Summer Shear by sandystormtrooper

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There's one thing my university didn't advertise in the recruitment campaigns: how stinkin' hot a desert is in the summer.

I had just finished my final exams for spring quarter, and was looking forward to a summer working for the school's computer infrastructure team. It was to be my first summer there, and I had heard the rumors that we got hot, but boy, did it get hot.

I had grown up on the Pacific coastline, where rain and cold were our defaults, and a sunny day was a rare treat. So, here at uni, stuck in a four-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a housing complex with just one AC unit in living room trying its best, I was confounded that I could sweat in my bedroom. We had set up a chain of fans to push the air from the living room throughout the apartment, but it wasn't very effective. I kept a box fan running 24/7 in my room just to avoid baking in the heat.

This contrasted to the winters here, where we regularly would stay under 10°. Half the year, we had to battle snow and ice, but it seems this half of the year the only task was to avoid melting.

I had fairly long hair at the time, and was sporting a 6" side part which hid my high, weak hairline. I didn't do much with my hair. Just shower, untangle it, and push it to the sides with my hands. Every month I'd go into the barber on University Way to get my sides faded down and the rest cleaned up. This was about the status quo, with most of my classmates rocking a variation of that, a mullet, or a fringe.

But with the heat, that mop of hair had turned into a wet, damp, oily mop of hair that was perpetually warm like I had just got out from a warm shower. We'd been in this hot season for three weeks or so, and it was supposed to get hotter was the summer went on.

It was a Saturday, and I was sitting at my computer, not doing much of anything. Now that I was done with exams, the only thing I had on my schedule was work, and that wouldn't start until Monday.

Every time I pushed my hair aside, as was habit, I was met by the wet, damp mop. I knew I needed ai haircut, something shorter for the summer. Ideally, something that wouldn't feel like a wet rag on my head.

I thought about driving down to the barbers, but Saturday was their busiest day, and I'd probably be waiting for an hour. My car's AC was broken, so even driving somewhere was a recipe for melting.

Just then, my roommate poked his head through the door, wanting to know what I was up too. I told I wasn't doing much, aside from baking in the heat. He was in ROTC, trying to get the government to pay for his degree, and had taken to buzzing his head once a week. He invited me to a make a run to the store, but I declined. I had gotten a stupid idea.

We had a set of clippers in our bathroom with a few guards that he used every week to buzz his head. I had decided it was my turn.

Once he'd driven off, I hurried into the bathroom. My heart was pounding against my chest. This is a stupid idea, I thought. This might be a huge mistake.

The clippers sat in their plastic case on the counter, guard still attached from the last time my roommate had buzzed his head. For a moment, I considered what guard to put on. My weak hairline didn't lend itself well to buzz cuts, but if I left it too long, it'd just be floof.

I hesitated. What did I think I was doing? There's a reason I go the barbers.

No, I thought, f**k it. It was too hot for hair.

I took the guard off of the clippers. If there's no hairline, I thought, it can't be weak.

With a full set of timpani banging in my chest, I plugged the clippers in, and flicked them on. My hand shook. I held a savage, uncaring machine in my hand. The question was, would I use it?

I took a deep breath. No one got anywhere from staying comfortable, I told myself.

I held the clippers up to my forehead, right in the middle. They growled, like they were hungry. If I was going to do this, I needed to commit.

I closed my eyes, and I pushed the beast into my hair. I felt the vibration of the metal as it slip across my scalp. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pushed it through to the back of my head. I had done the first pass.

I opened my eyes, and set the clippers down on the counter. Now I'd really gone and done it. Staring right back at me in the mirror was a line of bare skin, right down the middle of the head. No turning back now. Better keep going.

Pass after pass, I took the mop off the top of my head. I settled into a rhythm, and slowly, more and more scalp was exposed. I began to enjoy the sight of my long strands of hair falling to the floor. Over the next few minutes, I finished my initial pass, taking off the sides and the back.

I set the clippers down and flicked them off for a breather, and put my glasses on. A cueball was staring back it me from the mirror, light reflecting off the curve of my scalp. I couldn't believe I had done it. Who was this person looking back at me in the mirror?

I ran my hand over my head. It felt like sandpaper, with some rougher patches than the others. There must have been a few uneven patches. I fired the clippers back up, and went over everything again until I was satisfied. Then, with a sigh, I flicked the clippers off.

I was oddly at peace. The whole experience had been very Zen.

I looked down at the floor. It was covered with bits and strands of hair. To think that had just been on my head! I ran my hand over my head again. It still wasn't real.

I got out the dustpan, and began to sweep all my hair up. After two full loads, I had the floor clean. I considered my brown hair, bundled in the garbage can. Every month, I spent money and time maintaining that. Yet when it boiled down to it, it was just hair. There wasn't anything special.

I dusted off the clippers, and put them back in their box. My gut was in turmoil. Was this a good choice? Had I made a mistake? What will others think? What will my parents think? I felt oddly calm though: this was the authentic me -- without any frills. Take it or leave it.

I fired up the shower, and it was a shock when the first droplet of cold water hit my scalp. There was nothing there. As the water cascaded down my back, brushing away the last remains of the hair clippings, I finally relaxed. It was done. All I had to do was move forward.

EPILOGUE

Over the next few days, I got a few comments: "You cut your hair?" (Well, duh.), "I like it.", and "Why'd you go bald?". But by and large, I realized nobody cared. This was much ado about nothing.

Ultimately, I did begin to grow it out. While I enjoyed how much simpler it made things, I am a sunburn magnet, and I'd rather not play with skin cancer. But someday in the future, I know, those clippers will beckon again. Until then, I'll grow out the offering. What the fun of getting rid of your hair if you've got none to get rid of?

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