Like father like son by Sean Barnet

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My father worked in the oil industry. His job entailed going away for long periods, months at a time, and then coming back home, maybe for a few days, maybe for a few weeks or even months until his next assignment. When he was home it was great, he had time and we did a lot of things together.

One thing I did notice though was that every time he came back his hair got shorter and shorter, but then his assignments always seemed to be for hotter and hotter countries!

My hair, on the contrary, was getting longer. This was 1973, I was a teenager. My mother had given way to my protests and stopped taking me to an old demon barber for a "short back and sides", and she now allowed me to go unaccompanied to the barber of my choice, Gino's, which was a modern place that did trendy cuts for teenagers.

* * * * *

Dad had recently returned from Dubai. As was becoming usual, he had had a recent haircut.

The hair round the back and sides was just a haze of fine stubble which glinted when it caught the light, and the top was just long enough to lie flat.

I, on the other hand, had not had a haircut for several months and was looking pretty shaggy. It was the end of summer and a haircut was due before school started again in a week's time.

We were sitting at the dinner table. My mother and father were discussing their plans for the next day. My mother, nothing out of the ordinary, but my father was going out for the day to see some long-time friends.

My mother turned to me. "And you, David, must get your hair cut. Remind me tomorrow at breakfast and I'll let you have the money."

My father got out his wallet. "Don't worry, Elizabeth, I'll handle it." He got out a note and handed it to me. "And some pocket money for you." The note was far more money than any haircut would be.

"Thanks, Dad."

"And make sure you get a proper haircut this time. I think we have had quite enough of you going to the barber's and coming back with a haircut that is barely visible. This time I want to see you with a traditional short back and sides, like your friend Richard has."

I was gobsmacked.

Richard was my best friend. We had been together at the same schools, often in the same class, since we started school at 5 years old.

My father liked Richard. Richard was always very polite and called my father "Sir".

But Richard had an elderly father who insisted on a short back and sides, so every few weeks Richard was sent off to the barber, and he arrived in school the following morning horrendously shorn, shaved white round the back and sides, not that much left on top - ugh!

And now Dad was telling me to get a haircut like Richard had? Was this a joke?

It took me a few moments to take this in and to think what to say, but my sister and her husband Steve were talking away, and Mum and Dad were talking with them. I had lost my moment, even if I could think of an argument that would persuade him. I had pretty much consented by silence it seemed.

I looked at Steve. He was only 24, but he always had a conservative haircut, off the ears, off the collar, squared at the back, parted on one side and brushed away from his forehead, everything always neatly in place. As usual he was wearing a tie. He was another one who called Dad "Sir". Not much hope of any sympathy or support from there then.

What on earth was I going to do? How was I going to get out of this? Have a word with Mum tomorrow? Go to my usual place that did fashionable cuts, and if Dad said anything, say "I thought you were joking"? But Dad was not in the habit of making practical jokes,anyway it was obvious from what he said that he was serious.

I went to bed. Tomorrow would be decision day.

* * * * *

My problem was the first thing on my mind as soon as I woke up. It was on my mind as I dressed and throughout breakfast.

Dad was already out of the house, he had got up early for the journey to visit his friends.

I tried Mum.

"Mum, about this haircut, would it be alright if I went back to Gino's as usual and got it cut there?"

"I'm not sure that Gino's does the sort of traditional short haircut that your father has in mind, David. Richard's hair always looks very nice. Where does Richard have his hair cut? Hadn't you better go there?"

"You know I don't like that sort of haircut. Gino's does much better cuts."

"Yes, but short back and sides is what your father wants, David. Anyway, you used to look so nice when you had it short. Can't you do it again, just to please him? He does so much for you, and it would show a bit of gratitude, a bit of respect for his feelings."

No help from Mum then.

I wanted to talk to Richard. Even though he had been quoted at me by both Mum and Dad, he was still my best friend. But Richard was away on holiday and would not be back for three more days.

Anyway I could easily imagine what he would say. Richard called his own father "Sir", and thought I should call my father "Sir" too. He said that "Sir" showed respect and "Dad" sounded childish. He also said that his short haircuts were "No big thing", and that conforming to his father's wishes in this "small matter" showed "maturity" and "self-discipline". Short hair was "masculine" and "hygienic", and anyway he liked having it short.

So I knew Richard would tell me to go ahead and simply do as my father said.

So how about my other close friend, Andrew?

Andrew had normal parents, and a normal appearance for a 70s teenager. His hair was as long as he could possibly get away with at school, like mine, until now!

I rang Andrew.

His mother answered. "Andrew has gone to visit his aunt in Scotland. He won't be back until Sunday."

He had mentioned this, but it had gone out of my mind.

I was on my own.

I had been hoping to get some help from Andrew, some practical suggestions on how to avoid this awful haircut. The more I thought about it the more my scheme of "I thought you were joking." seemed less and less likely to work.

Honour, Duty and Obedience beckoned like the Grim Reaper. The path of Respect and Maturity opened up before me - menacingly.

I knew Richard would have told me - I was being ridiculous, it was only a haircut - but my feelings were getting out of hand.

There was no getting out of this one.

* * * * *

I knew where Richard got his hair cut, an old barbershop called Denton's, on the appropriately named Butcher's Row.

I walked there, slowly, with detours.

I looked at the shop from the outside. It was not encouraging. It looked old and run down, all too like the dreadful place my mother had taken me to when I was little.

I gingerly pushed open the door, and a bell rang out loudly announcing my arrival. I entered, all eyes turned towards me.

The interior confirmed my fears. Nothing had been updated in the last 30 years maybe. There was an overwhelming smell of tobacco, mixed with other sweeter things. Three chairs, two elderly barbers working. Two elderly gentlemen waiting.

The nearest barber stopped, turned, looked at me and said "Yes, young man?" as though I had no business being there.

"I have come for a haircut." "Well, you have come to the right place, lad." He indicated the row of highly polished wooden waiting chairs, and I sat down.

I was left to my thoughts. What had I done to deserve this? How had I ended up in this position? What had set Dad off? What could I have done to avoid this?

"Next, please!"

I moved one forward in the queue. One place nearer my fate.

This was reality. I was going to have to accept this, and then deal with all the awful flack at school on Monday. No point relying on the fact that I would not be the only one, there was not just Richard, there were quite a lot of other boys who would turn up at school with a variety of short haircuts, some very short, especially the prefects who were expected to set a good example. But I had a much trendier image, and I would be a laughing stock.

"Next, please!"

I was now first in the queue.

I knew that I would have to say those four awful words "Short back and sides", four words that gave the barber freedom to do his worst. Nothing more needed to be said, those four words were enough. And I knew the man would delight in giving a scruffy, long-haired teenager the most severe scalping imaginable, extra short to make a point. Once he had me in his chair, caped up and unable to escape, he would be only too happy to teach me a lesson, to put me in my place, subordinated, disciplined, humiliated.

I had to control that impulse to get up and walk out of that door.

Another customer was finished, out of the chair, brushed down, thanked for his payment and bid goodbye.

The barber slapped the seat of the chair sharply with his towel, looked directly at me, and said "Next, please, young man!"

No escape now.

My turn. Make myself stand up. Make myself walk. Make myself sit in that chair.

Caped up.

"Yes, young man?"

With a great effort of self-control and self-composure I managed it: "Short back and sides, please, sir."

"Short back and sides, lad?" I nodded, I hardly felt up to saying anything more.

My head was pushed forwards, my hair was combed straight down all round, my fringe hung into my eyes, but that hardly seemed to matter as all I could see was the cape. My long hair was pulled out of the cape at the back. The clippers fired up, and he began.

To start off with, the barber used clippers over comb to take off the bulk. The clippers made a noise like a lawn mower and I could see vast quantities of hair sliding down the cape and onto the floor.

Then he got serious. My head was tipped left, and the clippers drove in hard and shaved round my right ear. Head forwards, up the back, repeatedly, shaving close. Then head to the right and round my left ear.

The clippers stopped, and I was allowed to lift my head.

"Close your eyes, boy."

My fringe was sprayed with water and combed down again.

I felt the cold steel of the scissors against my forehead, cutting my fringe, at an angle, low over my left eye and high up over my right.

A long, soft brush was pushed into my face, into my eyelids, mouth and nostrils - but it did remove all the bits of hair.

"OK, lad."

I opened my eyes and could see the damage at last, but this was not the end.

A comb inserted a left-hand parting - unavoidable from now.

"Anything off the top?" I hardly knew what to say, so I repeated what my mother had always said when she took me when I was little. "Yes, thin it down a bit, please" The thinning shears emerged, and more hair was hacked off, falling like rain.

"Short enough?"

"Yes, that's fine, thanks." - again, this was my mother's invariable response.

Another combing, another brushing down.

Head pushed forward, and a shaving brush full of warm soapy water made its way round my ears and the back of my neck. Then an open razor, then the sting of after-shave.

Head back up.

"A bit of dressing, lad? Finish it off nicely."

Again, I hardly knew what to say, my mother had always refused any form of dressing when she took me. Richard used Brylcreem, but Brylcreem had a bad reputation with the rest of us. Anyway, what sort of dressing did he mean? It could be anything. So, whether it was the urge to experiment, the urge to be different, to take a risk, or just the urge to assert my independence from my mother in some way, I do not know. Perhaps the haircut ritual was getting to me, making me want to subordinate myself to whatever the barber thought best and to take these feelings of disciplined, grown-up manliness all the way, I do not know.

Anyway, I said "Yes please, sir."

The barber duly massaged Brylcreem into my remaining hair, combed in a razor-sharp left-hand parting and made a quiff on the right hand side, all glossy and gleaming in the barber-shop lights.

He picked up the hand mirror and showed me the back and sides, shaved close, clean, white and naked.

Revulsion began to set in. What had I done? I nodded. And then I gave the compulsory, polite, "Thank you, sir." He removed the cape and swung the chair round. I stood, was brushed down, and I paid.

"See you again soon, son."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"It was a pleasure, young man."


* * * * *

I rushed home as quickly as I could. I went upstairs and had a shower to wash out all the itchy little hairs and all that awful Brylcreem. I blow dried my hair. At least the Brylcreem washed out, but the rest of it was unfixable - shaved back and sides, fluffy, bouffant top - It looked ridiculous. I wet my hair again, and let it dry naturally. This time it did not seem quite so bad, but bad it still was.

I oscillated between hating it and telling myself that it was "disciplined", "masculine" and "showed maturity".

And maybe the Brylcreem had some purpose after all? And then there were all those sharp little bristles. Every time I touched that stubble I got an electric thrill that you just didn't get from long hair.

* * * * *

Supper time came, just the three of us today.

My mother was delighted and said how "handsome" it made me look, and how much it made me look "just like your father when he was your age".

My father said "Well done, lad. That's a good haircut. Thank you, son."

And I answered "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

Later on, sitting quietly by myself in my bedroom, I realised that I had called my father "Sir". I had called my father "Sir" more than once that evening. I had never done this before. And then I remembered that I had called the barber "Sir" several times as well.

I had always resented having to call the teachers at school "Sir", and now I was calling Dad "Sir" even though I did not have to. Calling Dad "Sir" was bad enough, but there really was no need to call that old barber "Sir" as well. What exactly was going on?

* * * * *

The next day I bought a tub of Brylcreem, and experimented. I put too much on, washed my hair again, let it dry naturally, and tried again with just a small amount - hair a bit more calm and controlled, not quite so bad!

Me - a bit more calm and controlled.

Part of the problem was that, despite the depredations of thinning shears, the hair on top of my head was still very thick, and had a mind of its own, so the contrast with the shaved back and sides looked really strange - a bit mad. The Brylcreem smoothed it down a bit, but it made me look like a 50s advert - a 50s Brylcreem advert. Take it down shorter then? - You must be joking!

* * * * *

The first day back at school was Hell, but only for half a day, and then everybody got bored of "Joining the army, then?" "Had a fight with the lawn mower?" and such like witticisms, and that was the end of it.

It was all so unoriginal, so predictable. So what if it was an army-regulation haircut? The army was a necessary thing, no need to rubbish it, nor any need to rubbish the smart appearance of its soldiers.

The only sympathy I got was from Richard, who said it looked "much better like that", but he was hardly an impartial judge, was he?

I answered "But I don't like it. I liked having it long."

"You'll get used to it." and then presciently "You'll have to get used to it, won't you?"

* * * * *

A couple of weeks later, I became aware of my father again examining me over the dinner table.

"Time you had a haircut, lad." He had just had a haircut himself and was clean-shaved round the back and sides.

"Aw, Dad. It's only two weeks since I last had it cut. It's much too short as it is."

"Nonsense, David! Your hair has been allowed to grow far too long while I have been away. From now on I would like to see a proper standard maintained. You had an excellent cut last time, and I want to see the same again. You will have your hair cut, tomorrow, after school, same short back and sides, please." He handed me some money, once again it was far more than I needed.

"And a bit of pocket money for you."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Carrots and sticks again. There was no possibility of arguing really, was there? Maybe when Dad had gone back off to Bahrain or Dubai or somewhere, things would go back to normal, and my hair could go back to normal.

* * * * *

I went back to Dentons.

Mr Denton was very pleased to see me. "Good morning, young sir. David Wilson, isn't it? Nice to see you again." His chair was vacant and he ushered me in.

How did he know my name? I was sure I had not told him last time.

Mr Denton caped me up, and then, without any question about what kind of haircut I wanted, he fired up the clippers, and proceeded to give me the same ruthless scalping as last time.

Where was it that my father had had his hair cut?

* * * * *

I went home rubbing the stubble. Those crisp, prickly little bristles were irresistible!

* * * * *

I left the Brylcreem in, just to see how it felt with the quantity the barber put on, much more than I had dared to use myself.

I put on a clean white shirt and a tie, and I stood looking at myself in the mirror, smartly turned out, hair shaved down to stark white skin round the back and sides, groomed, glossy and gleaming on top. It was all very different from my old shaggy, teenage "Me". Did I have the nerve to take this on permanently as my new self? Did I actually WANT to be this new self? I stood for maybe half an hour. Time was passing - can't stand there any longer. I went down to dinner.

I had to agree with Richard on one thing though, "Dad" did sound a bit odd. He wasn't simply a little boy's "Dad" any more was he? He was my senior, he was the boss, he deserved a bit of respect. "Sir" just felt more appropriate. Maybe I ought to call Dad "Sir", like Richard did his father?

* * * * *

I found that calling my father "Sir" all the time made me feel like I was in the army, and he was my commanding officer. Every time I called him "Sir" I felt more disciplined, more masculine, more mature.

My sense of "Me" was changing.

* * * * *

Then three weeks after that it was another "Time you had a haircut, lad."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

No argument or hesitation this time. A bit of respect was no bad thing. So it was another short haircut whether I liked it or not.

* * * * *

This time, when it came to my turn, it was the other barber who was calling out "Next, please!"

I took my place in the chair and was caped.

"David Wilson?"

"Yes, sir."

"Nice to meet you at last, David. I am Mr Clarke, Mr Denton's partner. Your father has told me to keep an eye out for you.

"Yes, well, nice to meet you, Mr Clarke. Here I am, sir."

"So, a nice short back and sides for you, is it then?"

"Yes, sir."

And I was given the proper, regulation, severe shearing.

"Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

A week after that my father received a new assignment, back in the Middle East.

Shortly before leaving he handed me some money. "Here is some money for you, David. Some pocket money and money for your haircuts while I am away. I want you to keep your hair nice and short from now on, I mean a proper short back and sides, every three weeks, just as you have had it these last few weeks while I have been at home. Can I depend on you to do this? I do not wish to hear from you mother that she has had to remind you. You are old enough now to take responsibility."

"Short back and sides? Every three weeks, sir? Yes, sir. You can depend on me, sir, absolutely. Thank you, sir."

"Good lad. That is what I like to hear. Thank you, son."

So there I was, standing there: my hair slicked back with Brylcreem, razor sharp parting, a mere shadow of stubble on the back and sides with the skin clearly showing through; wearing a white shirt, tie, trousers with immaculate creases, and highly polished shoes.

"And you have done very well over the past weeks in maintaining a good standard of personal appearance in terms of your clothes as well. Thank you. I expect you to maintain this while I am away, dressing smartly, continuing to look after your appearance as you have been."

"Yes, sir. You can rely on me, sir." "Good lad, You have made me proud of you." "Thank you, sir." So, I looked like my father, I dressed like my father, I had a haircut exactly like my father's, I now consistently addressed him as "Sir", and I was happily agreeing to his instructions that this new regime should continue.

It seems a fundamental change had taken place.

Yes, sir! THE END

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