A chip off the old block by DaveB

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So I was off to live with my dad on the south coast. We hadn't spoken that much for the last few years since my parents split, but my mum had grown increasingly frustrated by my lack of focus, and since I'd left school, I'd had a few jobs but hadn't stuck at anything, and seldom contributed to the bills, so she decided it was my dad's turn to do some parenting.

He met me at the station. He was greyer, a bit plumper and now wearing glasses, but otherwise just as I remembered him.

His round cheerful face was emphasised by his short hair lying flat across his head with a neat side part, with the glint of his earring, a neat goatee and the new addition of large gold aviator glasses that covered much of his face. As always, he was in his default outfit of a sports polo shirt fully open with chest hair and a gold chain on display, tucked in to his chinos emphasising his growing physique, and loafers. It's bad to say, but I always thought he was an odd fit with the rest of the family. He was a bookkeeper by trade, but liked many drinks down the pub, a flutter on the horses and was, honestly, a bit lacking the class my mum had. He was more Benidorm while the rest of my family were more The Maldives.

We hugged, he said i was looking well and went straight to the pub for drink. Classic dad. Without asking, he ordered me a Stella. Definitely not my drink. Then a couple more before taking me to the flat to settle in.

He then said he was going back to the pub to meet some mates, I think he was going to ask of I wanted to join him but then changed his mind, and instead said ‘we need to get you properly sorted and deal with that mess on your head to get it under control tomorrow’ I laughed and told him it’s fashion. He then looked stern and said ‘under my roof, it’s my rules, and that includes how you act and how you look. I’m really glad you’re here, but you need some direction and a career, and I'm up for the challenge as your mum isn't.’

The next morning he said we had some chores to do in town. First, we went to a big outlet shop as he said I needed clothes to get me ‘work ready’. He picked out loads of polo shirts - Fred Perry, Lacoste, Ben Sherman and some slightly shiny sports ones in shades of blues, reds, white and black. He then went straight to the chinos, and selected a whole range of shades of neutral from light cream to dark tan. I had no idea beige came in so many tones. By this point I was expecting him to bring me in on the joke and let me choose some genuine clothes, but instead we were heading to the checkout.

I said it was a good joke, but I wouldn’t be seen dead in that stuff, and can we choose together if I do need anything, but I’m fine with the clothes I brought. He turned to be and said ‘we’re playing by my rules now, and you need a new attitude, and this is part of it.’ and headed to the till.

After paying he thrust a royal blue polo and pair of chinos at me and pointed to the toilets ‘change now please’

The chinos were a tailored but quite baggy in the legs, while I never wore anything with a collar and certainly not in a colour as unflattering as electric blue. I looked like I had got lost on my way to golf course.

My dad smiled when he saw me but instructed me to tuck in the polo and handed me a shiny brown formal belt which undoubtedly added to the golfing vibe. It was all a million miles away from the skinny jeans and tees that were my signature.

We headed to a sports shop where he went straight to the small formal shoe section and pointed to a pair of heavy black loafers that had tassels on them, but then picked up a pair in a horrible reddish brown colour that were in a shiny patent leather and had tassels on top of a leather fringe. And they were in my size. And fitted. Declared perfect, they were bought and again I was instructed to put them on. Taking off my Nikes was a real hardship to wear these monstrosities.

We then went down the high street to a jewellery store. He told me to take a seat and he’d be over in a minute. After a chat with the assistant he called me over. The assistant put this horrible thick pale gold ring with a massive shiny black stone in it on my middle finger, but it was too big, but he then pulled out a smaller one which fitted snuggly. He looked at my dad who nodded. He then pulled out a signet ring in a similar imitation gold and slid it on the pinky of my other hand. My dad said they were both beautiful. He then put a gold Rolex-style watch on my wrist and adjusted the strap.

He then told me we needed to go in a room out the back. ‘Why?’ I asked as we walked ‘for your ear piercing’ he said. ‘But I don’t want a piercing’ I said to the man ‘he’s having the piercing’ my dad said. ‘Sit’ I ignored him. ‘Sit, or go home to your mother.’ Well I knew that wasn’t an option, so I slowly sat but was clearly not happy. But the assistant seemed not to care but just asked my dad which size loop, and recommended the larger one as I have large ear lobes. My dad agreed and bam, I had an ear piercing for the first time in my life, which wasn’t something I was ever wanting to say. He inserted the jewellery and gave me a mirror to look. I hated it. It looked tacky and unnecessary. The loop was larger and far thicker than my dad’s, so looked even more of a statement of choice to have this. We went out to the main shop again and I was close to tears. I hardly even registered when a thick gold chain necklace was fastened round my neck, or when a similar chain was put round my wrist.

As we left the shop my dad was explaining that accessories matter as much as clothes to show you care about your appearance and the type of man you are. I really didn’t want to think about what message my current image projected.

I jangled and clomped my way down the road thanks to the volume of metal and clunky shoes I now wore.

Inevitably, we ended up outside a barber shop. My dads regular it transpired.

Jack who ran the shop couldn’t have been older than about 30 and had a fashionable French crop with a bit of length at the back. This gave me real hope as I had a fashionable mullet with long on top hanging down to my ears, though not quite covering my earring unfortunately.

Now I knew my haircut would be shorter, but hopefully a longer version of Jacks could be a decent compromise.

Not a bit of it. ‘Give him the works, give him some style, with a look like his old man.’ he commanded. I said maybe something like Jacks. My dad just shook his head ‘short, side part, show you mean business. Professional. Timeless.’

Jack checked if I was happy. I clearly wasn’t. He suggested leaving it a bit longer but with a softer side part, but my dad was clear ‘my length, and with a hard part on the side. I’m paying, so I’ll decide.’ Jack asked if I was ok with this. I didn’t say anything, so he started. He used scissors to crunch through all my hair, taking all the length off, working around the side of my head and then across the top. Nothing longer than 3 inches existed with up to a foot of hair on the ground.

He then combs in a side part into the remaining hair above my left eye. ‘Further over, just like mine. I want a carbon copy of my haircut’ came the instruction, as the part was shifted across to my left temple.

From here Jack worked his way around the sides with scissors reducing the sides to a uniform quarter inch. He then used clippers angled to remove the hair that hung over my hairline as he worked around my ears, tapering it tightly and I could feel him marking a line across my neck and removing the hair beneath, and again making a sharp taper to blend in to the uniform quarter inch of hair that ran up my head. My ears now clear of all obstructions for the first time in years, and the earring free to stand out in pride of place.

He moved to the top making the hair a uniform roughly one and a half inches long and then blending it shorter around the ears and neck. Thinning shears then worked hard at removing all the bulk so that only wispy strands of hair remained, with my head now looking vastly smaller and no longer oblong but alarmingly round.

‘How’s the length looking? He asked. I think to both of us, but I was done, and started to get up. ‘You’re not finished yet’ my dad said. ‘loose the beard. He’ll take a goatee like me please, and loose the sideburns too.’

Jack soon cleaned the sides of my face, and cut a line at the top of my ears, showing where sideburns were no longer welcome, before carving a straight lines down the sides of my mouth and under my jaw to form facial hair which, once he trimmed it, it looked like a homage to David Brent from The Office. And my dad. He then used a straight razor on all this newly exposed skin. And finally he then also shaved the line where my newly inflicted side part ran. He explained that he had left the hair longer on top to help it lay flat while it finds the new style, while shaving the part line will make it easy for me to style.

With that he asked if I wanted it wet like my dad ‘Yes he does’ was the answer as a generous portion of gel was rubbed violently through my hair before a comb made everything lie down flat against my head in pristine rows running perpendicular to the part.

I was given the full tour of my new head covering - or lack of. The mirror he held behind showed me the stark white neck with which matched the stark straight expanded part line running down the otherwise dark brown expanse of gleaming gelled hair which then suddenly shortened before disappearing right by my hairline, well before any opportunity to interfere with my ears.

When I moved my head, it felt so strange thar there was now no movement on my head, and the volume now so much received, and stiffened with dried gel. The hair was so brutally short and as it’s now forced to lie straight across my head, it meant my entire gleaming pale forehead was on show for the first time ever. I could tell it wasn’t anywhere long enough to brush forward to cover this, even if I was allowed to. The unforgiving rigid and outdated style did also make my face look much spherical and older. There was definitely far more of a similarity to my dad than I’d ever noticed before.

With the cape removed, it revealed once more my new garb, and as I stood, I saw this odd mix of mod/golfer/OAP. It wasn’t me, it was old, styleless and I hated it. ‘Quite the transformation,’ Jack said, somewhat apologetically, while my dad just beamed with pride at having successfully obliterated my style.

We went back to the flat to drop everything off and I said I was going for a shower and to change into my own clothes. My dad pointed out these are my own clothes and these are what I should now wear all the time. By the time i came out the shower my old clothes had disappeared and I now had only a choice of earthy tone chinos and a variety of polos. Middle age had hit very young.

I tried to dry my hair in a way to give it more volume and a bit more messy, but it only managed to look fuzzy but my dad came in with a big tub of gel and instructed me on the big blob to use me how to coat every hair and then run a comb through it so it’s got slicked down comb lines, identical to at the barber, and just the same as his.

He told me we were going to go to the pub to meet his friends for beers. I really didn’t want to be seen, but I did need to drown my sorrows. His friends all made a fuss of how much a chip off the old block I was, and since my enforced makeover, I couldn’t really argue. My dad looked genuinely proud at their compliments and said I was here to find work. His mate Peter asked if I could drive, i said yes, and he said that he needed a well turned out conscientious man to work for him. Turned out I’ll be selling second hand cars. I definitely look the part, and today was clearly orchestrated to get me to this point. I may have a job, but the sacrifice of my style definitely wasn’t worth it.

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