Tim Steps into His Father's Shoes by Lox (recovered)

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Tim pulled over and parked in a residential area bordering the center of the small town where he’d spent the formative years of his childhood. Not much had changed in the 25 years since he’d moved away, besides a few new fast-food outlets and shopping plazas on the outskirts. The week he’d spent going through his father’s things after the funeral brought back a host of memories from those days. The early ones were pleasant, but those of his adolescent years in the early 1970s were wracked with pain and conflict as he tried to assert his own persona in the face of an overbearing father.

Teenage rebellion would always be soundly put down with a good dose of humiliation. The shouting match would be preempted by his father’s announcing that Timmy’s thatch was out of control and that he would have to supervise the haircut himself since the barber hadn’t taken enough off the last time. Within minutes to two would be enveloped in stony silence as Timmy was driven into the center of town to get a "real haircut". Oh, the precious locks that he’d so carefully cultivated �" just when he got into the "normal range" hair-wise he would be subjected to a humiliating clipper cut at the West Main Barbershop downtown. "Fred, make sure you taper that nice and short up the back �" and none of this sideburn stuff either." Twenty minutes later Timmy would be walking out the door looking more like a black and white photo from the early 1960s �" very short back and sides, hair parted and slicked to the side with a dollop of pomade. And the hideous arches around his ears! They were the epitome of the humiliation his father ordered Fred the barber to inflict on him. Each time he emerged from the plate glass door shorn, Timmy promised himself he’d move away from Carleton at the first opportunity.

And he did �" the day after high school graduation. By the end of his first year on his own, his beautiful, thick brown hair fell to his shoulders. And there was nothing his father could do about it as Timmy supported himself financially. In the 25 years that followed, Tim had only returned to Carleton about a half dozen times. His relationship with his father was strained �" always.
Perhaps as a result of his horrible childhood memories, Tim kept his hair on the long side of whatever the prevailing style dictated. Of course, the fact that he had such glossy and full-bodied hair was another factor �" his hair consisted of the kind of silken locks that women envied. And he paid a pretty penny to have his tresses styled in fancy salons too. Tim would drink in the compliments as he purchased the special shampoos and conditioners recommended by the stylists. He cringed to think how much he’d spent over the years on hair care!
During those years, Tim had really only had his hair cut short once �" right before his mother’s funeral. He hadn’t had time to get his hair cut before leaving unexpectedly for Carleton after his father called to announce the sad news. As he drove down the interstate, Tim could not stop thinking about how truly shaggy he looked with his hair falling in front of his eyes and liberally past the base of his shirt collar. When he spotted a mall looming on the horizon, Tim decided to make a pit stop and find a place to get cut before the funeral.

After Tim’s hair had been washed and he was in the chair getting it combed out, the young stylist commented that he hardly ever saw men with such long hair -- the prevailing styles at that time were crewcuts and flattops by the young folk. Even the 20something male stylist’s hair was closely clipped �" almost looking like an old-time crewcut. (Tim had often thought how ironic it was that teens were desperate for clipper cuts, just like the ’50s and '60s all over.). Impulsively, and with a hint of embarrassment, Tim told the young fellow he’d been long overdue for a cut and to go ahead and take it down short.
"Off the ears and collar, right?" the closely clipped lad asked.

"Yes, exactly -- quite short, please," Tim said without missing a beat. He felt a huge tingling sensation rush through his whole body at the unexpected turn of events. The fellow grasped a huge clump of the wet hair that fell about Tim’s face and scissored it off two inches from the scalp. As the five-inch clumps of his forelock fell onto the black nylon cape Tim listened to the muffled thuds with a bit of excitement and closely watch the wads of shorn hair slide effortlessly down to the floor. The lad was not timid in shearing away a small mountain of old growth. Snip, snip, snip went the scissors around Tim’s ears. Exposed for the first! Tim was finally getting a long overdue update to his 80s look.

But, when the lad reached for the clippers, Tim put his foot down. "No tapering, please. I think you’ve cut it short enough."
The lad shrugged as if to say, "Whatever….as you like it." Tim was slightly shocked when he surveyed how much hair had been cut off. The floor was carpeted with it! For the rest of the drive to Carleton, he could not stop reliving the haircut or feeling the back and sides of his head. Collar, ears, eyebrows �" all in plain sight for the first time in 20 years!

The satisfied feeling about his impromptu makeover, though, quickly dissipated when his father greeted him in the driveway by commenting, "So you decided to look like a man for a change �" that was a nice thing to do for your mother’s funeral." Tim grimaced but decided to let it pass. He hoped somehow he could make peace with his father, whose own time on earth could not be much longer. But there was too much emotional baggage from childhood, and the hostility between them was never far from the surface.

After the funeral, Tim’s hair quickly grew back to the thick, heavy, full length style he’d worn for his entire adult life. He treasured his beautiful hair, the symbol of his independence.

Five years later, he certainly was not going to get it cut short for his father’s funeral! The chilly winter wind, though, had wreaked havoc on his mane graveside. He’d spent much of the short discourse in the cemetery, trying to smooth down the long hair while the preacher remembered his father with measured words. Walking away, Tim felt bad that he hadn’t honored his father’s memory �" he could’ve at least gotten a trim before the funeral. It was kind of pathetic to assert himself over a dead body.
These thoughts continued to accuse Tim during the week he spent going through his father’s things. A shoebox full of old photos jolted his mind back to the worst memory of them all �" proofs of his senior high school portrait in which he had been mercilessly scalped and given whitewalls (he never ordered the portraits, of course). In 1973! He had let out a bucket of tears that night when he was safely back in his bedroom.

Now his father was gone, Tim thought to himself as he remembered the conflictive childhood years. The demons will finally be laid to rest. Staring at the whitewalls in the portrait, Tim reached up to feel his long hair. Oh, it was so thick and silken. He thought of the barbershop in town. He looked at the whitewalls in the yellowing photo. He thought of the futile efforts to keep the locks in check at the cemetery. He recalled the tingling sensation in the mall as he gave the instructions for a short haircut five years previously. Tim’s hand trembled. He dropped the photo portrait and rushed into his father’s bathroom.

What a site greeted him! "That thatch is out of control. The barber didn’t take off nearly enough last time. This time I’m going to have to supervise the haircut and give the instructions," Timmy whispered towards the image in the bathroom mirror. His knees felt weak as he stumbled for his coat and car keys. He staggered toward the car thinking about his first close encounters with a set of electric hair clippers….. Once behind the wheel, he looked at himself closely in the rearview mirror. He took the ever-present brush out of the glove box and laboriously worked his beautiful tresses into place. "Enough primping, Timmy, it’s time you got a real haircut!" And then the car began heading towards the West Main Barbershop.

His heart raced and his leg jiggled. He was heading toward the shortest haircut of all time. Tim was both father and son on this dramatic trip. What would the instruction be? He decided to park well before the barbershop so that he could decide and practice a bit before the cape was fastened tightly into place at West Main. Tim knew the shop was still operational after all these years because he’d seen the whirling red and white pole in a distance several times during the week. Carlton was frozen in time, but Tim doubted the old barbers who had savaged him in the 70s would still be there. Who would apply the clippers to his nape? As Tim walked slowly down the sidewalk towards town he ran his fingers through his mane and twirled his fingers through the thick locks that dangled towards his shoulders. Instead of gentle caressing, within moments, harsh steel teeth would be savagely chewing off his pampered hair. Tim shuddered at the thought. Hey, but the shudder was of excitement, not dread! Or was it? Tim couldn’t really tell. He vacillated between excitement and dread during the five-block walk toward West Main.

And then the spinning poll came into site. Tim knew instantly that he would leave Carleton with the shortest haircut ever. As he approached the plate glass window the tip of a huge white cape came into sight, then the full image of the man in the chair getting a businessman’s cut �" faced away from the mirror (yikes!!), and finally, the barber, clad in a white smock. His head was clipped into a very short buzzcut! And he was a youngish-looking, handsome man. Tim had not expected this, for some reason. The shop was full too, with about a half dozen fellows and boys waiting their turn to get haircuts.

Unexpectedly, Tim walked right past the shop! He’d chickened out -- let himself down. He was rattled. NO! He would not get off so easily. He spun around and quickly pushed the door of the West Main Barbershop open. And then he was inside �" many eyes were on the newcomer longhair, including the handsome barber who eyed him closely and greeted him "Good afternoon."
Tim was in a blur, a haze of conflicting emotions and feelings as two or three standard cuts were given. Sit, cape fastened, comb, what’ll it be, spin, snip, buzz, dust, cape off, chat, pay, bye. It all was like a blurry sort of clockwork.

"You’re next!" said the barber cheerfully as he snapped a towel on the chair to clear away some stray, shorn locks. He was staring right at Tim, who then stood awkwardly. The moment of truth was almost upon him. Tim tried not to stare at himself in the mirror as he walked over to the chair and took a seat. He perched high on the comfortable throne. The barber cast a starchy white cape around him and fumbled a bit under the dense locks trying to fasten it closed with a clip. Then, the handsome barber brushed the flowing tresses slowly. Tim didn’t know if he should speak out or wait for the question. The barber’s hands were gentle and soothing as they stroked the long hair and smoothed it into place before he popped the big question. "Don’t normally see such long hair in a barbershop, sir," he purred, "unless, of course, a big change is on the agenda. I’m not that good with trims �" I’ll confess my weaknesses right up front if that’s what you’re here for." Tim sensed the young barber was anxious to take the clippers to him. Some things never changed!

Tim’s throat felt paralyzed. "No trim for me, no sir." A smile crept across the young barber’s face.

"I’m Jason, by the way," the white-clad barber said. "Well then, what will it be for you today? How much of this stays and how much comes off"

"Cut it very short, with the electric clippers there," Tim said pointing to a collection of dangling machines. Then "Dad" took control and swung into high gear. "Wait, I got something here…." Tim fumbled into his pocket and pulled out the senior portrait. "Like this," he said resolutely. A thin smile crept across his face. "Don’t be afraid to shear off this thatch mighty close. It’s been ages since I’ve gotten whitewalls like this."

His heart pumped furiously.

Jason eyed the photo closely, "Was that you as a youngster?! Nice haircut!"

"I got it cut right here in this shop, in 1972. Grew up here."

"That would’ve been my grandfather, then, who gave you those whitewalls. Never seen any shaved up quite so high like that…. But, not to worry, I’ll restore this haircut of yours to its former glory."

Jason slowly swiveled the chair away from the mirror. Tim caught one last sight of his long, shimmering hair. Jason abruptly forced Tim’s head down �" far down, almost until his chin touched his chest. The long hair dangled helplessly forward. Tim braced himself, clutching the arms of the barber’s throne, enveloped in fear and excitement. This was the point of no return!

Then Jason shoved the humming, chattering clippers forcefully straight into the dense mane at Tim’s nape. The barber’s gentle touch had given way to the firm, confident strokes of a boot camp barber. He methodically drove the clippers a few inches tightly up the back of the scalp and then pulled away a huge clump of shimmering shorn hair. By accident or design, much of it fell onto the cape that swaddled Tim; the shorn clumps tended to cling where they landed. Only the heaviest, longest chunks of his pretty hair ended up in Tim’s lap. On the second go-around, Jason pushed the clippers higher and higher up the back of Tim’s -- virtually to the crown! What had he gotten himself into?! What would everyone back home say when they saw him shorn?!

Then Jason began tackling the side �" first the right, then the left. Hair began piling up in earnest on the cape. All eyes in the waiting area of the barbershop were glued on the makeover as it unfolded. As the clippers buzzed closely around the ears, Tim shivered. There was only a patch of long hair left on Tim’s head. Jason combed the long bangs straight forward. He crunched a set of shears open and shut a few times. Then suddenly, they were thrust into the dangling mass and clamped shut right near the top of the forehead. "How long do you want it on top? Long enough to comb to the side, or something more modern and shorter?"
Shorter?! Tim could hardly fathom it. But, then he remembered that he had determined to leave with the shortest haircut ever. "I’ll tell you what, Jason. I think you’ve persuaded me. How do you think I’ll look with your length on top and the whitewalls?"

"Here’s what I think about that suggestion…" Jason answered with the clippers �" plowing them straight from forehead to crown across the top of Tim’s head. The last resistance gave way. "You’ll look years longer with a tight butch cut, sir."
Tim grasped the arms of the chair to keep from swooning. The tight maneuvers with the clippers all over his head were followed by generous dollops of warms lather and soothing strokes of the straight edge up the back and sides of his head. Then Jason slowly swiveled the chair back towards the mirror.

Tim struggled to conceal the shock. "I reckon you’ve lost about 5 pounds in the last twenty minutes, sir. How does it feel?" Jason’s gentle hand soothed the bristly patch that was all that was left of the beautiful glossy tresses. Then he ran his hands over the whitewalls with a stinging witch hazel. He held up a hand mirror and Tim blanched as white as the snowy scalp was revealed to the neon light for the first time in 25 years. Then Jason carefully unfastened the clip and lifted that hair-laden cape away from him and shook it all to the floor.

Tim was finally able to force out a response. "Looks great. Glad to be rid of all that thatch." The words sounded a bit hollow, and he looked down wistfully at all the cut hair that carpeted the shop’s checkered linoleum.

"No extra charge for the additional strain on the clippers, sir. Glad to have been of service today, and I hope you’ll become a regular."

"I’d love that, Jason, but I’m an out-of-towner here. I promise you, though, that when I come by here from time to time to visit my father’s grave, I’ll make sure to get a haircut here on West Main."

Jason’s face lit up. "You’re not old Mr. Clarkson’s son, in town for the funeral, are you?"
"The one and only," acknowledged Tim.

"I used to cut his hair �" every other Saturday. Occasionally he’d tell me he had a hippie son that he’d like to bring by for a much-needed haircut."

Tim blushed. "Well, he’d be proud to see me looking just like this, wouldn’t you say?" Tim stared blankly at his denuded scalp in the mirror. "He was always fond of whitewalls…."

Tim took the change and ambled absent-mindedly out of the shop. He glanced back and saw Jason sweeping up the vast collection of shorn hair. The frigid winter air stung the sensitive scalp as Tim slowly walked back to his car. What would he tell his friends, he thought, as he ran his hand incredulously over the bristly top and the smooth sides and back….?

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