Maturing fast - part 2 & 3 by DaveB

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Following the brutal haircut in 'Maturing fast' which I'd suggest reading first, he's now presented to the world..


Part 2

I spent the weekend dreading what Monday would bring. I'd spent the weekend trying to find ways to hide the extreme nerdiness of the haircut that had been inflicted on me. As much as I pulled on strands of hair or tried to brush it in different ways, it was impossible to stop the hair from showing what it was - a very short, very old fashioned, very tragic haircut.

Early on Monday, I was woken by my dad and sent to have a shower. When I came out my uniform had been set out for me. I put on the underwear and shirt and coarse, heavy, unfashionably cut trousers but begged for some leniency to be able to wear my trainers - this fell on deaf ears, and the shiny formal shoes soon restricted my feet and were tightly tied. A school tie was then fastened around my neck enveloping my whole body in formality that felt so alien.

I was then directed back to the bathroom, as my dad said "right, let's get this hair sorted." I looked in the mirror. My now whispy, lame hair clung to my head having no real option but to lie down either side of the artificial parting that the barber had so helpfully carved into my head. It looked so bad. Tragic. It bore no resemblance to the glorious hair that had been on my head just days before. My dad opened the bathroom cabinet. My heart sank yet further (which, by this point I thought was already at rock bottom).

He pulled out a jar of pomade that he used on his own hair. "You'll be using this each day to keep your hair looking smart". I started begging for a reprieve from this final step in transforming me into a full on 15 year old bank manager. The begging failed. A large dollop of pomade was worked through my hair as my dad showed me how to style it using a comb, and creating the small wave at the front. I stared in the mirror. The bathroom light shone on my now darkened, sleek hair that showed up every ridge of hair that the comb had created through the gentle wave of the executive hairstyle. The bleak part line running down my head making me look like a total geek, while the lack of volume of hair and the loss of my sideburns made my head look so small and weedy.

I was too nervous to eat breakfast. So my dad took the opportunity to run through some rules that my parents had thoughtfully created. I was to wear the full uniform all day at school. If I were to mess up my hair or uniform, there would be consequences, and if I wanted to stop being grounded, I'd better adhere. I was to be polite and courteous to all...and so the rules went on. I was also told that one of my parents would drop me off at school and pick me up each day to make sure I didn't get into trouble. I had no choice but to agree.

Finally my mum stuck the final knife in - "and you'll wear these" as she handed me the glasses that had been bought for me 18 months earlier, which I did badly need but had been far too vain to wear. I started to protest but my mum gave me her look, and I knew better than to argue further.

I put on the glasses. They weighed down my face, acting as another reminder (as if I needed it) of how geeky I now looked. They were big gold aviator style glasses with thick lenses that shrunk my eyes. While these had been fairly fashionable a couple of years ago, fashion had moved on to smaller round glasses, and even those with worse eyesight had far thinner lenses than these. Only a boy who didn't care about style - or, more often, older men - wore these now.

My dad handed me my blazer. I grudgingly put it on. "You look really good" he said as he led me over to the long mirror to have a look. I really didn't want to look. It was like a real life horror story. 

I looked up and there was the strange boy-man looking at me who looked horrified. Scared. With my glasses on it felt like the reality was even bigger. Here was an exceptionally nerdy looking boy who looked like he's trying to go under-cover as some sort of city executive but blatantly being just a child. Then it hit me, my mature teenage look had been stripped away. Where as people might have previously thought of me as maybe being 16 or 17, I now looked much younger and like I was auditioning to be a child in the royal family - even Prince William who had previously had a style that could be classed as similar to my new look (though without all the grease, and quite a bit longer), now sported a more fashionable centre parting. I really was alone with this hairstyle and lack of fashion sense.

My face now being devoid of all facial hair looked thin and pale, while my ears now stuck out, and my eyes looked weird being slightly obscured by the reflection in my glasses, and the shrinking of my eyes that they caused. This reflection was matched by the shine on my shoes and drew attention to the military crease of my dowdy trousers. But the biggest pity I felt was that for what sat on the top of my head. Even a lego head man - despite sharing the ridiculous conservative side parting - had more hair than was left on my head. And despite being made out of plastic, the lego man couldn't even begin to compete with the shine of my hair that was cruelly fashioned into a short slick joke of a haircut that I was going to have to endure for goodness knows how many weeks until it started to grow out.

Even walking from the house to the car I felt exceptionally conspicuous with my enforced new look being shown off to the world. From the clomp of the soles of my formal shoes announcing my presence, to the sheen of my businessman's haircut displaying the sheer brutal outdated part and quiff that now defined me.

The short drive to school was unbearable. My mum dropped me off at the end of the road, and reminded me to behave and follow the rules. I grunted and left the car.

As soon as I was round the corner I ruffled up my hair as best I could. It still looked awful, but at least it looked a bit dishevelled, even though it was clear still a short haircut, but maybe not the side parting that my elders saw fit to inflict on me. I grab a baseball cap out of my bag which also contained my trainers which quickly got swapped for my horrific new shoes. The glasses and blazer got stuffed in the bag too, and the tie got loosened.

I walked through the gates and ran straight into my friends. Straight away they clocked that my sideburns had disappeared. One of them grabbed my hat. There was a momentary hush before they all started laughing. Had I got hit by a lawnmower? Had something gone horrifically wrong that I now had a haircut so short but slightly longer in some places than others, and was that some sort of line running down my head...?

These quips continued periodically through the day. It was bad, but it could have been worse.

I walked out of school with my friends and walked straight into my dad who was waiting right outside. I took one look at him and saw his anger. I then remembered what I'd done. I definitely didn't look like I had when I'd left the house. Rules had been broken. I was for it now.


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Part 3

My dad made clear I would be punished for breaking the rules, but I wouldn't receive the punishment until the weekend - and that the severity of the punishment would depend on me not breaking ANY further rules in the meantime. I had to act - and look - like an angel. Literally.

Monday night was awful. I wasn't allowed to watch TV or even change out of my uniform. Instead my dad showed me how to bull my shoes. 2 hours later and my already ridiculously shiny shoes were now reflecting my face in them. Grim.

Tuesday morning and I was watched like a hawk as I was instructed on what to do. More pomade on my hair. slick it further back. Create a bounce in the quiff at the front. Put your glasses on. Make sure your tie is straight....

I sighed my reflection today hadn't improved any from yesterday. 

Today my parents were taking no chances - my mum dropped me off right at the school gate much to the delight of my mates. There was no opportunity to try and alter my appearance before anyone saw me, and the derision was so much worse than yesterday. Everyone was loving that this once trendy guy in front of them had been totally transformed into a four-eyed, side-parted, formally attired, nerd, who was without doubt the most conservatively dressed person in the school. Even a couple of the teachers were commenting on my very sudden dramatic change in appearance - and I'm sure I caught at least a couple of them smirking. My form teacher told me that my mum had been in touch - if there was so much as a hair out of place on my head, then this was going to be reported immediately back to my parents and I knew the consequences.

The week continued like this, with the kids trying to wind me up more and more - they'd take my glasses or scuff my shoes, or see what they could get to stick in my greasy hair. But each day I was forced to turn up looking like the class joke. It was so clear that no-one in their right mind would choose to look like this, and I was now clearly under the thumb of someone much older and draconian. My appearance was no longer down to me, it was dictated by someone who thought it was a good idea to look like a 1950s throwback.

My relationship with my group of mates quickly became more distanced. I wasn't allowed to hang out with them after school, and even trying to play a proper game of football was difficult in these shoes with the slippery soles and rigid construction - but ultimately, they just didn't want to hang out with a nerd. And it was clear to all, that, despite all my years of being a normal, relatively trendy guy, now counted for nothing - and my haircut acting as clearly as a light up sign placed on top of my head - I was - suddenly and totally - a nerd. I was trapped in formality.

By Friday afternoon I was just looking forward to the break from the humiliation. My dad met me at the school gates and told me we were going to get some weekend clothes for me. This didn't sound good. 

At the shops my dad guided me round. First stop was for some check shirts in a variety of shades of creams and blues. Next stop was trousers. Some green twill trousers, blue corduroys and then a pair of fawn trousers were all selected - as if I'd wear any of this stuff? I was so frustrated. Then to cap it all off, a brown tweed jacket was added to the pile. This was like something out of an old-fashioned country magazine photoshoot. No one dressed like this. Despite my protests the items were all bought. Then it was a return to the shoe shop where a pair of very sensible brown brogues were purchased. My grandad owned a very similar pair. As did my dad. That figured.

Back home the bombshell hit me - all my old clothes had been removed. I asked where they'd gone, and was told it didn't matter - I wouldn't need them now. The old clothes weren't appropriate.

I went to bed totally dejected, and absolutely exhausted. What would I need to do in order to get back control of how I look?

I was woken on the Saturday morning with a call that we were going out shortly, and I was to get ready. The normal routine followed. Shower. Pomade. Comb. It was like a military process, but I did it as I just didn't want the hassle. I was broken after the week's taunts, and being haunted by the image of the boy with the slick side parting, goofy clothes and monstrous glasses. 

Going through to the bedroom my prescribed outfit had been set out. cream check shirt. Blue cords. Brown socks. Brown brogues. I started negotiating. Pleading. What if one of my friends saw me? Surely I'd been through enough? I'd already had to ensure the forced new look at school, surely I deserved a break. And this is the 90s, not the 70s - parents don't dictate what their children wear.

My dad told me that, especially as I had yet to have my punishment I'd better do what I was told or else. I got dressed. It was horrible. The heavy cords made my legs feel weird and hot, and the brogues were really heavy and clumpy, while the shirt was the ugliest, most out-dated thing I'd ever seen. "And why aren't you wearing your glasses? You must always wear your glasses now. You need them, and they really suit you - they complement your look perfectly. You are now a formally dressed young man, and your hair and your glasses are part of that now. This is who you are. " No. Just no. Nothing about how I looked suited me. It suited an old age pensioner, not a teenager!!!

The tweed jacket was thrust at me. I put it on. Yet again defeated, humiliated and angry. I looked in the mirror. The outfit looked just like one my dad would wear. That was the point, I guess - humiliation, but how long would it go on for?

We were soon outside the barber again. "Time to smarten you up again" my dad said. I was bemused, as my hair hadn't had a chance to grow since the butchering of a week ago.

As we went in, the barber was clearly equally bemused - though I wasn't sure if that was fully because of the lack of time since my last visit or my extreme new look. He commented how mature I looked. Yuck.

My dad said that I had had some trouble earlier in the week with keeping my hair in order, so he wanted to sort it out. The barber asked if he was thinking a crewcut - "2 all over is no maintenance" was his suggestion. However my dad said no -"to be honest, if his behaviour doesn't improve, he'll be lucky not to be shaved to the bone, but for now, he's still getting use to having a more formal look, and I've made allowances for that - though I'll tolerate no more rule breaking - but I do think the side parting really suits his new look, and he'll soon grow to appreciate it. It just needs to be a bit shorter so that he can't muss it up, but so it still sits smartly and lies down as it should, especially while his hair gets used to growing in a side part."

Tha barber said "ok, well how about we start with a number 2 on the back and sides and see how we go from there?" My dad agreed. How could my hair get any shorter? I already had less than about a fifth of the hair of almost anyone else in the school had.

I was soon caped up - and then the barber lifted the heavy glasses off my face. The room went a bit blurry. It was amazing how quickly my eyes had adjusted to needing the glasses. Soon there was vibrating at the side of my face. The blade made its way up my head before the barber flicked outwards as he got near to the front hairline. I could just make out a dark fuzz that was left in the place of the hair. This continued around my head as the barber pushed my head forwards and ran the clippers tight up the back of my head. It was the first time I'd ever had clippers used on my head, and the vibration through my skull wasn't pleasant. Especially as it made it abundantly clear that this was going to be a really short haircut.

"How's it looking?" the barber asked once he'd completed the other side. "I definitely think shorter at the bottom" my dad answered - "I'm thinking only the merest hint of hair around the hairline and then blending smoothly up to the hair at the top" I'd run out of any disbelief that things couldn't get any worse. I felt I must surely be in some sort of hellish dream that I would wake up from. 

The barber nodded and took the guard off the clippers. The bare blade was then run a good half inch up the side of my head. Then at the back I could feel the clippers running much higher. The skin on my head was getting really hot. Different guards and levers were then used as he worked over and over the sides of my head as he inched higher and higher. He then took his comb and started blending the top of my hair with the now skinned sides. Any remaining bulk of hair on the sides of my head had been removed leaving just a like pelt before joining the, now - in comparison - relatively long hair on the top.

My dad confirmed the sides were looking much better, so discussion turned as to what to do on the top. "As the part is so far over to the side, I think we just thin it out on that side, as the hair is already much shorter now, and it's just the right length to lie down. While on the other side, I can take it a bit shorter at the front if you want - maybe down another half inch, though then it won't be long enough to flip over at the front, but it will just have to lie straight across his head, as I'll thin it out more as well, so it will have no choice but to follow the part. That was agreed and soon the thinning shears were thrashing through my hair, and then the little hair that was left at the front was brushed down once more and then cut again at the stupid angle, but this time starting about a third of the way up my forehead, rather than at my eye. 

He then worked around the edges with a straight razor removing the tiny hairs that had replaced the hair that I had been left with the previous week, creating once more a smart freshly-barbered edge around my head. He then once more shaved in the part line on my head, and then placed the razor at the very top of my ear and scraping downwards, removing the small tab of hair that signposted where my once glorious sideburns had been. He explained that it made more sense to remove this hair altogether, given that as I now wear glasses it looks much smarter to have the hair stop at the level of the arm of my glasses. I thought it all looked totally ridiculous. The required dollop of pomade was then vigorously applied and then a comb was used to put everything into place - however, where as last time there had been a flourish where a small wave was created across the top of my head and through the quiff at the front, this time the comb was just dragged tightly across my head creating straight lines running perpendicular from the horrid white part line that was shaved into my skull.

The barber handed me my glasses and my head swam into focus. It was much worse than before. My head now looked even smaller. My face looked gaunt, while the little hair that was remaining on the top of my head was plastered down - reminding me of how an old man might have his hair fixed to try and cover his bald spot. Only I was 15 not 75. The glasses on my face now looked even larger, and were the main defining feature now, and were exactly what the balding pensioner who has my haircut would choose to wear.

Then I moved my head to the side and gasped. There was a big band of white skin glowing half way up my head with only the lightest stubble which then blended lightly into the little hair that was left on top of my head. No one at school had short hair. Razor cuts were only for people in the military. The barber showed me the back - it was even worse with a sea of pale white scalp rising three quarters of the way up my head before any sort of length of hair was allowed to grow. And now devoid of hair it highlighted the strange shape of my skull that jutted out at the back. It was a freak show.

My dad was delighted - "that will be much easier for him to keep, and to be honest, is probably a good cut for him to keep now summer is coming" I shot him evils. The barber commented how nice it was to see a father taking such an interest in making sure his son was properly turned out. The barber suggested that if I wanted to keep this military horror of a haircut, then I should come back every 2 weeks to ensure it didn't get too bushy and the skinned sides remained visible. My dad enthusiastically nodded.

I definitely didn't want another military haircut, but would my parent ever listen to compromise?

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