Couldn't Follow Through by Lemon

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Dylan had been itching for a short haircut. He consistently maintained his moderately wavy hair in a soft bush. Stylists only tamed his chocolate brown tresses with scissors. Maybe a feather razor if he patronized a trendier establishment. And it wasn't that Dylan was vain. He didn't fawn and fuss in the mirror each morning. Just a conditioning and blow dry, thank you very much.

Dylan just had a—well, "fear" sounds a bit too strong—uneasiness concerning barbers. If a client didn't arrive with standard-issue straight-but-not-too-straight blonde or brunette hair, then forget about it. That client (read: Dylan) had no certainty concerning the look he would receive. If barbers couldn't make your hair beautiful, they could always be depended upon to make your hair short. To hell with looks. And that was the rub. Dylan ached for the cold metal teeth of a pair of clippers to clear a path up his nape. But what if left looking goofy? A pale little lamb, awkward and ugly after the first shearing.

As a kid, Dylan's soft locks once grew a little too long. Mom always took him into town for haircuts, but she left for a business trip. Dylan was in need of a haircut. It couldn't wait. Look at that mess covering his neck and flopping past his eyebrows. His eyebrows! And look at those tendrils curling over the tops of his ears. No, it couldn't wait. Dad said so. And so Dylan, rather than a trip "into town," was sent off down the street to the nearby one-chair shop. To Dad's barber.

Dylan's only relief was that Dad had spared him the embarrassment of supervising the haircut personally. Dad sent Dylan alone. Dylan arrived and waited in one of the three chairs flush against the wall and facing the single chair while an elderly gentleman had his little remaining hair removed. The barber was equally elderly and equally bald. He finished quickly and beckoned Dylan to sit.

"What are we doing with this mess today?" Dylan gulped at "mess." He panicked. He didn't know what to say. Mom always handled the instructions, and though clippers had touched his head before, he had no concept of sizes or lengths. (At this point in time, the concept of an "inch" was a fuzzy abstract floating in his head, like the speed of light or the purchasing power of a million dollars. Child Dylan had no confidence in his ability to depict one inch using the gap between his thumb and pointer finger. Nor would such an ability help him here.)

Dylan thought of Dad's hair. It was short, but it looked nice: close clipped sides but a relatively plush top that could be combed over. Dylan told the barber his dad's name. "Could you do that?"

The barber chuckled in that way adults do when children say something annoyingly silly. "Son, I don't memorize everyone who comes in here. Let's just tidy you up."

The finality of his tone signaled the end of the conversation, but Dylan quickly butted in, "Just enough to comb on top." The barber didn't seem to be listening. He draped the cape over Dylan. Dylan felt swallowed whole, almost suffocated. He could drown in this sea of nylon, his tiny little head just bobbing above the waves, a neat little snack for a passing seagull. The barber fired up the clippers. The chair was turned away from the mirror, and soon, Dylan felt cold metal teeth climbing up his nape and scooping small fistfuls of hair. A gentle breeze grazed the back of Dylan's shorn neck.

The barber continued wordlessly and almost dispassionately, as if Dylan were a practice mannequin head you'd see at a barber's college. The back clipped, the barber continued to the left side of Dylan's head. Now he could see the rich brown avalanche cascading down the cape. Little balls of chocolate clumping and pooling in his lap. The barber folded his ear down and arched the clippers over. Wisps of hair tumbled down, and the tops of Dylan's ears felt bare and lonely. The barber made quick work of the right side.

Now, the top. Dylan wanted to repeat himself from earlier: Just enough to comb on top. But he couldn't speak. He feared that any attempt at oral communication would have the same appearance as a person experiencing a stroke or aphasia. Dylan should've spoken up. The barber fiddled with the clippers. Perhaps he adjusted the length to leave more hair attached to Dylan's head. He placed the teeth on Dylan's forehead, right at the base of the widow's peak, and sent them screaming back.

Dylan's heart raced. A tight knot in stomach threatened to release a wave of nausea. He could practically piss himself. Curtains of dark brown flew to the nylon sheet, joining the growing mound in his lap. Ps-zzzzz, ps-zzzzz, ps-zzzzzzzzzzzzzz as the clippers drove front to back. He felt scalped. Finally the barber finished. In all likelihood, the barber did some finishing touches. Dylan couldn't remember. His last memory was the barber removing the cape and definitely not handing him a mirror, leaving him to perform that awkward and embarrassing barbershop act of being freshly clippered and turning around to see oneself in the mirror. He saw a small little boy with an ugly, stupid, little haircut. A burr cut.

Dylan never went to that barber again or practically any barber. Since then, he maintained a small, soft bush of hair. Not too long and not too short. But deep within, he felt that knot, that itch, that ache to have a barber take control and send it all to the floor. A really short haircut. Dylan wanted to run a hand up the back of his head and feel sharp bristles. He couldn't remember what that had felt like on his own head. He'd playfully rubbed a head or two of his freshly shorn friends in college. He wanted that feeling for himself.

Dylan obsessively looked up barbers all over the city and surrounding area. He wanted something traditional. A place that advertised "short." Although a walk-in establishment would be more traditional, he needed the commitment of an appointment. He clicked through shop after shop online. Then, he saw it: White linoleum floors, old-school barber chairs upholstered in cherry red leather, and lines of corded electric clippers hanging from workstations. The website advertised the shop's owner: a man who looked similar in age to Dylan wearing a white smock and black slacks and short hair. He made an appointment for a few days later.

Over time, the knot in Dylan's stomach grew. He went to work practically sick. The day before the appointment, as soon as he got home, he went back to the shop's website. He couldn't do it. All he could think about was that awkward little boy who left that single-chair shop and cried in the bathroom at night. He couldn't relive that, so he clicked "Cancel Appointment." His phone buzzed and an email alert flashed, confirming the cancellation. The knot loosened. Dylan didn't have to follow through.

He changed out of his work clothes and put on a plain tee and some cotton shorts. He made dinner, watched a bit of a show. One day, he would follow through. He'd get a short haircut. But not tomorrow.

He put away the dishes and turned off the house lights and went to the master suite to get ready for bed. He set out clothes for the next day on top of the dresser and headed to the bathroom to brush. After opening the door, he startled. In the center of the bathroom, right in front of the sink and mirror, was a chair, almost a bar stool with a seat back. A man in a white smock and black slacks accompanied the chair. He looked young, about Dylan's age, with a cropped look. Tight sides and a clipped top. He looked like ... a barber.

"Wh--who--how-how. Uh. You need to leave," Dylan sputtered. The smocked man walked over to Dylan, gently wrapped an arm around him, and guided him to the stool. In shock, Dylan obliged. He sat. He stared at himself in the mirror: Suddenly his bushy mound of soft curls looked unruly next to Mr. High-and-tight's clippered head.

The man smiled (or smirked?). "Dylan." He said the name softly yet firmly, like a parent would say his child's name before having a serious conversation. "You need a haircut." Dylan gulped.

"I--I--"

"Need a haircut. And you were so close." He smile-smirked again, amused but chiding. "You had it all lined up, and then I wouldn't need to be here. But you canceled your appointment."

Dylan opened his mouth to protest, but the man cut him off. "That was a bit naughty of you, don't you think?" Dylan understood by the toying tone that he didn't need to answer. The knot tightened again.

"I'll go tomorrow. Besides, I need everything--everything to be p-perfect." Dylan gave a sheepish smile. "I don't want to half-ass it," he quickly added.

Mr. Smile-Smirk gripped Dylan's shoulders. "It will be perfect." He gave Dylan a quick pat, walked to a small kit, and removed a white nylon cape and neck strip. He fastened the strip and then the cape went fluttering over Dylan. Dylan again felt swallowed, nearly suffocating, nearly drowning. But he didn't look so little this time. Instead of a small little boy, he saw a man. A scared, anxious man, but a man nonetheless.

The barber went back to his kit and retrieved a pair of cordless Osters. He clicked them on. They made that familiar whir. Dylan gulped again and locked eyes with the barber in the mirror. "Aren't you going to ask what I want?"

"I already know what you want." The barber palmed the top of Dylan's head and pushed his chin to his chest. Dylan spun his eyes up to his brows so he could still see the mirror. The barber took the clippers and scooped at Dylan's nape. Then the scoops turned into paths sailing up the back of Dylan's head. He saw brown fur floating to the floor. Pass after pass. Ps-zzzz, ps-zzzzz, ps-zzzzzzz.

From Dylan's perspective, nothing had changed. He still had his brown bush. Then the barber attacked the left side. The clippers tore through his sideburn, leaving pale skin in their wake and sending tufts of hair falling. The clippings accumulated, and the knot in Dylan's stomach moved lower, and lower, and lower. He felt himself stirring under the cape, under the mound of hair growing in his lap. The barber moved to the right. More hair went flying. The clippers removed any sign of his waves and replaced them with a neat pelt of bristly brown.

Now, an awkward nest rested on top of Dylan's head. The barber turned off the clippers, rested them on the sink counter, and returned with a spray bottle. He wet Dylan's hair, turning the light waves into tendrils and ringlets. He replaced the water bottle with a comb and scissors and began detangling Dylan's hair, combing it forward. Wet strings of dark brown hair curtained Dylan's eyes. The barber placed the cold shears midway on Dylan's forehead and clamped down. Crrrrrrrrrch. A few more snips to catch the strays. Crrrch, crrrch, crrrch. The barber continued across as a child would carefully cut a folded sheet of paper into two halves. Instead of soft flowing waves, straight bangs now draped Dylan's forehead.

The barber then worked front to back and cut down the top. Dylan still had trouble visualizing an inch, but he knew that the barber was chopping several inches off. Crrrrrch, crrrrrrch, crrrrrrch. Wet bunches of hair joined the dry clippings below. He saw his hair strewn all over his bathroom floor. Crrrrch, crrrrch, crrrrrch. The barber removed all of his waves. His hair virtually passed for straight. The new do looked quite smart. The barber removed lots of length, but Dylan still had enough to comb over.

The barber set down the shears and comb. He opened one of Dylan's drawers and removed the hair dryer and brush and began blow drying Dylan's hair. The flat wet hair revived into a soft, plush pelt. As the hair became more dry, the barber set down the brush and tousled Dylan's hair with his hand. Below, Dylan stirred more and more as the barber ran his hands over Dylan's close clipped back and sides and his short top. Dylan would happily sit in the chair for another hour or two while the barber played with his hair. The fantasy only lasted a few minutes as the barber—like all the previous tools—replaced the blow dryer.

The barber grabbed the clippers again, and went back to Dylan's nape. He lightly flicked at the base of Dylan's neck, tapering the neckline into a soft finish. The buzz of the metal clippers tickled as Dylan felt the short bristles reduce further, almost shaved. The barber turned the clippers off and locked eyes with Dylan in the mirror. "Much better, isn't it?"

Dylan couldn't speak. He just hummed assent. The barber ran a hand through Dylan's hair again. Dylan nearly moaned. He tousled and roughed up the top. The top was still long enough to be 'messed up.' "But I'm not sure this is the right look for you." Dylan frowned. "Because you were so naughty. You couldn't take yourself to the barber shop, and I had to come here." He smile-smirked. Dylan stirred.

The barber went back to his kit and fastened a guard to the clippers and returned behind Dylan. Dylan wanted to scream, wanted to yell, wanted to piss his cotton shorts. He did none of those things because he knew needed this. He had been naughty, too scared to follow through on something as simple as a haircut appointment. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Be better." The barber clicked the clippers on again, placed them at the base of Dylan's widow's peak, and pushed them back. A strip of plush brown hair gave wave to clippered pelt, maybe half an inch. (As best as Dylan could tell.) His throat tightened as the barber continued. Ps-zzzzzzzz, ps-zzzzzzz. Beautiful brown hair joined the mound below. Ps-zzzzzz, ps-zzzzzzz. A multi-layered mess of dry, wet, dry hair in his lap. Hair spilled over his shoulders and joined the small piles at the base of the chair.

The barber finished, and they locked eyes again. He and Dylan had matching haircuts. Dylan stared at himself now. He didn't see a little boy with an ugly, stupid, little haircut. He saw a man with beautifully cropped hair. The barber returned the clippers and stood behind Dylan once more. He rubbed his hands over Dylan's scalp, and now Dylan did moan.

"Go on. Try it out for yourself," the barber encouraged.

Dylan tentatively removed his right hand from under the cape and slowly ran it up the back of his head, feeling each needle-like bristle as his hand traveled up. As his hand approached the crown, the bristles softened and gave way to a soft, but short, top. He carefully passed his hand over the top, then gave it a furious rub. Small clippings floated to the floor.

The barber smiled. "Oh, so, so much better."

"I--I'll come to the shop next time. I won't be—" Dylan couldn't bring himself to say the word "naughty."

"I'd love that, but as fun as this has been, I foresee more house calls in your future." The barber smiled. Dylan smirked.

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