End-of-School with Consequences (real) by Drew Tetrov

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This story happened to me 4 years back, and it also explains where my interest in buzz cuts comes from. As a 17-year-old high schooler (named Drew), I’ve always had a distinctive style that matched my rebellious yet laid-back persona. My long dark blond hair flowed in a disconnected undercut almost to my chin on top about 7-inch long, with the sides usually kept neatly buzzed short. But with the school year winding down, I’d let the sides grow out a bit more than usual.

The end of the school year brought relief and a sense of accomplishment. To celebrate, my classmates and I decided to mark the occasion at a local hangout. What started as a toast to our success with a single beer quickly spiraled into several rounds. Laughter filled the air, stories from the past year were traded with enthusiasm, and the night deepened without me noticing the passage of time.

As the celebration continued, the carefree atmosphere made it easy to forget the outside world. Eventually, my phone buzzed relentlessly in my pocket. When I finally checked it, the screen lit up with multiple missed calls from my father. The fun immediately drained from the evening, replaced by a sinking feeling in my stomach. Knowing I was in trouble, I quickly said my goodbyes, my mind racing with excuses as I stumbled out into the cool night air, bracing myself for the confrontation that awaited me at home.

I stumbled through the front door, the world swaying slightly under my feet, my senses dulled by the heavy buzz of alcohol. The house was dark, save for the faint glow of a lamp in the living room where my father sat waiting, an ominous silhouette against the dim light.
"Drew," my father’s voice cut through the silence, sharper than the chill of the night air. "We need to talk about your behavior."

My heart sank as I shuffled toward the living room, each step heavier than the last. My father’s gaze was stern, his eyes tracing the lines of my disheveled appearance from my scuffed shoes to my tangled, long hair.

"Look at you," my father began, disappointment heavy in his tone. "Coming home at this hour, drunk. This isn’t the first time, Drew. Something has to change."
I slumped into a chair across from my father, my mind racing to piece together an apology, but the words clung to my tongue, unspoken and heavy with regret.
"I’m giving you a choice," my father continued, his voice steady and calm despite the storm brewing in his eyes. "You can either shave your head, cut off all this," he gestured disdainfully towards my hair, " or you’re not going out with your friends for a year. No parties, no late nights. Straight home after school, no social life. That’s it. Sleep on it, tell me your decision in the morning."

My father stood, ending the conversation with a finality that left no room for immediate protest. He turned off the lamp and left me sitting in the dark, the weight of the decision anchoring me to the chair.
I eventually made my way to my room, my mind a tempest of thoughts. The bed felt unfamiliar as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the shadows seeming to dance mockingly. The option of losing my treasured hair or my cherished freedom battled within me, neither side yielding. Restless and racked with indecision, I found sleep elusive, each tick of the clock a reminder of the choice that lay before me.
Finally, as the house settled into the deep silence of late night, I rose. I couldn’t lie there any longer, tormented by images of both a bald head and isolated days. I crept down the stairs to the bathroom on the bottom floor where I knew the clippers were stored.

I walked into the bathroom, the soft hum of the house at night wrapping around me like a blanket. Determined, I picked up the clippers, their metallic body cold and solid in my tentative grip. I hadn’t been to the barber in a while, and my sides had grown out to about a centimeter. Plugging in the clippers, I fitted the #2 guard and began shaving the back and sides. The clippers moved up and down smoothly, clearing the overgrown sides and stopping just where the long, 7-inch hair on top began.

Once I finished with the sides, I looked in the mirror. The long top paired with the sharply buzzed sides of the disconnected undercut gave me a striking, edgy appearance. I turned off the clippers and stared at the array of guards. My father’s words echoed in my mind—"shave"—but did he mean down to the skin or just buzz it short?

I, resolved yet cautious, picked up the clippers again and fitted the #7 guard. Turned the clippers on, placed them at the back of my crown, and held it there live and buzzing while the thoughts were racing in my head, "Yes, no, no social life, my looks, my ego, my self-esteem" all of it at the same time while still dealing with my drunkness intensifying the moment, when I just felt the thought "Go" and moved my hand forward - I pushed the clippers into the dense thicket of my long hair starting at the back of my head. The first few locks of my 7-inch hair fell onto my shoulder and down to the sink. The sight of the strand in the sink is with me today. The contrast was startling; as the clippers sheared through, long strands began to fall into the sink in soft, heavy bunches. Methodically, I moved the vibrating blades forward, the buzzing sound a constant companion as more of my hair cascaded down, revealing the lighter skin underneath that hadn’t seen sunlight in ages. I worked slowly, ensuring each swath of hair was evenly cut, the back of my head transforming from lushly covered to closely cropped.

Half of my head was buzzed, the front fringe still intact. Straight on, my reflection almost looked unchanged. But as I tilted my head down, the buzzed, short, much darker second half of my crown appeared The sink was filling up with hair. I continued, until only approx. 1-inch strip of 7-inch long fringe hung over my forehead, with the rest of my head buzzed—a peculiar haircut indeed - I was adoring the creation for a moment, tilting my head up in front of the mirror to look at my usual self with long fringe and tilting my chin down to uncover the massacre of shortly buzzed dark rest of my crown.

Yet I wasn’t ready to buzz off my front locks. My face was still framed by the long fringe. Taking a deep breath, I then tackled the last vestige of my former self—the long fringe that framed my face. I grasped it firmly in one hand, lifted it from my forehead, and brought the clippers up from the side. The blades met the thick hair with a muted crunch, severing the connection with each pass. Within moments, I stood there, the severed fringe lifeless in my fist, I looked at the hair, looked at myself in the mirror, and tossed it into the sink, a symbolic finality to my old style.

For the first time, I saw my new look in the mirror—my face looked somewhat round but my cheekbones much sharper and my hairstyle just looked odd. Nausea stirred within me; I did not like what I saw, still slightly under the influence. Yet, I couldn’t stop rubbing the newly buzzed hair, thinking it was still too long. It made me look like a brush with the stiff bristles sticking up from the #7 buzz on top and #2 on the sides.
"How much worse can it be?" I muttered to myself and switched the #7 guard for a #4. Now, with less trepidation, I began re-buzzing the top of my head, no longer proceeding with caution. I buzzed a path straight down the middle, the clippers revealing my scalp strip by strip. The hair fell away, showing more of my scalp with each pass, the transformation stark and undeniable. This new, shorter cut was easier to manage, and as I worked, a military-style high and tight look emerged, sculpted and severe.

I looked sharp. I stood back to examine my work, rubbing my hand over the newly buzzed cut. Grabbing my phone, I took pictures from the back, sides, top, and front, analyzing the new contours of my face and head from every angle. During this self-inspection, I noticed a few uncut patches and longer strands that had escaped the first pass. Methodically, I went back with the clippers, touching up each area until my haircut was uniform and complete. After sweeping the floor and flushing the hair from the sink, I took a shower. The sensation of water and shampoo on my buzzed scalp was surprisingly delightful.

By the time I crawled into bed around 3 AM, I was sober, shaven, and unexpectedly at peace. Morning light confirmed it wasn’t a dream, as I woke up the first thing I did was to touch my head, yes it was real, and the hair was gone. I stood in the bathroom, turning my head this way and that, rubbing the buzz cut, admiring the stark transformation from various angles. I decided to face my father, who was sipping tea in the living room. My father looked up, a hint of surprise in his expression.

"Wow, I expected to be told your decision, not to have it executed by morning. Look at you," my father said, a grudging respect in his tone. "With this, I consider it closed. I hope this will serve as a lesson. Case closed, and I expect nothing like this ever happening again."

"Just one thing," my father added after a pause, "this isn’t shaved. Go and touch it off, so the top is as long as the sides."I stood there in silence for a few seconds and then replied "Like it matters at this point…"

Finally, knowing the drill and resigned to the outcome, I returned to the bathroom. I picked up the clippers I’d set down just a few hours earlier, fitted the #2 guard, and bent over the sink. Methodically, I buzzed the top of my head to match the sides, removing any hint of a step between the different lengths. My hair now uniformly short, resembled a fresh military recruit. After cleaning up, I returned to the living room.

"To your liking now?" I asked my father, my voice carrying a mix of defiance and acceptance. My father looked up from his phone, nodded once, and went back to reading, the act signaling that justice, in his eyes, had been served. I stood there a moment longer, the weight of the transformation settling in, then turned and walked away, the new buzz cut a stark reminder of the night’s events and my father’s stern lesson.

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