barber puts it on, sir. I have been washing it out until now, but this time I thought I might leave it in. It does keep everything in place and makes it shine, as you say, sir."

"Indeed it does, and very nice it looks too."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Well, I think Mr Bradshaw has put me to shame, I have been neglecting my responsibilities towards you. However, Mr Bradshaw and I have come to an arrangement for his good offices in this regard to continue. From now on he will be taking you with him to his barber each time he visits himself. Your hair will be cut regularly, rather more regularly than has been the case over the last few years. Any questions, young man? No? So, we are agreed then, and we will proceed on that basis? Yes?"

I had more sense than to attempt any argument. Anyway, I wasn't sure if I actually wanted to argue. So I simply accepted the inevitable and answered "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Now, I do not wish to hear any complaints from Mr Bradshaw. I do appreciate that the short back and sides is no longer popular amongst you boys, but it is a smart and disciplined haircut, and I think it by far the best thing. So I want you to promise me you will give him your complete cooperation, and that you will thank him politely for his trouble and consideration."

"Yes, sir. I shall do, sir. Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Matthew. I knew I could rely on you to be grown up about this and take it on board like a sensible chap. But then you are a sensible chap. Indeed, you are a son I can be proud of."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir."

* * * * *

A couple of days later I washed out what was left of the Brylcreem, I certainly did not want to appear back at school with a short back and sides AND Brylcreem, I would die of shame. My fringe began to fall down as before.

My father never had a hair out of place, and when he saw me with my fringe flopping down he pushed an imaginary fringe away from his own forehead.

"What happened to Brylcreem, Matthew?"

"I washed it out, sir."

"Well, Brylcreem is evidently needed. Do you have any?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go and put some on, lad!"

"Yes, sir."

So, Brylcreem became obligatory..

Then I discovered that Brylcreem allowed me to brush my hair straight back, with the parting eliminated, in a 1940s style.

* * * * *

My school friends greeted my haircut with absolute derision. John was little help, his hair had been allowed to grow back since his shearing at the start of summer.

But as I now had my scalping regularly, as promised, everybody got used to it.

I got used to it.

I say that I got used to it. I got to like it, exactly as my father had observed, acutely, that I was already beginning to do. I liked the feel of the clippers in the nape of my neck and as they made their way up the back of my head, I liked the feel of freshly shaved skin, of stubble and bristles, it felt clean, masculine and military.

Once he saw that I was brushing my hair straight back the barber began to cut it in the appropriate way, leaving it to grow fuller on top and blending it in evenly all round with the back and sides. It took a couple of cuts to get it all properly balanced, but once this was done, with a touch of Brylcreem to hold it in place and give it some gloss, and with the back and sides shaved nice and close, it looked really good.

Mr Bradshaw carried on giving me lifts until I left school at 18. I got on well with Mr Bradshaw, he took an interest in me, and encouraged me to apply for university.

When I did go to university I grew my hair. The feel of hair brushing my ears and the back of my neck drove me crazy, and I was soon looking for a good old-fashioned barber to give me that proper, 1950s, army-regulation scalping.

* * * * *

I still have a short back and sides. I still use Brylcreem. I still call other older men "Sir".

"Thank you, Mr Bradshaw. Thank you, sir!"


THE END

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