My Dad and his Fair Hair Deal by Doug

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I was born in the mid 60s and had my stick straight dark blond hair cut into a short butch for the first eight years of my life. My dad always kept his hair in a perfect medium length brush cut—about three-quarters of an inch and flattened up front, rounded toward the back, with the sides and back tapered into a perfect fade. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that guy’s hair out of place. When I was little he had it tightened up every few weeks, and took me a long for a touch-up every time. My cut was always the same: faded sides perfected blended into a number 2 on top. We shared a barber, and Craig was truly a perfectionist with his clippers. When you left his chair, there were no hairs misbehaving.

Our small town’s primary barbershop, Craig and Ed’s, was a classic shop in the downtown area—a narrow slot-style store front with two chairs, two barbers, and regular clientele. A yellowing men’s hairstyles poster on the wall, combs in mysterious blue liquid, clippers and combs tucked under ultraviolet “sterilizer” light boxes on the shelf behind the chairs completed the look. Customers waited and watched from a long line of armchairs opposite the action. A small black and white TV sat on a corner shelf, but it was rarely on—the entertainment of the place was usually the near constant banter between barbers and their long-time customers.

By the time I was in second grade, boys were sprouting long hair all over the place and I was starting to be the youngest guy being serviced by Craig and Ed’s. In fact, the age of the average customer in that place seemed to be doubling every month as boys and their dads discovered the new Men’s World styling salon across the street. I was obviously intrigued, but my dad would have none of it. In his mind, the idea of the stylist washing his hair before cutting it, cutting it with scissors while it was wet, feathering, blow drying—all of it—just seemed silly, particularly when the end result seemed so sloppy and unfinished.

With every visit to Craig and Ed’s, I begged him to let me grow out my hair—I told him that kids were starting to make fun of my haircut at school and I looked weird compared to my classmates. My dad was a great guy, very reasonable—and in the end he knew I wasn’t exaggerating. At the end of the summer before the start of third grade, he made me an offer. Throughout the school year, I could wear my hair however I wanted and get it cut wherever I wanted. But on the Saturday after school was out every summer, we would pay a visit to Craig’s chair and he would give me a sharp, short cut—and I’d stick with dad for haircuts until Labor Day, when I regained control of my hair until the next summer. He promised he wouldn’t make any comments about my crazy hair during the school year, and in turn, I was not to give him any grief about my summer cuts.

When I asked why I couldn’t just grow out my hair and leave it at that, he said, “Because once a year I want to remind you of how handsome a man looks with short hair. I know how handsome you look with a great cut and I don’t want you to forget that. Do we have a deal?” I accepted right away. I never had anything against my haircut from a personal perspective—I loved the feel of it and the flawless nature of it under any wind speed—I just wanted to fit in. Plus, I figured Dad was exaggerating anyway. How different could I look with a little extra hair on my head? I assumed that he would get used to my new look and our deal would be forgotten in the next nine months.

By November, my hair had fallen nicely into the start of those classic post-Beetles, mid-70s “bangs to the eye brows” haircuts. I asked my mom to make an appointment for me at Men’s World because it needed some shaping and I wanted to see what that experience would be all about. Overall, it was pretty disappointing and disconnected. I rode my bike down to the shop and parked it against a lamppost and went in. There was a receptionist! How bizarre for a haircut! And the stylists worked in individual booths. My stylist Mike came out to meet me and invited me back to his booth. First he directed me to a tip-back chair where he washed by hair and wrapped it in a towel and had me sit up in the barber chair. Unlike Craig’s pumper chair, this one was electric. I told him I wanted bangs with the tip of the ear showing and he set to work, combing out the hair and then lifting sections into his fingers and cutting off the tops.

He feathered and fussed and blew dried the end result, swinging me around to look in the mirror. What I remember thinking most was how little difference all the work had made. It’s not that it was a bad cut per se, and looking back at the pictures I can see that he did a good job for what I requested, but it was so unsatisfying compared to the crisp perfection of Craig’s clipper cuts. And beyond that, I missed the atmosphere of the barbershop. With the Men’s World set-up, I only saw Mike—so there was no eavesdropping on the most interesting conversation in the room.

My dad was true to his word and never mentioned my hair. Even so, I became a regular at Men’s World every eight weeks or so—I guess at some level I inherited my dad’s obsession with maintaining a cut and not letting it go beyond its ideal length. By May, my promise wasn’t forgotten, but I wasn’t too worried about Dad following through with his idea of an ideal summer cut for me. Until the first Friday after school let out in early June. As my dad came in to kiss me goodnight, he told me he had some errands he wanted to run in the morning, so we should probably plan on getting to Craig’s by 10 o’clock before the shop got backed up with the Saturday crowd. I’m sure he saw my color drain a bit and my eyes widen, but he didn’t say anything more to clarify his point; I swallowed hard and said good night, but didn’t even take a crack at begging. He had kept his part of the deal—now it was my turn to do the same.

In the morning I got up and showered, and combed out my hair in the mirror. I had butterflies in my stomach and took forever to leave the bathroom, hoping Dad would change his mind. He had breakfast on the table when I came downstairs, and was jingling the car keys as I chewed my last piece of toast. On the short drive downtown, he looked over and told me that some day I would realize that bad styles come and go, but classic styles will always be best when it comes to a man’s haircut. I just looked out my window and said, “I suppose so. I guess I’ll see.”

The barbershop was already hopping by the time we got there. When we came through the door and the bell on the handle rang, the customers and barbers glanced over and I surveyed the crowd. I was by far the youngest customer in the place—and the one with the longest hair as well.

“Good morning, boys!” said Craig in his classic cheerful voice. “I see you’ve brought Doug in for his summer cut,” he told my dad. (Oh God, he’s in on it, I thought.) “Be with you in a few. Take a seat.”

I have to admit it felt good to be back in the old place. I picked up the comics laying on the coffee table and pretended to read them, but I kept glancing up at the customers in Craig’s chair before me, wondering how it would feel to get my old cut again. The morning sun was coming through the front window, the conversation was friendly, and the sound of the clippers was strangely exciting. I missed this place; there was no doubt about it.

Before I knew it, Craig has finished my dad and called me up in the chair. As I sat down and he wrapped the tissue around my neck, I think I was ready. “My goodness, Doug. Look at all this hair. How can you stand it?” asked Craig. “What are we doing with this mop? I better oil the clippers or they’re bound to get clogged!”

I looked over at my dad, who was still standing, brushing some stray hair off his jeans. “Well, Dad,” I said, trying to sound casual but probably not hiding my nervousness too well (it probably didn’t help that the cape was pumping up and down as my heart rate skyrocketed). “What’ll it be?”

My dad looked over at me and then over to the haircut poster—still there, and more yellowed than ever. “What do you think, Craig? His hair is a little thicker than it used to be. Should we stick with the butch or move him into a classic crew? I don’t want to switch unless you think it’ll stay in place.”

Craig glanced up from oiling his clippers, set them down, then lifted my long bangs and let them fall. “We can try it,” he pondered, “and if it doesn’t behave, we can take it back down to a butch.” With my dad’s permission and my face reddening in spite of my determination to keep my end of the deal without fussing, Craig clicked on the clippers and started mowing a row up the back of my head. How different that felt that the lifting and trimming of the Men’s World stylist. Once Craig started, the perfectionist in him took over and his friendly banter almost stopped completely as his concentration increased. I could see his eyes magnified in his half frame glasses as he created his masterpiece.

Over and over he carefully peeled away my long hair and exposed more and more of my scalp to the morning air. I could see clouds of hair falling slowly onto the cape and floor. Craig was never rough, but he was very thorough. He must have roughed in the cut with a big attachment, because once he had taken down most of the sides, he switched something and went over all the areas again. I knew things were really on the short side when I could feel the heat of the clippers as he finished the base of my sides and back.

From there, he got out the comb, lifted my hair on top and with a single swing and flick to the side, my bangs were gone and my forehead exposed. He continued lifting and clipping the top until he had shortened everything down to a manageable length and then turned off the clippers. I heard the faucet turn on, then he was rubbing warm water into whatever was left on top. Out came a wide, soft brush and he began brushing my hair straight back over and over until it was forced to obey. Then he picked up his clippers and comb again, straightened my head, leaned down and stared at the top, centering himself for his final approach. The clippers came to life and he started the final knock-down, lifting each section with his comb and clipping it to the side, getting closer to my scalp with each shift toward the crown.

The clippers turned off again and he was rubbing some butch wax in his fingers. He worked the wax into the stubble, then attacked the top again with his brush. The clippers turned back on and now he started fixing any stray hair that dared defy his plan for my head. Out came the brush again and he set the final cut into shape. Swinging the chair around to the mirror, he gave me my first look. Beyond the shock of the change, the haircut was a masterpiece and I knew it. The sides were perfectly faded, tapered up to a number 2 at the crown. The top was a half inch long at the front, slightly flattened and beautifully blended as it reached the crown and rounded to the back. Not one hair was out of place, and the cut was perfectly proportional, accentuating my hairline and the shape of my head. I said thank you and my dad paid for the cuts and we left.

When we got in the car, he tossed me a tin of butch wax. “You look fantastic, but you’ll want this to keep that look between cuts. Like I always tell you, take pride in yourself—even if this isn’t your favorite haircut, you want it to look right—no apologizing for it. Make it stand up in place and people will respect you for it.”

I couldn’t stop touching it, and when we got home I was in the bathroom in a flash to have a better look. And my dad was right—it did look fantastic. At first, I didn’t use the butch wax because I worried about what my friends would say and wanted to push down what hair I had left (as if it made a visual difference), but Craig’s masterpiece would not be calmed. I also noticed that my dad used the falling top as an indicator that it was time for a “trim,” so after a few two-week haircut intervals, I started waxing up the top every morning and I noticed that the visits dropped to every three weeks instead. I also had to admit I was liking the cut a lot and got good at waxing it straight up into a perfect short deck. My friends were really cool about it, because they knew it was out my control, and frankly it was a superior cut to theirs for the summer months of bike riding and swimming and sweaty summer fun anyway. Style only mattered during school, it seemed.

My dad was so happy about my cut and complimented me all the time. I liked his praise, but it made me nervous that he was too happy and that he would end up reneging on my plan for a long haired school year. He took me in for one more trim in mid-August, and Craig wished me good luck in fourth grade. It was clear that he knew about our summer/school year agreement, and that my dad was going to be true to his word.

As we headed home that last time, he asked me a simple question. “Well, are you going to let it go again, or do you want to stay sharp?” I told him I wanted to let it go, and he replied, “That’s fine. Eventually you’ll come back on your own. It’s been a great haircut summer though, you have to admit.” And I did.

Every summer after that, we repeated my inaugural June shearing and my dad tossed me a fresh tin of wax as we got into the car. And every Labor Day, he asked me the same question. By the time I was in high school, I had graduated to a summer brushcut that matched my dad’s almost identically, and the June ritual was something we both looked forward to. The summer before I left for college, my dad didn’t mention our trip to see Craig, so I reminded him on the correct Saturday morning. “I figured you’re too old for me to be suggesting hairstyles any more,” he replied. I just laughed and told him to get his shoes on—I couldn’t wait to restore my summer look. (Which by that time wasn’t particularly long anyway). By my sophomore year in college, hairstyles were moving shorter again and I took the final plunge at the university barbershop on my own. As I walked out of the shop with the only hairstyle I have worn ever since, I realized my dad’s comment that first summer had been right—eventually I had come back on my own. There’s just no better look on a man than a classic clipper cut.

What do you think? Did my dad have the right idea?/p>

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