A Decision by Sean Barnet

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A DECISION

BY SEAN BARNET


My grandfather had arranged a holiday job for me working for a farmer who was a neighbour of his. I would be staying with my grandparents, but working six days a week on the farm, Grandad would ferry me over each day in his car.

I had been thinking about getting my hair cut before I went. It was 1977, hair was just about beginning to turn shorter after the excesses of the seventies, the weather was hot, and I knew that would please Grandad. Grandad had always been a bit of a haircut fanatic, ex-army, his own hair was strictly "short back and sides", and he nagged my mother about my "untidy, long hair", but she always fended him off.

As I say, I had been thinking about getting my hair cut, maybe rather shorter than I had had it up until now, off the ears and off the collar, neat and manageable, cool for the summer, but nothing too drastic or out of the ordinary. I had been thinking about it, but I had done nothing. I had my own issues with haircuts. I had bad memories of brutal old barbers as a child. Fashions had changed, my mother had changed with them, and since then I had always had longer, trendier cuts. Besides, at the age of 17, I had never actually initiated a haircut. As a child I had been taken, as a teenager I had been sent and given the money to pay.

So I arrived at my grandparents' house, a couple of days before starting work, with hair covering my ears and collar and falling into my eyes.

* * * * *

The next morning, at breakfast, my grandfather said that he was going into town that day, and would I come with him?

Then, on the way in the car, he broached the, not unexpected, subject of haircuts. He was going to get his hair cut, would I come with him and have mine cut too?

I did not wait for arguments about the hot weather etc, I had my plan about the sort of haircut I wanted, so I simply said "Yes", rather to his surprise, I think.

On the way I rehearsed what I was going to say to the barber, "Something neat and tidy please, off the ears and off the collar, but nothing too short, and a little off the top, please."

We found our way to the barber shop. I looked at it, and my heart sank, it was old, ancient, antiquated!

We went in and sat down to wait. I looked round. There were two chairs and two barbers at work. One chair had elderly man having his hair cut, but in the one directly in front of me there was a boy, 10 or 11 years old, who was being mercilessly scalped. I watched, horrified, as the barber sheared off all the hair on the back of the boy's head and round his ears, leaving nothing but bare white skin, and then moved on to attack the top with thinning shears. I shuddered. It brought back bad memories, I really began to regret agreeing to come here, and not getting a haircut at my usual place back home before I came. I reminded myself that I was no longer 11 years old, I could speak for myself and exercise a degree of control over the process. I repeated to myself what Ihad decided to say. "Something neat and tidy please, off the ears and off the collar, but nothing too short, and a little off the top, please."

The barber came to an end with the lad in the chair, finishing with a load of Brylcreem, (another bad memory), and the boy was released.

The barber looked over at my grandfather, "Next, please!"

My grandfather looked at me and nodded.

No way was I going to put myself in this barber's hands, I would take my chances with the other one! "You go first Grandad, I'll wait."

"If you are sure you don't mind, Thomas. Mr Clifford is my regular barber and he knows how I like it done."

My grandfather then took his place in the barber's chair, and I sat and waited alone with my nervous thoughts.

* * * * *

The other barber finished.

No getting out of it now. Walk. Sit, Try and get comfortable. Try to relax.

I was caped up. "Yes, young man?"

Remember what I had decided. "Something neat and tidy please, off the ears and off the collar, but nothing too short, and a little off the top, please."

"Neat and tidy? Off the ears and off the collar, but nothing too short? We'll see what we can do."

He pushed my head slightly forward, and began to snip. Alarming quantities of hair started to fall on the cape, but then I did have a lot of hair to cut, just so long as he left a bit still attached to my head!

* * * * *

My haircut was proceeding, not so badly it seemed. I began to feel a bit calmer. Then I heard my grandfather's voice, "Excuse me, Mr Simpson, may I interrupt you for one moment?"

"Yes, sir?"

"May I introduce you to this young man here, he is my grandson, Thomas."

"Pleased to meet you, young Thomas, Bellingham?"

"Yes, he is a Bellingham, like myself."

"Yes, sir. Another young Mr Bellingham? I remember your son. This boy's father, sir? How is he, sir?"

"Yes, as you say, this boy's father. He is very well, thank you, Mr Simpson. And I hope you are giving this Mr Bellingham a good, short haircut, as you gave his father when he was here?"

"As you see, sir. "Neat and tidy - but not too short." that is what the lad said, sir."

Grandad put his hand on my shoulder, "I think we can do a bit better than that, can't we, lad?"

"Grandad?"

"I think we can do better than "Neat and tidy - but not too short". I had better take over from now on and give Mr Simpson his instructions, don't you think?"

I had not been anticipating this. I had no ready answer. But habits of politeness and obedience to adults were deeply ingrained. So no choice really. "Er, um, yeah, er, I suppose."

"Thomas, that is not an appropriate answer. If you mean "Yes", then you should politely say "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir". So when I ask the question again, draw a deep breath, take a moment to gather your thoughts, then give your reply."

My grandfather paused a moment and then repeated, "Don't you agree it would be better if I took over and gave Mr Simpson his instructions?"

I drew a deep breath, absolutely no choice now, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

There was a moment's silence all round. It was broken by Mr Simpson. "Yes, sir? So how would you like the lad's hair, sir?"

"Short back and sides, please, Mr Simpson, a nice, short, short back and sides."

"Very good, sir."

My grandfather then sat down. My head was pushed down further forward, I could see nothing but the cape and pile of hair on the tiled floor. I heard a nasty, loud, buzzing noise.
The clippers hit the nape of my neck and worked their way up the back of my head and round my ears, and they sent a whole load more hair down to join the pile on the floor.

OUCH!

"Any off the top, sir?"

"Thin it down a little, if you please, Mr Simpson."

I was attacked with thinning shears, tugging at my hair and banging against my scalp. More hair left my head and assumed its proper place on the floor.

"Short enough, sir?"

"Yes, that looks much more like it. Thank you, Mr Simpson."

"Any dressing, sir?"

"Brylcreem, I think, please, Mr Simpson. The lad's hair is very thick and rather unruly, it will keep everything nicely in order."

A great dollop of the stuff was rubbed into the little hair remaining on the top of my head.

Mr Simpson then took the hand mirror and showed me the back and sides, white, bare, naked, shaved up high, the top gleaming, with everything combed immaculately into place.

AARGH!

I gave him the required "Thank you, sir."

I was released from the chair and was brushed down.

My grandfather inspected. "A great improvement, thank you Mr Simpson, a great improvement."

* * * * *

On the way back home in the car my grandfather began, "You did well today, Thomas, Thank you. But one thing you must learn is to give good, clear answers. Do not be afraid to take your time, gather your thoughts, then speak slowly and clearly. And adding "Sir" is always a good idea speaking to your seniors, remember that when you start working for Mr Grant tomorrow.

"Yes, Grandad. Er, yes, sir."

"Good, lad, Thomas. Thank you."

It soon became apparent that "Sir" would be mandatory both for my grandfather and Mr Grant.

* * * * *

I worked out in the fields all the next day, from dawn until dusk, but with a good lunch in the hottest part of the day. I arrived home hot, sweaty and dirty. I showered, put on clean clothes, ate dinner and went to bed, exhausted.

And so it was, six days a week.

The short haircut was practical. But it was prickly. Touching the sharp little bristles sent a weird thrill through me. It was forever reminding me of how very short it was. Did I like this? Or did I hate it?

With this military style haircut, working hard out in the sun all day, and saying "Sir" at the end of every sentence, I felt like I had been conscripted into the army. Again I found myself wondering if this was good, or bad?


* * * * *

Then one day it rained, no work out in the fields, no pay.

My grandfather suggested we go into town. I had nothing else to do and needed a couple of things, so I agreed.

My grandfather did his errands, I did mine, and then we ended up at Mr Clifford and Mr Simpson's barber shop. Not such a surprise really. My grandfather always kept his hair very short, it must have been cut every two weeks, but I did not think mine needed cutting at all.

"Time you and I both had haircuts, lad."

I paused, and drew a deep breath. "I'll come in with you and wait while you have yours cut, sir, but I don't think my hair needs cutting just yet."

"But I think it does, Thomas, and while you are staying with me you will be guided by me. Is that clear?"

Only one possible reply to this, "Yes, sir."

We entered the barber's. I waited while my grandfather had his short back and sides, and then he supervised while I had mine.

* * * * *

The rain passed, more hot, sunny weather, more long days in the fields.

* * * * *

A pause in work on the farm, a gap between crop harvests.

My grandfather suggests another trip into town. I know what is coming, but I have more sense than to argue. I will be going home in a couple of weeks, money in my pocket, and I then will be able to please myself.

We did our bits of shopping, and went to the barber's.

My grandfather took the chair first, telling me to wait.

But I was not going to wait. I was not a child. I did not need to be supervised. If I had to have another scalping then I was quite capable of asking for it myself. So when the other barber said "Next!" I took my place in his chair, and when he said "Yes, young man?" I replied "Short back and sides, please, sir."

"Short back and sides? You want it taken down close?"

"Yes, sir. Taken down close, please, sir."

My head was pushed forward, the clippers duly appeared, and Mr Simpson began the job of shaving the back of my head and round my ears.

I did my best to relax, I had had this before, I could deal with it.

A bit more trimming with scissors followed.

Finally I was Brylcreemed, and shown the clean, naked back and sides in the mirror. I gave my nods of approval, and I was released.

And there was my grandfather waiting for me.

I stood there as the barber brushed me down. I could tell I was under inspection, my haircut was under inspection. No surprises there.

Finally my grandfather spoke. "Well, my lad, that's a good, short haircut. Most satisfactory. In the circumstances, I think we can overlook your disregard of my instructions to wait."

"Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

On the way back home in the car I sat there rubbing at all that stubble, bristles and smooth shaved skin. This was the third time I had this haircut, but it still felt every bit as strange as the first time, exciting yet disturbing.

* * * * *

A few more weeks passed. I worked in the fields. My grandparents sometimes had visitors, especially on Sundays, and I had to dress up in my suit and do my best at suitable conversation.

* * * * *

Summer came to an end. Work finished. I was fitter, richer, more tanned, and much shorter haired than I had been two months earlier. The morning before my mother came to take me back home my grandfather announced that he was taking me into town because he wanted me "looking smart" when I returned to my parents.

No point arguing, Grandad was boss, Grandad would brook no opposition. Anyway, I was getting used to the short hair. I was getting to rather like running my fingers through the stubble. And I didn't really mind Grandad being in charge, not all that much anyway. His authoritative manner and his confidence in his expectations were reassuring. Life at my grandfather's had a disciplined, orderly feel to it which was good. So it was "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

* * * * *

We went to the barber's.

I took my place in the chair. "Short back and sides, please, sir."

I was given the required scalping.

"Any dressing?"

"Yes, sir. Brylcreem, please, sir."

Then "Thank you, sir." to the barber, and to my grandfather.

* * * * *

My mother arrived later that morning, shortly before lunch. She gave me a big hug, then held me at arm's length, and stared. "My goodness! Thomas! What have you done to your hair?"

"I've been working out in the fields in the heat, Mum."

"But why so short? This is your grandfather's doing, I'm sure."

She turned to my grandfather. "Mr Bellingham," (My mother always called him "Mr Bellingham" - there was an undertone of dislike there, which I was just becoming aware of). "Thomas is my child, just because he is staying with you does not give you the right to do anything you wish."

I was not going to have my mother take over like I was still a child, it was humiliating. "Mum, it was Grandad's suggestion, yes. But I agreed, it was a good idea, working in this heat."

My grandfather looked at me. My mother looked at me. They looked at each other.

"So why another haircut now? It was done this morning from the looks of things."

"Mum, I like it how it is. I'm 17, I make my own decisions."

My mother gave up the argument. We went in to lunch, and talked of other things.

* * * * *

We arrived home.

My father was more approving. "That's a good haircut you've got there, son. A proper, traditional short back and sides from the looks of things."

"Yes, sir. Short back and sides, sir."

"Grandad's influence?"

"It was his suggestion, sir."

"Suggestion?"

"Yes, sir. I was working out in the fields all day in the heat."

"But it is freshly done today, I think? No working out in the fields now."

"Yes, sir. Grandad wanted me looking smart for when I came home, sir."

"And you did not mind? Normally you moan about it when you are told to get a haircut."

"I've got used to it, sir, a short haircut. It was not just working out in fields in the heat, but Grandad expected my appearance to be up to a certain standard for when we had visitors. I had to look very smart, dressed up in my suit, shoes polished, well groomed. So I had to have a short haircut then as well, sir."

"And that is Brylcreem on your hair, I think?"

"Yes, sir. Brylcreem, sir. Grandad always asked the barber to put some on, and I was expected to wear it when we had visitors, give it a bit of a shine and keep it looking orderly. So I got used to Brylcreem too, sir."

* * * * *

Afterwards I thought about these conversations with my mother and father. Why had I said what I did? If anybody had asked me what I thought of a short back and sides before I went to my grandfather's I would have said that it was something really awful, and Brylcreem something greasy and horrible. I would have hated them both, but now I was talking about these things as quite usual, using some of the same turns of phrase as my grandfather did. Had I really "got used to" them, or was I just putting a brave face on things, pretending not to care? And why had I started calling Dad "Sir"? I had never called him "Sir" in the past.

* * * * *

A few days later school started again. I washed out the Brylcreem. A bit of fuzz had grown on the back and sides of my head. My friends let me know in no uncertain terms what they thought. I told them all they looked like girls, they "should get real haircuts, and look like men for a change".

* * * * *

Well, my hair grew, I soon looked just like all my friends. I still felt odd. But I thought they looked odd too - untidy, hippy, immature.

* * * * *

I may have let my hair grow, but I carried on calling my father "Sir". I had got used to calling Grandad "Sir", and my father hardly deserved any less. "Sir" had an adult, "man to man" sound to it. "Dad" just seemed a bit babyish by comparison. My father obviously thought the same, and would pick me up on it if I forgot. Other older generation men soon became "Sir" too. I could tell that they liked it too.

* * * * *

After a few months my hair was getting untidy, at least that is what my mother said when she sent me off to get it cut. I had a trim in a unisex hairdresser's. Again, a couple of months later, I was sent off for another trim. I was getting more and more dissatisfied, but nothing seemed to solve the puzzle. I felt scruffy, but I did not want to look odd, different from all my classmates.

Then there was a family gathering, a cousin's wedding. Grandad would be there.

I would be there, suit, tie, shoes polished so you could see your face in them - haircut?

Then things fell into place. I had plenty of money in my pocket from last summer's job. I was going back to my grandfather's to work on the farm in the summer and I would be earning more. Then I would be off to university. From now on I would be making my own decisions. From now on I was responsible. I did not need anybody to prompt me, I did not need anybody to send me, I did not need anybody to give me money.

There was a barber in town we called Mad Jack, he was notorious for the severity of his haircuts and the savage butchering he administered to any boy foolish enough to come into his shop.

I knew what I wanted to do

I knew what I needed to do.

I knew what I had to do.

* * * * *

I entered the shop and sat down to wait.

There was a boy in the chair, maybe 14 or 15 years old. Mad Jack was giving him a proper skinning. I watched as the clippers made their way up the back of his head and round his ears, exposing swathes of bare, white, naked scalp.

This was what I wanted, wasn't it? The very thing I had come here for?

I had had this same haircut several times over the summer, and got used to it. So why the misgivings? Why the sweaty palms, dry throat and churning in my stomach?

I fingered at the hair on the back and sides of my head. It was a couple of inches long, just like my classmates. I was used to it.

The lad was finished, brushed down, walking over to the till to pay.

"Next, please!"

Reality. I have to make a choice. I have to live with my choice.

I need to exercise some self-discipline.

It has to be done.

I placed myself in the chair.

"Yes, sir. Short back and sides, please, sir."


THE END

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