Summer Special - Part 2 by buzzbro

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Mid-Summer Reset Buzz

A month had flown by since that brutal June shearing at Hargrove’s—end of July now, the peak of summer heat turning every day into a sweaty blur of pool dives, bike races, and endless ice pops. Our dark brown hair, buzzed clean to the scalp back then, had grown out into a soft, even velvet—about half an inch of prickly stubble that shadowed our heads and felt oddly comforting, like a fuzzy helmet against the sun. It trapped less sweat than long hair, but Mom noticed that mine was starting to stick up at the crown and flick outwards around the edges one scorching afternoon. Not wanting to let our gear grow back into the unkempt mops we sported beforehand, she made an announcement. "You’re getting another buzz before August hits full swing," she said, fanning herself in the kitchen. "We are keeping it tight through the rest of summer—no growing wild on my watch." Max and I groaned in unison, but we knew the drill; resistance was futile.

Later that day, we made the slow march towards Hargroves Barber Shop. The shop smelled exactly the same when we pushed through the door: sharp aftershave stinging our noses, oily clippers humming faintly in the background, and that underlying cigar haze clinging to everything. Hargrove glanced up from polishing his tools, his weathered face splitting into a smirk. "Back for the monthly maintenance, eh? Growth’s even this time—makes it easier to take down." Mom confirmed with a nod: "Same as last—close all over the head."

I was commanded into the chair first, the vinyl hotter now from the summer sun streaming through the window, sticking instantly to my skin. The same white cape was flung over me and snapped on my neck -still scratchy, still confining, carrying the faint salty scent of previous sweaty kids. This time round Hargrove didn’t waste a second; the clippers erupted with their familiar ferocious chorus, vibrating the air and sending that old shiver right through me.

His callused hand shoved my head forward roughly, fingers gripping like iron. Bare blades met my nape—cold shock against the warm stubble, vibration rumbling deeper this time through the denser regrowth. The scrape was harsher, grinding with crunchy resistance as dark brown velvet sheared away in thick, fluffy clumps, thudding heavily onto the cape and piling quickly on the floor. The nutty fresh-cut smell bloomed intense, mixing with hot motor ozone. Each overlapping pass stung the scalp more noticeably, blades abrading raw trails that tingled fiercely. Sides next—ears yanked down with impatient force, higher whine slicing close, prickly strays attacking my face relentlessly.

Then the top: his free hand clamped my forehead and crown, yanking my head back with a sharp jerk—neck arching painfully, throat bobbing as I gasped, eyes forced upward to the spinning fan above the chair. Scalp stretched taut under his hold, clippers plunged front-to-back in brutal, revving rows. The vibration thundered over the crown, grinding viciously through the soft half-inch layer, dark brown fuzz exploding in heavy swaths down my face and shoulders. Cool air hit the bared skin instantly, raw and throbbing.
Hot lather burned irritated edges, razor rasped unforgivingly, talc scratched harshly. Cape off—head reborn smooth, hypersensitive and warm.

Max’s turn came next, his small body tensing as the cape swallowed him whole. The same clippers roared; head shoved forward bruisingly, then the forceful yank back—his whimper sharper this time, neck snapping as blades ground over his crown, fuzz cascading in puffs. Tears welled from the sting, but it ended within a few minutes—matching bald velvet on our scalps once more.

Outside, the late-July sun hammered our freshly exposed scalps, heat soaking deep while the breeze rushed cooling waves over them. We rubbed obsessively at first—the familiar rasp returning—but by evening, diving into the pool felt even freer. The mid-summer reset kept us cool through August’s blaze, turning reluctance into that weirdly addictive liberation again.



Back-To-School Buzzes

The tail end of August always carried that nostalgic chill—a reminder that summer’s wild freedom was winding down. New pencils and notebooks stacked on the table smelled of fresh wood and paper, but our dark brown hair had softened into an inch of even regrowth, curling lightly from days at the pool and beach. Mom inspected us critically one evening: "School starts soon, and you’re not going in looking unkempt. Hargrove is away on vacation, so I am taking you to Evelyn’s Barber Shop—it’s an old place on Main Street I think looks suitable. I saw a sign outside yesterday advertising a classic buzz cut for back-to-school, which I think would be perfect for you both."

Max and I sighed, and the idea of an "old" shop put a bit of fear into our minds—would it be exactly like Hargroves? How we longed to go to a modern barbershop like most of our friends, rather than having our heads butchered somewhere that wouldn’t look out of place in a museum.

The next day, walking along Main Steet we came across Evelyn’s. It was like stepping into an old postcard: a spinning red-and-white pole outside, chrome-trimmed windows gleaming softly. Inside, the air was rich with the comforting scent of Bay Rum aftershave, talcum powder, and warm clipper oil, mingled with faint cigar smoke from the old-timers flipping through newspapers in the waiting area. Red vinyl chairs with chrome arms lined the walls, cracked just enough to feel lived-in, and a big porcelain sink gleamed in the corner. Ceiling fans whirred lazily, stirring stacks of vintage magazines and the soft hum of a radio playing old 50s tunes.

Evelyn herself—a silver-haired woman in her sixties, with a crisp white smock, kind eyes behind cat-eye glasses, and steady hands honed from decades behind the chair—greeted us with a warm smile. "Back-to-school boys? Come on in, dears. A buzz all over will have you looking sharp as tacks." Her voice was soothing, like a favorite aunt, as she adjusted the big hydraulic chair with a metallic creak.

I went first, sinking into the plush red vinyl that cradled me comfortably, cool against my summer-tanned arms. Evelyn draped a striped cape over me—soft cotton, snapping gently at the neck, smelling of fresh starch and a hint of lavender. She spritzed my hair with a vintage glass bottle, the fine mist cool and rose-scented, dampening the dark brown waves just enough.

Evelyn took a pair of Oster clippers which were hung neatly on the wall and snapped a #1 blade onto them. The clippers hummed to life with a familiar, reassuring rasp, vibrating warmly through the air. Evelyn started at my nape, her touch firm yet gentle, guiding the machine upward in smooth, overlapping strokes. The guard combed through the inch of growth with even resistance—soft, rhythmic crunches as dark brown strands shortened uniformly to 1/8 inch, tumbling down the cape in fluffy clumps that piled softly on my lap. The fresh-cut scent rose warmly, nutty and clean, blending with the shop’s nostalgic aroma.

She tilted my head smoothly for the sides—fingers light on my ears, folding them carefully as the clippers traced around, the vibration a pleasant tingle. Stray hairs dusted off easily. For the top, instead of yanking my head back like Hargrove did, she gently returned my head upright and faced me directly into the mirror. She leant a supportive hand on my crown—running steady passes front to back, leaving a uniform dark brown velvet that prickled softly, cool air whispering over my scalp as the length vanished evenly. No sting, just refreshing shortness.

A quick edging with smaller trimmers crisped the lines—buzzing briefly around my forehead and neck—then her soft talc brush swept away the clippings, bristles tickling gently across my newly buzzed head. The cape was removed swiftly before Evelyn helped me down off the chair, my sneakers crunching over the tufts of shorn hair laid all over the floor. My hand reached up to feel my newly buzzed stubble, and I felt a slight smile escape from my lips.

After the chair was brushed down and the cape shaken loose of my hair clippings, Max hopped up next. He was not exactly thrilled about another buzzed head, but he calmed by Evelyn’s chatter and glad that my head was not the usual chrome dome we had been subjected to previously. Same ritual occurred for Max: spritz, steady nape-to-crown strokes, gentle tilts, even top passes. His clippings matched mine, transforming his head to identical #1 fuzz—prickly, shadowed, and perfectly uniform.

We stepped out rubbing our velvety heads, the late-summer breeze feeling sharper and freer on the short stubble. School would start with us looking classic and matched—like brothers from an old family photo. Evelyn’s vintage touch made the buzz feel timeless: neat for class, cool for recess, and just right for the new year.

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