Before It Shines by Zero

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: Hey, Zero here. This one is a more light-hearted coming of age that I needed out of my system. Like I always say, I always appreciate and encourage comments of any kind. Feel more than free to share thought, ideas, anything with me. This one was made while listening to Change Your Mind by The Killers.



Day 0

It’s hard for Harry to pinpoint the second when he knew for sure that he would hate this man.

Maybe it was the day he first saw his tattoos. Maybe it was the day he first saw the flag planted in his front yard. Maybe the tight, bone-crushing handshake he gave him when they first met, the power play in his grip.

Maybe he hated him long before he knew him. Maybe it was hate at first sight.

But his mom. His mom loved him. Loves him. So far it seems will probably love him for years to come.

"Hurry up! We’re running late!" the man calls out by his bedroom door.
"Late? How is two hours to spare late?" he asks the man as he zips his backpack.
"We have errands to run before we go! We’re on a tight schedule here!".

Harry shoots him an annoyed look.

This controlling, obsessive, impatient, run-everything-like-a-bootcamp man.

"Okay, fine! I’ll be downstairs in five minutes!" he checks the list on his phone app and ticks the boxes, he stops at the sunscreen, trying to remember if he has it on him "I just need to check I’m not forgetting anything!".

He grabs his baseball cap from the hanger before he leaves, he has gone through the list one final time.

Harry runs a hand through his hair. He takes a proud, satisfied glance in the mirror.

His hair has been growing and coming along nicely. He had grown out a short back and sides through the school year and it’s almost touching his shoulders already. It shimmers in the light. He sees bronze highlights he never knew he had inside his chestnut locks.

His acne while not completely cleared out, it’s better than it’s been in months. He has learned to wear contact lenses and he also has a pair of thin-rimmed metallic glasses in gold that fit him perfectly. He has also been working out and he is satisfied to see the changes in his body.

He feels stronger, fitter, energized. Besides, therapy has helped him through his issues the last six months. He feels great and he feels proud of himself and the effort he has put on himself.

"Are you ready?" his stepdad asks him.
"Yeah, I’m coming!".

Harry sighs as he leaves behind his bedroom. He sees the band posters on his wall with frustration and powerlessness, knowing the wilderness and the days at his stepdad’s mercy await him.

And true, he is many things, but he isn’t an asshole and he has sworn to himself that he wouldn’t come between his mom and her happiness.

Even if her happiness happens to be this f***ing jarhead.



Of course that his stepdad’s errands before they hit the road include a trip to the base barbershop.

He should have seen it coming.

It’s really f***ing obvious in hindsight.

Harry finds himself sitting bored out of his mind, surrounded by decrepit dead men framed in the walls and decrepit living men in the chairs while his stepdad gets his head shaved.

Shaving cream. Aftershave. Witch hazel. Some kind of nameless antiseptic. Hair wax. Smells he has none affection for at all.

He sees the straight razor gliding across his stepdad’s scalp while he sits still and straight.

He doesn’t understand why he always does this week after week. Almost a compulsion.

If the marine is balding or has a receding hairline he truly doesn’t know. Maybe his mom knows.

He can't believe he is missing the music festival he had tickets for this weekend for this.

"You’re next" his stepdad announces after the barber takes the towel off his shoulder and the cape off his neck.

For all the boring trips to the barbershop he has accompanied this man to, this is a f***ing new development. Frankly, he isn’t thrilled.

But again, in hindsight, it’s really f***ing obvious he’d do something like this.

"Excuse me?" he asks flatly.
"How are we cutting the young man’s hair?" the barber asks, never addressing him, only his mom’s husband.
"We’re shaving it all off, make it a zero all over".
"What!?" he is outraged.
"It will be better for you during our outdoor trip" his stepdad says as if this was a grand gesture of generosity "Come on, we’re giving you a nice, clean clipper shave".
"You can’t just, what the f***, you f***ing…" if there was ever a filter between his mind and his mouth, it has completely shut down.
"You’re under my command now, young man. If I say we’re shaving you, then we’re shaving you. Got that?".
"Under your command!?" of course he would play the marine card on him "You can’t just…".
"I can" the man doesn’t blink or take a breath "What are you going to do? Call your mom and complain to her about a haircut like a little boy?".
"You…" the realization hits him, he brushes his bangs away from his face in frustration "F***, of course you f***ing did…".

There is a pause.

"You talked to my mom about this, didn’t you?".
"I did. Your mom has given me green light to give you a summer haircut" the man states "So sit down and enjoy it. I don’t want to hear a single complain".

One step ahead of him. The man has been blessed by a remarkable gift for foresight and collateral damage control and he uses it for this, because it couldn’t possibly be any other way.

Harry doesn’t get to exchange more words or argue with the man. The barber, a grizzled man with weathered hands, takes over.

"Alright, young man, let's get you cleaned up".

He takes a deep breath. He sits in the barber's chair, feeling the cold, black vinyl against the back of his neck as the man adjusts the cape around his neck.

The barber fires up the clippers, and the metallic growl of the blades makes him flinch.

He hears the barber gruffly order him to sit up straight and take his hand out of his hair.

A hand pushes his head downwards, nails his chin down on his chest forcefully.

The barber starts from the back of his head, pushing the clippers upward, leaving behind nothing but stubble. The severed locks tumble down to the floor.

He guesses this is some barbaric male rite of passage he had been spared of in his blissful, only child to a single mother life, until today.

An infamous summer shearing through and through.

"Warren!" he hears a voice enthusiastically call out his stepfather’s first name.

He glances in the mirror at (of course) another jarhead greeting his stepfather.

They both boisterously exchange pleasantries. He catches this man is also joining their camping trip.

But what catches the most his eye is the severely shorn teenager in the mirror (the one that isn’t him, that is).

The boy looks his age. His hair is brutally cut short down, he may have just weeks of growth in him but it’s clear this man has decided a trim is required.

And the boy is staring at him. As the clippers relentlessly move upward towards his crown, so do the boy’ eyes, the sensation sending shivers down his spine. He clenches his fists.

The mechanical growl of the clippers continues around the sides and over the crown of his head, leaving nothing but a uniform length of cropped hair in its wake.

His head is tossed to the side and his left temple is shorn next. The clippers bite into his sideburns with a loud, deafening hiss, the blades pressed hard against his skull.

"Yeah, brought my boy Byron here for a trim before we hit the road…" he overhears the man talking to his father, he can see him in the mirror clapping the teenager in the back.

So, the voyeur has a name: Byron.

Harry takes a deep breath as he glances at the heavy locks of hair sliding down from his shoulders down to his lap. The barber then throws his hair over his shoulder, on the opposite direction and digs the blades on his right temple.

His stepfather is entertained in a lively discussion with the other marine. He is relieved he doesn’t have his stepfather’s eyes fixed on him, it’s enough that he himself and the other men in the barbershop are witnessing his so-called haircut.

The barber flicks his wrist and sends a torrent of clumps down on the cape.

"Look straight ahead" the barber instructs, guiding his head in position.

His grip on his crown is hard as he forces his line of sight into his reflection.

He takes a deep breath, his bangs are pulled back away from his face. The clippers land on his widow’s peak, they vibrate intensely through his skull as they almost uproot his bangs.

They draw an almost hairless patch at the center of his head, removing the length from the top without difficulty. They clear another second and third strips of his mane in the same breath. He flinches at the feel of his hair falling in front of his face.

As the clippers finally come to a halt, mere millimeters of hair remain on his scalp.

The barber brushes off some lose hair off his head and face, he blinks at the feel of the brush and then opens his eyes again.

That boy, Byron, is still transfixed on him.

Then, a barber signals from another chair and Byron’s dad or uncle or godfather or stepfather or whatever the man is nudges him to take a seat. He disappears from the mirror.

The barber picks up a straight razor and begins to shave around the edges of his hairline. The blade glides effortlessly across his skin, leaving behind clean lines.

He winces at the sensation.

Once the barber finishes the straight razor work, he brushes away the stray hairs and the shorn locks off his neck and shoulders.

"There, now you’re all set" his stepfather claps his shoulder "Let’s get moving".




Day 0.5

A camping trip. A few days away from the asphalt hell.

Stunning views. Fresh air. Adventure. No reception. Memories of the future. Mindfulness and forest-bathing. The prospect of male-to-male bonding, whatever that is. Wildlife. Social media material. Posts for his feed. Mother nature’s gifts and beauty. Lumberjack core. No Wi-Fi.

He is struggling. Okay. But he is trying. He is trying hard to think of the positive things. To look on the bright f***ing side of going on a camping trip with his stepdad.

He slouches in the seat.

"Sit up straight, will you?" the marine reprimands him right away.

He makes an effort to correct his posture. Just enough that the man will leave him alone.

"Hey, it’s summer, we’re out in the wilderness, your friends won’t see your haircut if that’s what’s troubling you" his stepdad steers the wheel with firm hands "Stop sulking already, it’s just hair. Besides you needed a haircut".
"This isn’t a f***ing haircut, you f***ing set me up to get my head shaved".

His finger grazes the stubble left on his head and it feels… it feel f***ing wrong, that’s what it feels like.

"Hey, it’s how I did it with my dad when I was your age, don’t blame me".

How typical.

"I don’t see how am I not supposed to blame you? I mean, it wasn’t your dad that came all the way from the other side of the f***ing ocean the one that tricked me and dragged me to a base barbershop. That was you".

He leans against the window in the co-pilot seat.

He watches the trees flash before him.

"We get the same haircuts, we’re a unit and there are no differences between us, we’re equals" the man keeps talking.
"So, like commies?".
"Damn it, boy" his stepfather rubs the bridge of his nose "Not like commies!".

There is another pause in their conversation.

"You know, my mom is the only reason I’m here".
"I know" the man tells him "She has been telling me how much she’d like you to come to a camping trip with me and my friends since we were dating".

Her mom and her good intentions, she will pave the way to hell for him with them.

They have a common interest: His mom and her happiness.

"Can you please… Just try for this once" his stepdad’s grip on the wheel tightens.

His mom does have a talent to always get her way.

Her mom’s agenda and lobbying is more powerful than both their own agendas and lobbying combined.

They know that.

"Listen, you’re going to tell your mom you had a great time and you’re grateful I’ve made you tag along with me and my friends" his stepdad glances at him before setting his eyes back straight on the road "And in return, I will vouch for you with your mom on how much you’ve grown up and matured. Can we agree to that?".
"Is this bribery?".
"No. It’s a quid pro quo" the marine clarifies "We both get something out of this, what do you say? Just play along".
"Fine. I will play along" he shoots a glare at the man "But don’t get used to it. Don’t think for a second that I will just tolerate your marine antics and play soldier for you".
"Agreed" his stepdad nods and glances at him through the rear mirror "Agreed?".

He doesn’t answer right away.

"Agreed".




Day 1


"The kid here wanted to go to a musical festival with his friends for the weekend. His mom and I agreed this would be a much healthier and age-appropriate activity" Warren starts talking to his marine gang about him about five minutes into their arrival.
He doesn’t bite his tongue "What’s age-appropriate about listening to your drunk, psychotic war stories?"
"Watch your mouth, young man" his stepfather shoots him a stern glare.
"I am not the one flaunting war crimes as soon as I get my hands on a bit of alcohol, am I?".
"Hey, I remember this boy now" one of the marines snaps his fingers in realization as he looks his way "He was at your wedding with Lisa! You were this long-haired kid, weren’t you?".
"Yeah, that was me" he replies, his voice steady.
"What happened to your hair, boy?".

Then, in a display of agility and assholery, his stepdad snatches the baseball cap off his head.

He has never felt so exposed, so naked as he does in that moment.

"Come on, son. Don’t be shy. Let the guys see your new haircut".

The sun, the wind, the everything shouldn’t feel like this on his scalp, neither should he be able to feel these men’s sights on him almost as if they were touching him.

Warren reaches out and rubs his calloused, rough hand against his crown and he can feel every single movement through his skull.

"Whoa, that’s a proper summer shearing, kid" he hears the snickers.

He can feel his face getting hotter like a flash by the minute and he quickly retrieves his baseball cap with a swing of his hand and puts it back on.

"I’m going for a walk".

He barely notices the other car parking near them or the man with his son getting out of the vehicle as he storms off.

"HEY! Be back in an hour!" his stepfather reaches out to grab his shoulder "Okay?".

If it’s concern or if it’s just an exertion of authority, Harry doesn’t know it.

He puts his baseball cap back on and starts walking off.

"Yeah, sure".



Twenty minutes go by and he is starting to wonder how much further he could go in an hour.

At this rate, if he keeps moving for ten minutes more, diving deeper into the woods, he would have to go back to the camp right after that.

F*** that.

He decides it suffices here, with the distance he has already put between himself and Warren and his marine gang.

He can see the lake between the trees, in the distance. A shimmer of blue beneath the mountaintops. A stream runs near him, he can hear the water moving, a whisper in his ears.

He checks the time on his phone and slides it back into his pocket when he hears footsteps behind him.

"It’s not been an hour yet" he tells the figure approaching behind him, guessing it’s his stepdad.
"Harry, isn’t it?" the voice that answers it’s younger, yet sounds far more… serious than Warren, it’s far too serious in contrast to how young it is.
"And you are…?".

He eyes the boy up and down.

He knows who it is.

It’s the voyeur from the barbershop, the boy who watched him get sheared. That teenager.

He’s tall. He has an athletic build; he sees in his arms and leg that he works out now that he sees him closer. Clean-shaven, stands with his back straight as if he had a brace on his spine. He sees a pair of deep gray eyes.

Just a hint, a slight shade of copper stubble on his head and a reddened hairline around the sideburns and the neck, the giveaways of a freshly barbered cut.

"Byron" he says.
"What are you doing here?" Harry asks him "Wait. Let me guess, they sent you to fetch me, didn’t they?".
"I came here to make sure you don’t get lost".

So, this is the only other teenager in the trip with him.

Thrilling. He looks and sounds like a recruiter’s daydream.

"I don’t need you to babysit me, and I won’t get lost" he forces a smile at the other teenager.
"I’m not risking it" Byron doesn’t blink, he just keeps his piercing gaze locked on him.
"How…" Harry is intrigued "…how old are you?".
"Fifteen".
"I’m sixteen, so that makes me the oldest, so, I’m in charge here" Harry crosses his arms "That’s how it goes, isn’t it?".
"I’m turning sixteen in November" Byron sighs "Okay. This is stupid. We’re not little boys. I’m here to make sure you return on time, okay?".

Oh, the responsible, exemplary, wise-beyond-his-years kind of guy.

"Fine, be my bodyguard, whatever makes you happy" he shrugs and sits down on a stone near the stream "I’m not going back yet".

Harry expects Byron to go drill-sergeant on him, to somehow remind him he is more mature and considered more trustworthy than he is.

But he doesn’t.

"So, you were going to a music festival?" he moves closer, to another rock and sits down in front of him.

His heart aches at the mention of that.

"Yeah, I had to sell my tickets".
Byron doesn’t meet his gaze "What were you going to do there?".

There is an obvious answer to this question. But Harry ignores the logical response and decides to go for a tangent, just for fun, the same way he would rather get poison ivy and bug bites than followed the clear, safe path.

"Find a summer boyfriend, obviously" Harry says unabashed.
"A summer boyfriend?" the boy’s face tinges in red.
"That’s what summer is for and the music festival is be the perfect place to find a cute guy" he smirks.
"Oh".

Harry sees his two options clearly: Either talk to this teenager or spend an even longer week without talking to anyone at all and just listening to the marines.

He sighs.

His choice is clear.

"I had a scene inside my head: Want to hear it?" he asks, testing the waters first.
"Yeah, why not?" Byron sounds hesitant but also curious.

He doesn’t need to be told twice to start talking.

"Okay, so, me and this cute guy, we meet in line first. Then, as we wait for the show to start we start getting to know each other. He’s incredibly hot and finds me hot too and we’re both equally fans of the band we’re waiting for" he starts narrating "Then, the band comes onstage. There’s this one song, this particular song that we’ve both been talking about nonstop, that we’ve dying to hear live and it comes at the end of the setlist. We look into each other’s eyes in that moment" Harry pauses and runs a hand across his stubbled head, slowly, caught in the daydream "As it reaches the guitar solo, he runs his hands through my long hair and we make out passionately".

There is a pause in the conversation.

The words, Harry’s imagination enraptures both of them for an instant.

The stream and the woods almost disappear and they can both almost hear the music buzzing.

"And then?" Byron presses on, his face still red.
"Maybe we exchange numbers, maybe I never see him again, I don’t know" Harry keeps the smirk on his face "Whatever flows".
"Well, summer is just starting" Byron fidgets with his swiss army knife "Maybe you will find your summer boy".
"Maybe"

His eyes meet the other teenager’s for a second.

And maybe he will exchange number with Byron or maybe he won’t see him ever again.

And maybe he has a chance and Byron will let him know.

Maybe he doesn’t and the answer is no.

But then, maybe, he can change Byron’s mind.

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