Mr Arnold and the ROP by SteDJ

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This is a sequel to "Mr Arnold". I suggest you read that story first if you have not done so already. This story begins in October 1978, when I was 14.

Despite this largely being a work of fiction, there is at least one element of reality in this story: the part where the main character writes an offensive comment on the school blackboard. Unlike Jonathan in this story, I got away with it!

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"Jonathan, can you come downstairs please. Now."
"Oh mum, I’m still doing my homework. Can’t it wait?"
"Alright love, finish your homework, then come down for your hair cutting. I’ll get the stuff ready…"

Oh no, not another haircut. Since starting at my new school, St Vincent’s, six weeks previously, I had gone from being a fashionable 70s teenager with contemporary long hair to a short-back-and-sides 50s throwback, and it seemed that short of a miracle occurring, that was the way I was going to stay for the foreseeable future. On the last day of the school holidays before my first day at St Vincent’s, my mum had given me a botched-up home haircut that looked as though she had cut round a bowl on my head, then on arrival at school, I had been selected for a super-severe scalping at the hands of Mr Arnold, the savage in-house school barber. To avoid a repeat performance, I had to think of a way round my mum going near my head again with a pair of scissors, and I needed to think fast.

Finally finishing my homework, I closed my books and put them in my school bag and began the long walk downstairs. Mum had obviously heard me coming, as she met me at the bottom of the steps in the hallway brandishing the dreaded blue nylon overall that she used on me as a barber cape.

"OK, arms in," she said, holding the overall out in front of me. "Let’s get this done."
Keeping my arms firmly by my sides and avoiding any form of eye contact, I blurted out my carefully rehearsed counter-offensive, "Err, mum, I’ve been meaning to ask you, err… would it be OK if I go with James to his barber for my haircuts instead?"

My friend James, it had transpired, used the services of Richard’s Gent’s Hairdressing, a traditional and long-established barber up on the local shopping parade, and whilst James was clearly subject to a severe clipping every few weeks, it kept him below the radar at school and away from the attention of Mr Arnold.

"You don’t want me to do it?"
"Well, it’s not that. It’s just that last time, I had to have it cut again when I got to school, and he did it too short and so… err…"

Dragging me by the arm into the kitchen where my mum had set up her makeshift barber shop, the argument continued, "Look, Jonathan, it’s no problem. I was going to cut it shorter this time so you wouldn’t need to have it done again at school, so come on, stop wasting time and let’s get on with it."

The thought of receiving a SHORT botched-up haircut from my mother chilled me to the bone. "Please mum, can’t I go with James? Please? Please? I’ll go tomorrow straight after school."

"Alright. But make sure you do. And don’t blame me if you get dragged to the school barber in the meantime. It really does need cutting and if I were you, I’d have it done now if you don’t want to get caught looking like that at school tomorrow."
"Aww, thanks mum." I suddenly felt an intense wave of relief surge through me. "I promise I’ll go tomorrow after school."

And so it came to be. Every four weeks I would go, sometimes alone and sometimes with James, to Richard’s for a short back and sides. After the first couple of visits, the routine was established, and successive haircuts were conducted with few words needing to be exchanged between customer and barber. I would confidently climb up into the imposing black leather chair, Richard would swiftly shroud me in a crisp white nylon cape and tuck it in tightly at the neck, the chair would be purposefully pumped up, the clippers would decisively hum their way round the back and sides of my head, the scissors would noisily snip away at the top, all the time tufts of hair raining down past my eyes and coming to rest in small piles round my shoulders and down the front of my white cape. The routine would conclude with a spine-tingling scrape round the edges with a cut-throat razor, a blob of horrible sticky hair cream would be roughly massaged into the remains of the hair on top of my head, a sharp side parting fashioned with the comb, a vigorous brush down and a glimpse of the back of my shorn head in the hand mirror. Chair down, cape off, blazer on and I was back out in the street again; all in less than fifteen minutes. I can’t say I ever enjoyed the experience but saw it as a necessary evil and an effective way of keeping away from Mr Arnold, who given the chance, like last time, would only have butchered my hair so much shorter.

Mr Arnold did still make his presence known at school in the form of random haircut inspections, followed up for a few unfortunates with a summary scalping, but I fortunately managed to avoid his attention for several months, which is where this story truly begins.

It was the last day of the summer term and everyone, staff and pupils alike, was in high spirits, full of anticipation of the blissful six weeks’ holiday to come. The last lesson of the day was as usual a form period with our class tutor, Mr Dixon, where we would normally catch up on homework or lesson prep, but that day we did little more than mess around and chat, willing the clock to finally get to the magic hour of half past three â€" and freedom!

I should point out at this juncture that I was delighted at the news that we would have a new form tutor the following year, as Mr Dixon was among my least favourite teachers in the school. His subject was P.E. and he appeared to relish playing the bully, seemingly getting some kind of perverted pleasure out of ridiculing those like myself who were hopeless at running, jumping and throwing things. I had developed into a quiet, nerdy studious sort who flourished in other disciplines, including playing chess, singing in the school choir, and participating in the after-school poetry club. Of course, Mr Dixon did have his fans, most of whom excelled on the sports pitch, and as the last lesson of the school year drew to a close and Mr Dixon left the room for the last time, it was a bunch of these kids who sowed the seeds for the unfortunate series of events that was to follow.

Mr Dixon normally kept the blackboard chalk locked away in his desk drawer, but his "fan club" were quick to notice a number of pieces of chalk sitting there on the shelf beneath the blackboard and wasted no time in hastily scribbling a selection of creepy farewell messages of adulation to their beloved form tutor all over the blackboard; "Bye-bye Mr Dixon!"; Mr Dixon is a star!"; "We love Mr Dixon"; "Mr Dixon is the best!"; and a whole load more vomit-inducing tributes to our now former class tutor.

A sense of revulsion rising within me, and totally out of character, I saw a wonderful opportunity as I confidently strode up to the board, grabbed a piece of yellow chalk and scribbled in huge letters across the top of all the previous scrawlings: "Mr Dixon is a w*nker."

Unsurprisingly, there were loud gasps of shock from some of the other pupils, amazed at my unexpected audacity, but what I hadn’t bargained for was what followed.

A deathly silence filled the room as a large hand landed heavily on my shoulder: Mr Dixon’s hand. Oh sh*t. Where did he come from? My heart missed a beat, and I flushed red. The room momentarily started spinning and I thought I was going to collapse.
I was in trouble. Big trouble.

"Come this way, please, Hayes. Bring your things with you. The rest of you, off you go home." Mr Dixon spoke uncharacteristically slowly and calmly, which only added to the terror of the situation.

"Sir, I’m really sorry…"

"Don’t speak, Hayes. You can save your grovelling for Dr Hewson. As far as I’m concerned, what you did was totally unacceptable; I caught you red-handed, banged to rights. I will be leaving it up to Dr Hewson to decide on the course of action to be taken from here onwards."

Dr Hewson was the school head, well known for his old-fashioned strict disciplinarian approach to managing the school and well known for administering the cane to whichever unfortunate he deemed it appropriate. We soon arrived outside his office.

"Wait here, Hayes," instructed Mr Dixon, still speaking in a most untypical soto voce manner, and I was left standing in the corridor wondering how on earth I had got myself into this horrendous situation, and what awful punishment I was about to receive for my stupidity. Surely Dr Hewson would realise that I was one of the good kids, and would let me off with a minor reprimand. Surely?

After a couple of minutes, the door opened, and I was summoned into the headmaster’s wood-panelled inner sanctum. Dr Hewson, a tall portly figure dressed in a flowing black academic gown, strode across the room and took up his position standing opposite me. Grabbing me firmly by the chin, he forced my head back and fixed me with his black staring eyes.

"Right boy, let’s keep this simple. Yes or no, you, Jonathan Hayes, wrote a highly offensive comment about one of my colleagues, Mr Dixon, on the blackboard of Room 22 a few minutes ago?"

My eyes started to well up with tears, and I blubbered, "Yes I did, sir."

"And yes or no, you need to receive punishment for this unacceptable behaviour?"

"Yes sir," I muttered.

"Excellent, that wasn’t difficult, was it, Hayes? Mr Dixon, you may leave this to me."

Mr Dixon left the room, and I was left shaking in my shoes staring at the floor with tears running down my flushed red cheeks.

Dr Hewson then turned to his secretary. "Do me a favour, Miss Williams, can you ring down and see if Jeff is still there. If so, tell him from me that I would be most grateful if he would deal with one final pupil for the year."

Miss Williams picked up the phone and could soon be heard conversing with someone, presumably Jeff, whoever he was. Dr Hewson turned back to me. "Growing our hair for the summer are we, Hayes?"

"Not really sir."

It had been six weeks since my last visit to Richard’s barbers, and my hair had definitely started to contravene school regulations, now brushing my collar, hanging over my eyebrows and just beginning to grow over my ears. However, I had decided to risk not getting it cut and was looking forward to having a bit more hair until the inevitable big chop I would need to undergo before returning to school at the beginning of September.

Miss Williams, concluding her phone conversation announced that Jeff was indeed still on the premises and was just tidying up before leaving for the summer. "He says he’s more than happy to oblige. Do you want me to take the boy down?"

"If you would be so kind. Perhaps you can stay with him and bring him back to me when he’s finished. Oh, and tell Jeff it’s an ROP. He’ll know what you mean."

Jeff? Deal with one final pupil? Take the boy down? ROP? What on earth was all this about? Whatever it was, I was sure it wouldn’t be pleasant, but I was too terrified to ask…

"Right, Hayes, come with me. Let’s get this over with," trilled Miss Williams, and we both set off apace through the now deserted dingy corridors of the school, down some steps… and… straight into Mr Arnold’s school barber shop.

Now it all made sense. Mr Arnold’s first name was Jeff, but what was ROP? That too quickly became apparent. Mr Arnold had started his career as an army barber and was therefore fluent in terminology like this. ROP was old fashioned army-speak for ‘Restriction of Privileges’ or put simply: PUNISHMENT.

Miss Williams took a seat on the waiting bench as Mr Arnold grabbed the pale blue nylon cape of doom from its hook on the wall, violently snapped it open, glared at me and without a word, pointed at the barber’s chair and curtly nodded at me to take a seat.

By now, my emotions were in a state of complete turmoil, a mixture of shock, terror, and abject fear. If what Mr Arnold had put me through last time he scalped me wasn’t "ROP", then what the hell would this turn out to be?

I obediently did as I was told, and within seconds, the huge rustly cape was very tightly tucked into the back of my neck and the chair was quickly adjusted upwards courtesy of the foot pedal to a suitable height for Mr Arnold to inflict the required "punishment" high above the black and white tiled floor. In the mirror, I could see Miss Williams paying keen attention with her piercing eyes in anticipation of the unfolding drama.

Perhaps rather foolishly, I decided to have another go at mitigating the situation.

"Please sir, I’m really sorry…"
Mr Arnold’s response was firm and unequivocal. "DON’T. SPEAK."

It would have been no use anyway, as any attempt at communication would have been totally drowned out as Mr Arnold fired up the noisiest pair of electric hair clippers I had ever heard. Last time, the black clippers Mr Arnold used on me made more of a dull humming noise, but these menacing maroon coloured cylindrical shaped monsters clattered away like they were powered by a diesel engine and quickly made light work of obliterating all the hair on the back and sides of my head, efficiently transferring it all into fluffy clumps that rapidly fell all around my shoulders and down into my lap. Mr Arnold kept hold of my head with an iron grip to prevent me from moving as the turbo-powered machine of destruction continued to blitz its way around my head, the metal blades soon feeling uncomfortably hot against my poor bald scalp.

At last, the clippers were silenced, and as I sat there, my ears ringing from the noise, Mr Arnold proceeded with the "punishment" by daubing copious quantities of hot shaving foam around my hairline, before giving the back and sides of my head a thorough scraping with a cut-throat razor. Obviously, I couldn’t see the back, but if the sides were anything to go by, It was fair to assume that I was left totally bald at least a couple of inches above my hairline all around the back and sides.

For the final part of the "punishment", Mr Arnold lowered the chair a little before setting about the top of my head with a large pair of noisy steel scissors. Until then, I had felt quite pleased that the hair on top of my head was getting on for four inches long and would probably grow by another inch or so by the end of the summer. That idea, however, came tumbling down along with my hair itself as the rasping snipping reached fever pitch and I was soon left with barely an inch on top. Chunks of hair three inches long rained down in abundance before my eyes, and parts of the blue cape soon became hidden under a furry carpet of my blond locks.

Mr Arnold continued to snip away for some minutes, going over and over the same areas until he was satisfied that he hadn’t missed a single hair, and it was only then that the snipping finally stopped, and the scissors were replaced back in the top pocket of Mr Arnold’s white overall. A smearing of grease smoothed my hair down flat to my scalp, I was given a vigorous brushing down and I was finally ready to be released from my "punishment". If I thought my last haircut from Mr Arnold was short, then this was in another league â€" apart from a small side-parted cap of inch-long strands glued down to the top of my head, I was completely bald. None of this seemed real, and I expected to wake up and find that it had all been a bad dream, but alas, this was reality, and I was stuck with it.

After at least ten minutes of silence, Mr Arnold finally spoke, "There we are, one ROP. Jean, tell Dr Hewson that I’m here for another hour if he wants me to take any more off." Take any more off? There was hardly anything left to take off! I assumed he must be joking, but then again, anything was possible with Mr Arnold.

With that, I was freed from my "punishment" and was swiftly escorted back to Dr Hewson’s office. As we walked along the dark corridors, I tried without success to relieve the uncomfortable itching created by all the stray hairs that had found their way down inside my shirt; and that despite having been nearly strangled by the tightness of Mr Arnold’s blue cape around my neck. To say I felt conspicuous was an understatement, but at least there were no other pupils in school by now to witness me with my tragic new look.

"Excellent, much better," declared Dr Hewson on clapping eyes on the results of Mr Arnold’s brutal onslaught. I trust that has given you some food for thought."

"Yes sir," I meekly replied, puzzled to see Dr Hewson suddenly rearranging the furniture and placing a wooden armchair in front of me.

"Now drop your trousers and underpants, and bend over the arm of the chair" instructed Dr Hewson. "Miss Williams, can you pass me the cane please."

I froze. Surely not. Surely, I had been punished enough. This was becoming too much to bear. All because of a momentary lapse of judgement and a silly mistake….

"Please sir… Please…"

Dr Hewson was now standing over me flexing the cane in a most menacing way. "Five strokes could easily become ten…"

With that, I did as I was told, leant over the chair, and Dr Hewson did his worst. After five vicious and expertly delivered strokes of the cane to my bare backside, the agony was excruciating and the tears were in free flow, so I was only too eager to comply with the headmaster’s final demand:

"Right, Hayes, get dressed and get out of my office. I don’t want to see you in here ever again."

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