Subculture in Manchester (Part 1) by KF_NDN

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A Transformation in Mick’s Barbershop

The shop smelled of hair gel, metal, and damp cloth. Mick’s Barbershop on Tib Street wasn’t a place for small talk but for resolve. Two barbers, both in gray shirts, sleeves rolled up, arms wiry like cables. The taller one—Mick—worked quietly, steadily, scissors in one hand, clippers in the other. His colleague Alfie, bald‑headed with thick sideburns, always wore a grin that wavered between mockery and pride.

Four lads sat along the wall. No one spoke much. Only the clippers buzzed, and from somewhere came a muffled pogo rhythm—UK Subs, raw, as if pressed through concrete.

The first in the chair was a broad guy in jeans and combat boots. He got his head shaved nearly bare, a bald crown with a polished shine. No word, no twitch. When Mick held up the mirror, the guy grinned wide.
"Clean. That’s how I like it."
Alfie patted him on the shoulder, and the guy put his jacket back on, collar up, and said over his shoulder, "See you in two weeks. Time for stubble again then." The doorbell jangled as he left.

Next was a skinny one, hair blond, almost white. "Make it shorter at the sides," he said nervously. Mick nodded, picked up the medium clipper, and ran it from temple to nape. The hair fell like snow onto the cape, gleaming in the light. The boy watched himself in the mirror—you could see pride and shame wrestling in his gaze. When Mick finished and turned the mirror, he suddenly looked older.
"At least now people can see your face," Alfie said dryly.
He smiled shyly yet stayed in the shop, as if trying to get used to himself with the new cut.

Then came one with almost black hair. "Buzz it, as short as it gets," he muttered. Mick took the clipper without an attachment, and a deep hum filled the room. The hair gave way in waves; after minutes, only fine, even gray‑blond fuzz remained. Mick polished the neck edge with a blade. The boy looked at himself in the mirror, ran his hand across his scalp, rubbed it testingly, then grinned wide.
"Feels wicked."
He stayed seated until the next one’s turn.

Jamie saw it all. He sat at the edge, hands pressed between his knees, every buzz, every rustle of falling hair making his heart jump. He smelled the razor’s sharp finish, saw the tense calm of those daring a first glance in the mirror, and felt it—this was something you couldn’t undo.

Then: "Next!"
He straightened. "Can I… uh… go next?"
Mick looked up, sized him up. "Sure, come on."

The chair turned slightly. Jamie sat down. The face in the mirror showed a boy barely able to grasp what he’d decided. Mick wrapped a black cape over him, tightened it around his neck—just enough for Jamie to hear his own pulse. Alfie wound the clipper cord until it drew tense.

"What’ll it be?"
"All off at the sides. Leave a strip in the middle."
Mick raised an eyebrow. "A mohawk, huh. First one?"
"Yeah."
"Then remember this—what’s about to happen, you can’t take back."

The buzzing began.

The first touch—a shiver across Jamie’s scalp. The vibration ran down his neck. Mick started at the left temple, drew a line upward, paused, then made the next stroke. The hair came away clean. Jamie watched the dark strands drop heavy over his shoulder, then gather into a growing pile on the floor.

A murmur from the bench: "Takes some guts, that does."

Halfway through, Mick stopped. "Look at that," Alfie said, turning the chair a bit. In the mirror Jamie saw it: left side bare, neat up over the ear—right side still the old self, messy, soft hair. Half a new life.

His breath stuttered. The air felt suddenly cooler on the naked side.
"Shall I go on?" Mick asked.
Jamie just nodded.

The trimmer moved on, around the crown, then to the right. Long locks slid in sheets over the cape, landing by the dozens on the floor, spreading like a shadow. The scent of shampoo and warm air rose up.
"Now you’re in it," Mick said softly.

When the clipper stopped, the only sound was the brush as Mick swept stray hairs from his neck. Jamie looked at himself in the mirror. The strip in the middle was rough, uneven, but already bold. The sides shone pale, still with faint stubble.
"Now for the fine work," Mick said. He took a smaller clipper, smoothed the edges, then spread shaving cream along the line. With the blade, he stroked upward calmly, scraping and cleaning until only smooth skin remained.

The feeling was indescribable—cold and warm at once, as if his head were breathing anew.
Behind him someone said, "Wait till you get outside. They’ll stare at you like you’re an alien—and you’ll love it."

Mick dabbed the sides dry, then worked gel into the middle strip, precise in every motion. Each movement of his fingers was deliberate, strict, almost tender. The hair hardened, stood up. He shaped each tip carefully, combing, then adjusting again by hand.

Jamie watched his head change—minute by minute, clearer, sharper. The sides looked narrower, the face more angular, the eyes more alert.
"Head down." Mick held a hand mirror behind him. The back of his scalp was clean and smooth, the stripe perfectly centered. Alfie nodded in approval. "Didn’t think he’d have the guts."
"What do you think?" Mick asked.
Jamie couldn’t speak at first. His gaze stayed fixed in the mirror. "I look different… kind of real."
"That’s you. Everything else was yesterday."

Mick checked the tips, adjusted them until they stood exact, sprayed them again. When he loosened the cape, the last remnants of his old hair fell in a small shower to the floor. A sea of brown strands lay around the chair—like the outline of another life.

Jamie stood. His hand trembled slightly as he touched the smooth side. It felt soft, almost silky, then suddenly cool again. He saw the other boys now studying him openly. Some grinned, others nodded seriously.
"Looks good on you," said the blond one, his own buzzcut still glinting fresh.
"Of course it does," said Alfie. "From now on, he walks different through the city."

Jamie looked once more into the mirror. Behind him the chaos of cut hair, before him a face he was only beginning to know. He breathed in deep. For a moment the shop was silent. Only the faint click as Mick switched off the clipper. Then a chair leg scraped—the buzzcut guy stood up to get a better look.
"Damn," he said. "That’s a real cut. Not half courage."

Alfie leaned against the mirror, arms crossed, studying Jamie’s head like a mechanic inspecting a new bike. "Clean job, Mick," he muttered. "Looks like the kid was made for it."
Mick quietly wiped the collar with a towel, nodded faintly. "Every head carries a mohawk differently," he said. "But on him—it fits. He’s got something calm. That makes it tougher."

Jamie still stood there, slightly tilted, as if he had to get used to the weight of his new self. His hand drifted again to the side of his head, stroked the smooth skin up to the line of the strip. His fingers felt the contrast: softness, then resistance, stiff gel, standing straight up.

The three guys on the bench watched him silently. Then one grinned.
"Wait till you get on the bus tomorrow morning. Everyone’ll stare."
"Let ’em," said the bald one. "He looks like he doesn’t care anymore."

Jamie lifted his gaze, saw them in the mirror behind him. It was as if he were seeing them all for the first time—no longer from below, but on even ground.
"Keep it like that," said the blond finally. "Don’t shave it off again right away."
Alfie stepped closer, tapped him lightly on the back of the crest. "You’re officially one of the ones who stand out now. No half measures, kid. From now on, you’re with the loud ones."
The bald guy grinned wide. "Or with the ones who get beat up. Depends on the neighborhood."

Laughter, brief, honest, echoing between tiles and mirrors.

Mick swept the heaps of hair together with one steady stroke. It was a whole pile—hard to believe it had all been someone’s head. "Better brace yourself," he said casually. "When you go out like that, people start taking you for someone. And one day, you’ll be that someone."

Jamie nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Then he looked again into the mirror. The light lay clear over the patterned floor, the chairs, and over that one stripe on his head that now separated him from everything that came before.

The shop had half‑emptied. The buzzcut guy left; the blond stayed a moment longer, silent. Alfie put the clipper back on the shelf; Mick washed his hands without looking up. Outside, voices, street noise, a truck passing.

Jamie stepped back, almost reverently, as if afraid to disturb something. Then he turned, gave a small nod to the room.
"Thanks," he said softly.
"No problem," Mick replied. "Show the city you’ve got some nerve."

Jamie opened the door. Light fell on the floor, on the gathered remains of his old hair. For a moment it seemed as if a shadow lay there, one he was leaving behind. Then he was outside, and the door clicked shut.

Inside remained silence, only the faint hum of the clipper as someone unplugged it. Alfie watched him through the shop window. "That’s how it starts," he said quietly.
Mick nodded. "Every first mohawk is a promise."
And no one disagreed.

"Take care, kid," said Mick.
Jamie walked to the door, feeling the draft across the freshly shaved sides of his head. The boys on the bench watched him go. Outside waited Manchester—different, louder, more open. And Jamie stepped out, with a head so new it almost glowed.

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