The Haircut Incident by Just_Me

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The Haircut Incident

I was getting ready for school when Dad yelled up the stairs. "Chris, come outside for a minute."

Dad’s voice irritated me, and I muttered, "What the hell does he want?"

I put my brush down and gazed at myself. After a few more strokes with the brush, a final look to make sure every hair was in place and one last admiring glance at my beautiful hair, I headed down the stairs.

I almost died when I walked onto the patio. A scene from my childhood was set up--a scene that I hated. There was a chair setting there with a barber’s cape draped over the back. Hair clippers were plugged in, and laying on the grill, with a comb and razor beside it.

I’m going to give you some background before I get into the rest of my story. Saying I was proud of my hair would’ve been an understatement. I thought it was perfect. It had finally reached the length I had been trying to achieve for a few years. My bangs hung below my chin when I combed them down, and the rest of my hair hung way below my collar. Not that I ever wanted to, but I could’ve put it in a ponytail. I didn’t because I wanted everyone to see how wonderful my hair was…in addition, I’ve never understood why anyone would want to have long, beautiful hair, and then pull it back in a ponytail, where most people couldn’t see their hair. That just makes no sense to me, whether it’s a man or a woman.

It was very obvious that Dad hated it, but I didn’t care. He not only hated my long hair, he despised long hair on any man (I teased him every time we went to Mass, "Hey, Pop, you know you’re worshiping a hippy because Jesus had long hair and a beard. You should probably become a Buddhist monk, since they all shaved their heads. You’d be a lot more comfortable with them." I also accused him of loving his barber more than he loved God.)

Anyway, Dad thought every man should have the same bizarre haircut that he wore. His hair was always peeled VERY short. In fact, he was the only man I knew with hair that short. There were a few old men around town who had short hair, but none with hair as short as Dad's.

He had cut my hair most of my life, and he always kept it as short as his--actually, shorter. When I was young he made me wear a #1 burr in the summer, and a #2 in the winter. He kept me in this hairstyle (or lack of hairstyle) until I started school. Then he let me have a flattop. When I was twelve, I got to let the top grow out a bit, but the sides were peeled. I started my campaign for longer hair when I was twelve.

After what seemed like eons of time, and millions of conversations (actually it was about two years), Dad finally said I could let it get a little longer. Of course, he had issued the standard parental cautions. "I won’t put up with it if you let it get too long." "You have to keep it neat."

Dad normally didn't say a whole lot--unless he had that third beer--but he preached hour-long sermons when it came to my hair and talked to me ad nauseum.

All I had heard when he was talking about my hair was, "Blah, blah, blah." I would just nod and say "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" as he talked, but I spent most of the time scheming up ways to convince him to let it get longer.

Once my hair started growing out, every few months he would say, "Chris, don’t you think it’s time to get a haircut?" I’d go to my stylist, and get it trimmed a little, and then spend the next month combing my hair back when Dad was around, so that it looked shorter. As soon as I walked out the door to go somewhere, I’d pull my comb out of my pocket, and comb it down, so that others could see the full glory of my hair.

As time passed, Dad stopped saying anything to me about my hair--and I thought I was home free. I started seriously letting my hair grow. Every once in a while he would say something, but I just ignored him. I thought I had it made in the shade.

Now, to tell you the rest of what I call "The Haircut Incident."

I tried to act like I didn’t see the temporary barbershop. "What’s up, Pops?"

My knees almost gave out on me when I heard, "I suspect you’re going to say you ain’t got no memory of it, but do you remember what I talked to you about on September first"

He was right. I knew exactly what he was talking about, but I lied. "No, sir. What was it?"

"I thought that’s what you’d say. Just so you remember, I told you to get that mop cut. Hell, I was even willing to meet you halfway, and didn’t say you had to get a haircut that would’ve met with my approval. It’s now October fifteenth, and your hair is longer now than it was then--and you ain’t gave me the $20 back that I gave you. You ignored me, and now it’s time to pay the fiddler. I ain’t gonna compromise with you no more. I’ve decided you’re gonna go to school today with a haircut that’s a helluva lot shorter than anything you would’ve picked. I can cut it, or we’ll go see Mr. Brent before you go to school. What’s it going to be?"

I had no doubt I didn’t want to go to Dad’s barber. One look at Dad’s peeled head told me what my fate would be if I chose that route.

I had to swallow a few times before I could say anything. Dad’s tone left me with no doubt that a haircut was inevitable, but I tried to postpone it. "Dad, I promise! I’m going to get it cut. I was just waiting until after school pictures are taken next week. I don’t want a geeky haircut for the picture. I’d look like a nerd for time and all eternity."

He frowned. "Are you saying I look like a nerd? That’s BS! I look like a real man, and you’re gonna look like one too before noon."

I started trying to cover my ass, but he interrupted me. "Don’t say anything else. I don’t want a picture of you looking like a hippy hanging on my wall for all eternity, so your hair’s going in the trash can--today. Now, is it going to be me that puts the hair in the trash can, or is it going to be ‘Brent, the butcher barber?’"

"Come on, Dad! What’s one more week going to hurt? I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll get a few inches cut off this week, and after school pictures you can cut it."

"No, son. You had the chance to do what’s right, and you ignored me."

"But Dad…"

His cold look froze me in place. "Be careful, boy. The more you argue with me, the shorter your hair’s gonna to be. You’ve done argued yourself into a shorter haircut than what I had in mind. I’m asking you again, me, or Butcher Brent?"

I tried to think of a way out of this, and the only thing that I knew would work was if I moved out--and it didn’t take me long to figure out that wasn’t going to work. I couldn’t move in with a friend, since my friends’ parents were also friends with Mom and Dad. They wouldn’t go against Dad and let me move in with them. I mentally reviewed my finances, and gave up. I didn’t have enough money saved up to get an apartment. Hell, I didn’t have enough to get a motel room for a few days.

I also knew I had no one to blame but myself.

Dad was right. He had called me into the family room about a month before. "Chris, do you remember what I said when I first agreed to let your hair grow? It’s way past the point where I’m going to put up with it. I want you to get it cut, and get about half of that mess cut off. I want to at least see the bottom of your ears, and I want it off the collar. Do you hear me?"

I whined a bit. "Dad, do I have to? My hair isn’t really that long."

"Unless you have the money to get a place of your own, you’re going to get your hair cut. As long as you live under my roof, you will do as I say. Is that clear? If you don’t get a haircut, I’m going to cut it for you, and it will be a haircut like you used to wear. Now get your ass to a barbershop, and get some of that crap cut."

"But, Dad."

"Don’t ‘but, Dad’ me. I mean it!"

Inspiration hit me. "Dad, you know I’m trying to save every penny that I make, so I can get a truck. You’re going to have to keep hauling my butt around until I get one." (Dad didn’t like to spend money unnecessarily, and I didn’t think he would offer to give me the money. I thought I had him pinned in.)

I knew he was serious when he pulled his wallet out and threw a $20 bill at me. Twenty dollars was a lot of money. "Get your hair cut, today if possible. If not today, by the end of the week. I won’t tolerate that mess any more, and I mean it--and while you’re at it, get rid of that punk-ass moustache and beard. You’re going to look like a decent human as long as you live with me. Do you understand me?"

Reluctantly, I said, "Yes, sir."

I thought about that day while I tried to decide what the lesser of the two evils would be. I knew Dad would give me a serious haircut, but I thought I had a better chance with him than I did with Brent, the butcher barber.

Dad waited a minute. "I don’t have all day. What’s it going to be? Me, or Butcher Brent?"

I choked up, thinking about my gorgeous hair laying on the floor--then I had a thought. Dad was always preaching about taking responsibility for my actions. I thought, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. It's a crap shoot, but I'll try it."

"I know I deserve whatever you decide. You told me what to expect if I didn't mind you, and I can't blame anyone but myself for being in this position. I'm sorry I ignored you."

"Fine. Apology accepted. Now, am I going to get the pleasure of cutting your hair, or are we going to the barbershop?"

I knew I was defeated, but I couldn’t help but enter one last plea. "Dad, I’m begging you, don't make me get it cut too short." I took a deep breath. "I know you well enough to know my hair is going to be cut over my ears, but please don't scalp me."

"You're absolutely right. It's going over your ears. When I first told you to come out here, I was just going to cut it over your ears and off the neck. I told you that the more you argued the shorter it would get, and you didn’t listen. Your sissified arguing with me has got you way past just over the ears, and past a taper. You've done reached a short back and sides. One more word and it'll be a flattop. Do you understand me?"

I nodded.

" I'm still waiting for your answer. Me or Mr. Brent?"

A thought hit me. "I might be able to wheedle my way into getting to keep a little more hair if Dad’s not with me at Butcher Brent’s." I spoke up. "Ok, Dad. You can just drop me off at Mr. Brent’s." I tried to butter him up. "That way I'll get to spend a little time with you, and I'll get to be late for school. I can walk to school from there."

Dad sensed what I was thinking. "Don’t think I’ll just drop you off, and you can pick your own style. I'm done late for work, so I'll go in to make sure you give Mr. Brent real clear instructions."

My spirits fell. "Chris, you’re a stupid food. You should’ve known Dad’s not in the mood, and you weren’t gonna get by with that. You also know Butcher Brent ain’t gonna listen to any instructions from you."

I knew I had to choose between a pissed off father and a clipper happy madman."

Another thought hit me. "Dad’s been wanting to cut my hair for a long time. Asking him to cut it might put him in a better mood, and he probably won’t do as much damage as that barbarian barber."

I changed my mind. "I'll make a deal with you. You can cut it, if I can be late for school."

"Deal! I'll go one step further. I won’t go to work today and we can make it a long weekend. How would you feel about driving down to the state fair?"

"I'd love that! It sounds like fun. When can we leave?"

I noticed Dad's smile at my response, and mentally congratulated myself for diffusing the situation.

My mood fell a bit. "We'll leave after I find my son under all that hair. Sit down and let's get this show on the road."

I thought, "Damn it! I was hoping to get out of this." I couldn't help it, tears filled my eyes. I stalled again. "I need to go pee."

He raised his voice a few decibels. "That’s BS, and you know it. You can sit your ass down right now, or I can hogtie you. It’s your choice. That damned mess is coming off your head today, and I'm getting pissed off listening to you argue." (I recognized the signs, and I thought Dad might just tackle me. He was normally pretty gentle, but he had a point where it was not prudent to antagonize him.)

I thought about running, or even fighting him. I gave up that idea almost as soon as I thought about it. Even though I was in pretty good shape, I knew Dad could take me down. I was six-feet tall, but he had seven inches on me, and probably outweighed me by fifty pounds.

I walked over and sat down.

"Son, I have to admit I'm disappointed that you're giving in. I was really hoping you'd keep on arguing so I could buzz you you down to a #2, or even a #1. Since you didn't, get ready for a short back and sides."

He threw the cape around my neck and made sure he had it snug. Ever the smartass, I said, "Hey, Pops. The cape’s tight enough that no hair is going to get under it. You’ve got it so tight I don't think any air is going to get into my lungs either."

He laughed. "I'll blame that one on you. It's been so long since I gave you a haircut I must've forgot how tight to get it." He loosened it and picked up the comb.

He grinned at me. "Let's hope I haven't forgotten how to cut your hair. I'd really hate to mess it up and wind up having to shave your head."

I shivered, and hoped he was joking.

I tried to keep the mood light. "Is there still time to change my mind? I don't like the idea of short back and sides, but that's a helluva lot better than a shaved head. Maybe we should go to the barbershop."

He grinned, and I gave a sigh of relief. "Don’t worry. I think I still remember how to give a decent haircut, and I wanna be the one who peels your head. Thanks for letting me do this. You don’t know how badly I want to."

Then he looked serious. "Are you ready to look like a man again, instead of a girl?"

"I'll never be ready, but if you're gonna do it, let's get it over with."

I hated the way my voice shook when I said that.

"People always tell me that you look like me. Well, they’re going to be saying it even more. You’re gonna have a haircut just like mine." Hearing that made me sick to my stomach.

Dad picked up the clippers, and started up the back of my head. Just a second later, he turned them off. "This mess is so long I can’t see where I’m cutting." Out came the scissors, and he opened and closed them a few times so I could hear the snick-snick--I’m sure he thought it was funny, but it irritated me. He combed my hair straight forward, and blocked my vision. The next thing I heard was the sound of scissors grinding through my hair. I felt it when my bangs fell into my lap.

I thought I was going to puke. It felt like he had cut them off right at my hairline.

I was shaking so hard I was afraid the chair would start moving. I wanted to cry, but there was no way in hell I was going to let Dad see me cry. I gritted my teeth, grabbed the arms of the chair and hung on for dear life--absolutely refusing to show any more reactions.

Next dad took the scissors and cut straight across the back of my neck. He picked up a wad of hair and hung it over my head, dangling it in my eyes. "Say bye-bye to your hair!" Then he threw it on the floor like it was something disgusting.

The hair around my ears soon fell under the ferocious snapping of the scissors. I thought Dad had gone mad when he started with the scissors on the top of my head. He was laughing like a wild man and throwing hair all over the patio.

He finally stopped. "That already looks much better. Let's see what the clippers can do to polish off your new look."

I didn't dare say anything, but I thought, "Dear god, there can't be any hair left for the clippers to cut off."

He put his hand on the top of my head and pushed my head down. I can't say he was rough, but he was firm and left me with no doubt that he was serious.

A few seconds later I heard the sound of ferocious clippers hungrily eating hair. I sighed. The sound of the clippers moving high up the back of my head proved there was hair left for the clippers. I sighed again and thought, "It's not going to be there long."

When it seemed like the clippers couldn’t go any higher, Dad pulled them away, and stepped back to look at the damage he’d done to my beautiful hair. I cringed when I heard him mutter, "Nope, not short enough." A second later more hair was being peeled off. I started getting pissed off when the clippers went up the back of my head again. I thought about saying, "Why the hell do you think you should get to decide how long my hair is? I’m old enough to know what I want, and I shouldn’t have my father deciding what kind of haircut I can have!"

For once in my life I kept my mouth shut. Saying something like that to a man who’s got clippers running up your head didn’t seem like a wise thing to do.

Once the back was cut to Dad’s satisfaction, He pushed my head to the side and I felt the clippers at the base of my carefully tended sideburn.

"Hang on, Dad. Can’t you at least leave me a little sideburns?"

"Nope! Not going to happen. When I get done there won't be any hair on the side of your head, much less these stupid-looking sideburns." The sideburn dropped in my lap a few seconds later.

Words popped out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying. "You didn’t have to do that, Dad."

The buzzing of the clippers stopped suddenly. He walked in front of me, lifted my chin and looked me in the eyes. "Yes, I did--and you’re gonna be sporting a flattop if I hear one more word from you about it."

"You can think all the mean things you want to about me, butI had to prove to you that you can’t get by with doing what you want to without paying the price. It’s high time you learn to listen to those in authority over you. How long do you think you’ll have a job if you don’t do what your boss tells you to do?"

I couldn’t help it. I had to drop my eyes. I didn’t want to see him looking at me.

He breathed deeply. "Any other complaints? If you’ve got something else to say, I’d advise you to think before you say it. One more word from you, and I’ll give you a haircut that will make you look like a hippy compared to what you look like now. You are going to look like a gentleman before your ass gets out of that chair!"

I shook my head.

"What did you say? I couldn’t hear you?"

"No sir. I have nothing else to say." There was more hatred than I knew I was capable of in my next sentence. "Would you please continue cutting my hair, and make me look like a ‘gentleman’ should?"

"Gladly!" The clippers came back on and more hair fell to the floor. My mind was racing, but it seemed no coherent sentences were forming.

A little later he finally put the clippers down, and started combing what little hair I had left. My center part disappeared, when he parted my hair on the side. I knew from the way it felt that I was going to look even worse than I had anticipated--and I was expecting the worst. I thought, "Dear god, it just went from horrible to frightening. Not only do I have the shortest hair in the world, now I'm the only teen with a combover!" I tried to make the best of it, thinking, "Well, at least the top isn't as short as I had thought. I evidently have enough hair to part. I guess that's a good thing."

The scissors reappeared, and he cut some more off the top of my head. I didn’t know how I had any hair left for him to cut. All the hair on the floor made it look like a dozen people had experienced a haircut at his hands.

After he finished annihilating the hair on the top of my head, he spread shaving cream over my ears and around my neck. Then the razor scraped off what little hair had been there. For the first time in my life, I completely loathed my father.

I had thought I was too numb to experience any more emotions, but I was wrong. He gave me the final insult to the day. "Go get the Brylcreem out of my bathroom." A purer, more intense, hatred washed through me.

I wanted to scream, "NOOOO!!! I don’t want grease in my hair!" but seemed to be incapable of speech. I’ll never know how I found the strength to get up and walk into the house.

Once I was in the bathroom, I looked at myself. I was expecting, but was still surprised. My hair was worse than I had anticipated. The short hair made me look ancient, and the low part just increased the illusion. I whispered, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what the hell happened to my beautiful hair?"

There was ZERO hair on the bottom third of my head--not even a little stubble. I tried to look on the good side. "Thank god there’s enough hair on the top to keep my scalp from showing." I shook my head in disbelief, but kept trying to be positive. "Well, it’s not quite as quite as short as Dad's. It felt like he had done worse than this." I looked again, and my positivity left me. I growled. "It might not be as short as his, but it’s pretty damned close."

To add insult to injury, I had a rooster tail. I screamed, "Damn you, Dad! How could you forget? You used to leave the hair back there a little longer so my hair wouldn’t stick up." Another look confirmed the fact that the rooster tail was there--and caused complete shock to set in. For the umpteenth time that morning I fought the tears back again. A raging indignation took the place of the urge to cry. "The bastard ruined my beautiful hair, and now it looks worse than awful."

Questions started racing through my head--and I had an answer for most of them.

I thought, "How in the hell did this happen?" My reply was quick. "You’re god-damned father happened!"

"What happened that transformed me from a man with hair long enough to touch my chin to a man who looked like the reflection in the mirror?" The answer--"A pissed off father with a pair of clippers transformed you."

"Was it really possible for two years of hair growth to disappear in less than twenty minutes?" I replied, "That was a dumb-assed question. Look in the mirror. Two years of hair disappeared, and that bastard you call a father is responsible."

"How could this happen without me knowing the change was coming?" That was easy to answer. "A tyrannical father with no compassion issued a decree."

"What kind of father would do this to his son?" I muttered, "Only a heartless son of a bitch would do this to a son. He is an egomaniacal bastard that’s so insensitive that he doesn’t give a rat’s ass what he does to others. That’s the kind of father that does this to his son."

Then the worst question hit. "What would my friends say?" That thought made me cringe, and I almost cried--yet again. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t figure out how I was going to deal with the shame of having to face them, although my imagination gave me plenty of ideas about how they would react.

Bitterness washed through me, and seemed to fill every ounce of my being with hatred for Dad. Then I thought, "I won’t call him ‘Dad’ any more. A true dad wouldn’t do this. If I’m talking to Mom, I’ll say, ‘Your husband’. To everyone else, he’ll become ‘that man who screwed my mother and made me’. I absolutely refuse to call him ‘Dad’ again!"

I hated the way I looked, and turned away, thinking, "I don’t wanna see my ears sticking out, or how big my nose looks now. I just won’t look at myself until my hair grows back in."

I couldn’t stand looking at myself anymore. I picked up the Vaseline, and slowly walked back to the patio. I was in a daze.

I hadn’t even realized I had picked up the Vaseline until I heard, "Good idea, son. The Vaseline will work much better than the Brylcreem. Sit your ass down, and let me make the transformation complete."

I sat down, and it seemed he put half of the container on my head. It seemed like he combed my hair forever before he said, "I guess that’ll do. I probably should’ve gone shorter, but maybe you’ll learn your lesson. If not, I can always go shorter the next time."

I glared at him and thought, "Damn it! There won’t be a next time!"

In a move that seemed excessively cruel, Dad told me to get the broom and "Clean up this mess out here. It’s your fault that all this hair is on the floor."

He sat down and lit a cigar. He looked very happy with himself. It might’ve been my imagination, but I thought he looked like he was gloating.

I wondered how he would react if I said, "You wouldn’t be looking like that if you knew how much I hate you!" Then I thought, "I doubt if the sick bastard would care if he knew the depth of the enmity he’s placed in my heart." I glared at him, and continued my thought. "I’ll get you, you asshole. If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll pay you back for this, and it’ll be worse than anything you’ve ever imagined."

Once I had the floor cleaned up, he looked at me and smiled. "My god, it’s nice to see you looking like a human being. The way you looked made me think there’s something to this evolution nonsense, since you looked so much like a hairy ape. Now, go get dressed so we can head to the fair."

My hostility toward him was plain. "What makes you think I want to go somewhere with you? I want to hide in the closet for the next two years."

"Son, you’ll never get anywhere in life if you hide. I know this is a big change for you, but embrace it. You’ll probably decide you like it. I know I do. I love the freedom my haircut gives me. A few seconds with the comb, and I’m set for the day. I don’t have to spend half of my day with a brush in my hand. Give it a chance."

I shook my head and thought, "There ain’t no way in hell!"

I thought I heard a little sympathy in his voice. "Son, go get dressed. We’re going."

I cringed when he called me "son". I wanted to scream, "I’m no longer your son. Your son is in the trash can, along with all of his hair." I didn’t say it though. All Dad heard was, "Let me take a shower before we go."

He laughed. "Don’t bother trying to wash the Vaseline out of your hair. It takes forever to get that mess washed out."

Once again I found myself in front of a mirror. A complete stranger was looking back at me. It looked so bad I thought about getting the clippers and cutting all my hair off. I didn't, even though I really wanted to. I didn't, I knew it would make the bastard happy.

Another glance at the stranger in the mirror told me that there was a benefit to all the Vaseline on my head. The rooster tail was laying down.

Despite having seen how short my hair was, the reality didn’t sink in until I was in the shower. I stuck my head under the nozzle, and no hair fell in front of my eyes. The feel of the smooth sides nauseated me.

Out of habit, I reached for the shampoo. I thought, "What the hell am I going to shampoo? There's no hair left." I put the shampoo down.

After I had dried off, I reached for my brush out of habit. A rueful frown crossed my face. It would be a long time before I needed a brush. I picked up the comb, and discovered Dad was right. Just a few strokes, and my hair was down. "No need for a hair dryer today--or the foreseeable future. I might as well put it away." I stuck the hairspray and brush under the counter as well.

After putting on some jeans and a t-shirt, I grabbed a baseball cap, and shoved it as low on my head as it would go. A furtive glance in the mirror (I still couldn’t stand really looking at myself. All I could do was glance.) made me pull the cap off my head. It drew attention to the sorry state of my hair, and made it look like my head was completely shaved. "It’s better for people to see I have a little hair than to think I’m Kojak." I hung up the cap.

As I walked down the stairs, I reached up and felt my hair, and then jerked my hand away. I couldn’t stand the way it felt.

Dad took one look at me."Son, I know I’ve pushed you pretty hard already, but your jeans look completely out of place with your haircut. Since your hair finally looks like a man’s hair should look, why don’t you dress like a gentleman?" I flinched when he called me "son" again.

I stomped into my room, and shut the door a little harder than necessary. I put on some black slacks and white dress shirt. I looked in the mirror, and quickly looked away. I despised the way I looked. I thought, "Oh, my god. I look like a Mormon missionary. I can’t go out in public looking like this!"

Somehow I found the guts to walk out the door.

Once we were in the truck, I reached up and felt my neck again. Evidently Dad saw me do it. "A short haircut is like that. You just can’t keep your hands off of it. I’ve had this same hairstyle most of my life, and I still walk out of the barbershop feeling my neck."

"Well, I think it’s disgusting!"

"You’ll change your mind. I’m sure of it."

"The devil will ice skate in Hell before I change my mind about how I feel about this...this..disgusting travesty!"

The fair was worse than horrible. People stared. I heard rude comments. I had two people say something nice to me though. One lady who was older than dirt thanked me for serving my country, and asked what branch of the service I was in. Another man who probably rode dinosaurs to school said, "Nice haircut, son. It’s refreshing to see a young man with a little common sense. Keep it up."

I ignored both of them. Dad apologized to them saying, "Sorry, he’s a little hard of hearing." Then he gave me another tongue-lashing for being rude.

The anger in me started building up. I finally lashed out. "What the hell do you expect me to say to people? Forgive me for not being sociable on the worst day of my life. Do you want me to tell them that my cruel, hateful father just ruined my life? If not, you tell me what I’m supposed to say that doesn’t let them know what I think of you."

"A simple ‘thank you’ would suffice, don’t you think?" I knew he was right, and felt bad about my actions, but not bad enough to want to do anything about it.

I stamped off.

The next day was as close to Hell as I ever want to be. A few minutes of enduring the jokes and stares made me want to say the rosary a couple of dozen times, just to make sure I didn’t go to Hell. More than once I thought, "If Hell is worse than this, I don’t want anything to do with it."

The worst part was how my so-called friends treated me. Most of them gave me some form of "What the hell happened to you?" and then disappeared. Some walked by me as if they didn’t see me, and I saw more than one person shiver, and reach up to touch their hair, as if making sure my short hair wasn’t catching. None of them said anything good, or even offered any sympathy.

Even the teachers were making comments. Two teachers were standing there, and I heard one say, "Poor Chris. I wonder what the hell made him get a messed-up haircut like that. " The other teacher said, "I imagine his father made him, after all, Mr. Richardson has the same haircut. I don’t know about you, but in my opinion, making a boy get a haircut like that borders on child abuse. Do you think we should report it?"

One of the coaches (who wore his hair in a flattop) said, "Holy, Christ! You look like you had a fight with the lawnmower, and the lawnmower won."

The more comments I heard, the angrier I got at Dad--but I couldn’t help but run my hands over my hair. I was disgusted by the way it felt, yet in some strange way I was fascinated by it.

The only good comment I heard was from Coach Green. "Richardson, nice haircut. It’s not as short as I’d like to see it, but it’s still a damned fine haircut. I hope it catches on, and runs through this school like a virus. I’d love to see all your fellow students looking like a man should."

I muttered, "Thanks, Coach." Then all the hurt and anger bubbled up in me. "I think it’s the most f-ed up haircut on the planet. You’d better enjoy looking at me while it lasts. This is probably the last haircut I’m ever gonna get."

He shook his head, and the look he gave me was pure disgust. "I’m sorry you feel that way. I was proud of you for being the only boy here who was strong enough to buck the trend and stand up, and do what’s right. I thought you were strong enough to be a real man amongst all these little boys who follow the trend." He looked at me again, and then turned away. The last thing he said stung. "I guess you’re not the man I thought you were."

As the day wore on, and I saw people’s reactions, I got angrier and angrier--and I wasn’t mad at them. I was pissed at Dad, and that ire grew every moment of the day.

I didn’t go in the house when I got home, even though I wanted to hide. I almost did go hide when Mr. Wayne (the man who lived across the street) got out of his car, and looked my way. The look of shock on his face shamed me.

Finally Dad pulled in the driveway, and he couldn’t pull into the garage because I was standing in his way. I was literally seeing red. I was yelling before he got out of the car. "I hope to hell you’re happy with yourself. You put me through living hell today. I’ve never endured shi...crap like what I put up with today. Was that what you wanted? Did you want me to be so miserable that I thought about killing myself rather than putting up with all of this crap from people? Well, that’s what you caused! I’m telling you now, I will NEVER get another haircut like this. If you try to make me, I’ll run away after I tell you to screw yourselff. Living on the streets would be better than putting up with another day like this."

I glared at him. "To quote you, ‘Do you understand me?’ You’d better, because I mean every god-damned word I just said."

Tears filled his eyes. "Was it really that bad? I figured you’d get a little crap, but I never dreamed it would be that bad. I’m really sorry, son. I just wanted you to learn a lesson about how your actions have consequences."

"Oh, I learned a lesson. I learned that my so-called father is so narcissistic that he thinks everyone should look like him. I learned my father doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me. I learned he only cares about having his own damned way, no matter how it affects others. That’s what I learned."

I stormed away, and locked myself in my room. All the tears I had stored up finally came out. I cried so hard that I was hiccuping by the time the tears stopped flowing.

I had been expecting it, and finally there was a knock on the door. "Chris, can I talk to you?"

"What can you say? You said it all on the patio the other day."

"Son, I’m sorry. I wish I could undo what I’ve done. Please open the door."

I unlocked the door, and sat down in my desk chair and crossed my arms. "Say what you’ve got to say."

"Chris, I was wrong. You were right. I didn’t think about how a forced haircut would affect you."

I rubbed my shorn neck as I muttered, "Well, it affected me all right. I may never be able to hold my head up again. Even if my hair grows down to my ass, I’ll always be known as the guy who had the shortest haircut in recent history. Those idiots at school will never let me live it down, and I have to put up with them for almost two more years. In case you’re wondering, that’s 593 days of being harrassed and made fun of."

He looked shocked. "You counted the days?"

"Yes! I counted the days until I can get away from being made fun of for something I had no choice in. I counted the days until I can get away from a monster who inflicts pain without thoughts of what he’s doing."

"Chris, 1% of me wants to chastise you for the way you’re talking to me. You know better than to talk to an adult like that. Another 1% of me wants to say, ‘If you’re going to act like a spoiled little brat, I’ll treat you like a spoiled little brat and take my belt off and beat your ass. I’m still your father, and I deserve a little respect."

"Go ahead and beat me. It’d be easier to take than the emotional beating I’ve taken today--and by the way, you’re no longer my father. You might be the man who slept with Mom and created me, but you’re not my father, and I’ll never call you ‘Dad’ again!"

He ignored me. "No matter how much I want to chastise you, or beat your ass, the rest of me wants to beg you for your forgiveness."

I looked at him--refusing to say a word. I thought, "I’m not going to make this any easier on you. You created this mess, and you’ll have to figure out a way to get out of it."

He took a deep breath. "I promise you, here and now, that I will never make you cut your hair again. You can let it grow to your ass, and I won’t say a word. I might think about it, but I won’t say it."

"Thank you for saying that--and you’re right. You’ll never make me cut my hair again. I meant it when I said I’d live on the streets before I’d go through this hell again."

I guess he sensed that nothing he was going to say would change how I felt. He looked at me before he turned to leave the room. "Son, I really am sorry."

I growled. "Please tell me how the hell saying ‘I’m sorry’ is going to make my hair grow back."

Tears filled his eyes. "I can’t make your hair grow back, and I regret it. If I could wave a magic wand and say, ‘Bippity, boppity, boo’ or ‘Abracadabra’ I’d happily give you your hair back."

I was still pissed. "Well, you can’t, can you? I’m left here dealing with the consequences of your actions. Thanks a lot."

Dad stopped at the door, and looked at me again. "If I bought you the truck you want, would it help you forgive me?"

I put as much ice in my voice as I could. "What good is a truck when I have no friends who will be seen in public with me? You can keep the truck. You’re not going to buy your way out of this one."

Immediately after I spoke, I thought, "Chris, you’re carrying this too far. What the hell did you just say?"

He stepped out of my room, and stopped for a long time. Then he turned around. "What are the chances of you giving me a hug right now?"

"I could give you a hug, but every atom in my body would be screaming, ‘You hate him. Don’t do it!’"

"Hate is a mighty strong word. Would you like to pick another word?"

"No! I wouldn’t. Hate with a capital ‘H’ is what I feel for you right now--a hatred like I’ve never felt before."

"I thought so. Dinner will be ready soon. Come on down."

"I’m not hungry. I just want to be left alone."

He made the mistake of laughing. "Oh, my god. This is worse than I thought. A teenager is turning down food?"

I screamed. "Go ahead and laugh at me. Everyone else has laughed at me all day. I’ll probably hear their laughter for months to come."

He looked horrified. "Chris, I really regret what I did, and I imagine I’ll regret it until the day I die."

I fumed for a long time after he left, but I couldn’t get his last sentence out of my head--it was like a stuck record. "Until the day I die. Until the day I die." It kept ringing in my head and wouldn't go away. I had always had a vivid imagination, and suddenly I saw a vision of myself standing at Dad's coffin, crying and saying, "I wish I had forgiven him, and told him I understood."

I started crying again--this time for a different reason.

I had to be honest with myself. I thought, "Chris, you know Dad didn't mean to hurt you. He wasn't being vindictive or vicious. You know he was telling the truth when he said he was just trying to teach you discipline and that your actions have consequences. He just didn't realize the consequences of his own actions. Sure! He was wrong, but it's not his fault your friends are all assholes. Give your father a break."

Thinking that made me wonder if I didn't need to get a new set of friends. I thought about new friends awhile, and then made myself get back to the real problem. What was I going to do about Dad?

I started cooling off.

Finally I thought, "Screw it, Chris. You know the right thing to do. Just get it over with."

I walked into the family room, and the look Dad gave me broke my heart. It was a look of intense pain and immense sorrow. He looked like he was expecting something horrible. I know it's hard to imagine, but my 6' 5" father seemed to curl into himself.

The final resentment left me. "Come here, you big goofball!"

He tentatively stood up, and I walked up to him and gave him a big hug. He hung onto me like I was a life raft.

When he finally stopped hugging me, I pointed to the sofa. "Wanna sit down and talk about it now that I'm feeling like a reasonable human being again?"

He tried to say something, and all that came out was a choked sob. I hugged him again until his tears stopped.

I sounded like a drill sergeant. "Sit." He sat. "Dad, it's going to be ok. I may never let you live this down, but I'll forgive you."

He repeated over and over, "I'm sorry, Chris. I'm sorry, son."

"I know, Dad. It's ok. Honestly."

We talked about the whole thing. I apologized for not listening to him, and for being disrespectful.

"Son, I meant it. I'll never say anything to you again about your hair."

"It's ok, Pops. The hardest part about the whole haircut incident was the suddenness of it. If you had given me time to adjust to the idea of a short haircut before you actually did it, I might not've been quite as upset."

"I can understand that, son. I was wrong. I know it now--and honestly, I probably knew it then. I just kept festering over it, and I let it take away my good sense. Once again, I have to say I’m sorry."

"Dad, stop apologizing. The haircut is a done deal, and I probably deserved what I got. Anyway, I’m over it. You get over it too."

He reached over and rubbed my head. I looked at him. "Just so you know, I am going to let it grow back out." I grinned at him. "I'll be a little more respectful of your archaic, old-fashioned ideas in the future though. After all, you're getting old, and I wouldn't want to be the cause of you having a heart attack."

He did his best Big, Bad Wolf impression. He huffed and puffed. "Old? Who are you calling old? Care to take that comment out to the basketball goal? I’ll show you who’s old!"

"You’re on! Let me put some sneakers on." I grinned as I walked out. "You probably oughta do some stretching while I’m upstairs. I wouldn’t want an old man like you to strain a muscle!"

We played hard, and neither of us could get the upper hand. I’d gain a few points, and then he’d jump ahead of me. Finally, we collapsed into a laughing fit. I reached over and hugged him. "Pops, I'm hungry. Are you going to keep me out here until I collapse and starve to death, or are you going to let me go eat?"

He howled with laughter. "I wasn’t sure you were OK until just now. As long as you’re eating, I know all is well in the world."

Life settled down, and were as close to normal as we were going to get. Eventually Dad stopped apologizing every thirty seconds, and I stopped worrying so much about what people were saying. I dealt with the fact it was going to be a long time before my hair grew back.

After "The Haircut Incident" I became even more obsessed with my hair than I had been before. Every day I would spend time looking at my hair trying to figure out what to do with it to make it look better. I still had to use Brylcreem to make the rooster tail lay day, and even though I was fascinated by the way my hair would shine, I hated the look of it. I was that way about everything about my hair. The feel of the bristles, the shine, the look--it all fascinated me, and repulsed me at the same time. I began to wonder if I was going crazy.

Although I hated the way my hair looked, it seemed my father was right. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep my hands off the nape of my neck. I eventually admitted (to myself) that I liked how the bristles gradually got softer as I moved my hand up my neck. I found the feel...stimulating--very stimulating. So stimulating that I sometimes felt it in my groin.

I really thought I was going crazy when I felt the bristles on my neck and thought, "Curtis, you're going to miss this when it grows out."

I would feel the bristle and try to will my hair to grow back. I wanted to run my fingers through my hair, rather than feel skin. A few times I'd look at a picture of myself with long hair and compare it to my current look. The old me always won. I wanted my hair back!

I started sleeping later in the morning since I didn't have to spend thirty minutes working on my hair. I laughed at myself when I thought, "Hell, you don't spend thirty seconds combing your hair now." I eventually admitted (to myself) that short hair was convenient. Even though I had forgiven Dad, and even though I liked to think of myself as an adult, I was still bratty enough to be determined to milk the situation for everything I could. I didn’t tell Dad that I had found something positive about having short hair.

A few times when I'd look at myself I comforted myself with the thought, "It's really not that bad. I'm lucky that I'm good-looking enough to pull it off." I even went so far as to think, "Things have been really good between me and Dad. Maybe I should keep my hair shorter, just to keep on his good side."

Another look in the mirror made me think, "Hell no. I don't care how good things are with Dad, I don't wanna look like this. Come on, hair. Grow!"

After a week or so, my hair grew out enough that the white skin wasn't showing up. I was thrilled! Finally! The smoothness of the shaved sides, and the bristliness at the top of my sides disappeared. I stopped running my hands up the back of my neck since feeling them was no longer fun.

I was really looking forward to being able to comb my hair again.

About three weeks after what I had started calling "The Haircut Incident," Mom, Dad and I were sitting at the table eating breakfast, and I looked at Dad. His hair was getting shabby looking--I mean really shabby looking--at least according to his standards.

I was surprised when I found myself irritated. I thought, "What the hell? I’ve never seen Dad’s hair this long." Then it dawned on me. Dad had not got a haircut since before he gave me mine. I started calculating. "Let’s see. It’s been three weeks and three days since ‘The Haircut Incident’. Dad was due for his weekly haircut the day after he cut mine. That means it’s been four weeks and two days since he’s had a haircut."

I put my fork down, and thought, "That has to be a record for him. He’s got a haircut every week since I’ve been old enough to remember. I wonder what’s going on with him?" I puzzled a moment, and then it dawned on me. I almost blurted out, "Jesus H. Christ! He’s taking his guilt out on himself. He’s denying himself, to atone for what he did to me!"

It was as if Dad heard me thinking. The next thing I heard was, "Gloria, I’m heading over to the barbershop. Hopefully there ain’t too many people in line yet. I’ll get started on your honey-do list when I get back."

Just then I heard someone say, "Hang on, Dad. Let me put my boots on, and I’ll go with you. It’s time for me to get another haircut." I looked around to see who was talking. Then I thought, "Crap on a crutch, did I just say that?"

I wish I’d had my camera out to take a picture of Dad’s reaction. His jaw literally dropped, and he looked at me as if I’d grown a second head.

He sputtered a minute. "Are you telling me you want to let Butcher Brent get at your hair? You know you’ll probably wind up with a haircut like mine."

I surprised myself. "Yes, sir. I want another short haircut." I paused. "Like father, like son."

"I have two reactions. My first reaction is to say get your ass in the truck and let's get the hell out of here. My second reaction is to ask if you're sure. I'll go with my second reaction. Are you sure?"

I grinned, ran upstairs and put my boots on. My brain raced as I was putting on my boots, and to be honest, I was a little confused by my reaction. I hadn't realized I was thinking about keeping my (Dad's?) haircut until I spoke up. I asked myself the same question Dad had, and I realized it was what I wanted, and that the idea had been lurking around in the corners of my mind.

I had already figured out that I missed the feel of the smooth sides. I finally admitted to myself that I had been flirting with the idea of keeping the haircut. I verbalized all my thoughts. "Admit it, Curtis, you miss the look. You’re ready to be peeled again."

I don’t know where the conviction came from, but I knew it was the right thing for me. Thinking about going back to long hair--and all the maintenance that entailed--was repulsive to me. I wondered if Mom needed a new hairdryer. I knew where she could get one, along with an almost full can of hairspray and a nice hairbrush.

Dad was waiting for me outside my door when I came out of my room. "Are you absolutely sure this is what you want? I don’t wanna hear no bitching about it, and you’ll have to ‘fess up to wanting this haircut. I’m done being known as the asshole who made you get a haircut."

I gave him an impish grin. "I'm absolutely sure, as long as he doesn’t leave me with another rooster tail--but you're paying! Let's go."

"I think I have enough money. Let me check." He dramatically took his wallet out of his pocket and pulled all his money out and started counting. "One dollar. Two dollars. Three dollars, plus five dollars equals eight dollars."

I laughed. He gave me a quizzical look. "You look like a little child when he’s first learning to count."

After counting the money twice, Dad looked at me. "Butcher Brent charges three dollars a haircut. I have enough in here to pay for two haircuts." He laughed. "Like I said, get your ass in the truck and let's get out of here."

As we were driving to Butcher Brent’s I said, "Does that offer of a truck still stand?"

___________________________________________
I was going through some documents on my computer, looking for some unfinished stories to work on. I found this one, and it was already finished. I only vaguely remember writing it, and don’t know when I wrote it, but I’m guessing it was some years ago. (I guess I should put start dates on my stories.)

Anyway, it’s a decent story, so I decided to post it.

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