As the Fringe Fell (Part 2) by BoysBarber

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Months had passed since I had established my new appearance. I was approaching 12, and while my hair remained the same throughout the year, I had become much less stable as a person. I was still proud of my dirty blond mop, which had been carefully trimmed every once in a while. I didn't stop feeling great about being in control of something others were not. And I still enjoyed flipping my fringe in front of my not-so-lucky peers. Since the deal with my father, I had witnessed quite a few radical transformations in the barbershop, and even though the process was very similar each time, I never started to feel like my interest was fading away. In fact, the opposite was true. I was more aware of the details I found intriguing. The suspense of seeing an accompanied shaggy youngster dragging his feet toward the barber chair. Realizing how much growth could be lost as a result of just one merciless instruction, which would later be carried out with surgical precision. Hearing the sentence and witnessing the execution as the boy got separated from something that had been his for so long. Something that he wouldn't have voluntarily given away at that time. I thought if he never had a choice, could you still say the hair was "his" in the first place? It's not like I never felt sympathy for them. However, that sympathy was overshadowed by other, more complex feelings. At first, I assumed it was just the satisfaction of achieving something others didn't and pushing the boundaries of my independence beyond what was usual at my age. But that was far away from being true.

I was a person who got bored quickly. I loved learning new things and gaining knowledge, but once a concept became trivial to me, I struggled to stay focused. I lacked consistency, and perhaps that's why I didn't really like school despite the fact that it took me little effort to keep up with my classmates. Specifically, I hated classes that revolved around memorizing loads of facts with no space for logical reasoning. History would be one example. But up until then, I forced myself to study since that was the price for my hair. Conversely, I enjoyed studying human behavior through the lens of economics, where I learned relatable principles of how people express preferences - through actions, not words. They might often not be able or willing to realize and admit their true desires. I experienced the effects of that principle in practice. It all started when, one day, I didn't study for a history test. I was sure one failed test wouldn't cause me any problems, but it was still a risk I would have never willingly taken a few months back. As predicted, there was no consequence... yet. I gained more free time, which I could then spend learning and doing things that were actually interesting to me. But once I had already tried successfully pushing the boundary, of course, I wouldn't stop there. However, I knew that my results would not go unnoticed once the decline became consistent. Still, I was confident that I would be given the opportunity to correct my approach before my father considered it a violation of our deal. And honestly, stepping out of the safe zone was a new experience that felt refreshing after hiding there for nearly a year.

It didn't take long before there was a talk. My grades got worse to the point where it could no longer be dismissed as just a bad week at school. I remember when my father called me downstairs to discuss something very important, I already knew what the subject would be. My heart was racing from the thrill of what was at stake when I slowly approached him. He was sitting at the dining table with a very serious look on his face. "Did you forget the terms of our agreement?" he asked. "You mean the one about the hair?" I replied. Obviously, I knew what he meant, but I wanted to delay the actual talk, even if only for a few seconds. "Yes, the one about the hair. As far as I recall, you promised to, and I quote, 'do great in school.'. Do you feel like your recent results align with that?". I was trying to act cool about it, so I answered, "Oh, I know about that... well, they don't, and I'm already working to fix it. And it's just a temporary slip, like this month was really difficult, and I admit I could have tried harder... but I promise I'll do better now.". I knew this wasn't enough, and my father wouldn't buy my vague promises. So I added, "We have another history test tomorrow. That's one of the problematic classes, right? Well, I was just studying for it before you called me. See, I'll soon prove to you that I mean what I said. If you could please just give me one more chance?" It might seem like I overplayed my hand by setting myself up for disaster if I didn't ace that test. But like I said, I was a very fast learner when I wanted to, so I was confident it would work. This way, I also showed my father that I was willing to commit to doing better from now on. "Oh, you don't expect one test to suddenly fix everything, do you?" he said. "I know, but it's a start! Can we at least have this conversation at the end of the week? You can decide what to do after you see the improvement," I replied, realizing I had to lower my demand. At least it would buy more me time. It took a bit of further negotiation, but my father eventually concluded the discussion with: "I guess I'll see an improvement either way.". It sent chills to my spine when I realized what kind of "improvement" he meant. But fear wasn't the only emotion I felt at that moment. It was also that awkward sense of thrill creeping from underneath. I wouldn't describe it as good or bad. It was beyond the ordinary feelings. It was a feeling that I was increasingly tempted to explore. I was conflicted. I knew that, rationally, the only way forward was to study for the upcoming test and go back to being a great student again. But something about it just felt... boring. It was like slamming a door that I had been peeking through shut again. These two narratives rivaled inside my head as I went back to my room and sat on my bed.

One of my weaknesses, which I had always been aware of from an early age, was my inability to commit to a decision, especially if all options had some benefit to them. It was no surprise to me that my internal conflict went unresolved that night. I ended up studying most of the chapters, but there were some which I had skipped on purpose. That's why the next day at school, my fingers were twitching anxiously as the teacher handed out the papers. I knew that in an hour, my fate might very well be sealed. When I received the paper, I immediately went through all the questions, coming to a half-relieved, half-disappointed realization - the test was easy. I knew all the answers. But once I started filling them in, more uninvited thoughts crept in. I imagined how my father would react if I disappointed him again. Surely, it would be a farewell to my long fringe. But how short would he go? If I failed this test today, I suspected he would insist on a length even shorter than he had originally planned. I imagined myself sitting in the barber chair in anticipation of the inevitable. My mind drifted over all the details that might happen. I couldn't focus. I was standing at the same crossroad again, incapable of choosing a path. I realized a bit too late that if I didn't make a decision soon, one would be made for me. Perhaps one that I secretly intended to make after all. When the teacher said, "You have one last minute," I froze, staring at my unfinished paper. I grabbed my pen in panic and desperately tried to fill in the remaining answers. There wasn't nearly enough time, though. Soon, the teacher asked the students to stop writing, and I knew it was over for me at that point. It was painful watching the teacher collect my half-finished test. My eyes glanced at some of my short-haired classmates, knowing I would soon be one of them.

I spent the afternoon in silence, trying to understand what happened as the rational part of me regained control. I was aware of what was coming by the end of the week, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. The only thing I could try was to minimize the damage. There was no point in delaying it anymore or trying to lie about it. In fact, I concluded that my best move was to come before my dad, admit I failed, and face the consequences bravely. Maybe he would be lenient if I faced it head-on. And that's precisely what I did in the evening when I came home. I approached him carefully, struggling to look him in the eye.
"Dad? I need to tell you something important," I said hesitantly. "Yes? I'm listening," he answered. It must have been obvious to him already after he saw my defeated stance. I took a deep breath and then said, "I screwed up the test today. I suppose I didn't take it seriously enough, and I regret it. But it's too late now, so I thought I'd just tell you now. Felt like the right thing to do. And I understand there might be consequences...". Shortly after that, my father said, "You're right.". I was not sure if his reply was ambiguous on purpose to prolong the tension or if he was still considering how to proceed. After a few seconds of silence, he spoke again, "While it is disappointing for sure, I appreciate the fact that you are now being honest with me and that you didn't try to come up with some ridiculous excuse.". I thought maybe not everything was lost yet. My hopes got even higher when he said, "We'll talk about this later. I need to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow.". However, as I was about to turn and walk back upstairs to my room, my father looked at me again and added, "Also, you better enjoy that hair while you still have it. Expect a little barbershop trip on Saturday.". My heart sank upon hearing those words. Game over. While he didn't specify exactly how short it would be, it was obvious that the change would be rather severe. And there was no escape.

In the following days, it was hard for me to focus at school. Every time I looked at a short-haired boy, I felt my heart rate go up, realizing that soon, this would be me. I couldn't imagine myself with a short haircut anymore, so I had no idea how I would look. But I knew how I was going to feel. My identity, which I fought hard to establish the way I wanted, was going to be reduced to an obedient little boy again. I wished I had never gotten myself into this situation. I regretted all my actions leading up to this. And yet, there was a part of me that was actually looking forward to it. A subconscious force that had put me where I was now. The force that would transform the upcoming act of humiliation into an exciting show. One where I would play the leading role instead of sitting in the audience. Once again, this internal conflict remained unresolved despite the fact that I had spent a lot of time trying to analyze it. Maybe I was just about to see things more clearly as the big day finally arrived.

It was nothing like the previous times. I felt anxious when we approached the barbershop. It was the first time I hoped no one else would be there. The wind mockingly kept pushing my fringe into my eyes, making me fix it constantly. "Don't worry! A more permanent solution is coming soon," my father commented just before we finally entered the shop. It further reinforced both my visible anxiety and my hidden excitement. The place was empty when we entered, except for the barber, who was casually sitting in one of the chairs, waiting for his prey to come in. He was an old guy with decades of experience dealing with similar scenarios. He was also familiar with my long hair situation since my father explained our deal to him when this all started. This was why I suspected he instantly knew what was about to happen, as instead of the confident, borderline entitled preteen, he saw a defeated little kid enter the place in complete submission. Given his reputation as a barber who didn't approve of long hair on boys, he must have been looking forward to this day as well. Upon his instruction, I sat in the chair on the booster seat he had placed there. I briefly looked at my father with a blend of resignation and anticipation before pushing my fringe out of my face one last time. Shortly then, I was caped, my hair was combed, and the barber asked, "How do you want his hair cut?". I swear I could hear a sense of thrill in his voice. It didn't take long before the order came. "Number 2 back and sides and also go really short on the top," my father said. "Yes, I think it's about time. It will be much more appropriate for a boy like him," the barber replied approvingly. I felt a bit of the tension released as now I knew my sentence - or so I thought. After a familiar sound of clippers filled the room, the barber started slicing through the dirty blond locks on my sides. He pushed the clippers firmly without hesitation, completely disregarding my fragility at the moment. With each swipe, he kept sending massive clumps of hair to the ground, permanently detaching them from my body. I felt the hungry clippers work their way along the back of my head as the barber tilted it forward. While I was forced to look at the ground and keep my head exactly the way I was told, I was trying to figure out how I felt. It was humiliating. I felt so small compared to the adults in the room. Yet there was the thrill underneath it, which would only get stronger as the tension was about to rise again. When the barber was finished with the sides and back, he put the clippers away for a moment to blow the residual hair off my ears and neck. That was when I noticed I was about to have an audience after all. Another boy and his dad entered the shop and sat on the chairs next to my dad. In a way, I wished I could be in their shoes now. Seeing myself in such a vulnerable position, sporting a half-finished unwanted haircut with the top being the only untouched part yet, must have been quite a sight. That would change soon, though. When it felt like it couldn't get worse, the barber turned to my dad and asked him, "Would you like me to use the clippers on the top as well? Or shall we trim it with scissors and leave the fringe longer?". I froze. I thought I would get a short fringe just like the other boys usually did. Not a full buzzcut like the barber was now suggesting. Worst of all, he framed it as a false dichotomy - I already knew which answer my father would pick. "No, don't leave it longer. Make it all the same length," my father responded. "Great! Number 5 sounds alright on the top?" the barber elaborated further. "Sure, that'll be perfect for him," my father answered, crossing his arms. I felt broken. Instead of being the cool kid who consistently kept getting away with having long hair, I would soon be one of the few unluckiest boys with a buzzcut. No way to style it. No way to disguise the length. Everyone would see how short it was. And most importantly, everyone would know it wasn't my choice. The barber wasted no time, attached the #5 guard to the clippers, lifted my fringe, and placed them right underneath it. His strong and steady hand easily pushed the clippers through that mop of mine, and the fringe worth almost a year of my life started falling down. Waves of sadness and regret hit me like a truck each time I felt the clippers move recklessly over the top of my head. Tears started forming in my eyes as the point of no return was reached. It was especially embarrassing when I realized everyone in the room was watching me, each with a different expression. The other boy was looking at me with curiosity. His father was quite amused by the scene he saw. And my dad seemed to be very happy with how the transformation went. It was hard for me to look at my reflection in the mirror. I was barely recognizing myself. I almost forgot about the freckles on my forehead that were now exposed, and judging by the severe damage the clippers had done and kept on doing, nothing would come remotely close to covering them again any time soon. The barber made sure of that by going over the freshly buzzed hair a few more times so that not a single strand of long hair would remain. After that, he did some blending and edging, some finishing touches that I did not understand or care about at that point, and my transformation was complete. One final act of humiliation soon followed as he turned to my father and asked him, "How do you like it?". He stood up, walked over to me, and thoroughly inspected my newly acquired buzzcut, running his hand over my short stubble. "Much better!" he said in approval. After being released, I stood up and made my way to the exit. Before I left the place, I looked back at the ground to see the barber cleaning the mess of hair on the floor that remained after me. Watching it getting swept away felt like a year of my life had just vanished right before my eyes. That chapter was now closed, and I had no idea what the next one would bring. I dreaded the first day of school with my new appearance, completely exposed. No one would believe me if I tried to pretend it was my choice. I was about to get so much crap for this, and part of me felt it was deserved. It was, after all, a consequence of my own actions. And I was the only one fully responsible for it.

This single experience would later define me in a way most people would not comprehend or believe. I knew it was an impactful moment for me, but only later did I realize what it truly meant. Something that had been awaiting its turn for 12 years of my young life finally seized its moment. Something that was receiving great satisfaction from seeing my precious hair fall away from my sad face. It was the only force ever capable of taking over my rationally wired brain and making me do unexpected things. It forced me into a situation I had spent a year trying to avoid, only to feed itself on the damage it inflicted. And boy, would it not stop there.

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