An american haircut by Helping Hand

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Somewhere in the south of the globe, 1978.
The sun cast long yellow fingers through the dusty windowpanes of the brand-new barbershop that had just opened two blocks from my street. In shiny letters on the glass, it said "American Barber", with red, white, and blue stripes curling around a pole that actually spun—like in the movies. For days I had walked by, peeking in through the windows, drawn by the novelty, by the mystery, and maybe, most of all, by the thrill of doing something different, something that would impress my friends.

I was twelve.
A quiet, soft-spoken boy with long brown hair that brushed the tops of my shoulders and covered my ears completely. My bangs had a mind of their own—always slipping in front of my eyes unless I flipped them back with a quick shake of my head. For years, I had begged my parents to let me grow it out. All the boys had long hair—why shouldn’t I? And eventually, after much insistence, they had given in.

Every few months, I would visit Carlo's humble barbershop, a dim little place where he trimmed just the ends, always nodding solemnly when I asked, "Just a little bit off." in my country's own language.
He understood. He never cut more than I asked.

But this…
This was going to be different.

The "American Barber" was clean, bright, and had a big leather chair that looked like it had come straight from a Sears catalog. Inside, a single man stood behind the chair—a tall, elderly barber with snowy white hair combed neatly to the side and an accent I couldn’t quite place. He wore a crisp white jacket and smiled when I walked in.

"Hello there, young man!" he greeted, beaming. "You want haircut, yes?"

I nodded, trying to keep my heart from hammering out of my chest. I had prepared for this moment, trying to remember what I’d learned in school. My voice came out timid, barely above a whisper.

"Just a little... cut... please. Little," I said, pinching my fingers together to demonstrate. "Little."

The old barber chuckled warmly, patting the chair. "Ah yes, yes. No problem. American style, my friend."

He didn’t understand me.
But I was too shy to say anything more.

I sat down, and the heavy cape dropped over me with a practiced flourish. The chair rose with a squeak and hiss of hydraulics. I looked at myself in the mirror, swallowed hard, and gave my bangs one final flick away from my eyes.

Then came the sound.

Bzzzzzzzzzt.
He snapped on a pair of electric clippers that roared like a lawn mower. Before I could make sense of what was happening, he placed a firm, fatherly hand on the crown of my head.

And then—

The first pass.

The clippers tore into the side of my head with stunning efficiency. I felt a breeze on my right temple I hadn’t felt in years. A curtain of my long brown hair slid down the cape and landed in a fluffy pile on the floor. My heart leapt into my throat.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to stop him. But my mouth wouldn’t open. I froze—paralyzed by embarrassment, fear, and disbelief.

Another pass.
Then another.

The buzzing clippers carved higher and higher up the sides of my head. I saw more of my hair fall in great waves across my lap. My scalp—white and unfamiliar—peeked through where the long locks had once been. The sound of the clippers was merciless, relentless, and strangely final.

"Very good, very good," the barber said in a thick accent. "Summer cut. Very cool. Very American."

I stared straight ahead, eyes wide, lips pressed together so tightly they hurt. My bangs—the ones I had grown for years—disappeared in two long swipes. The top was next.

The old man reached for a jar of pink goo and smeared it all through what little was left of my hair on top. Then he pulled it upward with a brush, blow-drying it straight into the air.

And then came a flat, white plastic comb I had never seen before. The flattop comb.

He inserted it into my hair just above my forehead, and with steady hands, he sheared everything that rose above it. Again and again, he ran the clippers over the comb, shaping my crown into a perfectly level plane. I could see bits of waxy, bristly hair falling onto the cape like dust. I was frozen. Resigned.

When I dared glance at the mirror, I didn’t recognize the boy looking back. The top of his head looked like a landing strip. His ears—unseen for years—stuck out wide and pink. The sides of his head gleamed with pale skin that had not felt daylight in forever.

I swallowed hard.

And still, it wasn’t over.

The barber traded his clippers for a sleeker, sharper pair—his balding clippers. I felt their blade kiss the skin at the base of my neck, humming deeply as he cleaned the sides and back down to bare skin. I could hear the crackle of tiny remaining hairs being vaporized. I closed my eyes and sat as still as I could, afraid any movement would make it worse.

Finally, at last, the buzzing stopped.

A long silence followed.
Then, gently, the barber laid a hand on the top of my head and slowly smoothed it forward, fingertips gliding across the bristled flattop like a rake across velvet.

He smiled.

"Very good, my friend," he said. "Very good. Looks perfect. Very American."

I said nothing.
I couldn’t.
My voice had abandoned me.

He turned the chair around. The mirror showed me the full picture. I stared at the square, flat crown, the bare sides, the clean line over my ears. I was a different boy. A 1950s recruit. A Marine. A walking crewcut. And there was no going back.

Outside, the sun was still shining, but the wind on my freshly exposed scalp made the air feel ten degrees cooler.

When I stepped out of the "American Barber", I knew two things:
One—I wasn’t going to tell my friends quite what happened in there.
And two—I might not need a haircut again for a very, very long time.

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