My Summer 2002 by KF_NDN

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My Summer 2002

It was the summer of 2002, just after school had ended. I was eighteen, had no plans, and wandered spontaneously into the small hair salon around the corner. My last visit had been some weeks ago. My hair had grown heavy in the heat; it was time.

The doorbell jingled softly as I walked in. Cool air drifted from the air conditioner, the room smelled faintly of shampoo and metal, light reflected off the mirrors. The barber wore a black T‑shirt, his baseball cap turned backwards, small silver hoops in both ears. His movements were calm, precise, focused.

In the chair sat a sporty guy in his mid‑twenties. His hair was what everyone seemed to have back then — a slightly grown‑out middle‑part, soft sides, over‑styled top, and the back starting to touch his collar again. They exchanged a few quiet words; I couldn’t catch any of it. Then the guy nodded once. That was all.

The barber picked up a heavy silver clipper from the counter, wiped the blade with a towel, and switched it on. A deep, steady hum filled the room — not loud, but so low it seemed to vibrate in the floorboards.

He started at the nape of the neck, guiding the clipper upward in controlled, even strokes. Dark hairs fell steadily, sliding over the cape and dropping to the floor in slow drifts. Again, another stroke, another pale strip of skin appearing. Row by row the hum moved upward until the entire back of the head was bare — pale, matte, evenly exposed — while the thick dark hair on top still clung in contrast.

Then he turned to the right side. At the bottom line he pressed the clipper flat against the skin and pushed it upward in a clean motion. In a blink the sideburns vanished. Hair loosened and swooped forward in thick arcs, flying off to the side with each movement. The left side followed — the same rhythm, the same calm precision. The neck and sides turned pale and bare; the top remained full, dark, heavy.

He switched to scissors. The metal clicked rhythmically, sharp and firm. Hair gave way like dry straw, sliding down the cape in dull heaps. He worked quickly, efficiently, as if trimming away the season itself.

Then the clipper returned, now with a short guard. He started at the forehead, slowly dragging the vibrating teeth across the crown. The sound deepened, steady and rough. The longer hair shrank neatly to a short, dense layer — uniform, compact like velvet.

The guy watched himself in the mirror, unblinking. Each pass drew him a little closer to his reflection, as if he needed to see each change happen. His eyes followed the clipper’s line, fascinated, half‑nervous.

When the machine finally stopped, the barber rubbed shaving foam between his hands and spread it gently over the short sides and nape. Then he flipped open a straight razor — real steel, not plastic — and began shaving in smooth, deliberate strokes. The sound was soft, like fabric brushing wood. With each stroke, foam disappeared and bright skin appeared underneath. When he finished, he ran his palm along the surface to check the smoothness and then smiled slightly.

"You asked for it," he said calmly.
The guy nodded — slow, speechless.

"Take a look." The barber lifted a small mirror behind his head.

The guy turned his head right, then left. The back of his head gleamed pale in the glass, a sharp horizontal line separating the shaved sides from the short bristle on top.
"Damn," he murmured.
"Boxer cut. Pure design. No compromise," the barber replied.

He brushed away loose hairs, removed the paper from the man’s neck, and unclipped the cape. The guy stood up, straightened his shoulders, reached instinctively for his head. His fingers glided over the smooth, bare skin and then the sand‑textured top, again and again, as if memorizing it.

The guy laughed, relaxed now. He slipped the change into his wallet, ran one more deliberate hand across his head, and walked out upright, his stride tight and sure. Sunlight flashed on the pale curve of his neck before the door swung shut.

I kept watching the glass a moment longer until the reflection faded.
"You’re up," the barber said.

My heart kicked. I sat down. The cape wrapped around me, paper strip snug against my neck. My reflection stared back — thick hair, perfect middle part, the classic 2002 look. Compared to the cut I’d just seen, it looked too careful, too safe.

"What are we doing?"
"Vacation haircut — something cool."
"Any inspiration?"
"Something curly, messy — stylish."
He grinned. "Timberlake, then. But Timberlake in summer 2002, not spring 2000."

He leaned forward, clipped the shortest guard onto the clipper. *Click.* Then the steady hum began again. His hand pressed gently to the back of my head. Cold steel touched skin. The vibration crawled upward, slow and deliberate. In the mirror I saw hair slide down in thick rolls, dark curls collapsing into heaps across my shoulders.

He worked row by row. Air reached the exposed skin, cool and shocking. Next came the right side: the clipper started at my temple and glided upward — three millimeters clean, firm line. The left side followed, another pass, another shiver of cool air. The sides and nape were light now, pale, neat, divided from the heavy layer that still hung forward on top.

"Ready?" he asked under his breath, adjusting the guard.
Without thinking, I nodded.

The hum deepened. He touched the clipper to my right temple and drove it up into the middle‑parted top. Dry hairs crackled under the blade — a crunching sound as the stiff gelled strands broke off. The right curtain of my middle part folded inward, fell across my shoulder, and slid down the cape like a dark wave.

I exhaled hard. The left half of my old hairstyle still hung there, intact, clinging to the past. Then the barber switched sides. A deeper growl from the clipper, another steady push, and the second curtain collapsed, scattering thick, glossy strands across my chest.

For a moment there was silence. Then he changed guards again, pressed the clipper flat at my forehead, and began guiding it over the crown in even paths. The dry bristle rashed softly beneath the teeth, rhythmical, constant. Each line shortened the top until everything was uniform — dense, short, alive.

When the buzzing stopped, the radio hum returned, faint and distant.
"You’ve never had it this short, have you?"
"Never."
"Perfect. Not a High and tight — three millimeters. Same as your popstar."

He grabbed a dog‑eared copy of **BRAVO**, one of those loud teen magazines full of glitter fonts and glossy posters, and flipped it open to a photo: Justin Timberlake, freshly cropped short.
"See? Looks just like this — summer 2002."

I had to smile. He took off his cap smooth, shining scalp a perfectly shaved head. "This is what I look like," he said. "So don’t complain about three millimeters — could’ve made you a skinhead like me. So quit whining about three millimeters."

"Okay," I laughed quietly.
"Summer‑perfect," he said, tapping my shoulder.

He lifted the cape, dark clumps of hair tumbled to the floor. I stood up, ran my hand over my head — rough, even, strangely alive. The air felt cool and new on my skin. I paid, nodded, walked out.

The sun hit hard. Wind slid over my scalp; every breeze felt amplified. I crossed the street to the supermarket. Marc stood at the register. He looked up, froze, then grinned.
"Dude — what the hell did you do?"
"I was planning something different," I said, smiling. "But I guess it’s Timberlake — summer 2002."
Marc burst out laughing. "Timberlake? Man, you look more like a skinhead. All you’re missing is a bomber jacket, a polo, and some boots."
"Then I’ll stick with Timberlake," I said.
He laughed, still shaking his head. "Seriously though — it looks good. Crazy short, but good."

I grabbed my soda and stepped back into the glare.

Outside, the pavement shimmered with heat. In the shop window my reflection looked back at me — forehead open, sides pale, the top cropped evenly. I lifted a hand, ran it through the short, dry texture. The bristles felt like sand under my fingertips, warm from the sun.

I stood there a while, just looking. It didn’t feel like me — yet somehow, it fit perfectly. Probably my friends would laugh first, then stare. They’d get over it. Maybe so would I.

The reflection in the glass looked straightforward, clean, different. There was something honest about it.

The wind brushed cool across my scalp, the sun burned warm again. Both at once — and it felt exactly right. I took a sip of cold cola; the fizz matched the electric buzz on my skin.

And then I walked on. Each step felt lighter, the sky somehow wider, the whole world sharper. Somewhere behind me, another clipper buzzed to life — distant, steady, familiar.

Maybe that’s what I’d needed all along: one cut to start over.

That summer of 2002 was mine — and it felt damn good.




Any further wishes? Let me know.

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