Life Father, Like Son by BarberedStrong

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I always knew I was different.

Maybe it was the way my brothers laughed around the dinner table with Dad, their voices rumbling low like the sound of the bulls out in the pasture. They’d talk about things I didn’t care about—football, cars, whatever game was on that weekend. They had that ease with him, that bond I could never seem to find. There was a rhythm to the way they worked on the ranch, the way they handled cattle and horses, and how they’d always share looks like they knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Billy, Bobby, Benny—they were cut from the same cloth as Dad. You could see it in their squared shoulders, the way they carried themselves with that hard, silent pride. I guess that’s why I never really fit in with them. My name even felt like a mistake, Alex, stuck on the end of this line of boys who shared not only their names but something deeper, something I never had.

It wasn’t just the names, though. It was how they grew up. They’d been raised by Dad in a different way than I was. He was always so distant, but with them, there was expectation. Billy started helping out on the ranch when he was just in primary school. Bobby right behind him, and Benny—well, by the time Benny came along, the system was locked in place. They worked. They followed Dad’s rules and they knew better than to make a fuss. They wore their hair short, real short, and didn’t question it. A man’s hair wasn’t a choice on The Horseshoe Ranch—it was just part of the discipline.

Dad kept them shaved down with those old clippers in the barn every two weeks. Tight, burr cuts that left nothing but bristles on their heads. I found out later that having a struggling ranch and three young boys, money was tight so this was the most sensible and practical approach to grooming. Of course, there was always a little money for Dad’s own flattop. His own hair was a strict, tight horseshoe flattop, so sharp it looked like you could set a level on top of it. He kept it perfect, never a hair out of place.

But by the time I came along, things had changed. The boys were all 15 to 19 years older than me and they were off getting their own cuts and it felt like I was living in a different world. I still worked on the ranch—had to—but the expectations weren’t the same. Maybe it was because I was so much younger, or maybe because I wasn’t like them. Dad didn’t expect much from me, and in some twisted way, that hurt more.

It didn’t help that I’d always been more attached to Mom. She was still around, always hovering in the background, making sure I had someone to talk to when Dad or my brothers brushed me off. She was the one who let me skip a few chores to spend time with the horses, who never told Dad when I didn’t quite measure up to the rough standards he set for the other boys. She never outright said it, but I always knew she had a soft spot for me. Maybe that was why Dad kept me at arm’s length, like I was too much of a reminder of her softness.

I spent more time with the animals than with people. I was the one who knew which horse liked to be fed first, which steer needed a gentler hand. I didn’t care much about football or trucks or the things that made the rest of them feel like men. I thought if I stayed quiet enough, small enough, I wouldn’t be noticed.

Then one day, when I was around twelve, I found this old photo album tucked away in the back of Dad’s office. I didn’t even know he kept things like that, didn’t seem like his type. But there it was, thick and dusty, filled with old pictures of the ranch, family, and the boys growing up. There were photos of Billy, Bobby, and Benny as kids, standing in line outside the barn, heads freshly shaved down to near nothing. Their eyes squinted against the sun, but there was something about the way they stood. They looked hard. Tough. Like men, even as boys.

And then there was me, at the end of the album, years later. Hair falling into my eyes, soft around the edges, always a little out of place. I looked different. Softer. Like someone who didn’t belong on this ranch, not in that line of boys. Seeing that difference, it tore at something inside me I didn’t even know was there. I stared at those photos for what felt like hours, a knot growing in my stomach. Why had Dad never shaved my head? Why hadn’t he treated me like them?

I knew why. Deep down, I knew. I wasn’t like them. I wasn’t what he wanted.

That night at dinner, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I kept glancing at Dad, at his rigid posture, at his flattop so sharp it almost gleamed under the light. My brothers, all with their clean cuts, were talking about the latest game, their voices loud and easy. I barely picked at my food, my mind buzzing with the image of those old photos, of what it would feel like to have my head shaved clean, to look tough like them.

After dinner, I waited until Mom was busy in the kitchen and the others had drifted off to the living room. I found Dad alone by the barn, finishing up for the night. I wasn’t sure how to ask him, but I knew I had to.

"Dad," I started, my voice hesitant. He looked up from where he was closing the gate, his expression unreadable. "I was, uh, wondering if you could, you know, cut my hair. Like you used to do with Billy and Bobby and Benny."

He looked at me for a long moment, eyes narrowing just a little as if he was trying to figure out what I meant. His silence made my stomach twist.

"We can afford real haircuts now, Alex," he said gruffly, turning back to the gate. "No need for all that."

I stood there, frozen, feeling the weight of his words. It wasn’t just about money. It was about me. I wasn’t them. I wasn’t what he wanted.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was that picture of Billy, Bobby, and Benny with their heads shaved clean. That tough, no-nonsense look. I wanted it. No, I needed it. I thought maybe if I looked like them, I could be like them. Maybe if I took control, made myself hard on the outside, the inside would follow.

The next day, when no one was around, I snuck into the barn and found Dad’s old clippers. They were shoved into a drawer in the back, still heavy in my hands, cold metal against my skin. I plugged them in, the hum filling the empty barn like a wasp nest. My heart pounded, but I couldn’t stop. I stood in front of a small, cracked mirror, stared at my reflection—hair shaggy, falling across my forehead—and pushed the clippers up the side of my head.

Hair fell in thick clumps around me, onto the dirt floor. With each pass of the clippers, more of me disappeared. The more I shaved, the more desperate I felt. I wasn’t doing it right, wasn’t cutting it as short as Dad used to, but I kept going, buzzing it down to nearly nothing, my scalp raw from the rough, uneven cuts.

When it was done, I turned off the clippers and looked at myself again. My head was a mess—patchy, uneven, red in places—but it was shaved. I looked like a ghost of my brothers, of Dad.

But instead of feeling proud, I felt hollow. The shame hit me like a wave, and I wanted to hide. What had I done? I wasn’t them. I wasn’t like them at all.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, Dad walked in. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening just a little as he took in the sight of me standing there, clippers still buzzing in my hands, my head practically bald.

I expected him to be angry, to yell, maybe even to be proud that I’d finally "manned up." But instead, he just stood there, looking at me with something close to disappointment.

"What the hell are you doing, Alex?" he said, his voice low and stern.

I tried to answer, but the words got stuck. I wanted to tell him I was trying to be like them, like him. But he shook his head, cutting me off before I could speak.

Before I knew it, he was walking toward me, roughly grabbing the clippers from my hand. He didn’t say a word, but the look on his face told me he was going to fix my mess. Without warning, he pressed the clippers hard against my scalp, shaving the last bits of hair away. It wasn’t gentle, and the skin on my head stung from the rough treatment.

"There," he muttered once he was done, the clippers clicking off in his hand. "Now you look like something." His voice didn’t have any pride in it. Just resignation.

I stared at myself in the mirror again, my head now a raw, perfect burr cut. The same cut my brothers had worn when they were my age. But it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel like me.

I immediately grabbed my hat and shoved it down over my head, hiding the cut. My scalp felt naked, exposed, and I hated it. I hated that I’d tried to change myself and failed. Hated that I wasn’t like them and never would be.

For the rest of the summer, I kept that hat on. I didn’t want anyone to see what I’d done. But that feeling of belonging and yearning for masculinity only grew stronger.

As I moved through my teenage years, the memory of that first head shave stayed with me, buried deep under layers of awkwardness and confusion. I kept that hat on for months, ashamed of what I had done to myself, trying to forget the way Dad’s rough hands had finished the job I started. I was never teased too harshly for it; my brothers chalked it up to Dad’s discipline, as if he was trying to bring me in line with them. But there was more to it. There always was.

I wanted that look again. That hardness. That clean, stripped-down feeling of being shorn like I had no choice, like I was tough and no one could question it. But I never told anyone about it. How could I? No one in our family talked about anything that made you seem vulnerable. We didn’t talk about love, about feelings, about who we were seeing or whether we were happy. I never saw affection between Mom and Dad—just the unspoken understanding that they had built a life together, but love wasn’t a word anyone ever used. And my brothers? If they dated, they sure didn’t talk about it with me. I had no idea if they had crushes or girlfriends or if they just assumed relationships were as utilitarian as everything else on the ranch.

So I kept everything inside. My fascination with those tight cuts, with that feeling of being shaped into something else—something stronger, more defined. And, of course, I kept the other secret, the one that gnawed at me every day. The one about the way I sometimes looked at other boys, the way I felt when I was around them. I didn’t have words for it then. Didn’t know what to call it. But I knew it wasn’t something I could talk about. Not with my family. Not in this town.

In the years after that first head shave, I would sometimes sneak into town and flirt with the idea of getting my hair cut short again. I’d sit in the barber’s chair and ask for a buzz cut, but every time, I chickened out before it got too close to the bone. I’d get a short trim, a close crop, but never that full, stripped-down look I craved. I told myself it was just a phase, just a weird fixation. But every time I left the barber’s, I felt the same dull disappointment, knowing I couldn’t bring myself to ask for what I really wanted.

By the time I was old enough to leave for college, I had learned how to bury that part of myself so deep it rarely came to the surface. I left The Horseshoe, left the ranch and the small-town expectations, and headed off to California, hoping for something different, something that felt more like me. I thought maybe if I moved far enough away, I could outrun all the things I didn’t understand about myself.

In college, I pursued acting. I had always liked the idea of slipping into someone else’s skin for a while, of pretending to be something I wasn’t. On stage, I could be whoever I wanted—tough, charming, masculine in ways I never felt in real life. I told myself this was what I was meant to do, that I was meant to be someone else. And for a while, it worked. I threw myself into it, taking classes, doing auditions, getting small parts in student films. I even grew my hair out a bit, trying to fit the look of the Hollywood dream, trying to be what I thought the industry wanted me to be.

But no matter how hard I worked, it never quite clicked. I wasn’t cut out for it. After a few years of struggling to make ends meet, taking whatever job I could find just to stay afloat, I started to wonder if I had been lying to myself all along. My family didn’t understand what I was doing. They never came out and said it, but I could feel their judgment whenever I called home. They’d ask how things were going, and I’d downplay the failures, talking about "upcoming opportunities" or how I was "networking." But I knew they didn’t believe it. And I didn’t either.

It was during those long, quiet nights in my cramped apartment that the other passion—the one I’d buried for so long—started creeping back in. I found myself thinking more and more about haircuts. Not just getting one, but giving one. I watched videos of barbers at work, their clippers buzzing away in precise strokes, transforming their clients with a flick of the wrist. I read articles about different techniques, studied styles, and daydreamed about opening a shop of my own. The idea seemed ridiculous at first. I mean, who switches from acting to haircutting? But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. I wanted control. I wanted to shape things, to craft something with my hands that had immediate, tangible results.

And I wanted to understand why that urge had never gone away.

After years of struggling with acting, I finally made the decision to change course. I signed up for barber school, a move that felt both terrifying and liberating. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I was headed toward something real, something I actually wanted.

The hardest part was telling my family. I hadn’t been back to The Horseshoe in years, but I knew I needed to talk to Dad. Not that we’d ever been close, but there was something about this decision that made me feel like I needed his approval, even if I didn’t want to admit it.

When I finally made it home, I waited until after dinner, when Dad was out in the barn, finishing up his evening routine. The place hadn’t changed much. It still smelled of hay and leather, the same familiar mix that brought me right back to my teenage years. I found him leaning against one of the stalls, looking out at the cattle as the sun set behind the hills.

"Hey, Dad," I said, walking up to him, my hands shoved into my pockets. He glanced over at me, nodding in acknowledgment. "I’ve been thinking… I’m gonna change things up. I’ve decided to become a barber. In fact, I’m starting a program next week."

He didn’t say anything right away. Just kept looking out at the field, chewing on something—maybe a thought, maybe nothing at all.

I braced myself for a slew of questions, about why I wanted to do it or talking about my lifelong fascination with hair. I mean, at this point hair and sexuality were practically synonymous for me. And talking about it so bluntly with the one person from who I sought validation made me feel so vulnerable. But when he finally spoke, all he said was, "How much you expect to make doing that?"

I blinked, caught off guard by the question. "Uh… I’ve done some research. It’s actually a pretty solid career these days. With experience, I could open my own shop even. Make a decent living."

He nodded, finally turning to look at me. There was something in his eyes that surprised me—something that looked like understanding. Not judgment. Not disappointment. Just understanding.

"That’s a good path," he said quietly. "You’ll do fine."

I stared at him, unsure what to say. Part of me had expected a fight, some kind of resistance. But here he was, accepting it without a second thought. And for the first time, I wondered if maybe he’d known all along. About my struggles, about the things I couldn’t put into words. Maybe he had seen parts of me I hadn’t even seen myself.

"Thanks, Dad," I muttered, and he just nodded again, like the conversation was over.

We didn’t say anything more that night. There was no need. For the first time in my life, I felt like I didn’t have to explain myself to him. There was a quiet understanding between us—something unsaid but real.

As I walked back to the house, the cool night air brushing against my skin, I realized that this was the path I had been looking for all along. And for once, it didn’t feel like I was trying to be someone else. I was just trying to be me.

The early morning sky stretched wide over The Horseshoe, a pale blue fading into the warmth of the rising sun. The ranch looked as it always had, quiet, timeless, with the cattle grazing in the distance and the barn standing firm as a marker of everything I’d grown up with. I hadn’t planned to come back home for so long, but after that conversation with Dad, something had shifted between us. It wasn’t something we’d talk about—it wasn’t our way—but I felt it. We both did.

I was packed and ready to head back to California, back to my life, my future as a barber. The decision still felt strange on my tongue, but more right than anything I’d ever done before. Dad and I had shared a cup of coffee in silence that morning, and as we climbed into the old pickup truck, he didn’t say much. He never did.

But just as we were pulling out of the driveway, he gave me a glance, that subtle tilt of his head that meant he had something on his mind.

"Got one more stop before I take you to the airport," he said, his voice low and steady.

I didn’t ask where. I just nodded. We drove through town, past the same places I’d known all my life, until we reached the small, weathered storefront of the local barbershop. "Bert’s Barber Shop" hung above the door in faded lettering, the same as it had since I was a kid. I hadn’t set foot inside since I was a teenager, when I used to flirt with the idea of short cuts but always held back.

Dad parked the truck, and we both climbed out. The smell of old leather and talcum powder hit me as soon as we stepped inside, a sense of familiarity washing over me. There was Bert, still at his chair, a bit older and grayer, but steady as ever. He looked up, eyes lighting up as he saw us come in.

"Bill!" Bert called, setting down his clippers and walking over with that firm handshake they’d probably been trading for over fifty years. "Been about two weeks, huh?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah. Same as usual."

I stood there awkwardly at the edge of the room, unsure of what to do with myself. Dad wasn’t usually one for sentiment, but I could feel something different about this visit. He turned to Bert, jerking his thumb in my direction. "The kid decided to become a barber."

Bert’s eyes flickered over to me, sizing me up. There was a smile in his gaze, something knowing, as if this wasn’t a surprise to him. "Well, now," he said, his voice warm. "Looks like you’re following a solid path, son. It’s a good trade. One that lasts."

I nodded, feeling the weight of the moment. I could sense something in Dad, too. Maybe it was the fact that I was choosing a path steeped in tradition, something masculine, something tangible. Maybe it was because he’d known all along about my pull toward this, the thing I’d never been able to fully admit, not even to myself. Or maybe he just understood me better than I thought he did.

Dad sat down in Bert’s chair, and I watched as Bert methodically worked on freshening up his signature look—the horseshoe flattop he’d worn for over fifty years. Bert’s clippers buzzed to life, and with each precise motion, he carved out the sharp, clean edges that made Dad look as tough as ever. It was a haircut that demanded respect, one that signaled discipline, order, and hard work. I watched as the tufts of gray hair fell away, revealing the same sharp lines that had always defined Dad’s style.

Bert put down the clippers and reached for a hot towel, wrapping it around Dad’s head. I watched as the steam softened the skin on the sides and back of his head. Then Bert lathered up his hands with warm shaving cream, applying it carefully along the horseshoe line, covering the sides and back where the hair was shortest. The white foam made the shape even more pronounced.

With steady hands, Bert used a straight razor, gliding it down in long, deliberate strokes, shaving the skin clean. The sound of the blade scraping against the skin was sharp, but precise. He made quick work of it, wiping the blade clean after each pass. When he was done, the sides and back of Dad’s head gleamed smooth, almost reflective.

Bert then grabbed a bottle of aftershave, slapping it between his palms before applying it with firm pats along the freshly shaved skin. I saw Dad’s shoulders tense, the sting hitting him immediately, but he didn’t flinch. He’d been through this a hundred times. It was part of the ritual. That sting, that burn—it was like a rite of passage, even for a man like him who’d been doing this for over half a century.

When Bert finished, Dad stood up, running a hand over the tight, smooth sides of his head, nodding in approval. He looked just as he always had—sharp, disciplined, unwavering.

Then he turned to me, jerking his head toward the chair.

"Your turn," he said simply.

I blinked. I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t planned on getting a haircut today, but something about the way he said it, the way he looked at me, made me feel like it was more than just a haircut. This was my moment. For the first time in my life, I felt like part of the men. Like I belonged.

I took a deep breath and walked over to the chair, sitting down as Bert draped the cape over me. The chair felt familiar and foreign all at once, but in that moment, I knew exactly what to do. Bert looked at me through the mirror, his hand hovering over the clippers, waiting for instructions.

"What’ll it be?" he asked, his tone light but with an understanding of the weight behind the question.

I didn’t need to say much. I just nodded in the direction of Dad, whose freshly cut horseshoe flattop gleamed under the shop’s lights. Bert raised his eyebrows slightly, and then nodded. He understood.

"You sure about that?" Bert asked, but he didn’t sound surprised. I nodded again, feeling a calm settle over me. This was it. This was the look I wanted. The look I had been running from all these years.

Bert switched on the clippers, and that familiar buzz filled the air. He started at the back of my head, moving with practiced precision as he sheared away the hair I’d let grow long in my years away. I could feel the cold air hit my scalp as the clippers moved higher, and I didn’t flinch. This time, I wasn’t afraid. This time, I wanted it.

He worked methodically, trimming down the sides and back, the clippers carving out that perfect shape, leaving nothing but the clean, bristled line of a classic horseshoe. I could see it taking shape in the mirror, the way my head seemed to transform under Bert’s careful hands. I watched the hair fall away, revealing the tight, flat top, the crisp lines that made me look sharper, harder, more like the man I had always tried to be.

Then, just like with Dad, Bert wrapped a hot towel around my head. The steam felt soothing, but I knew what was coming next. He applied the same warm shaving cream to the sides and back of my head, the lather cooling as he smoothed it into place. My heart raced as the straight razor came out, but I felt steady.

Bert started at the back, just like before, sliding the blade in long, smooth strokes, scraping the skin clean. The sensation of the razor gliding over my scalp was strange, but somehow, it felt right. With each stroke, the old me seemed to fall away, leaving behind something new. Something stronger.

When Bert finished shaving, he wiped down the last of the foam and reached for the aftershave. The smell of it hit me first—sharp, masculine, familiar. He slapped it between his hands, then applied it to the sides and back of my head with quick, firm pats.

The sting hit me immediately, a sudden burn that made me jerk in the chair. It was sharp, searing, but in that moment, it jolted something inside me. It felt like a shock to the system, a final rite of passage into something I had been chasing for years. I wasn’t just getting a haircut. I was stepping into manhood, into the role I had been trying to claim all my life.

As the burn subsided, I caught my reflection in the mirror again. I’d been staring at the sharp lines of my new cut, marveling at how much it suited me, when something hit me—hard. I suddenly saw it, clear as day. I looked like him. The same flat, straight edge. The same gleaming sides and back. The same intense, no-nonsense look. I had never really seen the resemblance before, but now, with this cut, it was undeniable. Staring back at me in the mirror wasn’t just me—it was Dad. We looked alike, more alike than I’d ever realized, and somehow that brought a flood of emotions I couldn’t quite name.

I glanced over at Dad, who was watching me quietly. His face was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that looked like pride. He gave a small nod, and I felt a warmth spread through me. Maybe he’d known all along. Maybe he’d seen this part of me, even when I hadn’t.

"You’ll do just fine, Alex," Dad said quietly as I stood up from the chair, running my hand over the freshly cut bristles. And for the first time, I believed him.

We left the shop together, the sun now high in the sky, casting long shadows on the street as we headed for the airport. I ran my hand over my head again, feeling the sharp edges, the flatness of the cut, knowing that this was me now. I didn’t have to pretend anymore. I was finally the man I was meant to be.

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