Just a trim by Helping Hand

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The little bell above the door jingled as Timmy stepped into Gus's Barbershop, the old storefront just a few blocks from home. The year was 1976. Rock music drifted faintly from the radio on the windowsill, and posters of boxers and baseball players lined the walls. Timmy, 10 years old, had come alone today — his mom had made the appointment earlier in the week and reminded him before leaving for work: "Just a little trim, sweetie. You know, to tidy it up."

Timmy’s chestnut-brown hair hung well past his collar. It was thick and healthy, parted in the middle and falling like curtains on either side of his face. His friends all had similar styles — long hair was in — and his parents never minded. It was the '70s, after all.

As he approached the worn leather barber chair, Gus — a barrel-chested man in his sixties with a close-cropped flattop and big hands — looked up from sweeping.

"Well, hey there. You must be Timmy. Here for a cut?"

Timmy nodded with a polite smile. "Yes, sir. Just a little trim, please."

Gus smiled warmly. "You got it, young man. Hop on up."

Timmy climbed into the chair, swinging his legs slightly as Gus fastened the cape snugly around his neck.

"Your mom called in, right? Said to tidy you up. I’ll take care of that. Sit still for me, now."

Timmy nodded again. He was quiet, respectful — always had been. Never one to question grown-ups.

Gus combed through Timmy’s long hair, muttering approvingly. "Nice head of hair… thick… reminds me of the old days."

Then came the sound: clack — the unmistakable snap of clipper blades coming to life.

Timmy blinked. Clippers? That wasn’t usual. He’d had his hair trimmed before, and they’d always used scissors. He opened his mouth slightly but hesitated. Gus seemed confident, professional. Maybe just around the neckline?

Without warning, Gus pressed the clippers to Timmy’s nape and drove them straight up the back of his head with a harsh zzzzzzzzrp. Thick, heavy locks tumbled into Timmy’s lap like dead leaves.

Timmy’s mouth parted in stunned silence. He didn't dare move.

Gus continued, carving clean passes up the back of Timmy’s head with practiced speed, working high, high up toward the crown. His expression was calm, focused — as though this was completely routine.

"Taking it down to a #1 to clean you up," Gus said casually, almost to himself. "Boys your age look sharp with it high and tight."

Timmy’s stomach twisted. A one? He didn’t know much about clipper sizes, but he knew enough — that was short. Way too short. He sat frozen, gripping the arms of the chair beneath the cape.

The clippers moved to his right temple. Another thick clump slid off his shoulder and landed with a soft plop. It felt cold. Empty.

"Uh… excuse me," Timmy said, barely above a whisper.

"Hmm?"

"I think… I just wanted it trimmed…"

Gus chuckled. "Aw, don’t worry. Your mom said short. I’ve been doing this for years — trust me, you’ll feel brand new."

He didn’t wait for a reply. The #1 clippers buzzed on, stripping away the hair above Timmy’s ear, exposing pale skin beneath. Within moments, both sides of Timmy’s head were nearly bare, a ghostly fuzz left behind.

Gus swapped the guard again. "Let’s even up the top now. Goin’ to a #2 so it’s got a little texture."

The boy blinked rapidly, trying to keep calm. He said nothing more. He didn’t want to cry. His throat burned.

The clippers glided over the crown of his head, mowing down the last of his long, soft hair. The strands floated down like feathers, brushing against his cheeks before settling on the cape. His lap was covered in what once had been months — years — of growth.

When the buzzing finally stopped, the silence was deafening.

Gus took a handheld mirror and turned the chair.

"There we are, sport," he said proudly. "Clean, sharp, and cool for the summer. Bet you’ll turn heads."

Timmy stared at his reflection. The boy in the mirror looked... smaller. His head seemed too big without the hair to soften it. His scalp showed in places. It wasn’t him.

He swallowed hard and gave a small, polite nod.

"Thanks," he said quietly, eyes lowering to the mound of hair on the floor.

Gus beamed. "You’re welcome, Tim. You were real good in the chair. Tell your mom I gave you the best cut in town."

Timmy slid off the chair slowly. The air felt strange against his scalp, unfamiliar and raw. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, trying to shake off the awkwardness. Outside, the wind caught him immediately, brushing over his exposed head like a whisper.

He didn’t say anything on the way home. Not to the bus driver, not to the neighbor who smiled and waved. When he walked through the front door, his mom looked up from the kitchen and gasped.

"Timmy— What happened?"

He blinked at her, his face calm but unreadable.

"I think there was a mix-up," he said softly.

She rushed over, her hands gently brushing the short stubble on the sides of his head, horrified. "I told him a trim. Oh, honey…"

"It’s okay," Timmy said automatically, but it didn’t feel okay. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t cry. He just stood still, quietly holding all the feelings that had no space to go.

And when he went upstairs to his room and closed the door, he sat on the edge of his bed for a long time, running his fingers slowly over the bristled crown of his head, unsure whether he was angry, embarrassed, or just sad.

But one thing was sure: he didn’t like it.

And he didn’t say he did.

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