As the Fringe Fell (Part 1) by BoysBarber

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Hair was always the first thing I noticed about a person. Even as an 11-year-old boy, it wasn't hard for me to realize that I paid more attention than usual to the length of other boys' hair. I observed how, over time, their hair would slowly reach the ears on the sides, grow over the collar in the back, and the fringe would make its way across the forehead to cover the eyebrows and eventually reach into the eyes so that the boy would have to keep pushing it to the side. And when it got to this length, I knew the dreaded haircut day wasn't too far away. It often happened suddenly, without warning. A classmate would show up at school looking... different. Like something valuable had been taken away from him. You could see his ears clearly. No hair would be covering the neck. And the fringe? He wouldn't have to worry about it being in his eyes for a few months now. Every morning I went to school, I subconsciously hoped that one of the boys I saw daily, still sporting an overgrown mop the previous day, would arrive sheared like a sheep, especially knowing that change would not have been his idea at all. I was, in fact, surprised that so many boys my age simply accepted the fact that their parents were in charge of their hair. Some may have tried to fight it unsuccessfully; others may not have cared. But that certainly wasn't me. I felt like a say over my hair was something I deserved to have. Something worth fighting for. And knowing that this stance was rare among my classmates made me chase it even more. From a very young age, I was pretty good at grasping abstract concepts. I realized that if I wanted a particular privilege, I needed to earn it. I needed to offer something back. So I proposed a deal to my father - I would be allowed to grow my hair longer and keep it that way as long as I did great at school and stayed out of trouble. It may not sound like much, but it showed him how much I valued autonomy over my hair. Essentially, I gave him something he would later be able to use as leverage against me. Something he couldn't do if my hair was short. And since my father was a rational, strategic man, well aware of the cards this would put into his hand, he eventually agreed. That felt like a big win for me back then.

I remember the first time I went to get my trim after the deal. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon when we walked toward a local barbershop - a rather old-school one, I must add. When we entered the place, my eyes immediately landed on a boy sitting on one of the waiting chairs. I recognized him from school - we didn't share any classes as he was a couple of years younger than me, but he was one of the boys I occasionally ran into who kept getting short haircuts every few months. I couldn't help but feel thrilled as I realized I was about to witness his transformation in person. Our eyes met briefly as my dad and I walked past him to sit on one of the adjacent chairs. We didn't say anything, though. In one of the barber chairs was a middle-aged man, who I assumed to be his dad. He was just about done getting his haircut from the only barber in the shop. Soon, the man got up, and the boy replaced him in the chair. Since it was a small shop and the waiting area was right across from the barber chairs, I could get a good view of him without seeming too interested. His hair was about the same length as mine - it covered his ears, and his brown fringe almost reached into his chocolate eyes. It was apparent he was used to the drill as he didn't even attempt to give the barber any input on how he wanted his haircut. Well, it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as when the barber asked, "Same as usual?" he was looking at his father. The dad quickly replied, "Actually, you can go a bit shorter than last time. His hair grows pretty fast." I was expecting a reaction from him - a hint of disappointment or frustration. Perhaps an attempt to argue. But his expression remained blank, as if he didn't even consider the idea of objecting. He just accepted being powerless. Then I thought maybe he didn't care at all. But whatever the case was, I felt accomplished, knowing that in a few moments, I would be sitting in that chair in a much stronger position.
"Good choice! I'll make sure it's nice and short for him." the barber replied. He then reached for clippers, put on a #2 guard, and started removing the boy's hair from his side while firmly holding his head with the other hand. Clumps of brown hair began falling on the ground with each clipper swipe as the barber methodically moved to the boy's back and then to the other side. What was left was only a short stubble of brown hair that, to my eye, seemed darker than it was before the cut. Then, the barber picked up his comb and started blending the sides with the top. More hair fell on the ground. The boy's expression was still unchanged. He was staring at the ground for the most part, occasionally looking up at his dad before quickly looking back down again. He was a shy boy and must have felt uncomfortable having such an audience.

Soon, the barber was ready to move to the top. I always perceived it as the most intense part. Not from the technical perspective - after all, my knowledge of haircuts was still very limited at that point in life. But I understood that the length on top determined your styling options. Or lack thereof in some cases. One clipper swipe through the front or a single snip close to the scalp is all it takes to narrow down your appearance options to just one style for a long time. With that in mind, I watched the barber spray the hair with water while combing it all over his forehead. That made the boy squint a little since the wet fringe was now reaching right into his eyes. "Oh, don't worry, it won't bother you for long," the barber said right before he took a pair of scissors and positioned them near the top of the boy's forehead. Snip. Snip. Snip. After a few moments, almost all of the fringe that must have taken months to grow was no longer part of the boy. As the barber proceeded to snip off most of the length off the top, I imagined how terrible I would have felt in the boy's shoes. In a way, it made me value my hair even more. Knowing I get to keep it, but he doesn't. But there was a deeper layer to my imagination hidden from my thoughts at the time. Something that was still dormant but wouldn't be for very long. But more on that later.

I snapped out of my thoughts when the barber spoke again: "Is this short enough for you?" The boy looked toward his father, well aware to whom the question was directed. "That looks perfect for him!" the father replied with satisfaction. Then, the boy was released, his dad paid for the two haircuts, and they left. I knew it was my turn now and felt a little nervous, knowing that if my dad decided not to honor our agreement, there would be nothing I could do. The barber certainly wouldn't be on my side. But I was pretty much certain my dad wouldn't betray me since he had a very rational incentive to keep his word. So when I was called to sit in the chair, I walked there confidently, not showing any signs of doubt. After he caped me and combed my overgrown hair, he asked the anticipated question: "How would you like his hair cut?". Despite my heart rate clearly going up, I managed to shoot my dad a half-confident, half-anticipating look, trying not to appear too stressed about the situation. He then replied, "Well, he just wants a trim. Make sure the fringe doesn't get in his eyes, but keep the length overall". "Are you sure?" the barber asked. A question that made my heart skip a beat as I had not anticipated this follow-up. It shouldn't have surprised me, though, since it was well known this barber was not exactly a fan of long hair on boys, and I was aware that had it been his call, I would have walked away with a haircut even shorter than the boy before me. Fortunately for me, he was also a professional who respected the client's wishes. And by clients, I mean the parents, of course. After my father explained our deal to him, he proceeded to give me the discussed trim with a subtle hint of disappointment on his face. The haircut itself wasn't as thrilling as the anticipation of it, as I already had the confirmation I would get what I wanted. The only moment when I felt a sense of vulnerability was when the barber was trimming my fringe. The part of my hair I enjoyed having as long as possible, flipping it to the side every once in a while. What if he took too much off? But then again, I realized that as long as my father was on my side, the barber didn't have much of a choice but only to trim a little off, which he did. He cut it around my eyebrow level, and that was still a very acceptable length for me because it wouldn't take long for it to start reaching my eyes again. Surprisingly to me, when he was done, he asked me if I was okay with the result. Well, it was more of a rhetorical question since he was already removing the cape and I suspect he didn't really care about my answer. But still, it felt nice to be given a voice where others my age remained silent. I thanked him and said I was happy with the result, to which he didn't react anymore.

From that point, the barbershop visits with my father became regular trims to maintain the style. I liked the haircut days and looked forward to them each time since I knew my hair was safe, and seeing other boys get their mops chopped without having a choice was a sight that made me feel privileged. Or at least that's how I would describe it back then. It didn't take long for me to become attached to my hair. I thought of my long fringe as a way of proving my autonomy, not only to others but also to myself. I worked hard at school, avoided trouble, and knew that as long as I kept my word, my father would keep his. You could say that I even felt somewhat superior to others because of that. I remember running into that boy from my barbershop trip a few days later at school. As he was passing by, I noticed he looked surprised when he saw that my hair was almost the same as before the haircut. He probably expected me to get the same treatment as him. It seemed to me as if he was impressed. I instinctively pushed my fringe slightly to the side while scanning his little boy haircut with my eyes to show that I was well aware of my much favorable position regarding hair choices. That non-verbal interaction happened for only a few seconds, but moments like these boosted my confidence further, which might have eventually played a role in my upcoming haircut experiences.

It seemed like not much could go wrong from now on. I was always a very rational and analytical person, and once I understood the rules of a game, I would rarely misplay it. I did not, however, expect the possibility of other not-so-rational forces coming into play. Forces I didn't fully understand yet. But the ones I was getting increasingly aware of. Something that would redefine the goal of the game in such a way that a terrible blunder would become a winning move. To be continued...

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