Subculture in Manchester (Part 2) by KF_NDN

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The City That Took Him In — Jamie After the Cut


Outside, the city swallowed him at once. The afternoon sun hung low above the chimneys, the light dull, almost metallic. Cars passed, buses braked with a squeal, and a gust of wind swept across his freshly shaved head.

Jamie stood still for a moment. The feeling was strange—the air was no longer just a breeze; it was coldness and movement, every small draft sending shivers over the sides of his skull. Instinctively he raised his hand and ran it over the smooth skin. The transition from smooth to bristly was sharper than he had expected.

He saw himself in a windowpane: denim jacket, color worn out, a gray T‑shirt underneath. Over his reflected shoulder, the narrow dark stripe down the center of his head. It looked unbelievably real. No attempt to hide anymore.

As he walked on, the looks found him—two construction workers grinning and giving him a thumbs‑up, an elderly woman stopping in surprise, a boy in a checkered shirt running a hand through his own hair as if testing how far he himself would dare to go.

In front of a record shop stood a small group. Two skinheads smoked, another in an army parka nodded toward him. One called out, "Fresh cut, eh? Looks sharp!"
Jamie just grinned back.

The wind blew straight down his middle parting, making the Mohawk’s tips tremble slightly. It felt as if something inside him was vibrating, a rhythm growing louder with every step. The street was the same as before—but it seemed different now, more open, more alert, as if reacting to him.

On the corner, where an old pub stood, a poster gleamed in a shop window: Discharge â€" Live Tonight, Band on the Wall. He stopped, looked at the letters, then at his reflection below—the outline of his head, angular, newly drawn.

He took a deep breath. The smell of wet stone, oil, and metallic summer air mixed with the warmth of his skin.

For a moment he felt connected to those who had stayed behind in the shop—to Mick, to Alfie—and to all who had walked out of there the same way, skin tingling, seeing the same city through new eyes.

He set his board down, stepped on, and pushed off. The rolling sounded harsh over the pavement. The wind of motion brushed his neck, burning pleasantly, while the shadows of buildings slid past him.

And Jamie rode on, not looking back, into that other summer—with a head that finally accepted the world’s stares instead of dodging them.

A few weeks later

It was afternoon, gray sky, mild warmth. Jamie stood at the bus stop—denim jacket, scuffed Docs, the Mohawk now stiff from daily gel. The tips had lost shape, shorter but sharper.
Two girls from his school passed by, whispering softly. One of them glanced at him, hesitated, then walked on. No "hi," no nod. Jamie had expected it, but it still hurt.

"Hey," someone called. It was Tom, one of the guys he used to skate with.
"That really you?"
"Seems so."
Tom laughed awkwardly. "Mate, that’s… wild. What happened?"
Jamie just shrugged. "Felt like trying something new."
Tom scratched his ear. "Well, if you’re joining a band now—it fits, at least." Then he left.

Jamie stayed there, staring at his reflection in the glass of the bus stop. Everywhere he went, eyes lingered. The haircut wasn’t an accessory—it was both warning and invitation.

That weekend he was back at the barbershop. The place buzzed as always. Two new lads were there, both with long hair, nervous and uncertain. Alfie grinned. "Contagious, isn’t it? The new kid set the standard."
The first of the two didn’t hesitate long. "Give me one like that," he said. Mick looked at Jamie. "Your work’s spreading."

The trimmer started up. Again the buzzing, again the falling hair. In the mirror, Jamie saw the boy before him taking the same path—first one strip, then the other, the middle left standing.
Slowly the floor filled again with hair—light, dark, golden.

When the second one stepped up, the air grew electric. "Should I leave it short?" he asked.
"Do it right," shouted Alfie. "Or stay the way you are."
He did it right.

In the end, three boys stood before the mirror—three Mohawks, three versions of the same attitude. No one said much. But the picture—three heads, alike yet individual—remained.

Weeks passed, the mohawk had grown shorter, rougher. Some tips had been cut off, others had broken off on their own. Jamie wore it like a statement â€" still edgy, but no longer as proud as on the first day. He hung out with a couple of guys from the area who were also trying to make something of themselves â€" punks, skaters, kids with more attitude than plan.

One of them was Craig. Two, three years older, always in a studded jacket and with an opinion on everything. They were sitting by the canal late in the evening, beer cans between them, the water black and sluggish.
"A mohawk is a really good haircut, Jamie," Craig said, "but honestly, yours is kind of out of control. If you’re gonna have one, you’ve got to do it properly."
"I can’t be bothered to redo it every week," Jamie replied tiredly.

Jamie wanted to brush it off, but he was unsure; after all, he didn’t have much experience with this haircut yet and thought it might be a good idea to follow Craig’s advice.

He sat down on the cold concrete wall, the river in front of him, the sun low behind the warehouses. The sky pale pink, the water like liquid metal.
Craig positioned himself behind him and pulled out an old pair of scissors. "Tilt your head slightly forward. Yeah, like that."
Craig grabbed the mohawk with one hand, held the hair tight and cut it off with the scissors quite ruthlessly. Long strands fell heavily over Jamie’s shoulders, fluttered briefly in the evening breeze and landed on the concrete. Craig worked roughly, unevenly, as if he wanted to reinvent the haircut. Metal clicked; the sound of the scissors was hard, dry, final.

"Not so much!" Jamie shouted when Craig held a few of the cut-off strands almost with relish right in front of his eyes and simply let them drop.
The others laughed. "Oi, that’s not even a real mohawk anymore!" one of them yelled. "It’s all different lengths!"

"Don’t worry," Craig said calmly, "I’m not done yet." He pulled a comb out of his jacket pocket, set it at the front of Jamie’s hairline and ran it again and again from front to back across his head. With each stroke he cut off new tips, shortened, smoothed, until the hair was about one and a half centimetres long all over.

When he was finished, the change was absolutely insane. Still somehow punk â€" but no longer a mohawk. Just a narrow strip about five centimetres wide from forehead to nape, evenly short, barely longer than 1.5 cm.

Jamie stared into the window of an empty shop. So this was him now? The resistance had been reduced to a few centimetres. He looked different â€" edgier, but also disarmingly plain. He didn’t know whether he liked it.

Later, in the bathroom at home, he looked at himself in the mirror. The short strip stood almost still, no defiance, no spikes. Just hair that barely hid anything. His gaze grew uncertain. It felt like something in between â€" something that was neither rebellious nor tame.

The next afternoon, on Oldham Street, he ran into Mark â€" the older skinhead with the sideburns he had seen back then in the barbershop. Mark looked at him and whistled through his teeth.
"What’s that, lad? Looks like someone cut your hair in the dark."
Jamie gave a thin smile. "Pretty much. A friend thought he’d do it better."
"Down by the canal? Big mistake. Come by tonight. Mick will fix it."

In the evening the shop was empty. Only the hum of the neon tube, the smell of alcohol and metal. Mick stood there with his arms crossed. "What did they do to you?"
"Call it an experiment."
"Then it went wrong."

He reached for comb and clippers. A soft hum, deliberate strokes. Mick worked section by section. First he shortened the strip a bit more, then he took off the fine guard. The sound dropped deeper, the buzzing vibrated over Jamie’s scalp. The last remnants of the mohawk fell to the floor, scattered like shavings. Finally, he switched to the razor â€" and the buzzing became quieter, almost soothing.

After a few minutes everything was evenly short, barely half a millimetre. Skin and hair merged into a smooth surface with a matte sheen.
"There," Mick said quietly, "now it’s clear."

Mark nodded, satisfied. "Looks like someone who knows what he wants."
Jamie carefully ran his hand over his head. The skin was warm from the clippers, the air cool above it. It felt as if he had shed everything unnecessary.

"How does it feel?" Mick asked.
"I don’t even know what to say. It’s… it’s… just like sandpaper. It’s indescribable."
"Welcome to the skinheads," Mick said. "It seems your hair will never be longer than 3 millimetres again, I guess." Jamie thought the same.

A few days later, at the bus stop, Jamie saw Tom again â€" the same as back then.
Tom stopped, blinked. "Jamie?"
"Yeah."
"Wow… you look different."
"You think so?"
Tom grinned and stepped closer. "Yeah. There’s nothing left to distract. That’s just a hundred percent you."

Jamie laughed quietly, unsure but honest. Tom smiled back, stepped another half-step closer and slowly raised his hand. Carefully, he ran his fingers over Jamie’s head, along the short, fine stubble. "Smooth. Feels powerful. And that resistance. You don’t want to stop."

The bus arrived. They got on and sat down next to each other. There was hardly any space between them, but also no rush. Outside, rooftops slid by, the light reflected on the windows.
Tom glanced over at him, his smile calm, almost shy.

Jamie leaned back, felt the faint tremor of the engine beneath the seats â€" and somewhere in it, barely noticeable, the same vibration as back then when the wind first rushed over his freshly shorn head.

The city outside looked different. Nothing distracted anymore. Just clarity â€" and the thought that closeness sometimes begins exactly where there’s nothing left to hide behind.

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