Take It All Off by SteDJ

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This is a follow-up to "Take Plenty Off", so I suggest reading that one first if you have not already done so.
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It was June 1982 and now having turned 18, my final year at school was drawing to a close. I had been accepted to study for a degree in mechanical engineering at the university of Loughborough beginning in the October of the same year and was looking forward with a mixture of excitement and apprehension to what the future and its associated freedom would bring.

Having abandoned Aquarius Unisex Hair Design, I had become a regular customer at Romano’s barbers, and after the initial shock of losing a load of my hair to the floor on my first visit back in the autumn of 1981, I had got used to short hair, as had my family and friends. It was certainly unusual to sport such a drastic haircut back in the early 1980s, but I didn’t care, and apart from the pleasure I gained from being shorn at the barber’s, there was the practical element whereby a short back and sides took very little maintenance. I still yearned for the day when I could pluck up the courage to have it all shaved off into a crew cut, but I had decided to bide my time and keep the cart on the wheels as far as my parents were concerned â€" for the time being at least. My mum in particular made no secret of the fact that she hated my cropped hair and deemed it a shame to have such "beautiful" hair cut so short.

It wasn’t long though before the perfect opportunity came up to fulfil my ultimate fantasy at the barbers.

As many young people did in those days, my friend Andrew and I had decided to spend the summer Inter-railing â€" that is travelling around Europe for a month by train trying to cram in as many countries as possible on a month-long unlimited train ticket. We were both in the same year at school, and had both taken part-time jobs in the same baker’s shop in the city centre in order to save up the necessary funds for the trip.

One Saturday morning as we were relaxing during our morning coffee break, Andrew dropped the bombshell. Running his hand through his long brown locks, he announced a drastic plan:

"You know what? I’m going to get all this lot all cut off before we go away. It will be so much easier to look after when we’re travelling. You know, if we’re sleeping on trains and stuff, there won’t be showers… so yeah, I’m gonna do it. In fact there’s no time like the present so I’m off to get it done this lunchtime."

"Whoa, mate, that sounds a bit drastic." Inside, I knew that it was a brilliant idea, but I didn’t want to appear too keen for fear of my fascination with barbers and haircuts being rumbled. "But I don’t suppose it’s a bad idea."

"You’re half way there already," added Andrew, rubbing his hand up and down the back of my neck. "It’d be no big deal for you."

It had been a few weeks since my last haircut, and my hair was about an inch and a half long on the back and sides and about three inches on top, so yes, it was a lot shorter than Andrew’s, which was well over his ears and collar and falling into his eyes.

Excitement suddenly rising in me, I was more convinced than ever that it made perfect sense to go ahead with Andrew’s idea, not just to make the holiday more straightforward, but also for the unmissable thrill of watching Andrew being clippered, and even moreso, finally getting a proper crew cut myself. 

"OK then," I said. "We can go to Romano’s at lunchtime. It’s not far from here, but we’ll have to get our skates on; we only have an hour for lunch. Deal?"

"Deal!" We shook hands, and I returned behind the counter to continue serving customers, barely able to concentrate for the sheer excitement and anticipation of what was to come. 

"Stephen, Andrew, It’s your lunch break. Off you go, don’t be late back." The manager, Mrs Haigh, dismissed us and we ran up to the staffroom, threw off our white work overalls, and headed off into the fresh air at a brisk pace towards Romano’s and our appointments with the clippers.

As the red and white striped pole of Romano’s loomed into sight, I suddenly figured that something was wrong. The pole wasn’t revolving, the place was in darkness and the shop was obviously closed. As we got up to the big plate glass window, I spotted a scrawled handwritten sign stuck to the glass:

"We apologise that due to circumstances beyond our control, we are closed today Saturday 26th June. We will be open as usual from Monday 28st June. Sorry for any inconvenience."

"Bugger. That’s blown that idea. Oh well, there’s always next week. We don’t go away for another three weeks."

"Hang on," replied Andrew. There must be somewhere else near here we could go to."

At that moment, a young woman with a scruffy teenage lad in tow appeared, read the notice, and cursed that her son would not be getting a much-needed haircut at Romano’s that day.

"OK, Kevin, it’ll have to be Malcolm’s, come on," she said.

"Oh Mam, no, Malcolm’s are complete butchers, can’t we come back next week?"

My ears pricked up at the mention of another barbers, especially one that sounded in the words of the kid something akin to a no-nonsense type of establishment.

"Excuse me, where’s Malcolm’s?" I asked her.

"Follow us, love. Just inside the market hall, downstairs next to the gent’s toilets. His shop’s nowt fancy, but he does a good job and ya get yer value for money. He bloody hates it though, but if I left it to him, he ‘ave his hair down to his bum…"

As we walked the short distance towards the indoor market, the woman continued bemoaning her son’s penchant for long unkempt hair, and before too long, we found ourselves at the top of a spiral staircase with white tiled walls that led down to the gent’s toilets and Malcolm’s Men’s Hairdressing.

"Are you sure about this?" asked Andrew. "It looks a bit grotty…"

"Come on, this was your idea. You’re not chickening out are you?" I replied. "What’s the worst that can happen? You get all your hair cut off, which was the plan, wasn’t it? Well I’m doing it even if you’re not."

And with that, I set off down the dingy staircase. Once at the bottom of the steps, a door to the left led off to the toilets, while an illuminated revolving barbers pole above the black door on the right announced that we had arrived at Malcolm’s subterranean barber’s shop.

I gingerly pushed the door open to find myself in a small brightly lit room that appeared to have been frozen in time. I stood there awkwardly, getting my bearings and scanning the room for the waiting area. Kevin and his mother had arrived just before us, and the scruffy youth was just climbing into one of the two barber’s chairs, the type of which I had never seen before. They looked slightly sinister, more like ancient  dentist’s chairs, and were definitely something that nowadays would belong in an antique shop. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Andrew had in fact decided to join me, and he shuffled uncomfortably into the shop and stood next to me looking rather nonplussed as he took in the scene.

The barber, presumably Malcolm, a bald gentleman in his sixties and immaculately dressed in a shirt and tie, polished black shoes and maroon nylon barber’s smock clapped eyes on the pair of us with a quizzical look on his face.

"Yes, lads? Can I help you?"

"Errr, yes, we’re here for haircuts…"

"Well sit down over there and wait, then; don’t stand about looking gormless. Have you never been in a barber’s shop? I have to say I’ve never seen you in here before."

"No, it’s our first time. Our usual place is closed and this lady recommended you."

"Oh, so I’m second best am I?"

Malcolm was clearly a straight-talking no-nonsense type. I wondered if his haircuts would be in keeping with his manner. I secretly hoped so.

Apart from Kevin, his mother, Andrew and myself, there were no other customers in the shop. We had obviously timed it well, especially bearing in mind how little time we had before we needed to back at work. We sat down on the waiting bench next to Kevin’s mother and surveyed our surroundings. The shop looked like something out of a museum. The walls were clad in white ceramic tiles and decorated with wood-framed black and white pictures of men and boys with old-fashioned haircuts. The floor, which was liberally scattered with chunks of cut hair was covered in red linoleum, and ahead of each chair was a polished white washbasin with chrome fittings and a grey rubber hose attached to an ancient wall-mounted gas water heater. Shelves either side of the mirrors were stacked with bottles and cans of all manner of potions and unguents along with things like razor blades and the obligatory packs of "something for the weekend". An all-pervading smell of perfumed sanitiser filled the air, so far from being grotty, this little place was actually quite charming; a complete time warp. I relaxed on the waiting bench ready to take in the action.

As the teenager sat scowling in the chair, Malcolm took the neatly folded maroon nylon haircutting cape from the back of the chair, whipped it open and  flung it over the boy, firmly tucking it into his shirt collar at the back of his neck before raising the chair high into the air with the metal foot pedal. I couldn’t help thinking how smart customer and barber looked in their matching maroon attire.

"What’s it to be love?"

"Short all over please," instructed Kevin’s mother. "At least three inches off."

"Aw Mam, no…" protested Kevin. "Nobody has short hair nowadays. It’s not fair."

"Enough, Kevin. Any more moaning and you’ll get a crew cut."

Kevin’s scowl intensified as Malcolm grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to sit back straight up in the chair before setting about his scruffy brown locks with a sharp pair of long steel scissors. A loud rhythmic metallic snipping filled the shop, the hair began to fall and after a matter of minutes, there was more of Kevin’s hair on the cape and on the floor than what remained on his head. Malcolm stood for no nonsense as he repeatedly and decisively repositioned Kevin’s head and scalded him repeatedly, telling him to sit up straight and stop squirming in the chair. I had hoped I would be able to witness the boy getting a crew cut, but the only appearance of the clippers was to tidy up the edges, and before too long he was finished, his hair cut in a nondescript "not too short and not too long" look. I still felt a frisson of excitement though, as I watched massive amounts of the lad’s hair tumble down in clumps and build up in mounds all over his cape. After his mother’s approval, he was given a thorough brushing down, the cape was off and the chair lowered.

"Next please."

"Go on Andrew."

"No, you."

"OK, let’s flip a coin for it." I took a 10p coin from my pocket. "Heads it’s me first, tails it’s you. OK?"

It was tails.

By now, Kevin and his mother had paid and gone and Malcolm was standing impatiently by the chair, cape over his arm waiting for his next customer.

Andrew stood up and nervously made his way to the chair.

"Come on, in you get."

In what seemed no time at all, Andrew was installed, cape tightly tucked in, the chair was pumped up and Malcolm was ready, brandishing a comb and his big pair of shiny scissors. Meanwhile, I was focussed 100% on what was about to happen, excitement rising in me.

"What are we doing?"

"Crew cut please. Take it all off."

"Crew cut? You sure? Once I’ve cut it all off, I can’t stick it back on, you know."

"Yes, I’m sure."

"OK, one crew cut coming up."

With that, Malcolm put the scissors down, picked up a big black pair of electric  clippers, snapped a black plastic comb attachment onto the sharp end and with a loud ‘clack’ they fired up into a steady hum.

In a flash, Malcolm firmly shoved Andrew’s head right back, lifted up his long fringe and  applied the humming clippers to the top of his forehead, quickly dragging the hungry beasts straight back across the top of his head. What followed was complete carnage as pass after pass, huge hanks of hair several inches long showered down, landing noisily on the nylon cape, some of it slipping down to create a massive pile in his lap and some heading straight down to build up in a heap on the floor. In no time, Andrew was left with little more than a hint of brown fuzz all over the top of his head, and I was looking on in a state of full arousal. It was like watching a car crash, horrifying but intensely fascinating. The excitement was doubled knowing that it would soon be me in that chair having the same treatment. The hair continued to rain down as the clippers went round the back and sides, Andrew’s head being shoved up and down, left and right to ease the passage of the raging clippers. Andrew stared intensely at his reflection in the mirror looking more than just a little shellshocked. After a mere matter of minutes, it was all over, he was brushed down, the cape was removed and Andrew came back to join me on the waiting bench.

"Wow, that’s amazing!" I exclaimed, thinking more about the dramatic process I had just witnessed than the end product, which in all honesty was a bit shocking.

"Do you think so?" replied Andrew sheepishly, rubbing his shorn head.

"Next please," announced the barber, giving the cape a good shake to remove lingering bits of Andrew’s hair before I was forced to wear it.

I stood up, doing my best to casually hide the evidence of my excitement that was clear to see, and standing on the footrest, I quickly eased myself up into the ancient chair.
The chair was deceptively comfortable; I had expected such a sinister looking piece of furniture to have more in common with a seat designed more for torture than comfort. As I sat there staring at myself in the mirror sporting inches-worth of hair for the last time, the rustling nylon cape billowed over me and came to rest on my shoulders and over my knees, and was soon tightly tucked into my shirt collar. I was past the point of no return as the chair was pumped up and the barber once more asked:

"What are we doing?"

"Same as his. Crew cut please."

This time, Malcolm asked no questions, just pushed my head back and lined up the buzzing clippers before plunging them into the roots of my fringe high on my forehead. The first pass was dramatic. The tone of the clippers changed slightly as they effortlessly chewed their way through my three inch long locks, dragging the electric cable behind them over my lap and across my face and  causing whole curtains of hair to tumble down onto my shoulders. The feeling of the vibrating clippers against my scalp was electric, I felt ecstatic and couldn’t believe I was finally having this done. The pressure inside my trousers was immense, and I thought I would explode at any moment. I gripped the arms of the chair tightly as the buzzing continued apace, and more and more of my blond hair hit the cape, leaving behind stubble no more than a quarter of an inch long all over my head. Watching intensely in the mirror, it was quite alarming if not totally thrilling to see what looked like a bald head emerging from the carnage; my blond hair made the cut look shorter than it really was, and compared to Andrew, I looked like I was being totally scalped. The barber continued by clippering me closely round the back and sides and around my ears, and all too soon it was all over. There was hair everywhere, and as Malcolm showed me his handywork in the mirror, I couldn’t believe the contrast from just a few minutes earlier.

After a lengthy onslaught from the hand brush to remove the small loose clippings from all over my head and around my neck, the cape was untucked, and Malcolm scraped my neck with a razor, sending yet more shivers of delight down my spine. Finally, the chair was dropped and the cape dragged off me, dumping its contents on the red lino floor to join Kevin’s and Andrew’s in a lifeless heap.

I felt emotionally exhausted as I stood up, and as I rubbed my head, I felt the electric thrill of the small bristles that the barber had left behind.

"I guess you enjoyed that, did you?" commented Andrew with a knowing smirk on his face. I blushed red as we set off back up the spiral stairs and  into the daylight.

Back at the bakery, Mrs Haigh was a little taken aback but on health and hygiene grounds not totally displeased at our transformation. Shaking her head, she said that she just didn’t understand the young people of today.

It would be when I got home that the trouble would really start. 

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