My Summer 2002 (another perspective) by KF_NDN

---

This is "My Summer 2002," told from the barber's perspective.
I hope this version resonates just as much as the first one did.


The morning was quiet. The sun still hung low, casting flat bands of light across the floor. I unlocked the door, raised the blinds, and breathed in the familiar mixture of shampoo, metal, and cool air from the air conditioner — clean, familiar, almost friendly.

I wore a black T‑shirt, slim trousers, white sneakers. My baseball cap sat backwards, two small silver earrings catching the light when I leaned forward to switch on the air conditioner. I liked things orderly — tools in their places, mirrors spotless, the clipper perfectly oiled.

The shop was small but bright, despite the narrow street outside. Two chairs, two mirrors, hardly any space for breaks. But it was mine — and whenever I heard the first hum of the clipper in the morning, I felt right at home.

Outside, the asphalt had already begun to shimmer. It was going to be a hot day, and hot days meant walk‑ins — guys who’d suddenly had enough of the weight on their heads and wanted relief. The best cuts always happened that way — unplanned, spontaneous, from that need to shed something.

I switched on the radio. A summer hit from last year spilled softly into the room.

A little after eleven, the doorbell rang for the first time. Heat drifted in. A sporty guy stepped inside — polo shirt, jeans, white sneakers, skin slightly sunburnt, hair parted down the middle, long and shiny with gel, already touching his collar.

"Morning," he said briefly, dropping his phone on the counter. I pointed to the chair. Just then, the bell rang again and another customer entered — younger, maybe eighteen. Dark hair, neat center part, shoulders faintly tanned. "One moment," I said. "I’ll be right with you." He nodded and sat down quietly.

I looped the paper strip around the first guy’s neck, tightened the cape. "How should I cut it?" I asked.

"Short," he said. Then, after a pause, "Really short."

I knew that tone. "Really short" was never just about comfort. It meant, "Make me someone else."

I grabbed the clipper fitted with a 3‑millimeter guard. The motor came alive with a low hum.

Right side first. I placed it just below the sideburn and drew smooth strokes upward. The sound rose in pitch as the teeth met dense hair — a crisp, cutting crackle as strands surrendered. Dark pieces slid down the cape and drifted to the floor, catching the light before disappearing.

He didn’t flinch. Only his look in the mirror betrayed he could feel the vibration. He watched as pale skin emerged — smooth, bare, a sharp contrast to the thick hair still on top.

I shifted my position, pressed lightly on the back of his head. The hum deepened as I worked the back — stroke by stroke upward, feeling the resistance fade until only smoothness remained. Hair gathered in a dark ring on the tiles, still warm from the sun outside.

Left side next — same rhythm. His faint sideburns vanished; the clipper’s path was precise and straight. Light glided across the newly bared skin, faintly gleaming. He swallowed once, staring forward — maybe realizing there was no way back.

I removed the guard, letting the clipper run bare. With slow, steady movements I traced the contour around his ears and neck, sharpening each edge. No fade, no blending — just clean contrast.

Then the top. I snapped on the 6‑millimeter guard and began at the forehead, moving back in measured rows. The vibration dropped into a deeper, softer growl. The teeth bit through the parted hair, splitting it neatly in two; strands folded inward and slid quietly onto his chest. Stroke after stroke, the surface turned uniform — short, dark, like velvet under light.

When I shut off the clipper, he exhaled — a long, steady breath of release. His face looked different now, sharper, clearer.

I wiped his neck. "Never had it this short, right?"

"Never," he admitted.

"Then welcome to summer 2002," I said, smiling.

I pulled out a worn copy of **BRAVO**, its pages soft from use. On one spread, Justin Timberlake stared at the camera — fresh cut, crisp white shirt, the look of the season. I held it beside the mirror. "See? Exactly like this."

He laughed, half relieved, half proud.

Taking off my cap, I revealed the shine of my own scalp. "And this is me," I said. "So don’t complain about three millimeters — you could’ve gone all the way like I did."

He chuckled. "No chance."

"Perfect for summer," I said, patting his shoulder.

I unclipped the cape. Heavy, dark hair slipped to the floor. He stood, touched his neck, then the sides of his head — fingertips gliding along the pale skin, then across the short, even bristles. He repeated the gesture, slower this time, like memorizing a new texture. A smile crept onto his face.

He paid, nodded, and stepped into the sunlight. Through the window I watched him pause on the pavement, touch his scalp once more — gentle, curious. Not ruffling, just feeling.

I set my cap back on. Baseball caps always carry a hint of mystery — especially when no one knows what’s underneath: a buzz cut or nothing at all.

The asphalt outside shimmered. Some summer cuts grow out; others stay.

And I thought of Timberlake — how since that summer, alongside his solo career, he’d proven that short hair wasn’t a phase but a trend that never ends. His curls were long forgotten.



I was still at the window, sunlight glaring across the street, when the memory came back — the day it had all started for me, at the "Die Hard" movie premiere.

I’d been in my early twenties then. The summer was wide and bright, shimmering with possibility. My hair was thick and curly, wild from the heat — more a statement of youth than of style.

Inside the cinema lobby, posters of Bruce Willis lined the walls: composed, unshakable. Right next to the ticket counter, they’d rolled out a narrow red carpet. A sign read, bold and playful:

"Free admission for anyone brave enough to be Bruce for a day!"

I stopped. My friends turned, grinning.

"That’s you," one said.

"Really?"

"Sure. You’re always after something new."

I looked over. There was a folding chair, a man running a set of clippers over someone’s head. The steady buzz hung in the warm air. I stepped closer.

"What guard’s on that?" I asked.

He grinned. "None."

Before I could think, I nodded. The chair was warm, almost comfortable. One of my friends called out, "Go on, do it!"

The man fastened a strip around my neck, switched on the clipper, placed it dead center on top of my head, and pulled in a single, confident stroke down to my neck. The hum ran through me. I felt each vibration as the teeth cut through my curls, then cool air rushing over the bare path they left behind.

Footsteps, laughter, echoes of conversation — the scent of popcorn and sugar drifted from the foyer. My friends stood off to the side, watching every movement.

"That looks awesome!" shouted one, just as the second pass came. His voice blended with the motor’s growl like part of its rhythm.

Row after row, the clipper moved from crown to sides. With every stroke, another part of me dropped away — curls tumbling down, circling the red carpet like a dark wreath. I closed my eyes, not out of fear, but to hold onto the sensation: air, freshness, release.

After a few minutes, the man leaned close over the hum. "Ever had them all off before?"

"Never," I said. My own voice sounded lighter, freer.

"Then remember this," he replied.

I laughed. The clipper droned until the last hairs fell. Then — a click, silence. My heartbeat, my friends breathing somewhere behind me.

The man opened a small bottle, rubbed something between his palms, then swept it over my scalp. It burned instantly, sharp and clean, fading into a rush of cool. I inhaled that scent — mint and metal, heat and courage. My scalp tingled.

"Looks good," he murmured.

I ran my hand over it — smooth, gleaming. My skin felt cool, reflective. I grinned at my friends; one gave me a thumbs‑up, the other just shook his head, smiling.

They handed me a yellow tank top. I pulled it on. Underneath, my skin felt new. My curls were scattered across the carpet like they’d belonged to someone else.

Later, I let the stubble grow for a while, until it itched. I missed the sleekness. One morning I took a Gilette Mach 3 razor, lathered up my complete head, and drew the blade slowly — from forehead to neck, stroke by stroke. The sound was soft, the feeling familiar. It became my routine.

A few weeks after that, I had small silver earrings made — plain rings, nothing flashy. Just the final touch to a look that finally felt like mine.

Even now, when I switch on the clipper in my shop, I sometimes hear that old buzz from the movie foyer — laughter, clinking metal, my hair brushing the floor. I didn’t know then that it was *the cut that would stay.*

I ran my hand over my scalp. Outside, the asphalt shimmered in the sun.

All that, just for a movie ticket — and for the feeling of summer directly on my skin.

---