Class Trip ’95 (Part 4) by KF_NDN

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Chapter 4 â€" The Students’ Cut

Philipp was one of those who lingered longest in front of the mirror in the morning.
He wore a center parting, his hair gleaming with gel and warm blow‑dry tones.
On the sides it fell smoothly over his ears, curling slightly into his collar at the back. A classic mid‑90s style â€" neat, yet striving for coolness.

Now he sat in the red chair, head lowered, no longer sure whether he was trying to be seen or to endure it.
"Just the sides short," he had said.

Jan stood beside him, tightened the cape behind his neck, set the paper strip in place. Then the blade snapped.
The first hum felt like an electric jolt through the room.

The machine began deep at the nape and climbed higher than Philipp had expected â€" much higher.
A broad strip of pale skin appeared, sharply defined, as if paint had been stripped away.

"Up to here?" he asked.
"Yeah, yeah," said Jan, making the clippers buzz faster.

The second pass went up past the ear; hair fell in thick strands, springy and heavy.
Philipp saw in the mirror how it slid down his shoulder, saw his scalp glimmer in the harsh neon light â€" pale, almost pink.
"Short enough," he was about to say, but Jan was already on top with the scissors.
The comb ran through the crown â€" snip‑snip, swift, even, without pause. Ever shorter tufts dropped.

Time seemed to thicken. Philipp felt each motion remove an old piece of him.
"Hold still," murmured Jan. "Or it’ll go uneven."

More quick cuts with the scissors, then the machine again â€" this time with an attachment. It swept fast over the top, blending the remaining lengths evenly.
Jan took the brush and dusted briskly until no loose hairs clung to him.

Philipp looked in the mirror: his ears were bare, his neck light, and on top nothing left but velvet.
His face seemed suddenly sharper.

Behind him, voices murmured: "Clean boxer." â€" "Looks tough."

Jonas felt his stomach flutter â€" not from dislike, but because it seemed so final.

Philipp rose slowly, ran his hand over the short, dry bristles.
"Feels… unreal," he said softly.

Max had the thickest hair in the class â€" blond, almost white in the sun, with a carefully drawn center parting.
One of those cuts that required hairspray, mirror, and patience every morning.

Jan gave him only a brief glance. "Sit down."
Max obeyed, still half hoping only his neck would be trimmed.

The athletic barber â€" the older of the two â€" fixed the paper strip, fastened the cape, adjusted his head. "Stay still. We need straight lines, not waves."
A metallic click, then the deep, vibrating sound. No warning, no countdown.

The clippers started at the crown and cut powerfully down to the swirl. A ridiculously wide stripe appeared â€" right through the middle, where he always blow‑dried.
Hair fell in pale arcs, so light it looked almost white in the bright light.

Max flinched, wanted to speak, but the second pass came already, mirrored. The sound was so close he felt the motor in his teeth.
The barber worked methodically: nape, sides, transitions, then back to the top.

The air filled with fine floating strands that clung to the cape like dust.
In the mirror wall Max saw the shape of his head emerge â€" rounder, lighter, almost fragile.

A short clack â€" the attachment gone.
"The edges must be clean," said the barber, tilting his head forward.

He traced the bare blade once more along the sides; the hum grew sharper.
The scalp shone pink; it breathed, as if it had been trapped for a long time.

Jonas watched, transfixed, as Max’s face changed â€" more serious, more focused. The playfulness that usually surrounded him was gone.
When the buzzing stopped, the floor was covered with a heap of golden hair.

Max touched his bare neck, laughed uncertainly. "Cold," he said, "but somehow… real."
Jan smiled, switched off the machine. "You look freshly polished. Deluxe boxer cut."

Robin had a blow‑dried quiff â€" thick, dark, raised in front, slightly curved at the back. When he laughed, it fell across his forehead.

Now he too sat in the chair, head slightly bowed, because anything else looked wrong.
"Not too short," he said.
"Sure," the older barber answered calmly. "Head down."

The familiar hum filled the room again.
The machine began low under his ear: a cool draft, a first stripe of bare skin.

The barber worked quickly, up to just above the temple line. It was no experiment anymore, no preview. It simply happened.
"The sides come off first," he said casually. "I’ll leave more on top â€" that suits you."
"Okay… thanks," murmured Robin.

The buzzing continued evenly â€" left, right, nape, then the attachment change.
The barber took the scissors, stepped in front of the mirror so Robin couldn’t see him, and began at the back of the head.
The comb slid precisely through the thick hair; the scissors snapped quickly, expertly. First strands loosened and settled on the cape.

He worked forward, section by section, leaving the quiff untouched for now. Robin breathed shallowly, the muscles in his neck tense.
Then the barber slipped the comb beneath the front hair, lifted the entire quiff â€" a sure grip, impossible to resist â€" and cut just below it.
The glossy strands fell in one sweep. Less than a centimeter remained.

Robin glimpsed the uneven tips for a second, then the barber reached again for the machine.
"Hold still," was all he said.

The blade moved across the crown, taking the last stubborn hairs so short no line remained. No swirl, no lift.
The hum stopped. The barber stepped aside.

Robin lifted his gaze cautiously: no old style, no trace left. Sides bare, top evenly short, about six millimeters â€" a cut without a shadow.
Leo grinned. "Looks really good on you."
Robin shrugged, ran his fingers over his head â€" sides smooth, top rough. "Weird," he said. "Feels like I just woke up."

One after another followed.
The skins’ chatter rolled in soft waves â€" jokes, short talk about football, music, and always remarks about courage, style, that "feeling afterward."
The students listened, half embarrassed, half proud to be included in something strange and new.

The tiled floor was now covered with a mix of dark, light, and reddish hair. Hardly anyone spoke aloud anymore.
Only the last buzz of the machine filled the silence, then the soft click of the switch.

When the final cape fell, they all stood side by side in the mirror’s reflection. Ten heads, ten levels â€" bare, stubble, boxer.
The neon light slid across skin, shapes, and faces newly discovered.

The older barber wiped the chair with a towel, turned on the water.
"Perfect," he said quietly. "Clean work. Proper lads now."
Andi nodded. "Now at least you look like you belong."

Jonas smiled faintly. Not in agreement â€" more because so much light at once felt unbearable.
The room smelled of soap, warmth, and an idea no one could quite name.
Outside, dawn was breaking, and in the mirrors the last daylight glowed faintly â€" a quiet afterimage of what they had left behind.


To be continued.

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