Summer Special by buzzbro

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The sweltering heat of late June had turned our neighborhood into a hazy oven, with the air thick and humming from cicadas in the trees. I am Jake, and was 12 years old at the time, and my little brother Max was 9. Both of us had the same thick, dark brown hair—a shaggy mop that flopped into our eyes during basketball games or backyard adventures, always tangled and sweaty from the endless summer play. Mom had been nagging us for weeks: "It’s too hot for that mess! Why don’t we go and get it cut?" Max and myself always found a way to get out of it though, usually by running away and out of the house for as long as we could each day. However one morning, our luck ran out. "Right boys, grab your shoes as we are going out. You’re getting buzzed for the summer— uniform and clean."

We begged and whined, but she dragged us to Old Man Hargrove’s barber shop downtown, her grip firm on our shoulders as the screen door creaked open with a rusty squeal.

The shop was a relic: faded red vinyl chairs lined against wood-paneled walls yellowed from years of cigar smoke, the air heavy with the sharp sting of aftershave and the oily tang of clipper lubricant. Ceiling fans whirred lazily overhead, stirring the dust motes that danced in shafts of sunlight filtering through grimy windows. Hargrove himself was a grizzled veteran, his face etched like old leather, arms thick from decades of shearing. He was finishing up buzzing the head of a boy, a year or so younger than Max, whose previously long blonde locks had been unceremoniously reduced to short stubble all over. Hargrove dusted the boy down and whipped off the cape like a matador, the boy whimpering with pain as his scalp glowed red from the digging of the clippers. The boy handed Hargrove money for the haircut and exited the shop, leaving Max and I next for torture.

Hargrive grunted a greeting, his voice gravelly: "Hello there, what can I do for you today?" Our mother ruffled roughly through my hair: "They need all of this gone, they’re far too sweaty and hot under all of it. Just do whatever you think best - shorter the better". Max and I exchanged concerned glances at each other before I uttered "Please mom no! Can’t we just get it thinned out?!" Hargrove chuckled at my protests, before bellowing "Yes the mops are no use at all in this heat. The best remedy is a summer special ma’am. Buzz ‘em down tight—no nonsense." Mom nodded firmly, ignoring our protests. "Make it last a while and don’t take any nonsense from them, Hargrove. They’re squirmy ones."

Hargrove dusted down the vintage chair and swished the cape hanging on the back of it - hairs still clinging onto it from the previous boy. Then he called me up first—I slouched into the chair, my heart hammering like a drum. The vinyl was cool and cracked, sticking to the backs of my thighs through my shorts. Hargrove tied a piece of tissue paper roughly around my neck before snapping the white nylon cape around my neck—stiff and scratchy, smelling of starch and faint sweat from countless customers. It tightened like a noose, trapping my body heat. "Hold still, boy," he barked, his breath hot and minty on my ear. No consultation, no choices—he plugged in the heavy-duty Oster clippers, the cord slapping against the counter with a thud. They roared to life without a guard, a ferocious whizz that vibrated through the shop, rattling my teeth and sending chills racing down my spine.

He clamped a rough hand on my head, shoving it forward forcefully—his palm callused and unyielding, fingers digging into my scalp like vices. "Chin to chest boy, no moving!" he demanded. Starting at the nape, he jammed the bare blades against my skin, the metal icy cold at first contact. The vibration was intense, humming deep into my skull like an earthquake. The first pass scraped harshly upward, no mercy—the blades gnawing through my thick dark brown hair with grinding crunches and pops, resistance giving way in jagged bursts. Clumps of dark brown locks sheared off in heavy, uneven hanks, tumbling down the cape in a cascade, landing on my lap with soft thumps and sliding to the floor in piles that crunched under his boots. The air filled with the warm, nutty scent of freshly cut keratin, mixed with the hot ozone from the overworked motor.

Each stroke was brutal: he overlapped aggressively, pressing harder than necessary, the blades scraping raw against my scalp, leaving a stinging tingle in their wake. Around the sides, he yanked my ear down roughly—cartilage folding under his grip—the clippers’ whine pitching higher as they attacked the curves, nipping sideburns clean with sharp tugs that made me wince. Stray hairs prickled my neck like needles, some floating into my eyes and nostrils, making them water and itch unbearably. The mirror showed the devastation: pale patches of scalp emerging, dotted with red irritation from the harsh pressure, my face looking sharper, more exposed. I caught a brief glimpse of Max in the mirror, his eyes filled with terror and his body frozen upright with fear. My mother muttered something to him which I couldn’t hear over the white of the clippers, but the words made Max gasp and almost tear up.

Hargrove pushed my head back upright and ran his calloused hand around the back of my head checking for uniformity. After going over a couple of spots missed, then came the top. Without warning, Hargrove gripped the front of my head with his free hand—thumb pressing hard into my forehead, fingers splayed across my crown—and yanked my head back forcefully, arching my neck until I was staring straight up at the buzzing fluorescent light. The sudden pull made my throat tighten, a gasp escaping as my scalp stretched taut under his iron hold. "Stay put," he growled, the clippers diving in from the forehead backward in relentless, grinding passes. The vibration rattled through my exposed crown, the bare blades scraping viciously over the thickest waves, dark brown hair exploding away in heavy swaths that rained down my face and chest. The machine bogged slightly in the density before revving through with a growl, leaving raw, throbbing smoothness in its path.

My scalp felt alive and raw, every pore screaming from the abrasion, hypersensitive to the slightest draft as the fan breeze hit the freshly exposed top. For the finish, he slathered hot lather on the edges—foamy and menthol-sharp, burning slightly on the irritated skin—then scraped a straight razor across in quick, unforgiving glides, the blade’s rasp leaving silky but tender baldness around my neck and temples. Finally, a rough dusting with talc, the brush bristles scratching harshly across my head, raising goosebumps and leaving a powdery cloud that choked the air with its clean, chalky scent.

Hargrove sprayed an antiseptic over my head, then showed me my bald head with a hand mirror. A sinister grin was plastered over his face, as if he enjoyed carrying out this act of torture. When the cape whipped off, sending the last clippings flying, I rubbed my head—smooth as sandpaper, warm and sore, every contour amplified under my fingers. "Next!" Hargrove bellowed as he pushed me out of the chair, not a word of comfort offered.

As I stumbled over to the waiting chairs, Max tried a final attempt to save his long locks, desperate to avoid being subjected to the same punishment I had just endured. "Please mom, I don’t want to be bald! My friends will laugh at me!" he sobbed, eyes red with the stinging of tears. "No Max, I told you both that you are getting shaved down good so that’s it. I’m not letting your brother be the only one following through with it, now get in the chair now!" my mother hissed, evidently delighted at not having any hair care worries over the summer holidays.

Whimpering and shaking like a leaf, Max was up. He dragged his feet to the chair, small frame swallowed by the seat, his legs dangling helplessly. The white cape was immediately flung over the chair and enveloped him like a shroud, snapping tight and making him flinch. "Please, not too short," he whimpered, but Hargrove just chuckled darkly. "Summer buzz, kid—clean as a whistle." The clippers fired up again, the familiar menacing whizz filling the shop, vibrating through the floor into Max’s bones.

Hargrove gripped Max’s head even rougher—perhaps sensing the squirming—shoving it sharply forward, his fingers leaving red marks on the softer scalp and Max’s nose buried directly into his chest. At the nape, the bare blades dug in without preamble, the cold metal shocking against his warm skin. The vibration rattled his smaller body, making him tense as the first harsh stroke sheared upward. His thick dark brown hair came off in dense clumps—darker strands thudding onto the cape and floor with muffled impacts. The crunching sounds echoed louder in his texture, each pass a relentless scrape that drew a small yelp from him, the blades abrading his tender scalp with stinging pressure.

Max’s head was pushed to the right then the left, the clippers overlapping viciously on the sides, yanking Max’s ears with impatient tugs, the higher whine slicing through as sideburns vanished abruptly. Dark brown hairs piled higher around the chair, the scent intensifying—nutty and fresh, overwhelming the shop’s stale air. Stray bits tickled his face mercilessly, tears welling as he squirmed futilely and the clippers silencing his cries.

Immediately after finishing the back and sides, it was time for the top. Hargrove seized the moment: his meaty hand clamped onto Max’s forehead and crown, yanking his smaller head back with a sudden, forceful jerk that made Max’s neck snap backward, his small throat exposed and bobbing as he gasped in surprise. "No fidgeting," Hargrove muttered, holding him pinned like that—scalp pulled tight, eyes forced toward the ceiling—as the clippers plunged from front to back in brutal, overlapping rows. The vibration thundered through his arched head, blades grinding harshly over the crown, shearing away the last dark brown waves in explosive puffs that cascaded down his cheeks and cape. Max whimpered at the raw scrape, his scalp reddening quickly from the roughness, tingling fiercely as cool air rushed over the shaven top.

The razor finish was swift and unforgiving—lather burning on raw spots, blade rasping close. The talc brush scratched even harsher on his sensitive skin, powder clouding around his tear-streaked face.
When the cape was peeled off, Max touched his shaved head tentatively—the same velvety rasp, throbbing warmth. We stood side by side in the mirror, matching dark brown stubble gleaming uniformly, looking like twins despite the age gap. "There you go ma’am, two boys now ready for the summer" Hargrove announced almost theatrically, clearly enjoying seeing us removed of our Lucius locks. "Thanks you so much, it’s so much better for them now and at least it will keep them cool for a while!" my mother chuckled before handing over the cash to Hargrove.

As we exited the shop and walked back home, both myself and Max kept catching glimpses of our shining heads in passing windows, car bonnets and the likes. At first, we sulked—heads itching, sun scorching our exposed scalps outside. But by evening, biking in the breeze felt incredible, no sweaty flops in our eyes. Showers were quick, no shampoo fights. By week’s end, the forced harsh buzzes became our summer badge—cool, carefree, and weirdly liberating.

Our mom made it clear to us how much she liked our fresh haircuts, and suggested it would stay around for a while yet…

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