Step-Father by Sean Barnet

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STEP-FATHER

BY SEAN BARNET


I grew up as an only child raised by a single mother. My father had died when I was little, and although the life insurance had paid off the mortgage my mother still had to work to support the two of us. We were far from rich, but we did not lack the essentials.

When I was 14 a new man came into her life, and then mine, and then a couple of other men also. I shall explain: Mr Gardiner was a retired army officer, a few years older than my mother, with two sons, John and Charles, both in their twenties, and both had followed their father into the army.

I never found out how my mother first met my new step-father, or how long they had been seeing each other before he was first introduced to me. I was naturally rather suspicious of him at first, I was a teenage boy, and I was used to having my mother's undivided love and attention.

However, Mr Gardiner soon managed to win me round. When the three of us were together he made no excessive displays of affection towards my mother, indeed he showed considerable interest in what I was doing and he listened with some attention to what I wanted to say. His own conversation was absorbing, full of interesting anecdotes and funny stories. He gave me interesting books to read,and took me on fishing, camping and adventure trips - all new exciting stuff beyond my mother’s ability to organise.

So I was quite happy when my mother announced that they were getting married.

It was his obviously kindly nature that had attracted my mother and won me round. As for his appearance, he was tall and handsome. He had the most wonderful, luxuriant military-looking moustache with little upward pointing tips. He had bushy eyebrows, and some wiry looking hairs sprouting from his nose and ears, but apart from these he had very little hair, the dome of his head was quite bald, and the back and sides were never allowed to grow more than stubble. And he had a deep, resonant, commanding voice.

* * * * *

I was bought a suit for the wedding, my first.

A few days before the ceremony my mother announced that I needed to have my hair cut.

I argued with her about this for a bit, but she was adamant that she wanted me "looking nice and smart for the photographs". Then she told me that I was not going to my usual barber, but she was taking me to her own hairdresser and she was going to be there - supervising!

Things were getting worse. For several years now I had been allowed to go off to the barber by myself. When I was very little my mother had taken me to women’s hairdressers, then when I was about 7 or 8 she started taking me to the local barber who inflicted barbaric "short back and sides" haircuts on my innocent little head. I hated it, I protested, to no avail, I was "a big boy now", I "must not make a fuss" and that was "how boys have their hair". When I was about 10 or 11 I was allowed to go unsupervised, I soon found a much more modern place which did trendy cuts. My mother complained a bit at first, but soon gave way. As long as I kept it clean and tidy and short enough for school I kept out of trouble. By the time Mr Gardiner appeared on the scene I had a fashionable early 70s layered cut, centre parting, fringe just off my eye-brows, ears covered, and brushing the collar at the back.

So, a few days before the wedding ceremony I was dragged along to "Gladys’s".

It was a nightmare, a ladies' salon full of middle aged women having perms or shampoo and sets or such like, a row of old ladies sitting under dryers. I was introduced to Gladys and we sat down to wait. My mother chatted away quite happily with some other ladies. Then a middle aged woman came over and we were ushered into a private cubicle where I was given a pink nylon gown to put on, and I was directed to a chair.

"So, a nice short, tidy haircut for William, is it Mrs Collins?"

"Yes, nice and short and tidy, it's for my wedding you know."

"Yes, and congratulations, I hope it all goes well on your big day, and that you are very happy together."

"Thank you, Lizzie, you are most kind."

Lizzie ran a comb through my hair, rearranging, inspecting, umming and tutting.

"We had better wash before I cut, I think?"

"Yes, indeed." came my mother's reply.

Dressed in my pink frilly gown I was led out to some sinks, the sort where you sit and lean backwards. My hair washed, I led back to the privacy of the cubicle and Lizzie started to cut.

The finished haircut was horrible, I looked like a character from a 60s advert, everything short, neat, severely groomed. My hair was now a couple of inches long on top, parted on the left, and down to a quarter of an inch or so round the back and sides, all done with scissors apart from a sharp squared outline at the back, done with the clippers, and all glued into place with a ton of lacquer.

"How’s that, Mrs Phillips?"

"Lovely. Thank you, Lizzie. That’s beautiful." came my mother's reply.

The pink nylon gown was removed, and we left the shop to exclamations of "Doesn’t he look nice!" from the assembled ladies.

* * * * *

My school friends were merciless: "Skinhead!", "Baldy!", "Joining the Army then?"

It was all both humiliating and unreasonable, I was neither a skinhead nor bald, and a lot of other boys at school had hair at least as short as mine. And I had no intention of joining the Army, and Army haircuts were a lot shorter, anyway!

* * * * *

The wedding itself was a low-key affair. There were just six of us and the registrar. My mother wore a blue outfit, her sister was matron-of-honour, in green. My new step-father despite his military background wore an ordinary, but extremely smart, three piece suit. His two sons, my new step-brothers, a few years older than me, now serving officers, were both in uniform - and very imposing they looked too. And then there was me, self conscious, awkward and uncomfortable in my new suit.

I hardly knew my step brothers, having only met them a handful of times when they were on leave, and I had only seen them in uniform in photographs in Mr Gardiner’s house. I would get to know them better. What I did notice, almost from the outset, was that they called their father "Father" not "Dad", but more often they called him "Sir". Having been given no instructions on what to call him I thought I had better call him "Sir" too. I was a bit reluctant at first, it was too formal, like a teacher at school, but "Mr Gardiner" all the time was a terrible mouthful, and there was not much alternative.

After the ceremony the newly-weds went on a short honeymoon and I stayed a week at my aunt’s.

* * * * *

When the two of them returned a lot of things changed. Firstly, we moved into Mr Gardiner’s large house. My mother gave up work and became a full-time housewife. Mr Gardiner took control of the finances, he gave me my pocket money, more than my mother had ever been able to give me, and he paid all the other expenses.

There were two consequences to this as it directly affected me. Firstly, Mr Gardiner now paid for my clothes, and he made sure they were now conservative, formal clothes. He bought me half a dozen ties, and then it was "Why aren’t you wearing one of those nice ties I bought you, Andrew?" I soon realised I was supposed to wear them routinely. Then every few weeks as he gave me my pocket money he would say "Haircut, lad." and I was expected to say "Yes, sir." and then "Thank you, sir." as he handed me the money. This made it sound like I was saying "Thank you" for being sent for a haircut, nothing could be further from the truth as far as I was concerned. But at least I was allowed to go to my own barber who did a traditional short cut, clippers over comb, crisp and neat, sharp and clean round the edges, rather like the one I had been given by Gladys, but no frilly pink gown and without the tons of lacquer! No more trendy cuts were possible.

* * * * *

One day when John was at home on leave I complained to him about having to have my hair cut so often. I don’t know why I thought I would get any sympathy from him, after all he was in the army, and his hair, in accordance with then current regulations, was always as least as short as mine, and generally rather shorter.

His answer was "When Charles and I were your age we were sent to the barber’s every three weeks, and we were always given a proper scalping. We would come out shaved up the back and round the ears, and with not much left on top either! But we did not mind. That was just how it was. That was how school required it. That was how Father required it, he used to send us to the barber’s during the school holidays just the same. And I think he would be very pleased if you had the same traditional boy’s short back and sides as we had."

I hardly knew what to say to this, so I said nothing, and after a pause John started to talk of other matters.

* * * * *

Time passed. I actually rather enjoyed life with a new family, and my new step-father carried on being as kind to me as he had been when he and my mother were still courting.

I stopped resenting having to wear jackets and ties and keeping my hair very short and tidy. I began to have a different sense of who I was, I felt like someone else, someone smarter, someone more conservative, someone more mature. And there was feedback to how I felt about school. Previously, I had hated my school uniform and wore it any old how, scruffily undermining the smart appearance it was designed to project. Now, I did up my school tie in the "half-Windsor" knot my step-father taught me, I "bulled" my shoes to a mirror shine as he had shown me like they do in the army, I kept everything clean and well card for, was careful always to call the schoolmasters "Sir", and I was generally a bit smarter, better behaved and more conscientious than I had been in the past .

* * * * *

One summer morning after breakfast my step father and I were sitting on the garden bench drinking coffee.

I had something on my mind, so I tentatively began, "Mr Gardiner?"

"Yes, Andrew?"

"Is it OK if I call you "Dad" now, sir?" - I was well fed up by now of always having to call him "Mr Gardiner" or "Sir".

"I have never liked "Dad". My other boys always call me "Father" or "Sir", as you will have observed. You may call me "Father" if you wish, indeed I would be very honoured if you did so. But before you start to call me "Father", think carefully, because I shall treat you the same way I treated my other boys at your age, and I shall expect exactly the same of you as I expected of them, so do not make any decision hurriedly, but think carefully, as I say."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

Well, I did think about it, I really wanted a "proper" father. What I did not think about was any possible down side.

* * * * *

The next morning I came down to breakfast.

"Good morning, Andrew."

"Good morning, sir." I paused a moment, "I mean, good morning, Father."

Mr Gardiner paused and then said very slowly and clearly "Good morning, my son."

My mother came into the room just as we were speaking. "Oh, isn’t that nice, a real father and son now. I always thought you would get on well together."

We ate breakfast, and began to discuss our plans for the day. My father explained that he had errands to run in town, and then turned to me "And you must come with me, son, we have a little business we must see to."

Puzzled, I said "Yes, Father." anyway.

* * * * *

We visited several shops, dropped off his purchases in the car, and I thought we would now be going back home. But no, we set off again back into the centre of town and then down a narrow side street. I saw a barber’s pole sticking out, and I began to suspect what might be coming. We went down the street and arrived outside an old-fashioned shop. It looked an awful lot like the barber shop my mother had taken me to when I was younger, which I had hated so much. Now I knew what this was about.

I cursed myself, but what could I do? I had walked into this, and I could not have things both ways.

My father gestured to me to precede him into the shop, and I did as I was told.

The shop was old, faded, it looked like it had not changed much in 40 years. My heart sank.. There were three barber’s chairs, but only one, elderly barber. There were two gentlemen waiting, also elderly, and a row of shiney wooden waiting chairs.

The barber looked round as we entered. "Good morning, Mr Gardiner."

"Good morning, Mr Collins, I have brought my new step-son, Andrew, to see you."

"Good morning, Andrew, nice to meet you. Take a seat. I won’t be long."

We sat down to wait. I sat there, wondering quite what I had let myself in for. What John had said about his boyhood haircuts came back to me. Would it be as bad as he had described, or maybe just a bit shorter than what I had now?

Eventually it came to my turn. I did not want to move. My father put his hand on my back and pushed me forwards so I had to stand up. Surrendering most unwillingly I walked over to the chair, I sat, and the cape was drawn round me.

Having got me where he wanted me: in the chair, caped up, powerless, and unable to escape, the barber walked away to take the previous customer’s money. This seemed to take some time, I suppose they were talking. I sat there, looking at myself in the mirror, full of anxious anticipation about what might be coming.

The barber returned. "Yes, sir?" He was looking at my father, of course.

"Short back and sides for the lad, please, Mr Collins. Nice and short please."

"Short back and sides, all done nice and short, sir? Very good, sir."

Without saying a word to me, the barber grasped hold of my head, pushed my head down, and fired up his clippers.

The noise! Like a big old petrol lawn mower, right next to my ear!.

And those clippers were sharp. "Ouch!" I said, but under my breath. I must not murmur. I must not flinch. The barber pushed the clippers in hard, it verged on the painful.

As he cut the barber pushed my head this way and that, right and left, down forwards and back up, but mostly he had it pushed down. And I did not dare to move even when the barber stepped away. I just kept my head still until he moved it again.

So I sat there, head bowed, quiet and obedient, and the clippers made their way up my temples, round my ears, and up the back, shaving everything in their path.

The barber moved on to the top, with scissors and thinning shears, and I watched ruefully as so much of my beautiful hair slid slowly down the cape and joined the hair, tissues and other detritus accumulating on the floor.

The haircut proceeded, basically in silence, the occasional question from the barber was addressed to my father. The only thing the barber said to me was "Close your eyes, lad." as he cut my fringe, at an angle, low over my left eyebrow and high over my right.

Exactly as John had described his own haircuts, I was given "a proper scalping, shaved up the back and round the ears, and with not much left on top either!"

Most of my hair had by now been removed from my head and discarded onto the barber-shop floor. The process was brought to an end by the barber slopping warm soapy water round my ears and the back of my neck and scraping away at them with an old-fashioned open razor.

"How’s that, sir? Short enough, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Mr Collins, that looks very much better. Indeed, quite as it should be." said my father.

"Any dressing, sir? A little grease to give the boy’s hair a nice shine, sir?"

"Certainly, that would be excellent, thank you, Mr Collins."

Mr Collins scooped some sort of stuff out of a pot and smeared it over his hands.

The thick, sticky, offensive gunk was massaged into my hair, and then the barber took his comb, created a razor-sharp parting and then he lifted my fringe up and back into a little bit of a quiff.

I looked at myself in the mirror, white skin over the ears, hair controlled, glossy and shining, groomed to the ultimate, everything about it was so wrong and so NOT what we wanted in 1973!

I glanced down at the cape, my lovely hair lying there, and still more of it in a pile on the floor.

Finally, Mr Collins took the hand mirror and showed me the back. "All clean shaved up the back and sides for you. All nice and smart, and everything "As it should be." for you, young man."

The cape was removed, I was released. I stood there, feeling a bit roughed-up, relieved it was over, and I was brushed down.

"Thank you, Mr Collins." said my father "a splendid job, indeed. Thank you."

I observed the satisfied look on his face.

"A pleasure to have been of assistance, sir."

"Thank you, Mr Collins." I politely echoed - I knew it was expected, and there was not much point in trying to say anything else was there?

Mr Collins then offered me his hand to shake, so, to rub salt into the wound, I had to shake his hand and say "Thank you", rather resentfully, once again.

"It would be polite to call Mr Collins "Sir", Andrew."

"Yes, sir." Mr Collins offered me his hand once more, so I had to shake it again. "Thank you, sir. Thank you for my haircut, sir."

My father turned to me. "Now, my son, that is what I would call an appropriate haircut. It is the haircut of a young gentleman. So let us keep things that way. Let us have you with your shoes shined, trousers pressed, clean white shirt and a tie, looking every bit as a young gentleman should."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

On the way back home in the car, and for days afterwards, I could not help feeling the bristles, the stubble, and the shaved skin.

I kept on looking at myself in my bedroom mirror, unable to get used to my new appearance. Comb it this way or that as I might, the effect was just the same. It was a brutal, savage, hatchet job of a haircut. No hair above my ears, just a bit left on the top of my head. The nakedness of it was appalling, but weirdly exciting. Then there was the feeling that I was now under a kind of strict military-type discipline, discipline I had volunteered for by calling Mr Gardiner "Father". From now on everything I did, how I dressed and especially how my hair was cut, would all be regulated, and no longer under my control.

This kind of regulation was bad wasn’t it? Or maybe it was good? - I could not come to terms with the contradictions.

(I did try washing out the offensive gunk that the barber had put in my hair. It proved highly resistant, and only after repeated attempts did I manage to remove most, but by no means all, of it. Then I was back in the barber’s chair for another heavy pruning and more grease applied.)

* * * * *

School was Hell, but I had heard it all before, no one had anything new to say.

* * * * *

As before, every three weeks, as I was given my pocket money, I would be given some extra with the injunction "Haircut, lad."

I would say "Yes, father." and then "Thank you, sir." as he handed me the money. As before, it felt like I was being made to say "Thank you." for a haircut I did not want, or, rather more accurately, I was being given my orders, and, like a good soldier, I was carrying them out without question. There was of course no point going to my old barber for a "trim" or a "tidy up", that was not an option. What was required was that I should return to Mr Collins for my regular scalping, followed by a good application of grease, and that was my hair dealt with for the next three weeks.

* * * * *

Things carried on like this for some time, it might have been four or five months since my mother and new father married, then one day I was sent off to the barber’s as usual.

This time I tried an experiment, a small attempt at teenage rebellion.

"Just a trim, today, please, Mr Collins."

"Just a trim?"

"Yes, please, just tidy it up, please."

"You’re Brigadier Gardiner’s lad, aren’t you, his new stepson?

This information that my new father had been a Brigadier was new to me. I knew that he had been an army officer, but he was modest and self-effacing and did not talk about his rank. I had no idea he had been so senior - no wonder he was so difficult to say "No" to.

"Yes, I am." I answered.

"So he is now your father?"

"Yes, sir."

"So he is the boss then?"

"Yes, sir." I replied, rather more cautiously.

"Well, I know your father likes to see you looking smart, he likes you with that fresh out from the barber's hands look, you know, with a good amount of clean-shaved white skin round your ears and up the back of your head."

"Yes, sir."

"Well then, lad, we had better keep the boss happy then, hadn’t we?"

Defeated, I was forced to concede. "Yes, sir."

"So, it’s short back and sides then, isn’t it, lad?"

"Yes, sir."

No more experiments, no more attempts at teenage rebellion.

I told myself that discipline was good, wasn’t it? And so was a smart, neat, disciplined appearance? With short, well-groomed, disciplined hair?

Besides, a good scalping was traditional for boys and young men, it was the right and appropriate thing to teach discipline and respect.


"Like it or lump it" as they say. So I had better "Like it" hadn’t I?

Better just submit to this, co-operate, adopt a new more constructive attitude. So from now on it would be "Short back and sides, please, Mr Collins." said with a certain amount of enthusiasm. "Yes, please, sir." to the offer of grease, and a sincerely meant "Thank you, sir." when it was all finished.

And I came to realise that I did rather like this. I rather liked running my fingers through the sharp stubble and bristles. I rather enjoyed Mr Collins massaging grease into my hair. I liked my hair sleek, glossy and gleaming.

And I liked calling Mr Gardiner "Father". I liked calling Mr Gardiner "Sir". I even quite liked calling Mr Collins "Sir".

I began to think that when I left school I might follow my brothers into the Army.

As a teenager I had to tell myself that discipline and a disciplined, smart appearance were important. Now that I am older I know how vital they are in training-up a boy for the duties of manhood.

And I did join the Army, to my father’s delight.

"Thank you, Father. Thank you, sir."

THE END

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