Michael’s Mother Knows Best by Ashton

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My friends would always tell me how lucky I was to have a diplomat for a mother; There was almost no discipline in my home.

Dad was a relaxed man. He held some insignificant job at a banking firm, and only bothered to iron his shirts on the days when he met with his bosses. His hair was a typical businessman cut - just short enough that his employers wouldn’t complain that he looked "unprofessional."

As for my brothers and I, he let us run free. On summer days, he’d tell us to be home by six if we wanted dinner; nine if we didn’t. Every few months, he’d go to the local barbershop to keep his business cut acceptable, and would let us tag along if we wanted. Once there, he’d tell whoever came along to chose whatever cut they wanted. We got it without fail.

The last time my mother had been home was back when Thomas was 4. Now, he was barely seven. The middle brother, Andrew, was a few months past ten. I was almost twelve, with curls of brunette hair grazing my shoulders. My brothers looked the same.

We didn’t know mom was coming until she burst through the door, yelling: "I’m home." We ran to her, embracing her in a giant blob. She hugged tightly, but upon feeling my curls, became a bit uneasy, slowly stepping back to look at me and my brothers.

"My goodness,"she said, staring us down. "You three haven’t been to the barbershop in a while. Have you?"

We all shook our heads, and thought that was the end of that. Later, though, I heard irate mutters coming from my parent’s bedroom. I tiptoed to the side of the door, careful to keep my feet away from the little crack of light under the door.

"Charles," she whispered with frustration. "Have you been taking care of my boys?"

"Yes, I have been. Do they look malnourished to you?"

"They look like hippies. What’s with that hair of theirs? Have they had any discipline while I’ve been away?"

"Martha. Having long hair doesn’t make you a hippie. I’m letting them express themselves."

"They can express themselves when they get older. For now, they need strict discipline and rules."

My father began to speak, but she immediately cut him off.

"I thought a man would know how to raise men. But I guess I was mistaken. Even you are looking more like a girl than a man these days."

This went on for a few minutes, and slowly, my father’s retorts became less and less common.

"From now on, I will be taking control of this house. Is that clear?"

I heard my father shifting, silently, as if he was nodding.

I tiptoed away, quickly, pondering what my mother’s assertion could possibly mean. I didn’t say anything to my brothers, since I was afraid to frighten them. My mother’s presence was unusual enough. When they asked me where I had been, I told them: "the bathroom."

We were woken up at 7:30 by my mother. She was banging on the door, demanding we be presentable for breakfast. We all found this odd, as usually, we ate separately, waking up whenever we woke up. Not sure how to react, my brothers and I threw on T-shirts and shorts. Yet, when we got to the table, our mother was dismayed.

"Did you three just wake up?" She asked with disgust. "Haven’t you anything acceptable to wear?

We stared at each other, and Andrew, the most vocal among us, replied,"We don’t dress up for meals."

"What about for church?" She asked.

"Can’t you wear your church clothes?"

"We don’t go to church"

She quickly glanced at our father, a stern look in her eye.

"Well, boys. There will be a few changes around here now that I’m back."

She didn’t elaborate, and sat down at the table. After breakfast, she told us she was going to deal with a few errands, and to be back by ten. After coordinating our watches, we went our separate ways. There was more tension than usual as my brothers and I walked around town - an underlying fear of what was to come. None of had any clue what my mother was planning, and we were so terrified that we refused to discuss it.

We got back home at ten minutes before 10. The fear of disobeying our mother kept us from enjoying ourselves any longer. When we walked through the front door, our father was sweeping the dust-ridden floors. He was wearing a baseball cap, but we couldn’t see any hair underneath -only the faintest outlines of a bare scalp.

"Dad," I asked with shock. "Did you go to the barber?"

"Oh? It’s far too hot for a shaggy haircut like the one I had. Now my hair is much more practical."

I was about to inquire more, but my mother walked in wearing a black smock. Her neat chin-length bob was tied into a short ponytail.

She looked at the three of us, and quickly stated: "Thomas, Andrew - you too go up to your rooms. I bought you some nice, neat clothes to try on. Michael, you come with me"

I gulped and followed. My brothers stared back with sympathy. Whatever we were about to be subjected to, I was going to be the first.

She took me to a stool in the grassy backyard, which she had likely dragged out of the kitchen.
"Sit, Michael."
I sat without hesitation. I stared at the trees, avoiding my mother’s glance. She walked over, blocking my view of the trees.

"Michael. I must first apologize to you."

I was dumbfounded.

"By leaving, I kept you from a household with discipline. I thought your father would raise you and your brothers correctly. Instead, he let you walk all over him. That is no way for a boy to be raised. Do not worry, though. I’m back, and I’m going to give you the order you require. I will help you become a man."

I was about to reply, but she stopped me.

"That begins with respect towards me. You will only speak when asked to speak."

I was powerless, and I simply waited for
whatever was to come next. To my amazement, she pulled out a pair of clippers - a sleek grey, barbershop-quality pair. Setting them on the ground, she pulled out a cape and tightly clipped it around my neck.
"I will be giving you a proper haircut for a man, Michael. You will sit and do as I say, or else, face severe consequences."

I had to keep myself from shaking violently as the clippers roared to life. I watched as she snapped on a seemingly long blade - probably a number six. She pushed up the hair on the back of my head and I felt vibration as the clippers growled, cutting through the shoulder-length curls. She grabbed chunks that had been cut off and threw them onto my lap. The weight grew as she worked her way up to my ears, each strand being clipped away from the back of my head. As she got nearer to the top, she stopped, pulled out a black clip, and clipped a chunk of hair up. I was relieved, assuming that she was saving that part for the scissors. At least I’d have some hair left on my head. The vibrations against the back of my head began to become soothing, as I accepted my fate. She was taking away unnecessary weight, and leaving enough hair for me to look acceptable.
She pushed down my left ear and shaved away by sideburn. From there, she approached the side at every angle, dealing with the little cowlicks I had. I could still feel a bit of coverage on the side; she was leaving 3/4ths of an inch. Of course, I’d preferred my hair longer, but this wasn’t that bad. It was a change, without question, but my friends wouldn’t ridicule me relentlessly.
As she tackled the right side, the approach was identical. She’d separate a chunk, pulling it slightly as the clippers ran through, and would let it fall onto my lap. At this point, there was a curly bush on my lap, and a breeze around my ears. The vibration against my temples was invigorating. I couldn’t recall my last clipper haircut, but I hoped there were more to come, especially if they were as mild as this one.

Suddenly, the clippers came to an abrupt stop. My mother, silent throughout this entire process, ran her hands along the back and sides of my hair, ensuring it was clipped evenly. Feeling it was, she pulled out a pair of scissors and freed the top from the clip. The top hung past my eyes, but not for long. She began, with surgical precision, clipping chunks away. I could barely see my bangs above my eyebrow. She clipped with care, keeping each portion just the length she wanted. In the end, my bangs landed about an inch above my eyebrow. I began to smile. When she said: "proper haircut for a man," I was expecting a flattop. However, it seemed she simply wanted us to be well-groomed, and despite the previous lack of discipline in my life, I accepted that as motherly love.

After she was satisfied, she pulled the guard off the clippers. I assumed she was simply cleaning up the edges. She brought it around to my left ear, and, pushing the ear down, trimmed the area around the ear. I relaxed, easing into the vibration.

Then, she jolted suddenly. She pushed my head against my right shoulder, pinning me, and firmly pushed the guard-less clippers against my forehead, removing the meticulous cut hair from the front chunk. I gasped, frozen in place as a bald spot emerged.

"Michael." She sternly spoke, keeping the clippers on my forehead. "A man is to be strong and dignified. You must not care for the hair on your head. You must be neat and clean."

I was stunned, and instinctively tried to pull away, but her grip only became stronger. She pushed the clippers further into my hairline, a low, deep growl filling the air as I felt the breeze contact my scalp unperturbed.

"A man must be able to handle the unexpected."

She began to quickly push the clippers forward. And once she had created a shorn line, made another line parallel. She pushed through my hair, one line at a time, stripping me of all of it. Bald strip after bald strip emerged. She worked with ease, pacing herself, but not working slowly. When she reached my left ear, she switched to the right sideburn, and completely shaved it away. I was unsure what to think. I blinked tears out of my eyes, thinking that I would become the laughingstock of the school.

"A man doesn’t need any hair. It is a distraction from the world around him."

She shifted and pushed my head against my chest, forcing the clippers against the back of my neck. The clippers went through without issue.
She continued to push me, this way and that, until no more stands fell from my head. I was completely shorn, like a sheep during summer. The pile of hair on my lap was overflowing, with stubble surrounding the stool.
She looked over my head, feeling the stubble. The sensation was unfamiliar, disorienting.
I assumed that would be the end of it. She shaved me bald, didn’t she?

No. She had more planned.

I began to get up, the hair tumbling from my lap, but she quickly pushed my shoulders down.
"Michael." She spoke sternly. "Did I ask you to stand up?"
I shook my head.

She moved out of my view, and I began to shift my head around, feeling the breeze that hit every angle. I heard rustling, as if my mother was grabbing supplies out of a bag, but was afraid to look. Suddenly, I heard a spray can pile shaving cream onto the top of my head, the cool cream a shock against my uncovered head. It was then that I couldn’t hold the tears back. Was she going to take away the mere stubble that remained?
She spread the cream, and began to meticulously run a razor up the back of my neck. The tears ceased. It stung, but it was liberating. It gave me a sense of freedom that I’d never experienced before. It was as if, without my hair, I wasn’t weighed down - could live without anything to keep me caged. I couldn’t believe I was thinking this. I was a twelve year old boy. I was being forcefully shaven bald by a mother I barely knew. I should be sobbing, ready to end my own life. Yet, my life felt as if it was just beginning. She applied the cream to my eyebrows, and I didn’t even flinch. I accepted my fate, that this was the way it was going to be from now on, and that it was fine.
Rubbing a towel over my head, she ran her hands against my smooth scalp.

"Oh Michael." She said, pride in her voice as she stared into my eyes - no longer covered by hair or obscured by eyebrows.

"What a handsome boy you are. What a handsome man you will become. I will never allow your hair to become so unruly again. Now, you look like the man I knew you would become."

She walked into the house and returned with a white polo shirt and pair of sleek, beige trousers.

"Put these on."

And, I did. She pulled the cape off, and I pulled on the trousers and shirt. The collar gripped tightly against my neck, sliding against the freshly shaven skin. She brushed me off, and hugged me.

"Boy, please wait behind the shed. I will call you when it’s time to come out."

I did as she said, my shaven head sensitive to the wood as I leaned against it. I heard Andrew walking out, complaining about his stiff shirt. My mother replied quickly, sternly, telling him that he was not to complain. He muttered, and she ignored him, telling him to sit on the stool. The ground was covered with my brunette curls, and Andrew immediately noticed. He yelped, violently looking for me.

"That’s enough, Andrew" my mother stated bluntly. "Sit down, now."

He tried to run, but she grabbed him and pushed him onto the stool, holding him firmly as she caped him. We all knew what was coming next.

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