A Serious Haircut by Sean Barnet

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I did not get on with my parents, my step-mother more than anything, so when I turned 16, by general agreement, I went to live with my grandparents, my father's parents.


My grandparents lived in a small town, maybe an hour's drive away from where I had been living. I had stayed with them before, many times, but it would be a new school, new friends, new place to get used to.


* * * * *


I was kitted out in my new school uniform. While we were at the outfitters my grandparents insisted on buying me a whole load of other stuff, smart trousers, ties, a blazer and other things I could never see myself wearing, but I could not stop them.


School was about to start in a few days time, so it was no surprise when my grandfather said "You'll need to get a haircut before you start school. I'll take you into town this morning and drop you off. I have an appointment at the dentist's, but don't worry you will easily find your way back home, it's only 10 minutes walk."


As I say, this was no surprise. My old school had rules about the boys' hair: "Off the collar, off the ears, parted and brushed away from the forehead." These rules were not that strictly enforced, but push it too far, ignore instructions from your form master (they were "masters" not "teachers") to "Get your hair cut!", and there would be a letter to your parents, and ultimately there was the possibility of a summons to see the headmaster. This practically never happened, as most parents, including my own, were on your case anyway, quoting "School Rules". If you asked any of the masters why short hair mattered so much, they just said it was what parents wanted. It was all completely circular. It was not what we wanted, back in 1972, but parents and teachers presented a united front.


As it was the end of the summer holidays my own hair was creeping over my ears and brushing my collar at the back, so I knew a haircut was coming anyway.


* * * * *


My grandfather stopped the car outside an ancient looking barber shop, "This is the place, Proctor is a first rate chap, makes an excellent job of my hair, so you can put yourself in his hands with complete confidence. Sorry I can't come in with you first time, but I have got to get to the dentist's."


I thought to myself "What hair? Apart from a magnificent moustache my grandfather didn't really have much hair!"


I got out of the car and Grandad drove off. I looked at the shop. It was ancient, it was awful, it was everything I hated. Go in there and I was certain my hair would be butchered!


I did not go in. I wandered round the town, looking for an alternative. I had been there for holidays, so I pretty much knew my way round. It was a small town, it had facilities, but mostly only one of each, one butcher, one baker, one greengrocer and so on. And, it seemed, only one barber!


There was a ladies hairdresser, obviously aimed at middle aged ladies wanting a shampoo and set, so that was no good. I walked a bit further, nothing!


I sat down on a bench. That was it, it would have to be Proctor's.


* * * * *


A bell jangled as I made my way in. Everybody looked round at me. This did not make me feel any more comfortable.


The shop was as ancient inside as it looked from outside. There was one grey-haired barber cutting the hair of a grey-haired customer, and another grey-haired man and a boy about my age waiting.


I sat and watched.


"Next!"


The boy took his place in the chair, directly opposite me. I could see his hair was off his ears and off his collar, so I was wondering what sort of haircut he would have. The barber caped him up and they exchanged a few words, they seemed to know each other.


I was not left wondering for long. The barber straight away picked up his clippers, the boy bent his head without any instruction, and the barber proceeded to strip all the hair off the back and sides, leaving nothing but shaved white skin for an inch or so round his ears and a couple of inches up the back.


I watched, horrified.


Some trimming with scissors followed, and then a dollop of Brylcreem.


Out of the chair, brushed down and smiling quite cheerfully, he shook the barber's hand, "Thank you, sir."


"Always a pleasure, Martin. Always a pleasure, young man."


The elderly gentleman waiting went and sat in the chair, and Martin came over and sat next to me.


He gave me a friendly grin. "Hi, I'm Martin."


I gradually took in the shockingly naked white skin round his little, sticking out ears and his thick, curly black hair glistening with Brylcreem, disciplined into place with a sharp, straight parting and swept back away from his forehead.


"John." I said.


"New here?"


"Yeah, I've come to live with my grandparents. I'll be staying here for a while, at least until I finish school."


"Back to school haircut then?"


"Yeah. Are they very strict round here?"


"Well, this is Proctor's. He likes to give you a good shearing. Doesn't matter what you ask for, you still get short back and sides. You'll get the same. But don't worry you won't be the only one."


"Is there nowhere else?"


"There's Mario's, but my grandfather likes to bring me here. He marches me down here every three weeks, or sooner! And this," he pointed to his newly shorn head "is the result. And make sure you call Proctor "Mr Proctor" or "Sir" if you want to stay on his good side."


My misgivings were getting worse, I never called a barber "Sir", if anything he called you "Sir". "Where is Mario's?"


"Down West Lane, past the canal."


This was an out of the way part of town, I had never been there, I wasn't even certain I could find my way. "You live with your grandparents too?"


"No, Grandad lives with us. It's me, Mum and Dad, my two little sisters, and Grandad."


"And do you mind having your hair that short?"


"It's no big deal. You get used to it. If I talk to Dad about it, I get no sympathy, he just says "I always had my hair short as a boy", or "Short back and sides is best for a lad your age", or "Never did me any harm, your grandfather knows what is best."


At that point Martin's grandfather was finished, and had paid, so now it was my turn in the barber's chair.


* * * * *


There was no real alternative. With a heavy heart I walked over and sat in the chair.


I was caped, no escape now.


Proctor looked at me.


I had better make clear what I wanted straight away, "Just a trim, please."


Proctor looked, and said nothing. He got out a comb and lifted a single lock of my hair, which he examined for what seemed like an unnecessarily long time. Eventually he said "You need more than "just a trim", but don't worry I'll soon have you tidied up."


"No, just a trim, please."


"You're new here, boy. Aren't you?"


"Yes, I've just moved in with my grandparents, the Haywards. But, as I said, just a trim."


"I'm the barber here, young man, and I'll cut what needs cutting. That's MY job. So you sit up straight, keep your head still, and no lip. That's YOUR job. See?"

Defeated, I nodded, but said nothing.


"Understand, boy?"


"Yes, sir!"


* * * * *


Proctor picked up the clippers, stopped, and put them down again. Then he turned the chair round away from the mirror. Now I would have no idea what he was doing, no possibility of any control. The barber then gripped hold of my head, and pushed it to the left. I heard a loud buzz, buzz, buzz like a wasp, coming closer, and the clippers pressed in hard next to my right ear. Instinctively I pulled away, but Proctor's grip tightened and the clippers pressed in harder.


I made a conscious effort to keep my head still, only moving as prompted.


Wasp round the right ear. Head pushed forward. Wasp crawled up the back, several times. Head to the right. Wasp round the left ear.


Head back up. Scissors.


I saw hair falling on the cape and sliding down to the floor, enormous great quantities!


Fringe, combed down over my face, cut at a slant, low over my left eye, high over my right.


Funny looking scissors, half scissors, half comb, tugging at my hair. More hair falling.


How much more was he going to cut? Was he ever going to stop?


Well, he did stop, eventually. Comb, brush, pause.


A clinking sound, and warm water slopped round my ears and the back of my neck. Then a razor, scraping round my neck and ears, and some sharp, stinging, scented stuff.


Then he started rubbing the top of my head, rubbing something into the top of my head. I realised what this was, Brylcreem! Yuck, yuck, yuck! Comb, parting.


I was turned round. I saw myself in the mirror. It was awful, no hair over my ears, no hair above my ears! Visible hair only started an inch or so further up, it was all glossy with grease, and it exhibited a razor sharp parting. Proctor showed me the back of my head in a small mirror. Acres of shaved white skin. It was appalling.


I nodded. "Thank you, sir."


Out of the chair, bushed down. Another "Thank you, sir."


I paid, and made my escape.


* * * * *


10 minutes walk to my grandparent's house. 10 minutes imagining every passerby was staring at my shorn, Brylcreemed head. I felt exposed, naked, unprotected.


* * * * *


Back home, Grandma thought it looked "lovely" and Mr Proctor had done "a very nice job".


I went upstairs and had a bath, washing out the Brylcreem and all the irritating, sharp little hairs that had fallen down my back. As the hair on top dried, which hardly took any time at all, it started to look ridiculous, too fluffy, too all over the place, too unmanageable. It was a disaster.


When my grandfather came home he inspected, and asked if Proctor hadn't put any Brylcreem on it? I explained, and Grandad took me back upstairs and gave me some of his own.


So I had to Brylcreem myself up again, and this time, with every hair strictly controlled and held in place, I passed inspection. Proctor had done a "splendid job", it was a "great improvement", and we must "keep up the good work".


I wasn't so sure about "keep up the good work".


* * * * *


I spent a good part of the weekend examining myself in my bedroom mirror, coming to terms with my new appearance, feeling the shaved skin, and running my fingers over those sharp bristles. How could I deal with this? It was everything I hated. It was scary, but it sent a thrill down me. And that greasy gunk in my hair, all shiny, glossy, gleaming, with a razor-sharp parting.


* * * * *


Sunday brought uncles and aunts to lunch. My grandmother sent me back upstairs to change out of my jeans into "those nice, smart trousers we bought you, a clean white shirt, and a tie, and wearing your blazer, please."


With my short hair and smart clothes I looked like an advert from the 50s. I did my best to be well mannered and charming.


* * * * *


Monday, at school, I could see that I was indeed not the only one, there were quite a few boys with obvious Proctor haircuts.


I met up with Martin. I was hoping for some sympathy, but I was to be disappointed.


Martin laughed as soon as he saw me. "I almost didn't recognize you! You've lost that bird's nest you had on your head last time we met."


"It's awful, hate it."


"Yeah, well, nobody gives you a good old-fashioned shearing like Proctor does. But don't worry, you'll soon get used to it. You might even get to like it."


"Like it? Never! Not in a million years! It's not the sort of haircut my barber at home does, he understands what a trim means, and he does nice, up to date, layered cuts."


"Yeah, well, this time you've had a proper haircut, a man's haircut, a REAL haircut! Why don't you join us in the Cadets? We all of us have short hair. And it's good fun. Why don't you come along and see for yourself?"


"The Cadets?" We did not have them at my old school, but I thought about it.


I mentioned the idea over dinner that evening. Grandad was enthusiastic (then he was ex-army). "The Cadets? Yes, splendid. That's the spirit. Good lad."


So I thought I would give it a try, and I went along to the drill hall with Martin and enrolled.


Grandad showed me how to polish my boots the army way, assuring me that if I kept at it they would "soon" reach the required standard.


I said "Thank you, sir."


I am not how serious I was when I called Grandad "Sir". Maybe I was half serious, half in jest, but Grandad was obviously pleased. "Good lad. We are getting somewhere. Good lad."


* * * * *


Cadet training was every Wednesday, so that Wednesday I came down to breakfast in uniform.


Grandad was already at table. "Good morning, Cadet Pritchard."


I was a cadet, and Grandad had retired from the Army with the rank of Colonel.


So "Good morning, sir!" was the only possible response.


We made conversation over breakfast. I had to include a "Sir" each and every time I opened my mouth. It took some getting used to.


* * * * *


I went to Cadets.


I marched, stood to attention, saluted and said "Sir!"


My boots were not up to the required standard.


* * * * *


I found wearing the uniform, standing to attention, saluting and giving the officers a smart "Sir!" all made me feel very different. "Smart" and "Disciplined" no longer felt odd, they now felt absolutely right. And other thoughts came into my mind, "Duty", "Honour" and "Loyalty", things I had hardly thought about before.


* * * * *


That week I polished my boots. I polished my black school shoes, but not quite as much as my army boots, I think that would have looked a bit strange. I polished my grandmother's brass, I polished my grandmother's bits of silver.


* * * * *


Wednesday, Cadets. I marched, stood to attention, saluted and said "Sir!"


My boots were not up to the required standard.


* * * * *


Friends of my grandparents came for dinner, I was again required to dress smartly and demonstrate well-bred politeness.


* * * * *


I found Mario's. It was out of the way, but it looked much better than Proctor's, much more modern, much more suitable.


* * * * *


A trip into Barchester shopping. I was again told to dress smartly. I was surprised at this as it was only a shopping trip, but this time it was my grandfather telling me to do this, we might bump into some acquaintance of his, and he wanted me looking presentable.


I was on the lookout for barber shops, hoping to find one that would be an improvement on Proctor's.


* * * * *


I polished my boots.


Wednesday. I marched, stood to attention, saluted and said "Sir!"


I learned rifle drill, learned to shoot.


My boots were not up to the required standard.


* * * * *


A visit to some other friends of my grandparents. Blazer, smart trousers, newly pressed with a sharp crease, clean white shirt, tie, polished shoes.


Grandad inspected me before departure. "You could do with a haircut, lad. Too late to do anything about it now, but a visit to Proctor's, tomorrow I think."


It was now three weeks or so since my previous shearing, and my hair was just recovering from the last Proctor onslaught. There was now a decent covering of hair round the back and sides, and enough on top to lie quietly without too much Brylcreem on it. Most of the boys at school had much longer hair, and even most of the boys in the Cadets had hair at least as long or even slightly longer. A haircut was not necessary, and I certainly did not want another Proctor skinning. I hesitated, wondering how to get out of this?


I hesitated too long. Grandad handed me some money, and out of an ingrained habit of politeness I automatically said "Thank you", still wondering about what to do.


This "Thank you" was not enough for my grandfather. He looked at me, not actually letting the money leave his hand. I realised my mistake. I corrected myself. "Thank you, sir."


"That's more like it. Good lad. But one more thing, when you are given an order the correct reply is "Yes, sir." Now I was also giving you something, so "Thank you" was right, but what you ought to have said was "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Let's give that another go shall we?"


Feeling more than a little miffed, I replied "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."


"That was not so difficult, was it, lad? Make sure you get it right in future."


I felt I ought to come to attention and salute, but I was in civilian clothes, so it was not possible.

Thoroughly reminded that I was the cadet, and Grandad was the superior officer, I felt obliged to again say "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."


Had coming to live with my grandparents been such a good idea after all?


* * * * *


The next day was a Wednesday, another training day. I looked round at the other cadets, there was a lot of short hair, but not everyone. No comment was passed on mine.


Boots not up to the required standard.


* * * * *


I walked home, still in uniform. Haircut. Proctor's? Mario's? I walked up and down, needlessly, up side streets and then back again. I sat down. I knew what Proctor would do to me. He was a butcher. But this was what my grandfather expected. I thought about Mario's. Mario's was an unknown quantity, possibly much better from my point of view. But not what my grandfather wanted. Not what my grandfather had ordered. There would be trouble. Besides, any attempt at avoidance would be dishonorable.


I knew what I had to do, I just had to face up to it, I just had to get on with it. I walked back to Proctor's barber shop, and strode purposefully in.


Sitting caped-up in Proctor's barber's chair, and not at all looking forward to what he was going to do, but bound by duty, honour and loyalty, I said with as much calm clarity as I could muster, "Short back and sides, please, sir!"


* * * * *


Getting back home, I looked at myself in the mirror. I was still in uniform, and with the severe shearing, clean, white skin round the sides of my head, I certainly looked the part. I felt the smooth shaved skin, the prickles and the stubble. I hated to admit it but those bristles felt good. I ran a comb through my Brylcreemed hair. Well, Brylcreem, it did give the hair a lovely sheen and made it all lie immaculately in place.


It was disciplined, it was orderly, it was soldierly.


I remained in uniform for dinner that evening


* * * * *


I now had to call Grandad "Sir", all the time, if I didn't he would pick me up on it.


This all seemed unreasonable. But when I sat down and thought about it, I realised this was just a matter of habit, I was simply not used to it. After all, Grandad was my superior officer, and "Sir" had a ring of old fashioned formality about it that I quite liked.


* * * * *


I went to school.


I went to Cadets.


I dressed up for my grandmother's social occasions.


I polished my boots.


* * * * *


We all went on a survival skills weekend. Rain, wind, mud. Build a sort of shelter from branches. Disgusting food, eat it, that's an order. Sleep on the ground, not much sleep.


An assault course weekend was planned.


* * * * *


I polished my boots.


We marched, came to attention, saluted, said "Sir!"


Boots still not up to the required "see your face in it" standard. I would have to polish them some more.


I might as well have been in the army. Should I join up?


* * * * *


I dressed smartly now. Clean white shirt, pressed trousers, polished shoes, blazer, tie. My grandparents talked about buying me a suit. A while back I would have hated the idea of being all done up in a suit and tie, but there seemed something inevitable about it now. So I said that I would like that very much.


I now called all older men "Sir".


* * * * *


My father was coming on a visit, fortunately without my step-mother, she had other engagements. My grandmother had dropped the occasional remark that made me think that the two of them didn't get on.


My grandfather sent me off to Proctor's for a haircut, ten days since my last, but "We all want you looking your best for when your father comes."


Proctor wondered why I was back so early, and I explained that my father was coming.


"We'd better make you look smart then, hadn't we?" And he gave me an extra good scalping.


* * * * *


The day came.


As per my grandfather's instructions I put on my suit, three piece, dark blue, chalk stripe, and black shoes, polished up to army boots standard (well, almost, there was not really enough time). I felt like a prize beast prepared for exhibition at an agricultural show. My grandfather reminded me of the importance of calling my father "Sir" from now on. "You are almost a grown man now, so no more childish talk of "Dad". You will demonstrate respect and maturity by calling him "Father" or "Sir". He will appreciate that and respond appropriately."


My Grandmother cooked roast beef and Yorkshire Pudding, followed by rhubarb crumble with custard. My grandfather opened a vintage bottle of Bordeaux he had put by for a special occasion.


My father arrived, and gave me a big hug. He put his hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm's length, he surveyed me. "My word, don't you look good. That's a splendid suit, and you look taller too!" He ran a finger across the fine, sand-paper stubble above my left ear. "And that's a short back and sides! Well done, lad. Well done, my son!"


My father then turned to his own father. "I think I must have to thank you for this? This was your influence, sir?"


"Not at all, Ralph. Not at all. John is maturing, and he has joined the Cadets."


"The Cadets, John?"


"Yes, sir. I wasn't sure, but Grandfather encouraged me."


This was my first "Sir" to my father. It felt strange, like my first few "Sir"s to my Grandfather
had felt strange. But as with my grandfather, being in "cadet" mode made it seem easier.


From then on my father was "Sir". I was now a man. And a man shows proper respect to his seniors.

* * * * *


We went in to lunch. We drank sherry, ate our roast beef, drank the vintage Bordeaux, ate crumble and drank port, then it was biscuits, cheese. coffee. And we all got along splendidly. Much better, it seemed, than when I was at home. My father seemed very pleased with me and with everything I said I was doing. I do not know if the roast beef and the vintage Bordeaux, or the absence of my step-mother, had anything to do with it.


* * * * *


My father returned home, promising another visit.


* * * * *


School, cadets, Assault Course Weekend.




* * * * *


I started wondering when my grandfather would send me off for my next haircut. I was calculating in my head when it might be due. I was quite looking forward to it.




THE END

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