summer surprise cueball by steve

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It was the last week of school, and the heat was a constant, sticky presence that clung to the air like a heavy blanket. The schoolyard was a blur of tired faces and sluggish movements, the only relief coming from the occasional gust of wind that carried the sweet scent of blooming flowers from the neighboring park.

As the final bell rang, I grabbed my backpack and made my way to the pick-up line, eager to escape the stifling classroom. My mom's car was there to pick me up, but instead of heading towards our usual route home, she took a sharp turn down an unfamiliar street.

"Where are we going?" I questioned, curiosity piqued.

Mom glanced at me in the rear view mirror, a hint of excitement in her eyes. "I found a new barbershop,"

"But my hair isn't that long," I protested, running a hand through my hair, feeling the short strands stick to my neck.

"It's not just about the hair," she said with a knowing smile. "It's about the experience."

We pulled into the parking lot of a small, unassuming strip mall. The barbershop she'd found looked like it had been there for decades, with faded paint and a sign that swung gently in the breeze. The door creaked open as we stepped inside, revealing a space that was surprisingly cool and inviting. The scent of aftershave and hair tonics filled the air, a stark contrast to the stale school odor that had followed me all day.

There were two men and one woman inside, each with a client in their chair. The woman had vibrant brown hair, a stark contrast to the more traditional styles of the men. She looked up as the bell above the door jingled, her eyes meeting mine with a warm smile. The two men glanced over, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement. They were both in their late fifties, with hair so short it was almost military-style, and each had a well-groomed mustache that matched the striped barber poles outside.

Mom didn't say a word as she walked over to an empty chair next to the woman with the magazine. She took a seat and gestured for me to do the same. The woman put out her cigarette in an ashtray, tucking the magazine into her purse. The silence grew heavier as we waited, the only sounds being the occasional snip of scissors and the whirring of a buzz cut.

in the salon, four chairs lined the walls, and three of them were occupied by boys around my age. The first chair held a young man with a head lathered in shaving cream, a sight that was both unfamiliar and intriguing. The barber, one of the mustached men, was carefully applying the foam, his movements deliberate and practiced. The second chair had a boy with a classic bowlcut, the hair around his head looking as if it had been trimmed with a kitchen bowl. He seemed unfazed by the attention, his eyes glued to the TV playing an old cartoon in the corner.

In the third chair, there was a boy whose hair was a disaster zone. Large chunks had been hacked off around his ears and neck, leaving his face framed by jagged edges. His eyes were downcast, and his posture spoke of embarrassment. It was clear that his haircut was not a professional job; it looked like someone had attempted a trim with a pair of dull scissors and no mirror.

The barber in the first chair was meticulously shaving off the foam, revealing a freshly shaved scalp. The boy's skin looked pale and vulnerable against the stark white of the barber's apron. The blade glided over the curves of his head, and every stroke was accompanied by the sound of wet hair hitting the cape. The other customers watched, seemingly unfazed by the transformation taking place.

The lady with the brown hair looked at me with a kind smile, her eyes sparkling with a secret amusement. "NEXT," she called out in a loud, almost theatrical voice that echoed through the salon. It was a stark contrast to the quiet murmur of the fans overhead. I felt a jolt of nervousness, my heart racing. Before I could object, my mom gave me a gentle push.

I stumbled over to the fourth chair, the one that had been waiting patiently, and sat down with a thump. The chair was surprisingly comfortable, the cushion swallowing me up. The lady took a big cape, the fabric crisp and cool, and draped it over me. It was like a superhero's cape, but instead of granting me powers, it was about to give me a new look. She placed a tissue around my neck, tucking it in gently, ensuring no stray hairs would tickle my skin during the process.

"Regular summer cut or extra summer cut?" she asked my mom, her voice echoing through the salon.

Mom looked at her, brows furrowed, then at me. "Euh, I don't know," she said, uncertainty coloring her voice.

The woman next to her leaned in, her brown hair swinging slightly with the movement. She had a knowing look on her face. "Go for the extra," she suggested with a wink. "You won't regret it, and it'll keep him cool all summer long."

Mom looked at me, her eyes searching for any sign of disagreement. Finding none, she nodded. "Sure," she said to the barber. "The extra summer cut sounds good."

The lady nodded and took a small plate from the counter. On it was the word "extra" scrawled in a loopy script. She placed it on the station in front of me with a ceremonious air, then turned to one of the barbers. "I'm going for a smoke," she called out, the words leaving a trail of smoke in their wake. "I'll get him ready when I get back."

The barber with the military precision in his movements nodded without looking up from the bowlcut boy. "Sure thing, Linda," he said, his voice as gravelly as the parking lot outside. His scissors snipped steadily, the rhythm as comforting as a metronome.

I looked around the small space, noticing the details that had been lost in my initial surprise. Each chair had a different plate on the station in front of it. Two of the plates read "extra," just like the one placed before me. The third boy, the one with the bowlcut, had nothing but a plain black plate. It dawned on me that this was a code, a secret language of the barbershop. The "extra" meant something special, something more than just a trim. I glanced at the boy in the chair beside me, his eyes still glued to the TV, and wondered what his story was. Did he ask for the extra cut, or was it a surprise like mine?

The lady barber, Linda, returned from her smoke break, her cheeks slightly flushed and the scent of cigarettes clinging to her like a second skin. She approached my chair with a sense of purpose, her scissors and comb at the ready. As she came closer, the smell of her sweat and smoke grew stronger, making me crinkle my nose in an attempt to keep it at bay. The woman with the brown hair gave me a knowing smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she leaned over to my mom and whispered, "This is the moment they all hate."

Without a moment's hesitation, she took the scissors and snipped away my bangs in one swift motion. I watched in horror as a chunk of hair fell into my lap, the length of it much shorter than I had ever worn before. A gasp escaped my lips as I tried to process what had just happened. My mom looked surprised but didn't say anything, her eyes locked onto the barber's every move.

The woman, Linda, didn't stop there. She proceeded to cut the rest of my hair, leaving a mere half-centimeter at the front. Her movements were quick and decisive, leaving no room for error or doubt. The cold steel of the scissors brushed against my neck as she worked her way around my head, snipping and trimming with surprising grace.

The woman with the brown hair chuckled quietly beside me, enjoying the show. She leaned closer to my mom, whispering something that made them both giggle. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and anger. Why was she doing this to me? Why weren't they stopping her?

But as the haircut continued, I began to realize that the boy with the poorly chopped hair was not a victim of his own hand or a friend's poor judgment.

His eyes met mine briefly in the mirror, and there was a silent understanding that passed between us. He looked away quickly, but not before I saw the sadness lurking there.

Linda put down the scissors and took a step back, examining her handiwork. She turned to Tom, who had just finished wiping the last remnants of shaving cream from the now-bald boy's head. "He's all yours," she said, patting my shoulder.

"You're next," she grunted, her voice gruff.

The young boy with the freshly shaved head looked up at his mother, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and relief. She nodded, her expression unreadable, and he took a deep breath before standing up. His legs looked wobbly, as if unsure of what to do next.

"Thank you," his mother said to Tom, her voice shaking slightly. "It's just what he needed."

The bald boy looked at me with a shy smile, and for a brief moment, I saw a glimpse of the person he was beneath the unfortunate circumstances.

As the barbershop door closed behind them, the woman with the brown hair turned to me. "Don't worry, sweetie," she said, her voice soothing. "You're going to look fantastic."

Tom picked up the electric clippers and turned them on. The sound was like a bee's buzz, but deeper, more intimidating. She leaned in close, the warmth of her breath brushing against my ear. "Ready?" he asked.

Mom nodded enthusiastically from her chair, her eyes gleaming with excitement. "It's just hair, right?" she said, trying to lighten the mood. "It'll grow back."

I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the tremble in my voice. "But what if I hate it?"

Toms's eyes met mine in the mirror, his expression firm but kind. "It's just hair, kiddo. Besides, it's not about what you think now. It's about how you'll feel when you walk out of here."

With that, he placed the vibrating clippers against my scalp, the coolness of the metal a stark contrast to the heat outside. I felt the first few strands of hair fall away, and a part of me wanted to scream for her to stop. But the buzz grew louder, drowning out the fear, and I focused on the sensation instead. It was strange, almost comforting, as the weight of my hair was lifted away.

My head felt lighter with each pass of the clippers, the tension in my neck and shoulders dissipating like mist in the sun. Linda's movements were swift and precise, and she didn't miss a single spot. It was as if she had done this a thousand times before, and maybe she had. The other barbers had gone back to their work, seemingly unfazed by the transformation occurring in front of them.

Mom's eyes grew wider with each buzz, her cigarillo smoldering in the ashtray, forgotten. She took a deep drag, the tip glowing red before she spoke again. "Will he be shaved too, like the other ones?" she asked tentatively.

Linda looked up from her task, a glint of amusement in her eye. "Yep," she said with a nod. "Just like the other cue balls. You won't need to worry about his hair for at least four to six weeks."

Tom took a step back, his eyes surveying the short, even hair that now covered my head. He dipped a brush into a jar of thick, white lather, then proceeded to cover my scalp in a layer so thick it felt like a cake frosting. The coldness of it sent a shiver down my spine, and I had to resist the urge to wipe it away.

With the straight razor in hand, Tom approached my chair with the same confidence he had earlier. The blade was sharp, reflecting the fluorescent lights in a way that made my stomach flip. He started at the base of my neck, spreading the shaving cream upward in a swirl that felt both foreign and oddly soothing. The scent of the shaving cream was faintly minty, a coolness that contrasted with the warmth of the barbershop.

As the razor touched my skin, I held my breath, bracing for the pain that I'd heard about from friends who had tried to shave their heads at home. But Tom's hand was steady, the blade gliding over my scalp with surprising gentleness. Each stroke was meticulous, as if he were carving a sculpture rather than shaving a head. The hair fell away in clumps, leaving a trail of bare skin in its wake. The sensation was unlike anything I had ever felt before, both terrifying and exhilarating in its intensity.

The barbershop grew quiet, the only sounds the whir of the clippers and the occasional snip of scissors. The air was thick with the anticipation of the reveal, and I could feel the eyes of the other customers on me. The woman with the brown hair had stopped reading her magazine and was watching with a smirk, enjoying the spectacle. Her son, now sporting an even shorter cut than the one he had walked in with, was fidgeting in his chair, his eyes wide with excitement.

Tom stepped back and took a look at my head, then grabbed the shaving cream again. He lathered it on with a brush, the coldness of the cream sending goosebumps down my neck. He began to shave again, this time more deliberately, more carefully. The sound of the blade scraping against my skin was eerie, a rhythmic tune that seemed to play in sync with my racing heart.

I watched in the mirror as my last bits of hair disappeared into the abyss of the cape. It was a weird feeling, like watching a movie of someone else's life.

"Eyebrows," Tom announced, turning to my mother.

I looked at him in horror. "Wait, what? No, please, not my eyebrows!" But my protests fell on deaf ears. Mom's eyes had wandered back to the magazine in her lap, and she didn't seem to hear the dread in my voice. She nodded at Tom, her smile widening as if she knew something I didn't.

Without any warning, Tom brought the straight razor to my face, the cold metal pressing against my skin just above my eyebrows. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the hairs part as the blade glided over them. The sensation was both terrifying and exhilarating, like a roller coaster drop I hadn't signed up for. When I finally dared to open my eyes,The mirror revealed a stranger, someone I barely recognized. My eyebrows were gone, leaving behind nothing. My heart sank into my stomach as the reality set in. I was bald, my head a smooth, shiny dome that reflected the barbershop lights.

The room was eerily silent as the last bits of shaving cream were wiped away. Linda stepped forward with a towel, her eyes assessing me with a critical gaze. She wiped off the excess cream, her movements gentle despite the severity of the situation. The coldness of the towel was a stark contrast to the warmth of the room, sending a shiver down my spine.

When she was done, she stepped back, revealing the full extent of my new look. The baldness was shocking, my skin a stark white against the dark fabric of the cape. The woman with the brown hair let out a low whistle, her eyes wide with amazement. "Wow," she murmured, almost to herself. "You really do look like a cue ball."

The barbers exchanged a knowing look, their expressions a mix of amusement and satisfaction. They had seen this before, the transformation of a boy into something new, something more. It was a right of passage, a moment that would live in infamy in the annals of the barbershop.

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