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Silence is more than gold. by vykonavatel77

Silence is more than gold.
I like to remember my childhood, which was full of experiences. In the 70s of the 20th century, it was fashionable for boys to have longer hair that had to cover the ears, cover the shirt collar, and the bangs covered the eyes or even the nose. I also belonged to this group. When my parents sent me to get a haircut, I went to a modern unisex barbershop to get my hair done. But some boys had very conservative parents who did not allow them to have longer hair and went to old-fashioned barbershops where they usually got short haircuts.
My best friend and classmate Bobby had a military officer father who forced him to have short hair. In 1973 we were 12 years old. Bobby's hair was grown and he became one of us who had longer hair.
It was Friday and I noticed that Bobby was sad and pensive. It took me a while before he admitted to me that his father, who had been abroad on a mission for about half a year, would be coming on a vacation of several weeks and would definitely have to get a haircut at a barber shop that was near the military garrison and where mostly soldiers went for their regular hairstyle. I started comforting him that maybe dad wouldn't want his haircut. When he sees him, he will find out that longer hair suits him, or he will want a little haircut in a modern barbershop. But Bobby didn't really believe my words and said he would probably lose his hair at Sergeant Simson's barber shop. I didn't know how to comfort him anymore, so I thought that he would be happier if I told him that I had never been to an old-fashioned barbershop, and certainly not an army barbershop. That it might not be as bad as he describes it. And it would be interesting to get a haircut in such a barbershop. I didn't realize what I said to him and how seriously he takes my words. On the way from school, we agreed that I would meet him and go to the playground.
Less than an hour later I rang Bobby's doorbell. His father opened the door for me. I was stunned for a moment. After a while, I told him that I came to pick up Bobby, because we agreed to go to the playground. Then his father told me that first Bobby had to go get a haircut. I realized that Bobby at school was right and his father wasn't going to like his hair. Before I could say anything, Bobby told dad that I said at school how I wanted to get a haircut with him. I didn't want to admit that I only said that to comfort Bobby, but I didn't want to lose my hair. I quickly thought how to get out of this situation. At first I made the excuse that I didn't have money for a barber for a haircut. But Bobby's father smiled and said he would pay for me. Then I thought of an excellent excuse. I said I didn't know if my parents would like it if I got a haircut with Bobby. But his father reacted quickly and said to me: Michael, call your parents and ask them if you can go with us to the barber.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number to our home. Picked up by my dad. Before I could say anything, Bobby's father took the phone from my hand and said. Hello, Bobby has to go get a haircut and Michael would like to get a haircut with him too. I hoped that father would not agree and I would be saved. Well, my father told him that he would be happy if I went to the barber with them.
Me, Bobby and his father finally went to the bus stop to take us to the outskirts of the city, to the military base. We were quiet the whole way. I was wondering how Bobby's father would let us get a haircut. Or whether I'll have short hair like Bobby used to, since his dad was on a mission.
We entered Sergeant Simson's barber shop. The sergeant was a 35-year-old man with a short haircut. In his chair sat some soldier who had a very short haircut. Another 3 soldiers were sitting on the waiting chairs. We also sat down on the waiting chairs. My eyes stopped at images of military short hairstyles. I didn't realize how time was passing, but when the barber said which boy goes first? Bobby's father told me to go sit in the sergeant's barber chair. My legs were breaking. I sat down in the chair. Sergeant Simson wrapped me in a green sheet and asked how he should cut my hair. Bobby's father said something to him, but I didn't understand what kind of hairstyle it was. The barber took a comb from his top pocket and began combing my thick, long hair. Then he used a comb to lift the hair, which he cut with scissors. About 10 centimeters of hair started to fall on Placht, and there was still quite long hair of about 8 centimeters left on the head. It wasn't very short and I was satisfied that it wouldn't be a very short haircut. The barber cleaned the sheet with a hand brush from the cut hair that was on my shoulders and around my neck, which had fallen on my lap or on the ground.
The barber hung an electric clipper from a hook. He pushed my head forward so hard that my chin was touching my chest. He put a clipper on my neck, which whirred like a blender when it was turned on. I could feel the clipper moving along the back of my head. Before long, he cut my hair on both sides of my head. Almost all hair they were cut and I saw my ears without hair. I have about 6 millimeters of hair left on my sides. Finally, he also cut the hair on the top of my head, which was no longer than 15 millimeters. He combed them forward and straightened my very short bangs, I could see my entire forehead without hair. My throat was already dry and my stomach started to tighten. I closed my eyes and began to remember the haircut Bobby used to have when he got his haircut at Sergeant Simson's barber shop. Meanwhile, the barber used new scissors to cut the remaining hair around the ears and part of the nape of the neck. With the help of a comb, he shortened the remaining hair on my sides and the back of my neck.
I opened my eyes as the sergeant began to apply white foam over my ears and neck.
When I was freed from the sheet and saw myself in the mirror, I could not recognize myself. A frightened boy with white 4-centimeter arches above his ears was looking at me. I tried with my fingers to find out how it looks on the back of the head. I still couldn't imagine how short my hair was left behind.
But before long, Sergeant Simson was shaving Bobby's head too, and I could see that his white, clean-shaven skin was about 11-12 centimeters above the collar of his shirt.
I began to regret what I had told Bobby at school about how it might not be so bad to get a haircut at Sergeant Simson's barber shop. I realized that sometimes silence is better than gold.
At home, my father told me that he was glad that I liked my short hair and that I finally looked like a boy. I was ashamed to admit that I was just showing off in front of Bobby, but I didn't mean it. Dad said that he and mom agreed that they wouldn't stop me if I wanted to have short hair. All I could manage was that I just wanted to try what it's like to have short hair.
Over the weekend, I shocked all my friends I met with my new hairstyle, and it was the worst among my classmates at school.
I couldn't get used to my new short haircut and wondered how long it would take for my hair to grow back to its original length.
I already believed that Bobby would have a hard time convincing his father that he too could have long hair.

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