Father's Day by Dad/Son

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Father's Day

by a Dad


In recent months I had grown tired of my two teenage sons whining and moaning every couple of months, when I had to literally drag them to the local barbershop. Their reluctance to get haircuts had resulted in their hair growing longer and longer, and I was only able to get them into the barbershop with the promise that they only had to get a slight trim, to keep it looking tidy. Experts at manipulation, they managed to grow their hair irritatingly long. They knew that I would never cause a scene in public, and they used this fact to their advantage when instructing the barber on how he was to cut their hair.

I put it down to teenage rebellion. After all, I failed to see how they could actually like having their hair so think and lank. It certainly did no favors to their looks, and I had noticed that none of their friends had hair even half as long as my boys did.

I complained to my wife about the boys’ hair a few weeks ago, but she just shrugged her shoulders, philosophically remarking that at least they didn't get into the trouble that some the boys their age did, and we both agreed it was sensible to seek solace in that thought.

Defeated, I decided that I could no longer face nagging the boys into coming with me for a haircut. On Father's Day morning, I decided to get my OWN hair cut at our regular shop. I parked the car by the curb and strolled into the shop alone.

Waiting in the shop a guy, I recognized from the boys’ school, we started up a conversation, and he pointed to the teenage lad taking up his seat in the barbers chair, commenting that he had brought his two sons in for a proper haircut, and that their mother usually cut their hair. It seemed enough was enough when someone commented to him in the street about the behavior of his two girls. He’d seen red, and marched them both into shop.

I glanced across at an older boy sitting staring at his younger brother in the barber’s chair, his stare was fixed and solid, his eyes all but covered in straggly brown locks of hair. He certainly didn't look happy.

Our conversation halted, as the barber, spoke.

‘Allright young man, what'll it be today?’

The boy, started to direct the barber, lifting his hands from below the cotton cape, he described the style he wanted, an inch of from here, a little off the ears, perhaps exposing the ear lobes, so that people could see the earring he work in one ear, maybe a bit more of the face.

The barber nodded, understanding perfectly, and the tension in the two boys seemed to drain away, that was until the barber turned to the boys’ father asking.

‘That OK with you Dad?’

The boy’s faced dropped. The older one looked like he would burst into tears at any moment.

‘No! They were both mistaken for girls this afternoon. Can you imagine?’ he asked the barber.
The barber started combing the boy’s hair, nodding his sympathy for the father’s plight.

‘Their mother normally cuts their hair, and a couple of ribbons would make them both look like their little sister. No, these girls need a real man’s haircut! No messing, take it down real tight!’

As their father’s words flooded out into the small barbershop, the boys both shuddered in horror.

‘Sure thing Dad! You’re the boss.’ he replied, already standing with a large pair of hair clippers in his hand. Holding them up to the mirror, he caught the boy’s eye in the mirror, and couldn’t resist asking

‘OK?’

The boy remained silent, hanging his head in defeat.

The barber laughed, along with the boys’ father and myself. I don’t think the boys appreciated the humor. Perhaps they will when they have teenage children.

The shop filled with the usual electric humming of the clippers, and the barber pushed the boys head into position, as the barber lifted his hand of the boy’s head, the boy tilted his head back level.

‘You're not used to a clipper cut, are you? When I position your head, I expect you to leave it where I put it.’ he said.

The boy’s head froze rigid in an instant, and the barber pushed the whirring clipper up in front of the boys ear, gritting his teeth as he forced the vibrating teeth through the thick piles of hair. Triumphantly the barber smiled as the clippers emerged from the dark hair, and a thick lump of brown hair dropped onto the boy’s shoulder.

The teeth stood by ready for action again, and the barber lifted the hair over the boys ear, and once more allowed the teeth to tear away at the long strands that had protected the ears for so long. Two swipes more and the ears were stripped of their camouflage entirely.

The boy in the chair was silent, as the barber adjusted the angle of the boy’s head, pushing his head forward, leaving the back of his head almost horizontal. As the collar length hair dropped to the floor, the boy’s white neck was revealed, and for the first time the brother waiting patiently in the shop queue could see the shortness of his brother’s hair. As he stared open mouthed at his brother’s near white scalp, I noticed him run his fingers through his own hair, shivering at the thought of what was to come his way.

The barber had settled into a rhythm now, and seemed content to force the boy’s head onto the angles he required, as he brutally sheared away his brown mop, once again pausing with his comb to lift the hair above the second ear, forcing the clippers to chew through the dark roots.

With the back and side now cleared down to a number 2 grade, the boy was allowed to sit up straight once more. His hair spilled down over his face and half way over his ears. Indeed I had seen boys at my sons’ school with their hair in similar bowl cut styles, but myself had never been a fan of them.

The boy started to look a little more relaxed as he surveyed his reflection, allowing the barber to comb his thick hair out. The barber returned their clippers to their hook, blowing away the stray hairs that still clung to the teeth. I noticed the brother was still staring in horror at the bundles of severed hair gathered around the boy’s shoulders. With a deft cuff of his hand the barber sent the mass of hair tumbling to the floor, out of sight of the young man in the chair.

The barber took his scissors from the breast pocket of his jacket and began walloping long lengths of hair from the boys head, lifting each tress with the comb and cutting along the comb, each strand receiving two quick snips in quick unison.

Again the barber created a rhythm, and the back of the boys head was now revealed in all of its finery, short stubbled hairs, all trained in the same direction, giving the smart impression of a velvet nape. The hair tapered neatly into the boys small nape, the transformation of this scruffy lad quite incredible.

I looked at the boy’s reflection in the mirror, and was aware that he could see nothing of what was going on around him, the barber had combed his long thick fringe fully over his eyes, letting it rest just above his lips.

Then in a finally flourish of victory, the barber took his chrome scissors and slowly, deliberately cut away the long fringe, leaving at most half an inch in length. I watched the young man’s eyes flinch as they adjusted to the light, and then as they adjusted to the image they were studying in the mirror.

The barber was triumphant, as he whipped away the cape, leaving the young man in the chair shell shocked. As he stood, I watched his father’s face beam with pride, and I was envious.

The young man ran his fingers over his cropped hair, getting used to the feel of the short stubble. He tried to ruffle his hair several times, before giving up, somewhat despondent, that no matter how much he tried to untidy this smart sleek style, somehow it always returned to shape.

The barber look on satisfied. The young man, took up a seat next to his brother, grinning at him as he sat.

‘How does it look?’ he asked desperate for his brother’s positive comments.

‘Like s**t!’ snapped the long haired boy, under his breath. The barber didn't seem to hear, as he shook out the cape, spilling yet more brown hair onto the floor, and stood inviting the lad to take a seat in his chair.

‘I ain’t getting a haircut like that,’ the boy protested.

‘Come on son. You're getting a haircut. You can’t spend your life looking like a girl.’


‘No!’ replied the boy, aggressively.

Eventually the boy relented and agreed to his usual trim. Embarrassed, he took his place in the barbers chair. The barber wrapped the cape around him, too tightly, judging by the boys reaction.

With his scissors the barber trimmed each length of hair, careful to let the boy see how little he was actually cutting off. I grew bored and reached for a newspaper to read.

‘A little of the back?’ enquired the barber, and the boy answered that he wore it just above his collar. Once the flurry of snipping had subsided the barber stood back, appearing satisfied with his work.

‘I’ll just straighten the edges now, then you're finished.’ he said in a reassuring tone.

As the clippers burst into action once more, I look up to see the barber turn and wink deliberately at the boy’s father, and after asking the boy to tip his head forward, watched as he forced the clippers deep into the boys thick hair, his finger too disappeared for a moment, emerging seconds later at the top of the boys head.

‘Sorry — my hand slipped!’ he muttered.

The boy jumped from the chair, but as he ran his hand up the back of his head, he cooled down, realizing that there was no repair possible, his father had won the day. He slumped back in to the chair, while the barber rapidly buzzed away his hair, until his scalp to resembled the velvet pile of his brother. The haircut complimenting his slim face, much more so than his chubbier brother. He was buzzed all over.

The two boys left in somber mood, but somehow I could just tell they'd get to like their new haircuts. I sat down in the chair, commenting to the barber how smart the two young man now looked, and added that I wished my sons would get similar cuts. The barber winked once more.

‘Go get them and bring them in,’ he grinned. 'After all, it's Father's Day!"

I drove home, and after lunch told the boys that they were going to the barbershop. I was met with the usual groans and long justifications as to why they only needed a trim. After the usual banter, they conceded to get a trim because, after all, it was Father's Day.




Father's Day

by a Son


Lunch was late because Dad had gone for a haircut that morning. John and I exchanged glances as he walked in. His hair was shorter than he normally wore it, we both knew what the other was thinking — we had escaped a haircut for another few weeks.

Our relief was short-lived. As we started eating, Dad told us we were both to get a haircut after lunch. Together we initiated our survival plan, a well-rehearsed operation. With sufficient wit, we could always convince Dad that we only needed a trim. Unusually on this occasion he never made any threats about getting ‘a proper haircut’, or ‘when he was a boy’, but we couldn't risk it, and trotted out the usual excuses like this is the fashion, girls preferred long hair, long hair suits me better. But he was having none of it, and after all it was Father's Day. We agreed to get haircuts.

As we entered the shop, it was almost full — the final piece of artillery in our battery of excuses. We protested that it was pointless waiting such a long time, perhaps we should come back next week, perhaps earlier in the morning. We knew from experience that Dad hated sitting doing nothing, he was the type of person that always wants to be busy doing something, so we were surprised when he sat down in the only remaining chair, willing to wait for all of the assembled queue to pass through the barber’s chair. John and I were left lingering in the doorway, both expecting Dad’s patience to wane at any moment.

The barber worked proficiently, trimming the hair of boys and men, with precision. All of the haircuts we watched seemed very short, but everyone seemed pleased with the end results, and left happy. The barber seemed to listen to each customer’s instructions carefully, and give them the cut that they wanted.

The line began to thin out, and I was almost relieved when it was my turn to get into the barber’s chair. It had been a long wait, just sitting and watching the barber work. The truth was I just wanted to get out of the barbershop.

As I’d been sitting waiting, I had been mentally rehearsing my instructions for the barber. They were word-perfect. As I waited for the cape to be tied around me, I told the barber, ‘Just a trim please. A little off the ends, thin it out a little, take the bangs out of my eyes, and keep the ears covered.’

The barber nodded, as he tightened the cape, and started to comb out my unruly hair. He turned slightly, and raising his voice spoke to my Dad.

‘That all right with you Dad?’ he asked. For a moment I was horrified. I had told him how I wanted him to cut my hair. I wasn't some little kid! To my relief my father winked at me, and nodded. I had overcome the last, and unexpected hurdle in the defense of my hair. I relaxed and smiled.

I cringed as the scissors began their work, like I always did, I detested the squelching sound of my hair meeting the sharp steel blades. The first tuft of hair dropped down in front of my face, coming to a rest on the cape, on my lap, and it was much longer than I would have liked to have seen.

As the barber cut faster and faster, more and more of my hair was falling down around me, and my confidence began to leave me. What was the barber up to? Suddenly I was aware of the barber trimming the hair over my ear, lifting large clumps of hair erect with his comb, and deftly shearing away the excess above the comb’s teeth. I’d been clear enough I thought, leave the ears covered, so I was stunned as he stepped away, in time to watch five inches of hair drop to my shoulder, exposing my ears to the world, for the first time since I was in kindergarten.

My eyes had trouble communicating to my brain, and my brain took even longer to connect to my mouth, in order that I might stop the barber from his ruthless course, but the barber took great advantage of my delay, and had already dealt with the second ear.

The barber stood back, and I wanted to scream at him, what had he done, why, my instructions had been clear, hadn't they? Obviously not.

The barber was now wielding his clippers freely in the air, and with every sweep I became more and more aware of their buzzing presence. It wasn't until they worked around to the side of my head, that I could see the full extent of the demolition they were undertaking.

I strained to see the damage, and the barber obligingly stepped to the other side of the chair, while I craned. I was overcome with the sight I met, it looked like I was all but bald, I would see wide patches of speckled white skin.

I felt sick, but at the same time excited. I’d often wondered what it felt like to have such a short haircut, many of my friends had tried experiments with their hair recently, and part of me knew that I would never dare. Today, I had no choice.

The clippers were pushed deeper and deeper into my skin, with each pass, the gentle humming vibrating against my skull bone as it glided effortlessly over it. As I surveyed myself in the mirror, I was covered in hair, from the piles sitting on my shoulder, all the way to my knees. It was then that I realized that everyone in the shop must have been watching me undergo this torture. I glanced to my side, my brother looked horrified, a middle aged guy was staring at me grinning, two young guys my age were pointing at me and joking, but my Dad sat reading his newspaper, unaware of what was going on. I wanted to shout to him to stop this, but the words wouldn't come. As I stared at all my hair, I was embarrassed, and wanted it all to be over.

The buzzing began again, and my bangs too lay in my lap. I no longer had any resemblance to the scruffy boy my father had brought into the shop earlier that morning. Every hair in place, drawn into a severe parting, I was the image of my father in his school photographs some thirty years ago.

The barber finished, and brushed away the loose hairs, removing the cape, he laughed.

‘I bet your father approves of that!’

I looked across at Dad, as I climbed from the chair, and he sent me a sympathetic grin.

‘I sure do son.’ he said. ‘I’m real proud.’

I blushed and sat down in the chair next to my father, desperate for attention to divert away from me, to allow me to touch and feel my new cut, the urge grew uncontrollable as I sat there.

John was next up, but understandably reluctant to follow me into the chair. He had come into the shop with the same thick mop of hair as me, and intended to leave with it as well.

‘You're next mister,’ contributed the barber to the obvious awkwardness of the situation.

John rose to his feet, and tried to leave, but the barber was ready for him, and with the help of the middle aged guy, they managed to get him into the chair. Dad sat silently, appearing not to notice anything. John muttered a few choice expletives, losing his cool.

His dignity was quick to follow as the barber ran the clippers down the middle of John’s head, leaving a long swathe of velvet stubble behind. After the first pass, the middle aged man sat down, after all their was now no point in John struggling, there was only one way in which this haircut could finish up.

The clippers roamed all over John’s head, and rapidly took away every length of hair, leaving my brother truly scalped. His lighter colored hair, contributing to the baldness effect. By the time the clippers had come to a rest, Jiohn was joking with the barber, and the atmosphere lightened.

Our haircuts complete, Dad paid the barber, who winked at him as Dad refused the change. I began to wonder if all this was a set up. I whispered that to John, but he didn't care. He had enjoyed getting a haircut, and would be back again soon.

As we left the shop, another kid was already in the chair, and the clippers burst into life. His father smiled approvingly as the haircut began. After all, it was Father's Day!

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