Short Enough by Dwane.p9989@gmail.com

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Short Enough

Tom was 16 and dead set on changing up his look. He wanted a mid fade, short on the back and sides, kept curly on top. Modern, clean, cool. The kind of cut all the lads were getting now. His mum, who used to work in salons years ago, still had her old kit. She agreed to try.

But things quickly went sideways.

"I told you, I don’t do fades!" she snapped, comb in one hand, clippers in the other. "Ive only cut layers, trims, maybe a taper if I’m feeling brave—not this barber stuff!"

Tom crossed his arms. "Mum, it’s not even hard! I showed you the video like five times!"

"I’m not butchering your head because you think you know better than me."

"What’s the point then?!"

Voices rose. Frustrations boiled. A shouting match about hair in the middle of the kitchen.

Through it all, Garry sat in the living room, stone silent. He was Tom’s dad—stepdad, technically, but everyone just called him Dad. Muscular, broad-shouldered, mid-50s. His arms were covered in faded tattoos and his head was almost always shaved to the bone. He never spoke much, and never raised his voice. All he wanted was peace and a quiet life, and for everyone to stop yelling over stupid things like bloody haircuts.

When the kitchen finally fell quiet, Garry stood up, grabbed his lighter, and walked through the room on his way out the back door for a smoke.

Tom was already outside, slouched in the garden, arms crossed, face red with frustration.

Garry lit his cigarette. Took a drag. Glanced over at Tom.

"What’s going on?" he asked flatly.

Tom muttered, "Mum won’t cut it short enough. Said she can’t do fades. I was gonna go to the barbers but they’ll be closed by now."

Garry raised an eyebrow. "Not short enough? Really?"

Tom nodded. "Yeah. I wanted it sharp. Low at the sides."

Garry smirked. "You’re lucky I’m not cutting your hair, boy."

Tom looked up. "Why? What do you mean?"

Garry turned to face him fully. Smoke drifting from his mouth. "Just like I said. If I cut your hair… it’ll be short enough to make you wish I hadn’t."

Tom blinked. "Please, Dad. Can you cut it. Anything’s better than this mess."

"I’m warning you, son. You don’t want me cutting your hair. I’d take it down to the wood."

Tom frowned. "What does that even mean?"


Tom was too frustrated to care. "Please, just do it. I want it shorter"

Garry dropped the cigarette to the patio and crushed it under his boot. "Sod it."

He turned and walked back inside.

Tom hesitated, then followed.

"In the chair," Garry ordered, pointing to the one at the kitchen table. "You sit your arse down and you keep your mouth shut. Not one word." got it?

"Yes, Dad."

"You better not whine when it’s done either. You asked for short—I’ll give you short. If you don’t like it, tough. Shouldn’t have asked me to cut it, understand son."

Garry raised his voice. "Sarah, please step out of the kitchen. I’m handling this, just me and Tom. Im going to finish what should have been done before now."

Tom’s mum shot a glance but didn’t argue. She wiped her hands, muttered something under her breath, and left.

Garry walked to the drawer, grabbed the clippers, and plugged them in. Quietly, calmly, he stepped behind Tom. He turned the machine on with a loud buzz. Then, without a word, he reached behind Tom’s head and slid the guard clean off.

Tom never saw it coming.

Garry placed a strong hand on his crown and ran the bare blades up the back of his head. Thick tufts of brown hair dropped to the floor like dead leaves. Another pass, then another. The sound was sharp, brutal. Garry worked methodically, with a faint, mischievous grin.

He shaved Tom’s head like a man sanding down rough wood—rough, fast, and with no room for second guesses.

Tom felt the cool air hit his scalp. His stomach turned. He couldn’t believe it. This was real.

But somewhere deep inside, beneath the shock… he felt something else. Something strange. He looked at his dad’s brutally shorn scalp and wondered—was he about to look just like that?

Garry stepped back, eyeing the stubbled scalp remaining on Tom's head.

"Bathroom. Now."

Tom followed in pure silence,

At the sink, Garry filled a basin with hot water and told Tom to bend his head over the sink.

Garry poured water over toms head then lathered up shaving cream. He didn’t speak—just motioned for Tom keep his head down.

"The stubble isn’t short enough," Garry said finally. "But don’t worry—I’ll fix that."

He took out a fresh razor, clicked it into place, and began shaving Tom’s head clean. Long, deliberate strokes wiped away every trace of stubble, leaving behind nothing but a gleaming, silvery shorn pasty scalp. It was smoother than Tom imagined possible. He barely recognized his reflection when his dad was done.


When it was done, Garry wiped his hands, looked at his work, and nodded.

"There. That’s short enough now."

Tom touched his head. "Dad… I’ve got school tomorrow…"

Garry looked at him, dead serious.

"well, you’ll be going to school bald then wont you. And I’ll keep you bald for the rest of the bloody year if you make any more fuss over a haircut.

Tom’s jaw dropped. "You’re kidding…"

"You asked me to cut your hair," Garry said, already lighting another smoke. "Now you’ve got a haircut that's I think is short enough.

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