First cut of autumn by Helping Hand

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I was nineteen when it happened. It was the end of summer — not too hot anymore, but not yet cool enough to call it fall. The evenings had just begun to carry a little bite in the air. My name is Thomas, and I had always worn my thick, dark brown hair long. Not for any particular reason. It just felt like me. It curled slightly at the ends, covered my ears completely, and almost reached my shoulders. The bangs, thick and heavy, constantly fell into my eyes.

That week, though, something felt different. I was starting my second year of university, and I was tired. Tired of the same walk, the same classes, the same person in the mirror. Maybe it was the heat hanging on too long. Maybe it was the quiet tension at home again, between my parents — speaking through silence, not words. Either way, I needed something to change.

I decided, half on a whim, that a haircut might help. Not a drastic one. Just a clean-up.

There was a small barbershop I passed often, tucked between a tailor’s and a watch repair store on a quiet side street not far from campus. It looked like it had been there forever — the kind of place your grandfather might have gone to. The striped pole out front was faded, the gold letters on the window flaked. I’d noticed it before, but never stepped inside.

That day, I did.

A little bell jingled overhead as I pushed open the door. The scent was immediate — a mix of shaving cream, talc, and old wood. The barbershop was narrow, with two worn leather chairs, a long mirror that took up the whole wall, and shelves lined with brushes, combs, and bottles of blue liquid.

An older man stood up from a stool near the back. He wore a crisp white smock, his silver hair combed neatly, and small glasses perched low on his nose.

He gave me a polite nod. "Afternoon. Looking for a haircut?"

"Yes, sir," I said, stepping in. "Just a trim."

He gestured toward the closest chair. "Hop up, then. Let’s get you fixed up."

I climbed into the chair, and he pulled a clean white cape over me, fastening it tightly behind my neck. He smoothed it down carefully, tucking a tissue between the collar and my skin. His movements were practiced and gentle.

As he ran a comb through my hair, he said, "First time here?"

"Yeah," I replied. "I walk by a lot, figured I’d give it a try."

He nodded slowly. "Good. Always nice to see new faces. You’ve got a good head of hair. Thick. Heavy, though. You sure you just want a trim?"

I chuckled lightly. "That was the plan."

He said nothing at first. Just combed a few more times, thoughtfully. Then he swiveled the chair away from the mirror so I couldn’t see myself anymore.

That gave me pause.

"Usually leave folks facing the mirror," I said, trying to keep my tone light.

"Sometimes it’s better to see the result all at once," he replied. "Let it surprise you."

Before I could say anything else, I heard the soft click and buzz of clippers coming to life.

I stiffened. "Wait—just the ends, I said."

He placed a firm hand on the crown of my head, gently tilting it forward. "Trust me, son. You’ll feel better afterward."

Then the clippers touched the nape of my neck — and began their upward path.

The vibration was strong, unfamiliar. I felt a wide strip of hair fall away from the back of my head. My breath caught. I could hear the weight of it as it landed on the cape. Then came another pass. And another. Smooth, efficient strokes up the back of my head.

I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

He moved to the right side, pressing my head slightly to the left. His fingers gently folded my ear down, and the clippers buzzed up beside it. Hair tumbled in thick clumps to my shoulder and lap. The cold air hit the newly bare skin behind my ear, and a shiver ran through me.

"You’ve got a good shape to your head," he said, almost to himself.

He moved to the left side and did the same — head tilted, ear folded, long locks falling. I was frozen. Not scared exactly, just… stunned.

Then he stepped in front of me.

He switched guard sizes, clipped something into place, and raised the clippers again.

"For the top, we’ll leave some length," he said. "But clean it up. Give you some definition."

Before I could react, he buzzed straight down the middle of my scalp, from my forehead to the crown. My thick bangs vanished in a single stroke. I blinked, eyes now unobstructed for the first time in years.

More passes followed. Quick, sure, deliberate. He buzzed the top evenly, leaving just enough to be brushed forward or spiked if I wanted. All around me, hair was falling — dark, soft, familiar — now just lifeless on the floor.

When the clippers finally clicked off, I exhaled for the first time in minutes.

But he wasn’t finished.

"Gotta finish it proper," he said.

I heard the soft squirt of shaving foam, then felt it — cool and thick around my ears and the back of my neck. He spread it evenly with a soft brush that tickled a little, then pulled out a straight razor and stropped it a few times on a leather belt hanging from the side of the chair.

"Hold still."

His hand was steady on my jaw as he shaved the edges with precision, carving a clean line around my ears and down my nape. The sound of the blade against the skin was delicate, almost satisfying.

After wiping away the excess foam, he brushed my neck and shoulders with talcum powder that smelled like citrus and clove — old-fashioned, but comforting. He turned the chair back toward the mirror.

I barely recognized myself.

The sides were tight and sharp, faded beautifully up toward the top. My ears were completely exposed. My cheekbones looked more defined. My neck seemed longer. I ran a hand up the back of my head and felt soft, even stubble.

He watched me carefully, waiting.

"It’s… very different," I said.

He smiled. "But good?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Good. Clean."

He unfastened the cape and gave it a quick shake, sending my old self to the floor. Then he placed a hand on my shoulder and gently helped me out of the chair.

"How much do I owe?" I asked, reaching for my wallet.

"Nothing today. First cuts are on the house," he said.

"That’s generous."

"You’ll be back," he said, matter-of-fact.

As I stepped outside, the cool air brushed the back of my neck. I instinctively ran my fingers through my now short hair again — surprised at the lack of resistance.

When I walked into class the next morning, a couple of my classmates stared. One raised an eyebrow and grinned. "Thomas? You look like a different guy."

"New semester, new look," I said.

And funny enough, I felt it.

A week later, I was back at that barbershop. And this time, I asked for the same cut — no hesitation.

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