Clipper Club, Part 1 by Vittore

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Clipper Club, Part 1
At this sports bar where I used to go, there was always a cluster of guys having a grand old time. They were young and athletic, or at least in good physical shape, drinking beer and talking in loud voices, to be heard over the sound system. Some of these guys must have been into weight lifting, from the look of their bulging arms and chests.
The remarkable thing was, they all had short hair, a crewcut, a flattop, or some variation of a buzz. Some had shaved sides, and one had gone all the way, a full head shave. He wasn’t old enough to be naturally bald, so it must have been a deliberate choice.
I couldn’t help staring at these guys. They were having so much fun, laughing at each other’s jokes and pretending to be offended. They would punch an arm, slap a butt, and grab a neck, all in the way of boys horsing around. There might have been eight or ten of them on a Friday night. That was when they showed off their fresh haircuts.
Their buddies teased them, said they were still shaggy and didn’t get their money’s worth at the barbershop. They said, what did you do, ask for a light trim? They egged each other on to get shorter haircuts. From week to week some of the guys did go shorter, from a crewcut to a buzz, a fade, or a high-and-tight. One guy was getting shaved higher and higher on the sides. Maybe some of them were military or police, I don’t know.
The bald guy said that was the only real haircut, and everyone else was a wimp. They said he was jealous of their sharp styles, and the head shave was an easy out, not really a style at all. I thought the bald guy looked handsome, very masculine, with a stocky build. He couldn’t have been over thirty.
My hair was a mousy brown, cut in what barbers call a regular, and I was never a jock. I wore glasses from age eleven and was small for my age. I was pathetic at throwing a ball or catching it. The only sport I was good at was running, short and long distance. At age twenty, I finally reached adult height, but I stayed thin. I never thought these guys would talk to me or even notice me lurking.
I was wrong, though. One night, as I stood at the bar, the bald guy shoved his way beside me, gave the bartender his order, then turned to me.
"Hey, buddy, why linger here when all the fun is over there?" He nodded toward the group.
Tongue-tied, I stared at him and swallowed hard. Up close, his freshly shaved scalp was smooth all over. He wore a black polo shirt that clung to his rounded pecs and biceps.
"Barry," he said. "And you are?"
"Vic. My name is Italian, Vittore, but you can use Vic."
"Yes, I can." A fresh bottle of beer in hand, Barry grabbed me with the other and dragged me with him to the corner where his friends congregated.
"Gentlemen, may I present Vic."
Lots of handshakes, backslapping, and knocking of beer bottles. They told me their names, Rick, Wendel, Ace, Porkchop, and so on. They looked critically at my hair, or so I imagined, then went back to whatever they were discussing, maybe a football game. Barry made small talk with me, and put me at ease. Finally, I had the nerve to ask what was on my mind.
"Is this a club?"
"Nothing formal, just a bunch of guys who like each other."
"And who like short hair?"
"You could say that." Barry smiled mysteriously. "You could call it the clipper club."
"It was nice of you to introduce me, but would I fit in?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Well, for a start, you could loosen up a little, be sociable. And you could use a haircut."
I swallowed hard again.
"Maybe not as extreme as mine, but look around, Vic. You like what you see?"
"Yes."
"Be the man you secretly admire. And if you need a push, we can help."

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