You've Got to Fit the Part by Lemon

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As I flicked the cape off, sending freshly clipped bristles flying to the floor, my shorn client commented, "A busload of recruits arrives on base in a few days. I heard they could use an extra pair of hands to give induction cuts. You should close up shop and lend a hand, Jake." My client, Brad, was a young army officer. Although my shop was a ways into town, a few of the officers appreciated my finer touch and went off-base for a cut. Brad continued, "I mean, Will's fine, but it's just him, and it starts to take a toll on you, that many heads in one day."

Brad's suggestion piqued my curiosity. I specialized in short cuts: high n' tights, flattops, crew cuts. And nothing excited me more than a new client with a mop of hair requesting something "nice and short." Sometimes even if they didn't suggest it, I'd coax them into it. (Of course, a few long-haired clients left with their coifs. Outright ignoring a customer's requested cut wouldn't be good for business.) Despite the short-clipped clientele, I ironically sported a brushed-back middle part; the sides, although not overly long, were plush.

I wet my lips but kept the twinkle out of my eye. "I'd be happy to, but I don't want to invade another barber's turf."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll give Will the shop number and let him know you're happy to help. It pays, too. Probably not as much as you make in a day here, but it's not volunteer work."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. Sure, pass along my number to Will." I kept the excitement out of my voice. My heart pounded. What if Will doesn't want my help after all? Well, nothing lost, nothing gained. If I couldn't shear some recruits, I still had my shop. A few clients a week promised some exciting transformations. No--if I got the call from Will, that would just be a bonus to my fulsome career.

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One steady pass after the other, I removed my new client's thick padding in brown clumps, a brunette avalanche onto the linoleum floor. My newest client (I couldn't remember his name--I'd have to catch it when I finished up) requested "something short for the summer." I gave him the opportunity to provide further instructions, but he only responded, "I'll leave it to you." He perhaps regretted that response now, but I wasn't overly concerned. His calm, casual attitude had morphed into something sheepish--and oh did he look like a little lamb brought in for its first shearing.

I was just about to deal with the top when the phone rang. I politely excused myself and answered. A butterscotch voice sounded from the other end, "Hello, Jake?"

"This is he."

"Jake, a pleasure. Will Dunning at the base. Lieutenant Phillips passed your number along, I hope you don't mind."

My heart sang. I kept my composure. "Not at all. I told Brad, er, Lieutenant Phillips, that he could give you my shop's number. He mentioned you possibly needing help with the new recruits," I responded coolly. I didn't want to sound desperate.

"Yes, yes, I'm capable of handling the base's hair needs on a regular basis, but on induction day, it's just too many heads! I'm almost sixty now and--well, you're probably busy now. Anyway, look, I don't have much to offer, but there's room in the budget to pay you for the day. Would you come down on induction day and help me out?"

My moment arrived. "Will, I'd be happy to help. And yes, I need to return back to work, but don't worry, we can sort out the details, compensation, et cetera, we can handle it after. I'll see you in a few days." Will thanked me, and the receiver clicked.

I returned to my client with a bowl of hair flowing over his clipped sides. "Sorry about that. Alright, the top, yeah? Still, leaving it all to me?" But for break caused by the phone call, I wouldn't have afforded him this second opportunity to intervene.

He gave a shy smile. "Well, perhaps we should leave a bit of length on top." He paused and turned up the corner of his mouth. "But." A drawn out "but," teeming with anticipation. "I think it will be pretty hot out soon." Toying with me. He came in here with the intent to be shorn and knew I would deliver.

I delivered. "Right, I got it." I snapped a #3 metal blade on and took a pass right down the middle. Caramel-colored curtains rained to the cape. As I peeled off the inches, he left his mouth slightly ajar, in shock he had let me do it and doubly in shock that I let him. I kept the clippers running, leaving him with a nice clipped pelt on top. After I finished, I gave it a nice rub, the sensation of silky strands replaced by brushy bristles. "That should keep you cool." He managed a smile through the shock, and I saw his eyes linger, just for a moment, on my plush waves, in stark contrast to his new cropped look. The induction cuts would be fun.

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I arrived bright and early as Will instructed in a follow-up call. A groundsperson--again, as Will had arranged--led me to the base barbershop, a bare, rectangular room. No décor, just a line of folding chairs facing three barber chairs and a full-length mirror. Only one chair had the markings of full-time use: a barber's license identifying "William F. Dunning," a Polaroid family photograph tacked to the mirror, and an assortment of tools. A second chair had a complement of tools right behind it (just as Will said it would). A full-length mirror reflected the entire row of folding chairs. "Will should be here any minute. Make yourself comfortable!"

After the groundsperson left, I admired myself in the mirror. I felt a bit . . . naughty . . . at the thought that these young men would have their locks lopped off by a barber with a plush head of hair. I was sure many of the recruits would sport a look similar to the one I wore now: brushed back curtains, the sides combed toward the back, creating dirty blonde waves that crashed together at my nape.

Having nothing better to do, I took a seat in the barber chair, presumably the one meant for me, and spun myself toward the mirror, waiting for Will. Before too long, an older gentleman announced himself in the same butterscotch voice I recognized on the shop phone, "Will Dunning--you must be Jake!" I whipped my head around and saw Will, watery blue eyes and a salt-and-pepper high n' tight. I started to get up, when Will continued, "Please, no need!" I relaxed back into the chair.

"Will, it's a pleasure."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine," he replied sweetly. "Lieutenant Phillips described your hair perfectly." I registered the odd comment as a cape sailed over me and Will snapped it snug around my neck, somehow simultaneously slipping in the tissue paper without my noticing. The chair still faced the mirror, so Will and I could both see each other. He must have noticed my puzzled expression. "Well, Jake, you have to look the part! We can't have you looking like this while you shave the recruits!" His tone exuded a sickening sweetness, but I thought I noted something sinister beneath the surface. Or perhaps that was just me.

"Will, I mean--you didn't mention anything about a haircut for myself." I kept my cool. An attempt at a non-desperate plea, but a plea nonetheless. Perhaps, Will would give me an out somehow.

How foolish of me to think that. "Well, Lieutenant Phillips didn't think you'd mind. He told me you've been going on and on how hot out it's getting." F*** you, Brad. No, f*** you, Mr. Lieutenant Phillips, sir. "Don't worry, Jake, we'll get this sorted."

Will clicked the clippers to life, the whirr of blades filled the silence. He attached a #000 guard. "Now, Jake, it's not my normal practice, but I'll keep you faced to the mirror. As a fellow barber, I think you'd rather have the show." I hated how well he knew me. He pushed my head firmly down, so that I had bring my eyes up while my chin dug into my chest. I felt the clippers lightly pull at my nape and glide up and up and up toward my crown. Will, a deft handler of the machinery, flicked the clippers just so, so that the pad of hair fell into my lap. Pass after pass after pass, Will ran the clippers over the back of my head. I felt the draft from the open door.

Next, Will planted the clippers at the base of my left sideburn. Will scooped the hair out around my ear, sending it flying in fluffballs. Will demolished the other side, then let the clippers rest. He went to his station to clean them in silence, leaving me to sit and stare at myself in the mirror. Except for a difference in color and some slight waves to the top of my head, I looked like the client I cut the other day. Sides clipped to near nothing and a great mop resting on my head, like a small island ready to succumb to the rising tides any moment, gone forever.

Will walked back over, clippers in hand. My eyes glanced to his. I knew he was ready to complete the metamorphosis. Turn me into an inducted recruit, like we'd soon be doing to the rest. I kept my cool, but Will was a fellow barber. He could recognize the panic. "Don't worry. I'm going to take this nice and slow." He raised a comb in his other hand. He brushed the comb back throw my hair, tugging the waves. He repeated the combing several times, commanding my hair slightly straighter each time. Pleased with his work, he tucked the comb right under my bangs, lifted them up, and sent the screaming clippers sailing across. Four-inch long waves tumbled onto the cape, joining the pool of padding clipped off my napes and sideburns.

He repeated the process. Tug. Lift. Clip. I watched--in horror? In shock? In euphoria?--as the curtains were slowly clipped, pruned oaky strands giving way to lighter, blonder spikes. I felt humiliated, I felt excited, I felt sick, I felt sexy. Three-, four-, five-inch locks went cascading down the cape. The waves were gone. In their place, a piney forest of hair, nearly standing at attention, like an overgrown brush cut. Perhaps that's what Will meant when he said, "Don't worry." Yes, I'd undergone a dramatic transformation, but I hadn't been scalped. Again, seeming to notice my shifting emotions, Will explained, not looking in the air, but continuing to clip, sending little bristles to the cape and floor, "I couldn't leave you like you were, but surely you didn't think I was going to make you look like a recruit. No, then you'd end up looking like a little boy shaving other little boys." Ah, relief! Sure, this new look was quite short, but it was manageable. I could still tousle it with some wax, a choppy overgrown buzz cut.

"No, Jake. Not an induction cut. I've giving you a flat top!" A racing heart overcame any feeling of relief. Having clipped the top down to a "manageable" length, Will put tonic in my hair and brushed and blow dried it up and back. "And don't worry, I won't give you a landing strip. Not this time at least," he winked. That did nothing to assuage me. With a #1 guard on the clippers, Will ran them up the back of my head, over the crown, and halfway into the top of my head! He expertly lifted and scooped the clippers, sending a wad of hair onto the cape. I thought my hair was already short, but the tiny mound Will flicked off my head belied just how much length remained. Will took the comb and brought it back to the front again. Deja vu. The spikes, which appeared quite short already only a moment ago, now seemed to tower above the comb's teeth. I thought to myself, "I still have so much hair, and he's about to take it away from me!" And he did. Will slid the clippers over the comb, metal teeth sliding over plastic ones, a gardener mowing down an overgrown, weedy yard. He continued his careful passes of the comb, bringing the rest of my spikes to size, gliding over the comb. Flatter, and flatter, and flatter. Bristles rained down, a piney snowfall. Will did the finishing touches, bringing the sides in nice and square.

Will put down the warm clippers, cleaning them in silence again, and I stared back at myself. The sides were all but shaved, and I tilted my head forward to glimpse the visible circle of at the back of my head, scalp peeking through the short lawn of one-eighth-inch-long hairs. I raised my chin back up. The dirty blonde hair, straight up, flat as pavement. I was in shock, but I had to admit: I looked quite handsome.

"Alright, stop gawking at yourself, pretty boy," Will teased. "The recruits will be here any minute." I had nearly forgotten the purpose of my being here. Will noticed that. "I think after all this, you deserve this experience. You look the part now. Well," he added, "the part of an at least respectable barber. Maybe we'll save the induction cut for next time." I couldn't wait for next time. Just as I had done to many shorn clients in my shop, Will flicked off the cap, sending streams of hair raining across the floor.

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