My Summer 2002 (Part 3: Kevin) by KF_NDN

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This chapter continues the story My Summer 2002 (Part 2)
It follows Kevin, a sixteen‑year‑old who only knows Marc and Jonas from afar â€" two figures whose bold, clean‑shaven look has started to echo through his summer as well.


My Summer 2002 â€" Part 3 â€" Kevin

Kevin only knew Marc and Jonas by sight.
Not personally — just from around town: two guys who suddenly stood out.
First Jonas with his "Timberlake" cut, then Marc, even shorter, smoother.
People talked about them; some joked, others stared twice.
Kevin just listened. He was sixteen, went to the neighboring school — one of those quiet boys no one really noticed.

He lived with his mother in a small apartment above a beverage store.
His father had been gone for years.
Most afternoons he drifted through the streets, spent time at the bus station, listened to his Discman just to stay away from home.
Sometimes he’d spot Marc or Jonas — at the kiosk, on the square — always calm, self‑contained.
He wondered what had changed in them, and why they looked like they’d shed a layer he was still stuck in.



### The Locker Room

The thought came back during gym class.
The air was thick with steam and shampoo.
Two classmates — Timo and Arne — had brought a small hair trimmer, just for fun.

"Come on, let me clean up your sides. Too hot for this mop."
Laughter.
The trimmer’s buzz filled the tiled room, humming between the metal hooks.
Fine, dark hairs clung to wet skin, slid with the water over shoulders into the drain.
"Looks good — short’s the only honest way!" someone called.

Kevin sat on the bench tying his shoes, pretending not to watch.
He only heard the steady hum — sharp, close, almost soothing.
When the machine stopped, the sound stayed in his head, like an engine idling somewhere far away.

***

### The Afternoon at the Mall

A few days later — Saturday.
The August sun burned, the air heavy.
Kevin took a bus to the shopping center — somewhere to be, nowhere in particular.
Cold A/C, pop music from speakers, the smell of fries — his city wrapped in glass and noise.

In front of the big electronics store, a small promotional stage caught his eye.
Above it hung a red banner:

**"Summer Event â€" Festival Pit Stop 2002 â€" DIY Hair Clipper!"**

Two promoters in red polos, mics, upbeat music bouncing off the floor tiles.
One explained into the microphone how easy the new model was to use.
On the demo chair sat a tan youth, maybe nineteen, festival wristband on his arm.

"How short should we go?" asked the promoter.
"The shortest you’ve got!" the boy laughed.
The crowd clapped and gathered closer.

The trimmer began to hum, dark strands sliding from cape to floor.
Neon light flashed across freshly exposed skin.
"That’s the look!" the promoter shouted. "Clean, simple â€" ready for the festival!"

Kevin watched from the second row.
He knew that sound — the same calm, electric drone as in the locker room.
It felt right, somehow.

Then the promoter wiped the chair, scanning the crowd — and stopped.
"You there, the guy with the backpack," he called, friendly, into the mic.
"Perfect demo material! Those hairs are made for this — bit of that old ’90s style, right?
Let’s show everyone how it looks without the guard. People think it doesn’t work, but it really does!"

Heads turned toward Kevin.
He froze for half a second; the moment escaped him.

"Come on, three minutes, tops," the promoter added in a normal voice, motioning him forward.
Kevin stepped closer before he’d fully decided to.

His hair was light brown, slightly wavy, parted down the middle — long enough to need constant fixing, a leftover style from an earlier year.
Perfect for a before‑and‑after.

***

### The Cut

The trimmer buzzed again — this time without the guard.
Kevin sat still, hands tight on his knees.
The first pass cut straight across his forehead; a thick lock slid down his shoulder and fell.
He blinked but said nothing.

The promoter kept working, steady and calm, hair after hair falling through the bright air.
"See?" he told the small crowd. "Smooth, even â€" no pulling, no snagging."
Kevin barely heard him, only the hum.
With every sweep he felt cooler, lighter, more exposed â€" but not in a bad way.

Through the shifting people he suddenly spotted two familiar faces.
Marc, relaxed, calm.
Jonas beside him, cap tilted back.
They were watching â€" not judging, not smiling, just there.

Then silence.
The hum died away, replaced by the dull echo of A/C.
The promoter brushed off his neck, satisfied.
"There we go. Looks great â€" without the guard, clean all over. Ready for summer!"

He held out a handheld mirror.
Kevin lifted his palm to his head â€" only short bristle left, even and smooth.
Cold air brushed the skin, almost ticklish.

He stood up, nodded awkwardly, took the flyer bag the promoter handed him.
Someone clapped behind him. Music started again.

Warm light through the glass roof, air conditioning on almost bare skin.
As Kevin walked toward the exit, the mall doors reflected his face: a younger version, sharper, simpler.

Outside, the air moved over his scalp.
He thought of the locker room, the hum, Jonas and Marc somewhere in the crowd.
Maybe they’d seen him. Maybe not. But within 3 minutes he becomes a skinhead which was not planned.

Either way, he knew now what it felt like.

***

What happens next?

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