A Special Haircut for a Special Boy by Lemon

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Hunched over the bathroom sink, I stared at my freshly blow-dried hair: a poof of thick, straight, black hair parted into curtains and brushed back. I tucked loose strands behind my ears. I needed to make a haircut appointment.

The moment always struck me at random. I never planned in advance or had a routine when it came to hair appointments. Instead, I waited for that nervous energy to rise up in my gut, begging me to go get a haircut. I liked the thrill of trying a new place, a new barber or stylist. While I've had a shorter cut every now and then, I still liked to keep my hair on the longer side. The important part was to be pampered, maybe a little surprised. The possibility that the barber would take off an extra inch than asked for excited me. And the length of my hair afforded me a margin of error. I loved the thought of a new stranger shampooing my hair, blow drying my locks, and trimming my tresses--all in a relaxing environment. I never went any place that blasted music or had me in and out in 20 minutes. I wanted to savor the moment.

And the moment struck me now. I quickly dressed and hopped on the computer, looking for a new place on Google. I zoomed out of my local radius, knowing I had visited most of those shops already. But just 20 minutes away, I noticed a new spot: "Special Haircuts for Men." A string of 5-star reviews accompanied the listing, but none had any review text. The oldest review, also 5-stars, was only 3 months old. I looked over the photos. The front of the shop only had a few a windows; inside, behind the reception desk was a large facade obscuring the salon proper. Discreet. Already it piqued my interest. I continued to scroll, finding a photo of the shop's interior that a 5-star-giving guest took. Shiny black tiles covered the floor. The walls were painted a rich, almost-black brown. The lights around and behind the mirrors cast a bright yet warm yellow while the ceiling glowed subtly. The chairs, thick-armed and cherry red with white leather upholstery, rested far from one another and were separated by opaque partitions. Each chair rested on a equally black mat; the mat and distance between the chairs turning each workstation into a tiny island of solitude for client and barber. I started bouncing my left leg as I scrolled through more photos, the nervous energy in my gut on the verge of exploding.

In all the photos I saw, none were of the clients, not even selfies left by reviewers. None of the photos even had pictures of the stylists. (I alternated between imagining them as stylists and barbers, but what was the difference to me if a place checked all the right boxes?) Another curious absence from the photos: cut hair littering the floor. Not even a few stray strands. Just spotless black tile, reflecting the faceless silhouette of whatever photographer happened to be standing there.

I clicked the link to the website, a similarly sleek homepage to match the ambience of the photos. The website headline read: "Special Haircuts for Men - A Boutique Barbershop Catering to the Curious and Adventuresome." Not much else was listed, so I clicked the banner text for "Appointments." A note prefaced the menu of options: "You don't choose your barber. The shop chooses for you. We hire only the best who have high standards of excellence and make sure that all our guests receive special haircuts." I could hardly keep reading, the excitement overpowering me. The menu: "Special Haircut," "Shave," "Special Haircut + Shave," and then, right at the bottom: "VIP - Special Haircut." The description for the VIP option read: "While all our haircuts are special, some are more special than others. This is a 1.5 hour experience for haircut enthusiasts who need to be pampered." I breathed a quiet, wordless moan. I quickly jumped through the menu options all the way to the booking screen; the next available appointment was today, 4 p.m., just a few hours away. I frantically entered my info and hit "Book." An email confirmed my "VIP - Special Haircut" booking.

The next couple hours passed at an agonizing pace. I jumped in the car and made the short-but-not-short-enough 20-minute drive. The shop facade that I had first seen only a few hours before greeted me, just as it appeared in the photos. I walked inside, and a young receptionist gave a "hello." She sported a bob of shiny, straight blonde hair. Just like the photos online, I couldn't see the back of the shop. I glanced around the waiting room, just a couple of chairs. Empty.

"I'm sorry, can I get your name?"

My head whipped around to face the receptionist. I must have missed her ask for my name the first time. "Uhh, Kevin."

She glanced down at touchscreen and flashed a face of recognition before looking up back. "Yes, I see you right here, Kevin. We have you down for a VIP experience. Follow me please."

I walked with the receptionist. After turning the corner, I saw the corners of the chairs poking out behind the partitions. I heard a few barbers at work, the crisp 'snips' breaking the silence. As I kept following, I peeked at a manned workstation. A young man, appearing around the same age as me sat caped. At this point, reality broke from the online images: Instead of a spotless tile floor, chunks of chestnut-colored hair circled the chair, like an odd summoning circle. Despite the mess of hair on the floor, a sizable crown of hair still sat atop his head, the barber slowly and carefully snipping away.

We finally reached our destination in the back, a wash basin. The receptionist helped dress me in a black nylon gown and gestured for me to take a seat. "It'll just be a minute, Kevin. Please wait here." Then she started her trek back toward the front. I twiddled my thumbs, unsure what to do with myself, the anticipation already too much, when another woman appeared, slightly older than the receptionist.

She gave a kind smile, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Hi Kevin, we're happy to take care of you today. Just relax and let us do the work." That was all she said, and then she started to rinse my hair with warm water, the black poof compressing down to my scalp, like a cloud of cotton candy caught in the rain. She lathered and rinse my hair, turned off the water, and gave a few gentle pats with the towel to soak the excess water.

Wordlessly, she gestured me to rise, removed the gown and walked me over to a workstation. We were a few places away from the man I glanced at earlier, and no clients sat adjacent. Not that I would be able to see them anyway because of the partitions. My hair, still straight but limp, parted in curtains down the sides of my head. The bangs, weighed down by water, hung a good inch or two below my nose. I sat down in the leather chair, and rest my arms on the thick metal of the chair. The barber took a heavy looking cape, all black, and threw it over me. It had the feeling of a weighted blanket, slightly pressing down my chest and knees. Then she took a red-and-white pinstriped cape and threw it on top, carefully buttoning the back across my neck. I didn't need to tell her to adjust it. She did it perfectly. Still silent, she then blow dried my hair. The gentle warm air slowly reviving my locks, perking up so they gained volume and a slight bounce. She cut the drier so that my hair was still damp.

After putting away the dryer, she put hairclips on the top of my hair. Twisting my locks like ribbons, then locking them into place so they didn't hang over my sides or forehead. Then she grabbed a comb and scissors, making as if to start the cut. I furrowed my brow, and, likely noticing the slight oval opening of my mouth, on the cusp of reminding her that I hadn't told her what I wanted, she not unkindly put a finger to her lips, politely indicating silence. She finished the gesture with that same kind smile. The smile disarmed me. I dropped whatever thought I was about to say and relaxed into the plush padding of the chair. As relaxed I could get with that nervousness still festering in the pit of my stomach.

She primed her scissors, a few slices of the air and put her comb at my nape. The hair at my neck fell over the back of the cape where she had buttoned me up. Probably a good 3-4 inches in length. I felt her run the comb up the back of my head a few times, likely getting a feel for the length and how much weight to remove. Seemingly satisfied, she finally brought the comb to a rest against the bottom of my nape and sliced. I heard the hair hit the black mat underneath the chair. The sound of rain hitting a plastic raincoat. Because she didn't ask, I didn't know how much she took off, but the plod-plod of the hair hitting the mat indicated at least a couple inches. She continued up the back of my head. Every now and then I felt the cold metal of scissor of my scalp. Plod-plod. Plod-plod. A rainstorm of hair.

She came to the sides of my head. Now I could see a bit as she kept me faced toward the mirror. She ran the comb up the left side of my head, following the same routine as in the back. The head on the left side of head stuck straight out, almost perpendicular, as she combed it up, but then the strands would slowly fall down, their tips pointing back to the floor, heavy under the weight of the moisture and 3-4 inches of growth. Once again satisfied, she rested her comb under my sideburn. Yes, at least a couple inches, half of the hair on my sides poking through the teeth of the comb. Then a crunch and slice. Plod-plod. She continued. Comb. Crunch. Plod-plod. Then she went around to the right side.

By now, I imagined my own summoning circle of hair surrounding me. And she hadn't even cut the top yet. After finishing the sides, she removed the clips, my usually stiff straight hair now falling in soft waves, bent slightly out of shape from the hair clips. She combed my hair forward. Hair obscured my vision, but after the strands settled, I could peek through the curtain of bangs to get a minimal view of the outside world. She went around my head, blending the sides to the top, more hair raining down. Then, starting at the crown, she lifted my hair straight up, at least 6-8 inches spilling over between her fingers, like limp stalks of corn. And there in her hands, the tools of reaping. She cut across her fingers, 4 inches of hair sat above her knuckles and made a gutrenching fall to the floor. I kept my face calm but inside I panicked. I reminded myself that I still had at least 4 inches on top, plenty of length. She carried forward, section by section. As she made her way toward the bangs, the hair no longer fell on the floor but onto the cape. Plod-sssss. Plod-ssss. The hair fell, either pooling in my lap or continuing to the floor and completing the ring growing around me.

Finally she made her way to the front. I almost wanted to close my eyes, but how could I have watched everything so far and miss the best part? It would be like watching a horror movie and closing your eyes just as the killer is about to slit the babysitter's throat. She grabbed my bangs laterally, then mercifully brought them up slightly at an angle and snipped off three inches. Plod-sssss. Plod-ssss. The hair slid down the cape. But she wasn't done yet and circled to the front of the chair. To avoid staring at her, I looked down at my lap, confronting the shock of hair sitting in a black furry puddle on my lap. She combed down my bangs, pointed the scissors vertically, and snipped across my fringe temple to temple and then stepped back.

The basic structure of the haircut now complete, I studied myself in the mirror. Overall, I still had a fair bit of length. The short-but-still-plush sides coupled with the symmetric bangs gave me a boyish look. Trendy and texturized but still boyish. She returned with some electric trimmers and comb, tapering my side burns and neckline, giving them a soft feathered edge. After finishing up the edge work, I expected her to start uncaping me. Again, she must have noticed my puzzled look. For the first time since I first met her she spoke again, "It's only been 40 minutes. We're barely through half of your appointment, silly goose." She said "silly goose" in a playful, friendly tone like a romantic partner would. I shivered.

And then she returned to her wordless state and started to tidy up. Another woman arrived. She wasn't as attractive at the first, but still looked somewhat kind. A short pixie cut and broad face gave her a slightly masculine look. The biggest similarity between the two women were that both were silent. The first woman left. The second woman, without explaining, wet my hair back to damp. She then rubbed some hair tonic between her palms and combed it through the top of my head. She retrieved the blowdryer and blew my hair straight up. A dense black brush of hair resembling a half-finished pomp stood atop my head.

To my shock, she traded in the blowdryer for hair clippers, retaining the comb in her other hand. Did they really mean to cut more of my hair? Despite the polite admonition at the start of the appointment, I felt I needed to speak up. Just as perceptive as the first woman, my new barber noticed the puzzlement coloring my face. However, unlike the silent gesture from the first woman, this one spoke--the first time she said anything at all to me. She said, also not unkindly but I detected a slight edge: "You asked for a special haircut, and that's what you're getting."

She put the comb at the base of my nape, set the clippers on top, and glided both up the back of my head. A mechanical buzz and crunch sounded as the clipper-and-comb combo mowed a path through the back of my head. While I still couldn't see, I could tell from the weight lifted that I had shed quite a bit of length. After the back came the sides. The same technique: She started at the base of my sideburn and glided the clipper and comb up the side my head. Thick wads of shiny black hair ran all over her hands and down on the floor. The padding, so thick, barely made an audible plop as it hit the mat. I could just notice my scalp through the fuzzy velvet she left on the sides. It couldn't be more than half an inch of hair. She did the same job on the right side of my head.

I now had relatively close clipped sides with a mountain of hair, stiff from the tonic, standing up on my head. I looked like a black-haired troll doll, albeit quite a bit more handsome. I shuddered just imagining what she had in store for me. A quick blowdry removed the bristles from the sides of my head and then she resumed her work.

Impassively, as if this wasn't a mindnumbing transformation she was forcing upon me but a routine task, she slotted the teeth of the comb into the front part of my hair. A dark forest, 4-inches high. The comb rested so that half of my remaining hair rested above of the teeth. Before I could even comprehend that she intended to run the blade across the comb--the idea of which sounded like a sick joke--that's what she did. The metal teeth of the clippers ate into the dark thick hair on top of the plastic teeth of the comb. A great bulk of hair fell onto the cape. Suddenly, the weighted cape under the pinstripes felt it gained a couple pounds. I stared again at the thick pile on my lap and contrasted it with the pile still left on my head. She gently but firmly grabbed my head, forcing it level and me starting back at the continuing massacre.

She flicked the comb, sending a few stray strands down, then slotted it back into the mountain of hair and ran the clippers across. Tz-tz-tz-tz. Tz-tz-tz-tz. The clippers hummed louder as they met the resistance of my hair. Sickeningly, I noticed that as she went further back, she kept going slightly lower such that by the time she reached the crown, I noticed that at least 3 inches waved above the teeth of the comb. Tz-tz-tz-tz. Three more inches gone. I surveyed the damage. My stylishly boyish, overgrown bowl cut had given way to another boyish look: a long crewcut. As I calmed down, I thought to myself: "This can be okay. It's different, but it still looks great. It's a modern interpretation of a classic look." I re-inspected the cut. The bangs had a dry, clean look because of the tonic, effortlessly floating above my forehead as the hair gently sloped to the close-cut crown. She re-egded the sideburns and neckline. At this point, I knew we had to be done and yet, she started tidying up her station without removing the cape.

Instead of a third woman, a man appeared, similar in age to me. He sported a crewcut similar to the one I had received, but slightly shorter and brown instead of black hair. I could tell under his barber's tunic that he had a fit build. The woman left, just leaving me and him. I had never felt attraction to a man, but something about the nervousness in my stomach felt different. A tension in the air. I couldn't help but glancing at him in the mirror before quickly darting my eyes away. He noticed. Although I kept my head focused on my lap, starting at the shorn hair in my lap, I could tell he was looking at me through the mirror while he stood behind the chair.

Given the silent treatment of the establishment's staff, I didn't expect him to speak. But he did and what he said caused me to grip the arms of the hair to keep from letting out a moan. "It's time for a special haircut for a special boy."

I had similarly been wordless throughout the entire appointment, but I unconsciously responded, quietly, sheepishly, boyishly: "Yes, sir."

He grabbed the clippers and slapped on a metal blade. I didn't know the length, but I knew it was short. He ran them up the back of my head. The little hair that was left sprinkled down, a fresh dusting onto the hair circle. He did the same to the sides. I tilted my eyes up to inspect my sides through the mirror, noticing that that only a hint of hair remained. What started as four-inch-long sides an hour ago now reduced to stubble. After finishing the sides, I took another look at myself. The crewcut, though still long in comparison to the sides, didn't look completely out of order. Still, as with the last two, I expected him to tackle the top, fearing what I would be left with.

Except he didn't. Instead, he gently tilted the chair back. Even though the appointment didn't say it came with a shave, maybe that's what he was doing. But I didn't really grow facial hair, just a few bit of a patchy shadow on my chin and lip from the last time I shaved. I noticed for the first time that a mirror also hung from the ceiling. For the first time, I could see the circle of hair around the chair, although hard to make out black-on-black. The mountain of hair in my lap screamed out from the red-and-white pinstriped cape. And I saw my rather-handsome, short-but-long, charmingly boyish crewcut.

I had been admiring the sight in the mirror that I didn't hear the barber replace the clippers with another metal blade. I saw them now, a slightly longer attachment now. He put his thumb and forefinger on my head, one near each temple and pushed my head slightly back so that I was staring straight up at the ceiling. He then put the cold teeth of the clippers against my forehead and plunged them down my scalp, shearing me like a recruit. The whine of the clippers drowned out my own whimper. Szzzchhhhhhhhhh. The clipper completed their pass, a black pelt left in their wake. Then back on my forehead. Szzzzzzzcchhhhhh. Forehead. Szzzzzzzzchhhhh. Forehead. Szzzzzzzchhhhh. Each pass completed too quick to comprehend before the next pass began. Finally he finished, titled the chair back up, and I confronted myself once again. Curtains to bowl cut to crewcut to buzzcut. The top still had at least half an inch. A saving grace.

Whereas the prior cuts gave me a boyish charm, the buzzcut accentuated my masculine features, my strong jawline, bold brow, diamond-shaped face. I couldn't yet admire it, still in shock from the brutal shearing the most recent barber inflicted on me. Finally though, the horror was over. He unbuttoned the cape and give it a slight flick, sending my pile of accumulated hair to the floor. He then removed the weighted cape, the last barrier to my leaving the chair. Or so I thought. Before I got up, he put his hands on my shoulders, slightly bent over so that his head was almost parallel to mine, and looked at me through the mirror. Our gazes locked, he whispered: "Now this is a special haircut. Kevin." I shuddered.

The only disappointment of having all my hair cutoff was that it would take quite a long time for it to grow out and for me to return and relive this unparalleled experience.

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