Spring Break Detour by M DeMarlo

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SPRING BREAK
DETOUR
By M DeMarlo


In 1970, the youth of larger northern cities basked in a newfound aura of freedom. An anti-establishment spirit swept through the country, where rebellion meant luxuriating on sun-soaked beaches, free to smoke pot and embrace a carefree life. For spring break, Paul and a few of his inner circle have plans to go down to the Sunshine State, Florida.. Paul had been eagerly anticipating this trip; it was going to be a grand adventure. With his hair perfectly styled, he imagined himself blending seamlessly into the crowd of his favorite rock band, Creedence Clearwater Revival. He longed for the soulful lyrics of "Born on the Bayou" to narrate his own experiences, feeling somewhat trapped in the mundane routine of Philadelphia while dreaming of the exotic allure of Florida. The sight of shrimp boats with their butterfly nets had captivated him, awakening a sense of wonder.

Yet, as the days unfolded, disappointment crept in. The previous year, an impulsive adventure took him down into the Louisiana Bayou. The journey south of New Orleans revealed a different world entirely, where the stark reality of missing and decayed teeth greeted him—a sight that struck him as jarring.

He had never considered that Philadelphians spoke differently, but here, the thick accents of the Deep South painted a vivid contrast. In Paul’s mind, the Yankees hailed from Massachusetts or New York's baseball team. But to these southern boys, he embodied the very essence of a "damn Yankee," a breed they looked upon with disdain. With his long hair flowing freely, he felt like an oddity amid the local good old boys, who sported short, neat haircuts, cowboy hats, and pointed boots. The absence of bell-bottoms was striking; it felt like stepping back in time. "Jesus," he thought, "It's 1970, not 1959."

The young men his age seemed worlds apart from the rhythms of Creedence Clearwater Revival. He couldn’t help but notice that as they traveled deeper into New Orleans, only a select few college-age guys flaunted what they considered long hair. His friend Chet had always kept his hair just above his ears, but the second day of staying with Chet's parents brought an unexpected shock. Chet returned home after a morning trip with his father, his head shorn into a tidy barbershop style—buzzed at the nape and clipped neatly around the ears, complete with a sharp side part and a small, glossy wave. The sight rattled Paul; he couldn’t fathom compromising his identity. He packed his bags, determined to seek out friends who appreciated the rock-star look he cherished—friends who shared his love for long hair and a free-spirited lifestyle.

His true friends were in Philadelphia, and they all planned to have spring break partying and had set off for Florida four days earlier, but Paul was trapped by work obligations, as his boss refused to grant him an early vacation. Despite this setback, hitchhiking had always been a familiar adventure for him, usually bringing him encounters with fascinating and friendly people. He planned to hitchhike by himself, saving money. He would connect with his friends in Fort Lauderdale.

Paul departed from Philadelphia and traveled efficiently by hitchhiking. But near the Mason-Dixon line, he had trouble getting a ride and got stuck for several hours.

Finally, he got a ride from a Marine headed to Fayetteville, North Carolina, Fort Bragg. The Marine wasn’t in uniform, but it was obvious this man was in the military, most likely an officer. Paul made note of this because the man in some ways reminded him of his father. Who was a military man, but not in Paul’s life. The marine was talkative, opinionated, but nice. He bought lunch for Paul and even gave him $20.00, thinking Paul was broke.

After lunch, the ride south was quiet, and Paul felt safe with the man and fell asleep. Before he dozed off, he was wondering what it would have been like to have had a dad who took part in his upbringing. A man like this Marine. Paul was in a private fantasy and fell asleep with an erection.

"Wake up", said the marine driving. "I am taking exit 49", as he pulled onto the shoulder. "You be careful, boy. They don’t like long hair in these parts,". Yes, Sir, came from Paul. The driver smiled and drove off, taking the Fort Bragg exit.

In the Smoky Mountains, luck had not been on his side. He had languished in the same spot for what felt like an eternity. One pickup truck had stopped, and as Paul eagerly approached, a gruff man leaned out of the window, his face distorted with disdain as he barked, "Get a haircut!" before speeding away.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm hues across the Smokies, Paul wrapped a sweater around himself, pulled his hair back tightly, and adjusted his cap. Still, he couldn’t seem to catch a break; the night morphed into the morning, stretching his wait into the second day. He stood despondently on the on-ramp of southbound Interstate 95. Cars whizzed by, yet only a few dared to use the on-ramp. A sign loomed ahead, stark against the landscape: "No pedestrians on Interstate, no hitchhiking beyond this point." Ignoring the warning, he trudged down to the interstate, extending his right thumb backward in a silent plea for help, moving farther away from the dreaded spot that had brought him nothing but frustration.

With each passing vehicle that ignored him, his mood soured; a simmering anger bubbled within him. "What are these people thinking?" he seethed. As noon approached, the sun blazed high in the sky, its heat weighing down upon him. He found refuge in the cool shade beneath a bridge, where he took a moment to catch his breath, munching on a candy bar and sipping water while his mind drifted to the ounce of pot tucked securely in his belongings. Rolling a joint felt like a small act of rebellion against his situation. After hiding the bag, he lit the joint and felt warmth as he inhaled the smoke.

With the roach nestled in his front pocket, he resumed his vigil by the roadside. A police car sped by, its flashing lights unnoticed by him—or so he believed. Relieved, he decided to roll another joint. This time, he used the only papers he had, bright pastel red—an odd choice, he mused. As he tucked the bag back down into his underwear, he lit up, inhaling deeply until a sense of calm washed over him.

While smoking, he noticed a State Police cruiser on the opposite side of the interstate. It slowed down, making a sharp U-turn that sent a wave of panic through him. With quick reflexes, he darts to hide the joint, replacing his carefree smile with an anxious, frightened look.

The trooper stepped out of the vehicle, an imposing figure in a neat, pressed uniform that contrasted starkly with Paul’s scruffy appearance. His tie was tight, thin, and perfectly straight, while his shoes gleamed with a meticulous shine that suggested he took pride in his appearance. The man sported a military haircut, freshly clipped, the scent of aftershave, a barbershop fresh scent lingering in the air around him. Paul hadn’t attended a barbershop in years, but the reminiscence of that distinct, sterile smell set his nerves on edge.

As the trooper approached, a toothpick casually perched in the corner of his mouth, he radiated authority and commanded respect. Paul felt dwarfed beneath the trooper’s scrutinizing gaze, a sense of unease tightening in his chest. "Do as you’re told, boy, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand me, son? Put your hands on the hood of my car…" the trooper instructed, and Paul knew he was about to face the consequences of his choices.

Sure enough, the trooper reached into the front top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a roach from the joint he had previously smoked. Additionally, to Paul’s horror, the cop reached into his pants, producing the ounce of weed he had carelessly hidden. Quickly handcuffed and put in the back seat of the squad car.

The ride to the jailhouse was silent. Paul was upset over his ordeal. The state trooper picked up on Paul’s shaky voice and spoke up. You will be a better man when this is all over. You lost your way, son. It's time to face the consequences of using marijuana. We have a good judge who takes pride in turning lives around for the good.

After sitting in a cell for well over 48 hours, Paul was taken to see a judge. The courtroom was just an office, with a man in his 50s sitting behind the desk, and several folding chairs in no particular order facing the man/judge.

The charges facing Paul were a felony, possession of over an ounce of a Schedule I substance. The teenager immediately told the judge he was in college, and he didn’t want to ruin his career before it started.

Judge Holbert read the charges and leaned forward. "If you’re seeking any leniency from me, let’s start with a guilty plea. Sign this, and I’ll consider the case without a trial." He handed Paul a document, and despite his better judgment, Paul signed it. The judge, showing some restraint, reduced the felony charges to misdemeanors, asserting that this wouldn’t impact Paul’s educational trajectory. But then came the bombshell: 240 days in county jail or 160 days as a trustee working at the courthouse. Paul opted for the trustee route.

He signed the necessary paperwork, committing to abide by the rules set forth by the supervising sheriff's deputies. Once everything was completed, the judge turned to the trooper. "Get this young man cleaned up and into a trustee uniform." Then, eyeing Paul’s long hair, he produced another document. "And you’ll need to sign this 'Haircut Request'. It’s become standard practice to ask for consent now, but let’s be clear: a haircut is part of your new start here."

Paul’s stomach was in knots as he waited in his cell for a sheriff’s deputy who would be giving him a haircut. It was the weekend, and the deputy with barber skills would not be working until Monday morning. The small one-chair barbershop was locked. The weekend sheriff’s deputies made a few comments. "Looks like you can keep your hair a few more days." "I guarantee, come Monday morning, first thing for you is a haircut, and it will be short." All the deputy sheriffs had fresh, short haircuts. The hairstyles mentioned typically include variations such as crew cuts, military brush cuts, flattops, or sharp-parted styles. These hairstyles typically feature closely trimmed backs and sides and are meticulously maintained.

As Monday approached, Paul heard someone talking from down the hall. Overhearing one of the deputies saying, "The barbershop is now open, and the sound of rattling keys as a uniformed sheriff, looking spit-shined, crisp uniform, a tie, along with a H&T Marine haircut, unlocking his cell door. You sure do need a haircut. How long does it take you to grow all that hair? Paul had butterflies in his stomach. Nervously stuttering, over a year, Sir. The handsome deputy sheriff said to Paul as they walked towards the barbershop. You're not going to start crying during this haircut, you do and I will kick your ass.

The tiny barbershop, no bigger than a utility closet, had a large mirror and an old barber chair. There was no mirror in front of the chair. A sign on the wall read "The New You Starts Now". Hanging on hooks behind the chair were several professional-grade clippers. On a small shelf were several metal blades for the clippers, some blue water with different colored combs, and talcum powder. Every item looked to be in its place, including the crew comb, and lucky tiger butch wax. What looked to Paul like a large afro pick was a flattop comb.

As Paul sat in the barber’s chair, he noticed another sign on the back of the door. It said, "Run Hippy Run." As the deputy barber fastened a cape along with a neck strip, he pumped up the chair a few times. Combining Paul’s long hair, with scissors a snip, snip, turned into crunch and long strands rained onto Paul's shoulders, sliding into his lap. His ears were now exposed and cut at Paul's eyebrow, the lifting and scissor onslaught continued. Hair was everywhere.

Two of the off-duty deputy sheriffs entered the small barbershop. Just in time, one of them said, "I want to see this". Paul was on display; all he could do was accept the uncomfortable situation. Click, the whirling sound of clippers fired up. "Don’t you move", the barber said to Paul. Running the clipper from Paul’s nape slowly straight up the back of his head, pulling away at the crown. The blade was a 11/2, revealing a clipped path in its wake. The barber continued, slowly moving to Paul’s right side, folding down his ear, vibrating, clipping a close, high cut straight up, tight to where Paul’s head began to curve. One of the deputies in the audience said, "Your daddy is going to thank us". The barber responded to the comment, "This is something his daddy should have done a long time ago". "Isn't that right, son?" "Yes, Sir". Paul replied. His stomach was full of queasy butterflies, and he was excited under the barber’s cape. Excited, answering, saying "Sir. The barber changed to a shorter blade and began clipping Paul's hair even closer, but not quite as high.

One of the deputies "give him a butch, an induction haircut. The deputy barber snipping, cutting the top said, "no, not this time, I’m going to leave a little more than an inch up front.
As he clipped straight back from two inches or so from the front hairline. "He is going to have a bumper. Patting Paul on the shoulder in a fatherly way. "Paul here is going to be sweeping and mopping the floors in jail/courthouse under my supervision. I want him to look sharp, not shaved. The two deputies who were in the audience left. Finishing up the crewcut, the deputy barber said to Paul, "Remember, I am your daddy while you’re here. You want me to be your daddy, right, boy? The statement was uncomfortably followed by a stern eye-to-eye stare. They were alone, a slight smile came to the barber., Paul answered, "Yes, Sir. With the cape removed, it was clear that Paul had a stiff erection. Paul, embarrassed, tried to hide it. With a smile, the deputy said, "Son, you need a dad like me to keep your hair cut short, and you got it." Just remember to say Sir. Yes, Sir, Paul answered. To Be Continued









SPRING BREAK
DETOUR
By M DeMarlo


In 1970, the youth of larger northern cities basked in a newfound aura of freedom. An anti-establishment spirit swept through the country, where rebellion meant luxuriating on sun-soaked beaches, free to smoke pot and embrace a carefree life. For spring break, Paul and a few of his inner circle have plans to go down to the Sunshine State, Florida.. Paul had been eagerly anticipating this trip; it was going to be a grand adventure. With his hair perfectly styled, he imagined himself blending seamlessly into the crowd of his favorite rock band, Creedence Clearwater Revival. He longed for the soulful lyrics of "Born on the Bayou" to narrate his own experiences, feeling somewhat trapped in the mundane routine of Philadelphia while dreaming of the exotic allure of Florida. The sight of shrimp boats with their butterfly nets had captivated him, awakening a sense of wonder.

Yet, as the days unfolded, disappointment crept in. The previous year, an impulsive adventure took him down into the Louisiana Bayou. The journey south of New Orleans revealed a different world entirely, where the stark reality of missing and decayed teeth greeted him—a sight that struck him as jarring.

He had never considered that Philadelphians spoke differently, but here, the thick accents of the Deep South painted a vivid contrast. In Paul’s mind, the Yankees hailed from Massachusetts or New York's baseball team. But to these southern boys, he embodied the very essence of a "damn Yankee," a breed they looked upon with disdain. With his long hair flowing freely, he felt like an oddity amid the local good old boys, who sported short, neat haircuts, cowboy hats, and pointed boots. The absence of bell-bottoms was striking; it felt like stepping back in time. "Jesus," he thought, "It's 1970, not 1959."

The young men his age seemed worlds apart from the rhythms of Creedence Clearwater Revival. He couldn’t help but notice that as they traveled deeper into New Orleans, only a select few college-age guys flaunted what they considered long hair. His friend Chet had always kept his hair just above his ears, but the second day of staying with Chet's parents brought an unexpected shock. Chet returned home after a morning trip with his father, his head shorn into a tidy barbershop style—buzzed at the nape and clipped neatly around the ears, complete with a sharp side part and a small, glossy wave. The sight rattled Paul; he couldn’t fathom compromising his identity. He packed his bags, determined to seek out friends who appreciated the rock-star look he cherished—friends who shared his love for long hair and a free-spirited lifestyle.

His true friends were in Philadelphia, and they all planned to have spring break partying and had set off for Florida four days earlier, but Paul was trapped by work obligations, as his boss refused to grant him an early vacation. Despite this setback, hitchhiking had always been a familiar adventure for him, usually bringing him encounters with fascinating and friendly people. He planned to hitchhike by himself, saving money. He would connect with his friends in Fort Lauderdale.

Paul departed from Philadelphia and traveled efficiently by hitchhiking. But near the Mason-Dixon line, he had trouble getting a ride and got stuck for several hours.

Finally, he got a ride from a Marine headed to Fayetteville, North Carolina, Fort Bragg. The Marine wasn’t in uniform, but it was obvious this man was in the military, most likely an officer. Paul made note of this because the man in some ways reminded him of his father. Who was a military man, but not in Paul’s life. The marine was talkative, opinionated, but nice. He bought lunch for Paul and even gave him $20.00, thinking Paul was broke.

After lunch, the ride south was quiet, and Paul felt safe with the man and fell asleep. Before he dozed off, he was wondering what it would have been like to have had a dad who took part in his upbringing. A man like this Marine. Paul was in a private fantasy and fell asleep with an erection.

"Wake up", said the marine driving. "I am taking exit 49", as he pulled onto the shoulder. "You be careful, boy. They don’t like long hair in these parts,". Yes, Sir, came from Paul. The driver smiled and drove off, taking the Fort Bragg exit.

In the Smoky Mountains, luck had not been on his side. He had languished in the same spot for what felt like an eternity. One pickup truck had stopped, and as Paul eagerly approached, a gruff man leaned out of the window, his face distorted with disdain as he barked, "Get a haircut!" before speeding away.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting warm hues across the Smokies, Paul wrapped a sweater around himself, pulled his hair back tightly, and adjusted his cap. Still, he couldn’t seem to catch a break; the night morphed into the morning, stretching his wait into the second day. He stood despondently on the on-ramp of southbound Interstate 95. Cars whizzed by, yet only a few dared to use the on-ramp. A sign loomed ahead, stark against the landscape: "No pedestrians on Interstate, no hitchhiking beyond this point." Ignoring the warning, he trudged down to the interstate, extending his right thumb backward in a silent plea for help, moving farther away from the dreaded spot that had brought him nothing but frustration.

With each passing vehicle that ignored him, his mood soured; a simmering anger bubbled within him. "What are these people thinking?" he seethed. As noon approached, the sun blazed high in the sky, its heat weighing down upon him. He found refuge in the cool shade beneath a bridge, where he took a moment to catch his breath, munching on a candy bar and sipping water while his mind drifted to the ounce of pot tucked securely in his belongings. Rolling a joint felt like a small act of rebellion against his situation. After hiding the bag, he lit the joint and felt warmth as he inhaled the smoke.

With the roach nestled in his front pocket, he resumed his vigil by the roadside. A police car sped by, its flashing lights unnoticed by him—or so he believed. Relieved, he decided to roll another joint. This time, he used the only papers he had, bright pastel red—an odd choice, he mused. As he tucked the bag back down into his underwear, he lit up, inhaling deeply until a sense of calm washed over him.

While smoking, he noticed a State Police cruiser on the opposite side of the interstate. It slowed down, making a sharp U-turn that sent a wave of panic through him. With quick reflexes, he darts to hide the joint, replacing his carefree smile with an anxious, frightened look.

The trooper stepped out of the vehicle, an imposing figure in a neat, pressed uniform that contrasted starkly with Paul’s scruffy appearance. His tie was tight, thin, and perfectly straight, while his shoes gleamed with a meticulous shine that suggested he took pride in his appearance. The man sported a military haircut, freshly clipped, the scent of aftershave, a barbershop fresh scent lingering in the air around him. Paul hadn’t attended a barbershop in years, but the reminiscence of that distinct, sterile smell set his nerves on edge.

As the trooper approached, a toothpick casually perched in the corner of his mouth, he radiated authority and commanded respect. Paul felt dwarfed beneath the trooper’s scrutinizing gaze, a sense of unease tightening in his chest. "Do as you’re told, boy, and you won’t get hurt. Do you understand me, son? Put your hands on the hood of my car…" the trooper instructed, and Paul knew he was about to face the consequences of his choices.

Sure enough, the trooper reached into the front top pocket of his shirt and pulled out a roach from the joint he had previously smoked. Additionally, to Paul’s horror, the cop reached into his pants, producing the ounce of weed he had carelessly hidden. Quickly handcuffed and put in the back seat of the squad car.

The ride to the jailhouse was silent. Paul was upset over his ordeal. The state trooper picked up on Paul’s shaky voice and spoke up. You will be a better man when this is all over. You lost your way, son. It's time to face the consequences of using marijuana. We have a good judge who takes pride in turning lives around for the good.

After sitting in a cell for well over 48 hours, Paul was taken to see a judge. The courtroom was just an office, with a man in his 50s sitting behind the desk, and several folding chairs in no particular order facing the man/judge.

The charges facing Paul were a felony, possession of over an ounce of a Schedule I substance. The teenager immediately told the judge he was in college, and he didn’t want to ruin his career before it started.

Judge Holbert read the charges and leaned forward. "If you’re seeking any leniency from me, let’s start with a guilty plea. Sign this, and I’ll consider the case without a trial." He handed Paul a document, and despite his better judgment, Paul signed it. The judge, showing some restraint, reduced the felony charges to misdemeanors, asserting that this wouldn’t impact Paul’s educational trajectory. But then came the bombshell: 240 days in county jail or 160 days as a trustee working at the courthouse. Paul opted for the trustee route.

He signed the necessary paperwork, committing to abide by the rules set forth by the supervising sheriff's deputies. Once everything was completed, the judge turned to the trooper. "Get this young man cleaned up and into a trustee uniform." Then, eyeing Paul’s long hair, he produced another document. "And you’ll need to sign this 'Haircut Request'. It’s become standard practice to ask for consent now, but let’s be clear: a haircut is part of your new start here."

Paul’s stomach was in knots as he waited in his cell for a sheriff’s deputy who would be giving him a haircut. It was the weekend, and the deputy with barber skills would not be working until Monday morning. The small one-chair barbershop was locked. The weekend sheriff’s deputies made a few comments. "Looks like you can keep your hair a few more days." "I guarantee, come Monday morning, first thing for you is a haircut, and it will be short." All the deputy sheriffs had fresh, short haircuts. The hairstyles mentioned typically include variations such as crew cuts, military brush cuts, flattops, or sharp-parted styles. These hairstyles typically feature closely trimmed backs and sides and are meticulously maintained.

As Monday approached, Paul heard someone talking from down the hall. Overhearing one of the deputies saying, "The barbershop is now open, and the sound of rattling keys as a uniformed sheriff, looking spit-shined, crisp uniform, a tie, along with a H&T Marine haircut, unlocking his cell door. You sure do need a haircut. How long does it take you to grow all that hair? Paul had butterflies in his stomach. Nervously stuttering, over a year, Sir. The handsome deputy sheriff said to Paul as they walked towards the barbershop. You're not going to start crying during this haircut, you do and I will kick your ass.

The tiny barbershop, no bigger than a utility closet, had a large mirror and an old barber chair. There was no mirror in front of the chair. A sign on the wall read "The New You Starts Now". Hanging on hooks behind the chair were several professional-grade clippers. On a small shelf were several metal blades for the clippers, some blue water with different colored combs, and talcum powder. Every item looked to be in its place, including the crew comb, and lucky tiger butch wax. What looked to Paul like a large afro pick was a flattop comb.

As Paul sat in the barber’s chair, he noticed another sign on the back of the door. It said, "Run Hippy Run." As the deputy barber fastened a cape along with a neck strip, he pumped up the chair a few times. Combining Paul’s long hair, with scissors a snip, snip, turned into crunch and long strands rained onto Paul's shoulders, sliding into his lap. His ears were now exposed and cut at Paul's eyebrow, the lifting and scissor onslaught continued. Hair was everywhere.

Two of the off-duty deputy sheriffs entered the small barbershop. Just in time, one of them said, "I want to see this". Paul was on display; all he could do was accept the uncomfortable situation. Click, the whirling sound of clippers fired up. "Don’t you move", the barber said to Paul. Running the clipper from Paul’s nape slowly straight up the back of his head, pulling away at the crown. The blade was a 11/2, revealing a clipped path in its wake. The barber continued, slowly moving to Paul’s right side, folding down his ear, vibrating, clipping a close, high cut straight up, tight to where Paul’s head began to curve. One of the deputies in the audience said, "Your daddy is going to thank us". The barber responded to the comment, "This is something his daddy should have done a long time ago". "Isn't that right, son?" "Yes, Sir". Paul replied. His stomach was full of queasy butterflies, and he was excited under the barber’s cape. Excited, answering, saying "Sir. The barber changed to a shorter blade and began clipping Paul's hair even closer, but not quite as high.

One of the deputies "give him a butch, an induction haircut. The deputy barber snipping, cutting the top said, "no, not this time, I’m going to leave a little more than an inch up front.
As he clipped straight back from two inches or so from the front hairline. "He is going to have a bumper. Patting Paul on the shoulder in a fatherly way. "Paul here is going to be sweeping and mopping the floors in the jail/courthouse under my supervision. I want him to look sharp, not shaved. The two deputies who were in the audience left; they had grown bored. Finishing up the crewcut, the deputy barber said to Paul, "Remember, I am your daddy while you’re here. Paul thought at first that the deputy was inappropriate, saying that. But remained quiet. You want me to be your daddy, right, boy? The statement was uncomfortably followed by a stern eye-to-eye stare. They were alone, a slight smile came to the barber. Paul answered, "YYYes, Sir, with a stutter. With the cape removed, it was clear that Paul had a stiff erection. Paul, embarrassed, tried to hide it. With a smile, the deputy said, "Son, you need a dad like me to keep your hair cut short, and you got it." Just remember to say Sir. Yes, Sir, Paul answered.
To Be Continued


By M DeMarlo












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