A Single Silver Strand by Manny

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As I pulled into the garage, I spotted another object that would be purged from my personal possessions. I was on a campaign to get rid of unused and obsolete things that were cluttering my place. Once it had been my pride and joy, but the yellow and blue fiberglass surfboard had not been taken out in years.

I briefly considered reviving my interest in surfing, but then remembered my "iffy" back. Getting old was hard on the body. Nope, the surfboard had to go. It would be purged!

It felt good to make that decision. Time to move on…time to grow up?!

I remembered my nephew’s interest in the surf board and phoned him.

"Say, Keith, if you still want my old surf board, it’s yours!" I conveyed the news joyfully. "Yep, I can drop it off at your place. Are you in this afternoon?"

What would be next, I wondered?

While talking on the phone with Keith, my eyes had drifted about, looking for something else to purge. Then, I saw it! In the mirror, standing out amid a lush field of gold, I spotted it. One single silver strand. My first gray hair! Or was it?!

"I’ll stop by around three," I heard myself telling Keith, still distracted about my distressing discovery of the silver strand, before hanging up.

Staring into the mirror from a bit of a distance, I was far from certain that it was, in fact, a tangible sign of aging. Not until I retrieved a tweezer, pursued my prey with focused intensity, and plucked it from my scalp, was I absolutely sure.

"OUCH!" I yelped, as I yanked my first gray hair from the golden mane that encompassed it.

It wasn’t so much the physical pain. No, the emotional pain of aging. Again!

It was long, like all the blond strands that surrounded it - a good seven inches. And it was shiny - definitely silver, not gray. But, it was COMPLETELY unwelcomed.

I brushed my hair as I normally did, but this time feeling somewhat different about it. Instead of being pleased with how youthful my lustrous locks made me look, I found myself considering whether it was appropriate for a man turning 40 to hang onto the surfer-dude persona. Most of my peers age-wise sported standard business cuts. A good number of them were thinning on top and had a receding hairline. I had been the hold-out…cultivating and relishing my sun-kissed mane.

I pulled out a hand mirror from beneath the sink and surveyed the flow in back. It was long. And, in all truth, it looked rather shaggy - I could even say ‘ratty’.

Instantly, I was determined - the flow needed to be cropped! Trimming off half an inch would NOT do. Two or three inches would fall! Actually, MORE! It needed to be brutally CHOPPED! I would have it taken off right at the nape - above the collar! Six inches sent to the floor of the salon!

The thought was exciting. I imagined myself saying, ‘Let’s take off all that length in back. Cut it clean off the collar.’

The surfer-dude image would take a huge hit once the flow had been dispatched to the floor. I could almost hear the sound of shears slicing off dangling thick, wet hair.

Unexpectedly, I felt my groin stirring. The thought of a makeover excited me.

Why stop there?! ‘And take it off the ears too!’ The shears would continue snipping around the ears, clearly revealing them to the world for the first time in decades.

I quickly ran a brush through my treasured hair. Yes, it was time for a makeover. Turning 40 and time to shift into middle age.

It was decided. To kick off the transformation, the long hair was going to be shorn. SHORT!

But why go to the salon? Certainly, my stylist would plead for a reprieve…‘but you have such wonderful hair!’ Undoubtedly, she would suggest strategic highlights to hide the developing gray.

A large, powerful set of fastfeed electric hair clippers would be much more efficient, and much cheaper!

I examined the sheen and the natural highlights. A grumpy geezer barber who can’t stand girly hair. That’s what my precious locks needed!

I was rock hard as I imagined the codger forcing my head down and running the hungry clippers straight up the back of my head - my thick, pampered locks falling in the wake, piling in mounds at his feet!

I broke away from the mirror, but my fantasy of getting brutally shorn by a barber raged on. A huge baseball bat occupied my pants. The geezer would not be stopped! He took the clippers and ran them down the top my head. A baldy cut! He was giving me a baldy cut, down to the wood! All my hair, on the cape and at his feet by the time he snapped off the Oster’s.

The fantasy was both exhilarating and frightening. I manipulated my silken hair to bring myself back into the real world. Oh, it was so soft and lush.

Of course, I would not be getting a baldy cut, but I did like the idea of having my hair cut short. All the length taken off…and exposing my ears. A short geeky taper around the ears! I had always considered taper cuts for geeks, but perhaps….

I thought about my nephew and his friends; all of them shorn to virtual military lengths. Not surprising, given their recent service in Afghanistan. The younger set was smart not to be saddled down with the burden of hair care.

Yes, there would be a double purge. Both the surfboard and the surfer-hair would be gone by evening!

When I dropped the surfboard off at Keith’s in the afternoon, I was surprised to see his head virtually bald!

"What happened to your hair?" I stammered.

Keith rubbed his clipped head. "It’s called a bald fade! Do you like it?" The lad eyed my lush locks.

I couldn’t say that I did, so I dodged the direct question.

"Well, I’m getting my hair cut short, too. In fact, I’m on my way to the barber now. No more surfer look for me," I replied.

"That’s great. Long hair on old men is such a turn-off," he laughed.

I stammered, stung by the insinuation that I was an old man!

"How about a bald fade?" he suggested, "I could take you to my barber. Repay the favor for my new surf board! Thanks so much, Uncle Phil. You know I’ve always wanted to try surfing."

To let Keith determine my new haircut when he was so pleased with his new bald fade… I felt my pecker growing.

"You won’t let me off the hook with ‘just a trim’ I suppose," I replied sheepishly.

"Hop in my car!" Keith instructed. "One good turn deserves another."

I examined Keith’s bald fade as we drove to his neighborhood barber. Lots of skin, a patch of stubble on top, no hair to speak of. I had mega cold feet.

"I don’t want anything drastic, Keith. Short, but leave me with some hair. Enough to comb, for Pete’s sake," I said in a tone that bordered on begging.

He smirked and tussled my long locks.

"Having a hard time saying goodbye to the mop?" he laughed. "It’ll be good riddance for this girly hair. Come on, the clippers are waiting for you just inside there!"

Keith led me from the small parking lot to the front of the small, stand-alone solid brick structure.

Climbing the three steps up to stoop where a central door was flanked by windows felt like I was scaling Mt. Everest. I felt hesitant about my decision to get the big chop.

The shop’s operating hours were posted on one window, which also contained a painted barber pole and the name, Five Points Barber Shop, emblazoned atop a star. The other window was trimmed with an actual vintage barber pole. Its red and white stripes swirled ceaselessly, like a beacon calling out to longhairs like me. Or was it warning me to stay away?!

Keith pushed open the door and motioned me in.

The smallness of the shop was even more pronounced inside. A single oversized barber chair on a high pedestal dominated the room. To the right side, three waiting chairs were placed beneath a long, horizontal window. On the opposite side was a small credenza and a collection of fishing and car magazines. Above it hung a vintage poster displaying official haircuts from the 1950s. Definitely old school!

Greg, the fit young barber, had a man my age in the chair receiving a high ‘n tight! I felt so out-of-place with my surfer’s shag!

The barber was definitely not the old geezer I had imagined. His head was shorn and his muscular arms bulged from the tight fitting tunic. He had sparkling blue eyes that almost twinkled.

"Howdy, Keith," the barber chirped. "Bring in a friend today?"

"My uncle. He needs a haircut," Keith grinned.

"Yep, he sure does," Greg replied. "Bald fade? High ‘n tight? What will it be, uncle?"

"Still deciding," I said as I took a seat in the waiting area. "Short, but not a bald fade! I know that much!"

"Check out that chart," the barber suggested, pointing with the Oster clippers he was using. "Maybe you’ll see something that clicks for your fresh, updated look."

"Updated?!" I laughed. "No one would be caught dead with any of those haircuts when I was a kid. Those were the types our old-fashioned fathers sported."

"Well, guess what? We’ve come full circle!" Keith chimed in. "Now, only aging hippies cling onto the shag. If you can’t decide on one of those haircuts, I’ll decide for you! It’s going to be short, shorter or ultra-short, Uncle Phil!"

I sat feeling both nervous and numb in the small barber shop. The old fashioned chair that seemed to fill the shop would be the stage for transformation - my transformation!

I watched the barber closely. He was bold and confident, a master of his craft.

Occasionally, he glanced over at me. I was sure he sensed my trepidation as he continued working on his current patron. The large set of black Oster clippers were his instrument of choice. The low hum filled the room with sound, just as the chair dominated it visually.

My long blond surfer hair would be his next project. He eyed it like a sculptor might analyze a large chunk of marble as he considered his next masterpiece.

I closed my eyes. What was I doing in there?! If my nephew weren’t with me, I’d probably just walk out of the shop. Leave, before it was too late.

With my eyes closed, I listened to the idle chatter and hum of the Oster’s. The sound of the electric clippers felt so final. They would provide the definitive goodbye to my dated image.

I imagined long, blond clumps falling to the ground with each snip of the barber shears - a snub to the youthful surfer identity I once held dear. I reminded myself that just as I was had cleaned out my garage and parted with my surf board, so to the long hair had to go.

My meditation was interrupted by Greg loudly announcing, "Next!"

I blinked my eyes open nervously. The time had come!

The barber smiled and patted the chair invitingly. I felt as if he were the executioner summoning me to the electric chair. What happened to Leonardo da Vinci planning his new masterpiece?! I needed to change my attitude about this haircut, I told myself. Accept it, embrace it!

As I mounted the steel footrest Greg chirped, "Decided yet? I think you’d look fantastic with a flattop."

I took one quick last look in the mirror at my surfer persona before turning and easing down into the chair which faced away from the mirror.

I was on pins and needles. Greg had just suggested I get a flattop!

The white cape flew through the air; the young barber struggled to fasten it on account of the long hair.

"Not used to managing hippy hair with the cape," he said nervously.

The suggestion of a flattop gnawed at me. I was going for change, big change. Why not a flattop?! It had been Greg’s professional opinion, but without pressure. Since I was leaving my comfort zone, opting for something new, why not try something daring? A flattop would be a leap into the unknown, a bold statement of change.

By the time the barber had finished combing out my hair, I had lost my nerve about going flat. Best to opt for something less…less, uh, extreme.

"So, what will it be?" Greg asked.

I stalled for time.

My voice sounded hesitant and constrained as I replied, "So you think a flattop would suit me?"

"I do, but it’s not what I want. It’s what you want, sir," Greg said as he patted my shoulder in a soothing, caring way.

I was momentarily distracted by the caress of his fingers in my hair that seemed to linger.

My mind whirled aimlessly, but no other plan materialized.

"A flattop," I said quickly.

"That’ll look amazing," Keith called out from the waiting area.

With both his hands, Greg pulled my hair back into a sort of makeshift ponytail.

"Is this going to be saved for any purpose?" he asked, pulling my silken tail through his coiled fingers. "I mean, like a charity donation, wigs for kids, that sort of thing."

"Nope, it’s all headed for the trashcan," I said, feeling a sudden boldness and relief.

It felt good to condemn my hair to the dustbin.

"It’s a LOT of hair," Greg said as he smoothed my hair down with his hands.

I hadn’t noticed him being so handsy with his last client, but his touch felt pleasing.

"Ready?" he asked, gently.

Instantly, my pecker was hard as a bat.

"Yep," I said quickly.

As the clippers hummed to life, I felt Greg lifting my shoulder length locks at the nape with a comb. Then came a muffled shriek as the metal teeth of the machine mowed off the first big shank of my hair.

I couldn’t see it fall to the floor, but I imagined the golden tress landing with a thud at the barber’s feet.

"I love cutting first time flats," the barber said as he continued removing the length in back without pressing the machine against my scalp.

"How’s it looking?" I asked my nephew nervously.

"From the front, nothing has changed. You still look like an oldster who has put off his trip to the barber shop for way too long," Keith laughed.

"Let’s shift gears, then," Greg said, nudging my head down so that I was staring into my lap.

There was a pregnant pause as I sat staring aimlessly down at the expansive white cape.

It was like the barber was waiting for me to call off the assault on my flow.

Keith jumped to his feet and took out his phone to record history in the making.

I gripped the arms of the chair under the cape.

Greg sprang into action. The first drive of the clippers, tight up the back of my head, felt exhilarating.

"Timber," Keith called out.

Then he added, "Wow! You’re using balding clippers on him!"

Balding clippers!!! My heart swooned and my stomach churned. I felt a blast of cool air on the back of my head where the padding of silken hair had come off

"He’ll leave here looking like a marine," Greg said with a tone of pride.

Balding clippers!! This drove home the fact that I was in for a big change. My stomach churned.

As my hair continued to fall away in torrents from the back and sides, the cape turned from white to gold. It was as if each fallen lock carried away a piece of the past, the memories of catching a big wave or strutting down the beach carrying my board like a cocky stud muffin.

But, the painful times also were piling up on the floor and cape, ready to be discarded. The divorce I’d just finalized, the scare of colon cancer, the death of my father, being passed over for a promotion at work…

What was taking the place of my surfer locks on my head, I wondered? Something that would give me a new look and a new start!

With each pass of the barber's skilled hands, my nervousness seemed to drift away, replaced by a growing confidence. The transformation was not just physical; it was an emotional shedding of what had been and an embrace of what could be. The barber shop, with its striped pole spinning outside, was more than a place for haircuts; it was a threshold between the old and the new, a place where one could step out, not just with a new look, but with a renewed spirit. My spirit suddenly glowed within. I had done the right thing!

"Now sit up straight and keep still," Greg encouraged me. "This is where I start the artistry. It’ll be the difference between a simple haircut and a masterpiece. Do you want some length on top or for me to take it down close?"

I had no idea!

"That last fellow’s was too short, so I guess leave some length," I said.

"No high ‘n tight on your first visit then," the barber said in feigned tone of disappointment. "We’ll save something for you to look forward to. You wouldn’t be the first ex-longhair who gets hooked on the ultra-short look."

He said it, almost like it were a promise. I had a funny feeling he was right about me getting hooked on ultra-short haircuts - a barber’s prophecy.

I stared down at the cape. As Greg worked with comb and clippers, snippets of blond were fluttering down on to the large lifeless chunks that had collected in my lap.

I was eager to see the new me. I wanted somehow to look shockingly different.

Greg suddenly stepped in front of me, straddling the foot rest. He seemed incredibly close as he began crafting the focal point of my new look. He leaned forward. My heart beat quickly. I could smell the scent of aftershave as his face neared mine.

"Sorry if I’m intruding on your personal space," he apologized. "But, I want to get this right."

"No problem," I croaked softly, my mouth dry and uncomfortable.

My eyes glanced down toward the bulge in his tight jeans.

"Keep still," he chided and steadied my head with his authoritative grip.

At that moment, I felt like I would have done anything the young, handsome barber required of me.

After a few more passes of the clippers, Greg snapped the machine off.

He studied me carefully and then fiddled about with some of the sprouts that were near my widow’s peak, rubbing some sweet-smelling tonic into it.

"You are looking great!" he proclaimed, beaming.

I returned his smile.

"When can I see?" I asked impatiently.

"This haircut has taken a good ten years off your looks," he said feeling quite pleased with his handiwork.

"Really?" I replied.

He was preparing me for the big reveal. Possibly flattering me.

The chair turned very slowly. I was on pins and needles.

Nothing could have prepared me for such a shock!

My long hair was history! I looked like a marine captain! The plush top was ramrod straight and glistened with the product he had used. The sides of my head were naked.

I blinked in disbelief, stunned and silent.

Greg held up a hand mirror so that I could see the bald head in back.

"Well?" the barber asked nervously.

I nodded in the affirmative, still unable to speak.

The initial feeling of nakedness and the stark change in appearance gave way to growing, even intense, admiration.

"It’s a perfect haircut," I finally stammered. "I just don’t recognize myself!"

"I’m glad you like it," Greg replied. "I was worried there for a moment."

"It’s such a change," I continued to stammer.

"A good change!" Keith called out.

"No more aging hippy look," I laughed.

Greg began to unfasten the cape. His hands moved slowly and deliberately.

He pulled back my shirt collar and whisked away some snippets with the duster.

Then he touched the naked nape, followed by a quick shoulder massage.

"Quite a change," he murmured.

The way he gently caressed my nape sent shivers down my spine.

"Did you have fun?" I asked curiously.

"Fun?!" Greg stammered. He was obviously embarrassed.

Then, he added, "Sure, I did. Cutting great hair - especially long-to-short transformations - is always fun."

The cape finally came off and I was able to explore the back of my head with my hand.

"Look at the floor!" Keith exclaimed.

In a way, I didn’t want to get up. I wanted to continue sitting there with Greg focused totally on me.

I saw him reach down and put his hand on the silver lever.

"How about I treat you to a facial shave? Compliments of me, Phil? Scrape these baby-like cheeks of yours smooth," Greg said with his eyes sparkling.

But, Keith jumped to his feet.

"That’s kind of you, Greg, but we need to be going. I have football practice in 20 minutes," Keith said. "And, I’ve got to take my uncle back home to get his car."

"You run on, Keith," Greg said with a twinkle in his eye. "I can drive your uncle back to his car when we’re finished. He’ll be my last client for the day."

As Keith left, Greg turned the sign on the door to ‘closed’ and lowered the shade.

"This way, we can take as long as necessary," he said, to explain his move.

Then Greg reclined the chair. He gazed down at me.

This would be my first experience as a new man!

I was ready to start an exciting new chapter in my life.

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