Talking to Grandpa part II by Just_Me

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Back to my story:

I didn’t hear from Grandpa for a few days, but I kept busy, thinking about Dad’s stories, and looking at the changes in his pictures.

I became obsessed with Dad’s haircuts. He had changed his hairstyle several times through the years. Even though I had lived through most of the changes, I had never really given them much thought, but the more I looked at the pictures, the more preoccupied I became with his haircuts.

I went through all the boxes of pictures, and pulled out every picture of Dad, and put it in a separate pile. Then I tried to put them in chronological order. (I’m lucky. Our family has always been big picture takers. We all run around with a camera in our hand, and my grandfather was the first one to start the habit. Very few events happen that doesn’t get a picture of it: a new tooth, a lost tooth, a new car, a new haircut, first day of school, first day of a new job, new glasses, someone just looks nice that day, any family gathering...)

I think the first thing I noticed was that no matter what hairstyle he was wearing, Dad always had some kind of slick-’em on his hair, making his black hair shine. I thought back through the years, and remembered that there had always been some kind of hair tonic in the bathroom: Vitalis and Brylcreem are the ones I remember most.

Then I started a chart, chronicling his hairstyles.

From the time he was born, until about 1948, he had severe short back and sides. Then the pictures showed him with a shaved head, and that turned into stubble that he wore until about 1950. The hair on the top of his head started growing then, and for a few years he went back to a harshly shorn short back and sides (I expect I can blame Grandpa for that.)

About 1953, Dad showed up with a flattop. I stared at the first picture of him with his new style, thinking, "I wonder how his hair felt, and how Dad felt about it." A vision of him running his hands over the bristly top filled my head, and I wondered how much butch wax got stuck on his hand every time he did it. Did he like the feel of the bristly sides? I began to wish I had asked him what made him change his style.

I spoke to the air. "Grandpa, did you learn how to cut a flattop, or did Dad start going to a barbershop?"

Grandpa didn’t answer me.

I knew Dad got a job in Pine Bluff when he was nineteen (around 1956), and the pictures showed it. I guess rebellion against authority is a universal trait in teens, and as soon as Dad was away from Grandpa, his hair started growing. Before long, he had a typical greaser haircut, long on the top, with a high pompadour and great DA in the back. A big, well-waxed, handlebar moustache showed up after Dad’s hair reached its max length. After about a year the handlebar reached epic proportions, and then it started slowly dwindling away. At first, I noticed that some of the width had been cut off- -then some more. More and more disappeared, and soon he had a pencil-thin moustache, which he wore about six more months. Finally, there was not a trace of a moustache left.

He wore the greaser cut for about ten years. That’s what he had in his wedding pictures (He looked mighty nice in his white dinner jacket), and through the birth of me and my sister. Without any advance notice, the New Year’s Day pictures from 1966 showed him with a boxy flattop (just as the style was changing, and a flattop was becoming passe. From that point on, Dad was always several years behind the trend. He didn’t change his style until long after the fashion for whatever haircut he had picked had changed. He always looked dated in the pictures.)

I really wished I knew what brought on the change. Did he get a new job? Was he just tired of having to comb his hair all the time? Had he got his hair cut the day before, just to start the new year with something different?

Grandpa popped up. "Alvin was always a thinker. He’d think things to death before making a move. I ain’t hardly ever knowed that man to do anything without looking at it from every angle." He laughed, "Well, he did spend that day in the woods when he was a boy. I wonder if he would’ve ever done that if he’d thought it through?"

Grandpa disappeared as quickly as he had shown up.

The flattop stayed with him for a long time. There were variations in the length of it: sometimes it was really short with a wide landing strip, and other times the top was longer. Sometimes it was boxy, and sometimes it was beveled. Yet again, I questioned his choices. Did changing barbers lead to the different lengths, or was this something he decided on himself. If he opted for the changes, what brought them on? I really wondered about his thought process during this time.

He kept the flattop, but in 1976, long after the trend started, sideburns started creeping down the side of his face again. They got down to below his ear lobes, and seem to settle in at that length for a few years.

In the pictures with family and friends, Dad was the only one with a flattop, but he had the best sideburns of any of them. I wondered why he kept the flattop way past the time everyone else had given it up?

In late 1977 (long after all his friends and family had long hair), the hair on the top of his head started growing, although he kept it in a short taper- -in fact, it was such a short taper that it was almost a traditional short back and sides, with hair long on the top, and really short on the sides, but he kept the sideburns. To me, it seems strange that the back of his hair was so much shorter than his sideburns, and that he kept the long sideburns with the peeled sides.

This was his style until around 1982, when the moustache started reappearing. He let it grow into a handlebar again. His sideburns kept getting longer, and eventually met up with his moustache, creating what I knew were called friendly mutton chops. (Once again, Dad was several years behind the style. His friends had started cutting their sideburns back and shaving their mustaches by the time Dad started letting his get really long.)

In 1985, the taper disappeared, to be replaced with a blocked businessman’s cut. It didn’t take long for the greaser style to develop, and the mutton chops and moustache stayed. He kept this style longer than any style he ever had. It hung around for about fifteen years.

Grandpa showed up when I was looking at Dad in this era. "It looks like he changed the oil in his truck, and just used the oil on his hair. Disgusting, downright disgusting."

I waited for Grandpa to say something else, but it seemed like he had just popped in to deliver his comment, and popped right back out.

I went back to perusing the pictures. I noticed the sideburns start gradually disappearing. It took almost two years for them to get to a "normal" length. The moustache started gradually disappearing (the same way it had years before) except when he got to the pencil-thin stage, he kept it for the rest of his life. After the sideburns were gone, his hair started gradually getting shorter and the taper showed back up. The top stayed long though, and that one lock of his hair that was always falling in his eyes was evident in later years.

After a couple of years with the taper, I noticed that he was gradually going shorter. When I saw the first picture of him with the short back and sides of his youth I said, "Grandpa, was that your doing? Did you torment him until he got a ‘decent’ haircut?"

I mentally heard a deep contented sigh, and a slight chuckle. "You’re damned right I did."

I looked at a picture, and laughed. "Guess again, Grandpa. I think Dad was trying to keep ahead of the grey. The whiter his temples got, the shorter his hair got."

"Let me look at that." A second later I heard a chuckle. "I think you’re right. Alvin was smart, but you were smarter. You figure him out."

I started looking at the pictures again and, and the first one of Dad with a flattop brought back a flood memories. I had been at his house that day, and he asked me if I would take him to the barbershop. This wasn’t unusual. I had often gone with him. We got out and started to walk in, and Dad stopped. "Damn it! I forgot to leave my pipe in the truck. I never thought I’d live to see the day a man couldn’t smoke in a barbershop. What’s the world coming to? A barbershop used to be a place where a man could be a man!" He paused for a second, and said, "Oh, to hell with it. I ain’t walking back to the truck. Sam can just deal with it." He stuck his pipe in his shirt pocket and we walked in. Dad and the barber did their usual banter for a while (they were always trying to one-up each other). Finally they stopped gossiping and Dad sat down.

Sam threw a cape around Dad’s neck, and asked, "The usual today, Alvin?"

"Well, Sam, I know you’re older than I am, and you ain’t got much memory left, but I was wondering if you remember how to do a flattop?"

"I reckon I still have the know of it. Is that what it’s going to be today?"

"Yep! If your shaky old hands, and weak eyes are up to it."

Sam grumbled. "I may be old, but I’ve still got eagle eyes, and my hands are steady as a rock."

Dad laughed. "Prove it, and if you mess it up, I figure I’m done so old an’ ugly I ain’t gonna impress nobody with my looks. I reckon I decided that if I’m gonna be ugly anyway, I might as well have a haircut that’s easy to care for. I’m tired of always having my hair hang in my face."

"Well, you got the ugly part right. You’re ugly enough to scare a snake." He chuckled at his joke. "If you ain’t wanting to have to mess with it, I expect you’re wanting a short flattop. How short are we going?"

"You’re the barber. Just cut it."

I stopped them. "Hey, ya’ll. I have my camera in the truck. Let me get a few before and after pictures. I’ll be right back."

I started taking pictures, and Dad said, "Hang on a minute. Ain’t nobody gonna recognize me without my pipe." (He was right. I often recognized Dad’s pipe in pictures before I recognized him.) He reached in his pocket, and pulled it out. "OK, now you can take your pictures."

I hadn’t got more than a few pictures when I heard, "That’s enough damned pictures. I’m here to get a haircut. Sam, take this mess off my head."

Sam took Dad at his word. I was surprised that a man his age could still move so fast. I barely had time to register the sound of the clippers being turned on before they zoomed up the back of Dad’s head, leaving a wide swatch of bare skin. In no time most of Dad’s now iron-grey hair was on the floor, and there wasn’t anything but a little shadow of hair on the back and sides.

After just a few minutes, Sam turned the chair toward the mirror. "Is that short enough for you, Alvin?"

I could hear the rasp of the stubble when Dad ran his hand up the side of his head. He smiled. "It’s been a long time since I felt that. It feels good."

I looked at the pile of hair on the floor, and without thinking about it I said, "Holy cow, Dad. I didn’t know you had that much hair on your head." Even with him already having a short back and sides, there was a lot of hair on the floor.

"Flattops are like that son. It always seems like there’s too much hair on the floor, but you ain’t seen nothing yet. Wait until Sam gets done with the top. You’ll be thinking a hippy was in here."

I had never seen anyone get a flattop- -hell, I hadn’t seen too many men (other than Dad) with a flattop, much less seen them getting it cut. I was shocked at how long it took to get the top cut. First, Sam randomly whacked a bunch of hair off the top, and then he spread some butch wax in Dad’s hair.

A thought hit me. "Why don’t I remember seeing Dad get a flattop before? I know I went to the barbershop with him lots of times." Then I remembered. When I was little, Dad would take me to the barbershop and get my hair cut, but he always went alone to get his haircut. I looked up to the sky and sent Dad a message. "Did you do that so you could have some peace and quiet, and not be worried about what mischief I was up to?"

I had never thought about a hair dryer being used in a men’s barbershop, and it seemed strange when Sam pulled one out. He spent a long time with a brush and the dryer making sure every hair on Dad’s head was standing at attention. Then he started cutting the top. First he ran the clippers over a big comb, and pretty soon the top looked right to me, but Sam wasn’t satisfied. He put the comb down, and started taking the clippers from the front to the back- -over, and over, and over- -each time taking just a tiny bit more hair off. I was thinking Dad wasn’t going to have any hair left, at the rate Sam was taking it off, but those clippers kept cutting. After what seemed like hours, Sam finally said, "I think that’ll do it. What do you think, Alvin?"

I thought it looked great, but Dad wasn’t as easy to please as I am. "It’s looking pretty good, Sam, but I think we could take that top down another quarter-inch. I wanna see more of a landing strip. Do you mind?"

Sam took it in stride. "Hell, I can shave it if you want me to. I think it looks pretty damned good like it is, but it's your hair."

As he turned the chair around to do some more work, he queried. "What are you thinking, a horseshoe? I’ll have to take the sides down some more if that’s what you’re wanting."

"No. No horseshoe. I ain’t never cared for that look. Just do like I said. Take the top down just a little more."

The whole damned process started over again, and it seemed like it took longer to cut that little bit more off than it did the whole haircut. I have to admit, I was enthralled by the whole haircut, and I watched each pass of the clippers with rapt attention.

For a split second, I wondered how I’d look with a flattop.

Dad’s face lit up with a huge smile when the chair was turned to the mirror again. "Hot, damn! That’s what I was wanting. You did a good job, good sir. Thanks a whole heap and a passle."

They talked a little more, and finally we were getting to leave. I walked up to Dad. "You really do look great in a flattop. Can I feel it?"

I reached out without waiting to see what he would say. The velvety feel of the flattop was amazing. I wanted to just stand there and stroke it.

My heart gave a lurch when Sam picked up the clippers again. "Hey, Alvin. That boy of yours seems mighty fascinated by your haircut. What do you think the odds are of us talking him into following in your footsteps? I’ve got the time, if he’s willing."

"Well, in case you ain’t noticed, that boy of mine is long past the age where I can make him do anything. All I can do is ask." He turned to me. "What do you say? Feel like doing the old ‘like father, like son’ thing?"

My heart gave another leap, and I thought about it. Then I said, "No, sir. I think you look mighty damned good with the flattop, but I don’t think I would."

I felt like sinking to the floor when Sam said, "That’s BS. You look just like your dad. You’d look just as good as he does if you went for it. Just admit it if you're a chicken."

I laughed, "Well, cluck, cluck and bawk, bawk. I guess I’m a chicken then. I don’t think it’s in the cards for today."

Now I wish I had gone for it that day. I don’t think there’s a moment in my life I’d rather have a redo on that one. I know Dad would’ve loved it, and it would’ve been a memory I could’ve cherished.

Dad died not long after that.

I wonder if he would’ve made it back to a buzz cut if he had lived longer?

My next thought made me chuckle. "Mom wasn’t the easiest person in the world to live with. I wonder how she reacted to his different cuts? Did she throw hissy fits, or was she the one encouraging Dad to change his style? I guess I’ll never know, since I didn’t think to ask before they were gone."

I could easily imagine it going either way with her..or maybe both ways in the same day.

I sat looking at the pictures, and an utterly audacious thought hit me. "I don’t know why, but I want to experience all these haircuts. I look enough like Dad to be his twin (well, except for the extra twenty pounds that I have, that Dad never had). I know what I’d look like with each style- -but something is making me yearn to try each one."

Grandpa popped into my head. "It ain’t too late to try it as long as you’re alive."

I shook my head. "Sorry, Grandpa. It ain’t gonna happen. I’m too old and set in my ways to be trying something new."

I heard him with my ears, not in my head. "Do an old man a favor, and give it a try. If you hate it, you can always let it grow back."

I blurted out my next thought. "Grandpa, is there some way I can see you? I’ve always wanted to."

"Only in your dreams. They have a fancy way of saying it up here. It’s called ‘piercing the veil’. Sometimes it can happen. I’ll see if I can make it happen."

"You’ve already made it happen. You’ve shown up in my dreams a dozen times. When I have dreams like that, I’m never certain if it was really you, or just my active imagination."

He grinned. "It’s me, and now it’ll be a mite easier for me to pierce that there veil, since you’re willing to let me come visit with you for a spell."

"Any time, Grandpa. Any time."

He disappeared after saying, "It’s really been nice getting to know you, William, and I reckon I’m looking forward to getting to know you better."

I went to bed, and was soon in la-la land.

"Wake up, William."

Hearing Grandpa’s voice at 2:15 AM was not what I wanted. My first thought was, "Hearing him flap his jaws has definitely lost its charm." Then I thought, "Did I just say ‘flap his jaws?’ He needs to go away. I’m learning his speech pattern!" I mumbled, "What did you need, and why couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?"

He cackled, "I learned something new today, and wanna see if I can make it work on a fool like you."

I grumbled, "Go ahead and try it, Grandpa, then let me get some sleep. What are you gonna show me?"

He sounded excited. "I done learned how to put thoughts in your head…I think. I’m gonna send you a thought right now."

An unbidden thought popped into my head. "You should follow in your dad’s footsteps, and copy his haircut history."

My next thought was, "I could, but should I?"

I immediately answered myself. "I should. It would be a way to honor Dad. I just wish I had thought about doing it while he was alive. He would’ve got a kick out of the idea."

I laughed at myself. "William, you’re being foolish. What possible good could come of that?"

"You could be a rebel with a cause!"’

I definitely felt Grandpa’s influence in my next thought. "The shorts and t-shirts you wear all the time wouldn’t look good with any of his hairstyles! You’d look like a fool."

Grandpa answered that thought. "Boy, you live in L.A…and why anyone would want to live in this hellhole is beyond me. Anyway, there’s a vintage clothing store on every corner. Buy something to go with the haircuts."

I kept thinking, "William, you’re NOT going to do this!" I mentally stuck my tongue out at myself. "I guess we’ll see". I found myself getting out of bed and heading to the computer. I put "Fifties fashions for men" in the search engine, and started looking at pictures.

I could hear Grandpa. "Hot damn! It worked!"

I ignored him, and tried to keep up with the thoughts racing through my head. The chief thought was, "What will people say if I show up with such an old-fashioned haircut?"

Grandpa answered for me. "I reckon folks already know you’re hopelessly outdated. Hell, you’re living in the Seventies. What difference is going back a few more years going to make in how they think? Look at it this way, son. Every day you show up with a hairstyle that’s forty years out of style. Going with something that’s sixty years out of style ain’t gonna make folks think anything different from what they already think."

I thought, "He’s got a point."

I spoke to Grandpa. "OK. You win. Once the pandemic is over, I’ll head to a barbershop. I’m going to try all of Dad’s hairstyles, but it ain’t going to be a quick process. I’m going to take the time to enjoy each one."

"I wouldn’t expect nothing less, but don’t waste too much time with those ridiculous sideburns." He shook his head. "Those things are pretty damned stupid looking, if you ask me." He got stern sounding. "but hurry your ass up too. I want to see you with a decent haircut."

He chuckled. "Now that I’ve got your word on it, you can bet your sweet ass that I’m going to haunt your dreams until I see you in a barber’s chair."

I laughed. "I knew that without you having to say a damned word, Grandpa. After all, you’re a Thompson, and you can outstubborn a mule."

His laughter faded as he went to wherever spirits live.
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I’m going through some old documents, looking for unfinished stories to work on. I found this one, which obviously dates back to the early days of the pandemic. Even though the pandemic is now passe, I thought I’d finish the story, both as an exercise in discipline, and to see if I can make my current writing style blend with how I wrote back then (a lot can change in five years).

I don’t know if I managed to blend the current writing with the old. I think I can tell the difference, but maybe I’m being too critical. I do think the story is coherent enough to post it though.

The speech patterns in this story are very much what I grew up with, and how I first learned to speak. I really struggled with the rules of grammar when I started school.

To be honest, when I get excited or angry, I still revert back to speaking like I did while growing up. Not only do I lose all sense of grammar, my accent thickens.

Of course, I have no idea how my grandfather actually spoke, but I’m assuming that since my father, uncles and grandmother all used similar ways to express themselves, that my grandfather also did.

This story has a lot of factual basis in it. My grandfather passed away when Mom was pregnant with me, and I never knew him. Dad’s stories are as close as I can get them to stories he told me. Also, Dad’s haircut history is accurate, and is based on the multitude of family pictures I have.

Dad passed away in September before the pandemic started. I remember thinking I would write this story as a weird, crazy memorial to him, and then I lost my inspiration, and it sat in the files for several years.

I haven’t quite gotten crazy enough to be speaking with my deceased grandfather, but I thought this would be a fun way to tell a story. I got the idea from a neighbor whose house is purported to be haunted.

I wish I had enough hair left to follow in Dad’s path, and recreate his haircut history. Unfortunately, I got a recessive gene, and didn’t inherit Dad’s thick, plush hair. Mother Nature decided she needed my hair more than I do, so I don’t have the option of having that kind of fun.

I hope it was somewhat entertaining.

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