A visit to Mr Giordano's by helping hand

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The summer of '74 was sticky, suffocating. Bobby Walker, with his untamed curls, loose shirt, and permanent air of rebellion, had always worn his hair like armor. It was long, wild, and a little too much, but just like almost every other guy his age in town. His hair marked him as belonging to the group.

But today was different.

Bobby’s mom told him to go to Mr. Giordano’s barbershop—this old, musty place with chipped wooden floors and the kind of mirror that made you look older than you really were. He didn’t want to be there, but never said no to his mother. Hell, he never wanted to be here, but there was no escape. Not without putting up a fight, anyway, and he didn’t have the energy for that today.

Mr. Giordano, the old Italian barber, with his thick, calloused fingers, fastened the cape around Bobby’s neck, giving him a warm, knowing look.

"What are we doing today?" the barber asked, combing through Bobby’s hair as if it were no big deal.

"Just… clean it up," Bobby mumbled, trying to keep his tone neutral. He didn’t want to say "trim"—he didn’t want to commit to any part of it. The idea of letting someone else take a pair of scissors to his hair felt wrong, like betraying some part of himself. But he said nothing, just let the man work.

Mr. Giordano didn’t waste any time. He grabbed his clippers, clicked them on, and brought them right up to the back of Bobby’s neck, the clippers set to bare.

Buzzzzzzz.

The sound sliced through the air, making Bobby stiffen. His pulse quickened as he felt the clippers buzz against his scalp, the cool metal cutting into the thick curls he’d carried for years.

The clippers moved, a steady hum now, and the hair fell away—shaved down to the skin, piece by piece. Bobby felt his heart race.

"Wh—what are you doing?" Bobby asked, eyes wide as he watched his reflection in disbelief.

Mr. Giordano glanced up, not pausing his work. "Don’t worry. Trust me, kid. You’ll look sharp."

The clippers buzzed along the side of Bobby’s head, the buzzing growing louder. The sides were shaved so close to the skin, it almost felt like a scalp massage. The hair was quickly gone, and the weight lifted. Bobby’s hands clenched the arms of the chair, his knuckles white. This was getting way too close.

Buzz buzz buzz.

The clippers moved upward, along the sideburns, over his ears, clipping away any trace of the boy who had walked in just minutes ago.

Bobby winced. He could see himself in the mirror now, but not like he expected. The reflection staring back at him was a stranger.

Mr. Giordano stopped. He looked at Bobby through the mirror, raising an eyebrow. "Not what you expected?"

Bobby’s breath caught in his throat as he reached up, touching the newly shorn sides, still feeling the coolness of the shaved skin. He stared at the reflection of his now-bare neck and fading sides. "That’s not what I wanted," he said, his voice low, unsure, a mix of disbelief and frustration.

Mr. Giordano shrugged casually, almost as if he hadn’t heard the complaint. "Oh, okay. I can adjust that."

Then, without another word, he fired up the clippers again. They buzzed with a louder hum, more insistent this time, and Mr. Giordano began working all over Bobby’s head. He moved quickly, methodically, buzzing down the remaining hair until it was almost completely gone.

Bobby's pulse spiked. The clippers skimmed over his scalp, working their way across the top of his head, taking everything in their path. The longer strands he had tried so hard to keep now disappeared in the flashing motion of the blades.

"Wait... wait, stop!" Bobby said, his voice suddenly high with panic. But it was too late.

Mr. Giordano didn’t stop. He was relentless. The clippers hummed on, running across Bobby’s head as if they were doing exactly what needed to be done. Bobby could feel the buzzing against his skin, the sensation moving from one spot to another, until there was nothing left to hold on to.

Finally, the barber pulled the clippers away. He stood back, surveying his work with an appraising eye, and wiped his brow. "Alright, we’re almost done."

Bobby, now stunned into silence, could only stare into the mirror at his reflection. The boy he had been—wild, untamed—was completely gone. His hair was so short now, shaved almost to the scalp. It was cropped close, still showing a faint trace of anything. He barely recognized himself.

He just stared at himself, the strange new face in the mirror, unsure of who he was anymore.

Bobby blinked, feeling a flush of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. He didn’t know what to say. The clippers had taken everything. His hair. His comfort. And now, the reflection staring back at him was a version of himself he had never seen before.

But instead of stopping there, Mr. Giordano smirked, reaching into the drawer for the shaving clippers—those fine-toothed blades that always left a crisp, sharp finish. The sound was different, almost a whisper compared to the louder buzz of the regular clippers. He fired them up, their hum almost eerie in the now-quiet barbershop.

With a steady hand, Mr. Giordano ran the shaving clippers over the back of Bobby’s neck, cleaning up the faded lines and making everything as smooth as glass. Bobby flinched slightly as the clippers tickled his skin, but the sensation was oddly soothing.

The barber worked his way around Bobby’s ears, trimming away the last traces of hair, until Bobby’s head felt completely bare, save for the soft buzz on top. The feeling of the clippers running over the nape of his neck, cleaning up every last bit of fuzz, made Bobby's heart race. He could almost feel the clippers cutting into the fabric of his identity, shaving away the last remnants of who he had been.

When it was finally done, Mr. Giordano put the clippers down with a satisfied grunt. "There. That’s as clean as it gets, son." Then he added with a smirk, "Unless you want it even shorter?"

Bobby shook his head, moving it slightly, signaling ‘no, please.’

"Well?" Mr. Giordano asked, folding his arms and looking down at him with a smirk. "You like it?"

Bobby hesitated. He didn’t know what to say. There were no words that seemed to fit. "I... I don’t know..." he mumbled.

Mr. Giordano chuckled, brushing his hands together. "You’ll get used to it. You’ll see. The ladies are gonna love it. And you’ll feel the difference soon enough."

Bobby didn’t respond. As he stood up and paid for the cut, his fingers ran over his freshly shorn head again. The wind on his skin felt strange, too strange, like he was still adjusting to a part of himself that had been taken away.

But just before Bobby left, Mr. Giordano laid a hand on his freshly shorn scalp. Slowly, gently, he rubbed the smooth skin of Bobby’s head, his rough fingertips gliding over the stubbled surface. The feeling was unfamiliar. Bobby flinched at first, but then just stood there, frozen. He could feel how much shorter it really was, how exposed he was now.

Mr. Giordano paused and gave Bobby a half-smile. "There you go, boy. Nice and tight. You’ll get used to it soon enough."

Bobby, sheepishly looking down, muttered under his breath, "Thank you, Sir."

And with that, he walked out of the barbershop, his hand brushing his smooth, shorn scalp as he stepped into the bright sunlight, unsure of what exactly he had just experienced—but knowing he would never forget it.

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