Oklahoma by M DeMarlo

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In the late sixties and early seventies, a neat haircut was the last thing any teenage boy wanted. Hair was typically tapered at the nape, clipped closely around the ears, shadow-faded, and the fringe was snipped on a slant just above the eyebrows. The style was meticulously combed to the side and flipped up, projecting an image of a sharply groomed young man.

My parents had a more relaxed approach to haircuts, but my dad's brother, Uncle Stan, was a traditionalist with strong opinions. He owned a sprawling ranch in Oklahoma, about 60 miles outside Tulsa, in a vastly different cultural setting. With my dad recently remarried and on an 80-day honeymoon with his new wife, I was sent to spend the summer with Uncle Stan and Aunt Margie. My earlobe-length hair was destined for the chopping block; they insisted I had to be clean-cut and presentable for my stay. Dad assured me I could grow it again over the summer and that my friends in Lombard wouldn’t see me with short hair. But let’s be honest—I was worried about peer pressure.

In rural Oklahoma, the cultural landscape stood in stark contrast to suburban Chicago. In 1973, showing up with a short haircut in Lombard was social suicide—you’d be labeled a dork. However, in Oklahoma, having long, shaggy hair was simply unacceptable. Reluctantly, I agreed to the haircut and accompanied my dad to Bill's Barbershop. On our way to O'Hare Airport, I received a short, standard barbershop cut. By the time I boarded the plane, I felt utterly uncool.

Upon arrival, Uncle Stan and Aunt Margie greeted me with arms wide open, showering me with hugs and kisses. They embodied the warmth and generosity of loving country folk and devout Christians deeply involved in their church community. Their home was beautiful, complete with horses and a large swimming pool, and I quickly put thoughts of my short haircut aside as I immersed myself in their lifestyle.

Uncle Stan and Aunt Margie had a son who was five years older than me. Jake was 21 and enrolled in the police academy, training to become an Oklahoma State Trooper. He lived independently but frequently visited home, exuding a serious demeanor. With his military haircut, cowboy hat pointed Western boots, and sharp necktie, Jake was an impressive figure. It was clear he was on track to become a dedicated state trooper.

As my stay neared its end—just two days left—it was a Saturday afternoon, and I was lounging by the pool, enjoying the sun. My Aunt Margie casually remarked to Uncle Stan that I needed another haircut. "We can't send him back looking like that," Uncle Stan declared decisively. I immediately countered, "No, no, no! My dad doesn’t mind my long hair. I just got it cut before coming here!" But they were unwavering in their mission to enforce their standards.

Uncle Stan had a work appointment scheduled, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I might escape. That is until Jake showed up and offered to take me to the barbershop. The situation escalated quickly, and there was no escaping the inevitable haircut.

As twilight descended and the sun dipped low in the sky, the spinning barbershop pole outside the quaint establishment made my heart race with a mix of dread and determination. I tried one last time to persuade Jake to let me off the hook, but he dismissed my protests, emphasizing how much my hair had grown during my stay. Uncle Stan had given him explicit instructions to ensure I got a short haircut. Finally, Jake parked the car, lit a cigarette effortlessly, and said, "It’s just a haircut. Grow up and stop fussing. Once you’re in the chair, I’ll speak to the barber."

Stepping into the barbershop, I noticed that it was empty except for the barber. Two vintage barber chairs stood prominently, and a collection of clippers lined the shelf behind the chair. The familiar scent of aftershave mixed with the aroma of freshly cut hair filled the air, and I squared my shoulders, ready to face what was coming. It was evident that Jake was a regular here, and I would not back down.

As I settled into the chair, the barber draped a pinstripe cape over me in a decisive motion, securing a neck strip tightly around my collar. He elevated my seat to match his height, ready to get down to business. Jake casually removed his cowboy hat, revealing his tightly cropped crewcut, perfectly styled and brushed, with a stark contrast between the white of his scalp and the jet-black hair. His neat mustache framed his mouth, adding to his authoritative presence.

Jake stepped closer and instructed the barber assertively, "Give him a haircut like mine and make him look sharp." Before I could raise any more objections, the clippers roared to life, buzzing menacingly as they approached my head. The barber began running the clippers up the side of my head without hesitation, expertly shearing away the longer strands of hair. Dark clumps fell rapidly into my lap, and I felt a strange blend of anticipation and acceptance wash over me.

With remarkable efficiency, the barber moved with purpose, the whir of the clippers shifting as he clicked a closer blade into place. He navigated up the sides, clipping close and vibrating around my right ear before working his way to the back, stopping just short of the crown. He maneuvered around my left ear with practiced ease and utilized the clippers and a comb to sculpt my crown, leaving about an inch and a half at the front. He brushed the remaining hair straight up, applying butchwax to create a flat top that mirrored Jake’s look.

The machine whirred once more as the barber dispensed hot shave cream, skillfully applying it around my ears and neckline. The entire process felt intense but undeniably masterful. The haircut was brutal in its precision, leaving me with an unexpectedly polished appearance. Jake beamed with pride, praising my new look, while Uncle Stan expressed his satisfaction, declaring that a crewcut was the quintessential choice for a young man.

Eager to share my transformation, I called my dad and excitedly announced that I had received a fresh crewcut. I even expressed a desire to stay a few more weeks so I could let it grow out a bit. Uncle Stan welcomed me to extend my stay, assuring me that I was free to remain as long as I wanted. Any tension I felt about the haircut dissipated, and I embraced my new experience with confidence, ready to make the most of my time in Oklahoma.

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