Just Like A Proper Little Barber 2 by SteDJ

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This story is a sequel to "Just Like a Proper Little Barber". Thanks to GK for feedback on that story and for providing some of the inspiration behind this one.

It was 1982 and I was 17. It hadn’t taken me long to settle in to my Saturday job at John’s Gent’s Hairdressers. I soon got used to the routine, the regular haircuts from Mr Wilkins, and his strict smart dress code. My white nylon overall, which I wore over my school uniform, was still too big for me, but as I had grown a couple of inches in height in the few months since I had started, it didn’t look quite as ridiculous on me as it had at the beginning. My smart appearance constantly attracted positive comments, not only from many of the older clientele, but also from some of the teenage customers’ parents. As a result, it was not unheard of for a boy to come in for a trim, and following unwelcome parental intervention inspired by my "neat" looks, he would end up leaving with a short back and sides like mine. Having said that, the emphasis was still firmly on longer hair, and it was not that often that the barbers got to use their clippers, particularly on the younger customers.

I was constantly kept busy, and became a dab-hand at sweeping up and keeping everything clean and organised. It was amazing how quickly the various tools on the counter, not to mention the counter and the sink themselves got covered with bits of customers’ hair, and there were times when it seemed like a losing battle to keep each of the work stations in order. Apart from the cleaning, I was also in charge of fetching lunch for the team, making coffee, emptying ashtrays and washing up. The barbers seemed to get through an inordinate amount of coffee and cigarettes, and I would also find myself serving hot drinks to certain selected waiting customers, although I think you had to be some kind of regular VIP to be offered this privileged service. I would also keep the old washing machine busy, feeding it with towels throughout the day, then at the end of Saturday, all the blue nylon capes were swapped for clean ones, and I had to put the used ones into the machine and then hang them up with the towels to dry in the back room. As close as I was allowed to the customers was to welcome them to the chair and cape them up, usually while the respective barber was taking payment from the previous customer over at the cash till. The cape always had to be neatly draped over the customer, and tightly tucked in at the neck. This was before the days of neck strips or of velcro, clips or poppers on barber capes, so I had received careful training in the required technique involved in ensuring that the customer was securely covered before the barber returned from the till ready to begin the haircut. By now, I had watched many a haircut, and had reached the conclusion that cutting hair was probably much easier than it at first appeared. Quite rightly though, I was allowed nowhere near any means of cutting hair; that was strictly for the trained professionals and not for Saturday boys.

Mr Wilkins seemed pretty pleased with the work I did, to the extent that he offered me a few extra hours after school on a Thursday night, when he had started ‘late night opening’ until seven o’clock. I was quick to jump at the offer, as I was well into saving up for an InterRail holiday the following summer, and every penny helped. The Thursdays were nowhere near as busy as Saturdays, and usually only Mr Wilkins and Ray, one of the younger barbers, would be needed to work the evening shift.

It was about 6.30 one Thursday evening, Mr Wilkins had just finished trimming the hair of a middle-aged gentleman, and was taking payment from him over at the till. There were no more customers waiting, and I was performing my usual post-haircut routine: sweeping around the chair, wiping down the sink, arranging the tools neatly on the counter and in the absence of any more customers, neatly folding the cape and draping it over the arm of the chair. Mr Wilkins was heading off into the back room, no doubt to smoke and chat with Ray, who presumably had been in there for a while.

"Give me a shout when the next one comes in," instructed Mr Wilkins, "the doorbell seems to have stopped working for some reason…" and I sat down on the waiting bench and began thumbing through an old car magazine.

Sure enough, after about five minutes, the door opened and a teenage boy dressed in school uniform, who I guessed would be about 14, was dragged struggling into the shop by a woman who I assumed to be his mother.

"Come on Michael, do as you’re told. You’re having it cut and that’s the end of it. Look, there’s nobody waiting, so you’ll be in the chair and out again before you know it."

"I don’t want it cut, it’s short enough already. Nobody has short hair nowadays, it’s just not fair…"

I got up from the bench, picked up the cape, shook it open and stood waiting for the boy to get into the chair.

"I say, barbers just get younger," said the boy’s mother, looking me up and down with a smile on her face. "Give him a good cut, will you, at least two inches off all over." Ruffling her son’s tousled mop with one hand, she dragged him towards the chair with the other, "Come on Michael, it’s only a haircut, up you get." With a face like thunder, Michael slowly and reluctantly eased himself up into the chair and sat there pouting with his arms folded waiting for the inevitable. I quickly flung the blue cape over the boy and firmly tucked it into the back of the collar of his white school shirt â€" just like I had done with many customers before him. Michaels’ mousy blond hair was indeed in need of a good cut. Even by the standards of the early 80s it was rather long, and extended at least an inch below his ears and three or more inches over his collar at the back.

"No problem," I smiled. I must admit, I was severely tempted to grab the clippers and fulfil a long-held fantasy by lopping off all the boy’s hair, but common sense prevailed, and I sensibly resisted the urge.

"I’m not a barber, actually," I politely explained. "I’m just the barbers’ assistant. I’ll go and get Mr Wilkins. He’ll give your son a good haircut."

With that, I summoned Mr Wilkins from his smoky den, and took up residence once more on the waiting bench.

"Yes, madam, what can I do for you?" asked Mr Wilkins, already pumping up the chair and grabbing his comb.

"Give him a good cut, will you. He needs at least a couple of inches off…" I was aware at that stage of the woman staring at me, apparently scrutinising my hair. "I’m just thinking, your young assistant here looks really smart with his short haircut. Do it the same as his, will you; I think it will suit him and if you do it short enough, it will save us having to go through this palaver quite so often. So, yes, give him a good short back and sides."

"Mum!!! Please no!!! I’m not having a short back and sides. That’s like… the army, like a grandad haircut, please, please no!!!" Michael was in full rant mode, and I sat forward in my seat ready to take in the forthcoming spectacle. The vast majority of haircuts I got to see were just trims, but this was going to be a good one.

Michaels’ mother took a grandstand seat on the bench next to me, and we both watched as Mr Wilkins started his job of transforming the sullen scruffy teenager in the chair.

"Right, let’s get rid of some of this bulk first," announced Mr Wilkins, as he grabbed his comb and scissors and positioned Michael’s head firmly facing forwards towards the mirror. "Keep still young man."

Wasting no time, Mr Wilkins’ scissors started their onslaught, and mounds of Michael’s mousy blond hair began to fall in abundance, hitting the cape and tumbling down into his lap. The scissors made light work of reducing the mop right down, working their way through Michael’s thick tresses as the blades repeatedly closed with a decisive rasping crunch. Heaps of hair had built up on Michael’s caped shoulders; in all my time working for Mr Wilkins, I had not seen anyone losing so much hair all at once, with the possible exception of when Mr Wilkins gave me my welcome scalping when I started working for him.

After a concerted cutting frenzy, Mr Wilkins finally put the scissors down. Michael had lost one hell of a lot of hair; there was barely an inch left on the back and sides, and about a couple of inches left on top. Michael looked horrified as he stared in open mouthed silence at his reflection and took in the damage.

I had sat there transfixed throughout the whole process, unable to look away and feeling both horrified and fascinated at the same time.

Mr Wilkins proceeded with the haircut by grabbing Michael’s head with both hands and sharply angling it downwards, burying his chin in his cape. He then selected a pair of black electric hair clippers, snapped on a small plastic comb, flicked the switch and took up his position behind the chair ready to clip the back and sides of Michael’s head. A dull humming sound filled the shop.

"Mum!!! Mum!!! Tell him, I don’t want him to use that thing on my hair. Please. It’s too short already. I don’t want it shaved. Please. Please." Michael now had tears in his eyes and began to shuffle in the chair, sending piles of cut hair from his shoulders to the floor.

"Michael, sit still and let Mr Wilkins finish cutting your hair," instructed his mother. "It’s looking really nice and the clippers will just finish it off. Sorry about this, Mr Wilkins."

"I tell you what," said Mr Wilkins. "How about I don’t use the clippers on you?" A look of surprise and relief spread across Michael’s face. "How about my young assistant uses the clippers on you instead? You don’t mind if I let him have a go, do you madam? He’s worked here for almost a year and observed lots of haircuts. He can’t do anything wrong under my supervision."

"No, no, not at all. I thought he was a barber anyway, so no problem," replied Michael’s mother.

"OK then lad, come over here," commanded Mr Wilkins, beckoning me to the chair. (He would still insist on calling me ‘lad’ rather than James, my actual name.)

"Really?" I was shocked and delighted at the same time. This was going to be a dream come true! I made my way to the chair, but this time there was an important difference â€" I was usually summoned to be Mr Wilkins’ victim, not his accomplice. Mr Wilkins lowered the chair a few inches to take account of my shorter height, and the training began.

"Right lad, take a firm hold of the clippers… that’s good. Right, I’ll do the first pass with you." The vibration of the clippers went right up my arm and permeated throughout my body. Together, we applied the buzzing machine to the base of Michael’s neck, and slowly moved up the back of his head. A clump of hair soon built up on the top of the humming clippers as the blade beneath quickly bit into the hair and severed it, leaving behind a stripe of fuzz no more than a few millimetres long.

"That’s good, now you can do the next one on your own, just the same. Nice and slowly, and don’t go any higher." Mr Wilkins let go of the clippers, and I was now in control. I had waited for this moment for a long time, and I felt intensely thrilled to be finally cutting hair, just like a proper barber. I smiled down at my victim, but I wasn’t convinced he was totally happy with his new found role as barber school guinea pig. The next pass went just as well as the first, and with a flick of the wrist I sent the ensuing clump of hair from the clippers to the floor, just like a professional. Less than a minute later, thanks to my efforts, the hair on the back of Michael’s head was little more than fuzz, at which point Mr Wilkins took the clippers back from me and quickly finished the haircut himself. Mr Wilkins deftly steered the clippers round Michael’s ears, sending more clippings to the now heavily hair-laden cape, removing any hints of sideboards before blending the shaved back and sides into the longer hair on top. The scissors then returned and with three quick snips, a slanted fringe took shape high on Michael’s forehead.

"Is that OK or would you like me to take any more off?" asked Mr Wilkins, directing the question at Michael’s mother, and spinning the chair round so that she could get a 360 degree view of his handywork. Michael sat there slumped in the chair under the cape, a picture of abject misery.

"No, that looks great, so much better. Thank you, in fact thank you both."

"Cream or spray?"

"Neither" muttered Michael. "Oh, I think some cream," said Michael’s mum. "Your Dad always had Brylcreem when he went to the barbers and it made him look so smart."

Brylcreem duly applied, hair combed with a severe side parting, a scrape round the neck with a straight razor, a vigourous brush down, and after less than 15 minutes in the chair the cape was removed and Michael was free again.

I set about my clean-up routine, and marvelled at the sheer quantity of hair on the floor to be swept up, secretly rather proud that I had been responsible for creating at least a bit of it.

"Here, love, a little something for you." I looked up from my sweeping to see Michael’s mother handing me a 50p coin.

"Oh, thank you so much. It will go towards my InterRail fund." I forgot to mention earlier, not only did my appearance end up influencing parents’ haircut decisions for their sons, but I didn’t do too badly for tips either.

"I forgot to mention lad, my training comes at a price," joked Mr Wilkins, slapping me on the shoulder. "I get all your tips from now on!"

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