Mr. Helm Gets the Green Light by Manny

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It was one of those special weekends when I was going to stay with the Helm family. My parents were off to a college reunion and said I would be "bored" if I went with them, so I sought alternative housing arrangements for myself.

"Of course you can stay with us!" Mrs. Helm exclaimed. "We consider you family, Kyle. Now that Blake’s away at college you can stay in his room."

Friday evening, Mrs. Helm served us the most delicious beef bourguignon I’d ever tasted.

"I’ve been reading a biography of Julia Child and felt inspired," she said as the three fellows at the dinner table heaped on praise for her culinary talents.

"Your mother was an excellent cook, as well, Sweetie," Mr. Helm commented. "I’ll never forget the dinner she served the night I met her and your father. I was so nervous, knowing that later in the evening I would ask him if we could go steady. Your mother’s meal -- tasty comfort food -- set me at ease."

"And, I’ll never forget how shocked I was when you turned up at our home for that dinner with your hair cut short!" Mrs. Helm laughed.

She explained to Derek and me that when they’d parted from each other at the college break, Mr. Helm had sported a stunning mane of hippy hair.

"The first time I set eyes on him, I thought he looked like Thor or some other Norse god with that lustrous mane of chestnut waves flowing freely to his shoulders," Mrs. Helm reminisced. "My father was a cop and kept his own hair and that of my younger brothers clipped short. For most of my childhood, Dad sported a flattop! Obviously, I was quite nervous about how he would react meeting my hippy boyfriend for the first time."

"Yes, my long hair was like a big cloud hanging over that fateful encounter, so I decided to just bite the bullet and visit a barber," Mr. Helm recalled. "I had been considering the big chop for a few days when I came across a small barber shop by chance while out shopping. I chalked it up to fate! A very old school establishment, with two geezer barbers in matching white tunics. The shop was like out of the 1950s, frozen in time. The blaze of neon within beckoned me. I steeled my nerves, told myself ‘this is it,’ and pushed the door open."

The story about Mr. Helm having his long hair cut short in college excited me. I felt my groin swelling under the supper table.

"Did you get cold feet once you were inside?" I asked.

"There wasn’t time!" Mr. Helm laughed. "The older of the two barbers pointed at me and patted the chair. ‘Let’s not waste any time in making you look like a man!’ he snapped playfully. I knew right then that I was not going to leave the barber shop with much length. I explained that I was going to meet my girlfriend’s father, who was a cop, for the first time."

"Wrong move!" Mrs. Helm laughed.

"In a flash, he had me caped up tight and my head bowed low. He didn’t even ask for clarification about desired length before trapping my tresses with a comb and thrusting the clippers up through the dangling locks. The whirl of the machine and the vibration on my neck added to my sense of doom. At first, I couldn’t notice any change because the cut hair was falling behind me to the floor. But, when the barber moved to the side of my head, sheaves of hair began sliding down the white cape and piling up in my lap."

"Was I worth it, Honey?" Mrs. Helm asked, beaming.

"Shoot, I’d have had him shave me bald if that’s what it took to secure your father’s approval of me," Mr. Helm said as he leaned over and gave his wife a peck on the lips.

"Dad!" Derek shrieked. "That’s gross and embarrassing! Stop it!"

Mr. Helm flashed a mock hurt look and asked, "Gross, that I love your mother?

Then, he asked me, "Did that offended you, Kyle?"

"No! Not in the least! I think it’s sweet that after all this time you two are still in love. All my parents do is fight and argue. We never sit at a family table together like this," I babbled.

There was a bit of awkward silence. I felt embarrassed that I had spoken the truth about my own dysfunctional family.

"So, how short did the barber cut your hair?" I asked, returning the conversation to where it had left off.

"Scalped!" Mrs. Helm laughed. "White walls on the sides. A very short taper up the back, and on top, just long enough on top to lay down. He was Thor no more! Instead, Will looked like he was one of ROTC guys on campus."

"Mom’s right!" Mr. Helm laughed. "I mean the amount of hair on the floor around the cape when that torture session finally ended was staggering. But, I have to say, it was a bit exciting. My adrenalin was flowing. And, I liked the way the short hair felt. It was easy to manage. That summer was extra hot and humid, so the short hair turned into a double blessing."

"I hated his shorn look." Mrs. Helm added. "But, Will refused to grow it out to his shoulders again."

"I was getting ready to graduate, so there was the job search to consider," Mr. Helm said a bit defensively. "The hippy phase was part of my growing up and exerting my independence. By the end of college, I was ready to move into the adult world. Job, career, marriage, family…that sort of thing."

Mrs. Helm leaned over and tenderly pushed Mr. Helm’s thick forelock away from his face.

"I think this is the longest I’ve seen your hair in ages," she noted as she surveyed his glossy mane that oozed vitality.

Mr. Helm ran his fingers through his hair.

"I think you’re right, Sweetie," he replied. "And, all this talk about barber shops and clippers has me thinking…! Who wants to go with me tomorrow?"

"I do!" I said impulsively.

"Please, don’t have the barber scalp you!" Mrs. Helm yelped. "All you need is a bit of trim. Perhaps have it thinned a little. It’s really the forelock that’s a bit overgrown and weighty."

"Aw, come on, Sweetie," Mr. Helm implored. "Humor me. I’m itching for an ultra-short crop -- a good spring shearing. And, Kyle wants to come with me. What about you, Curly Sue?"

"Dad! I told you not to call me that!" Derek whined. "And, no, I don’t want to tag along with you to the barber shop."

Suddenly, Mrs. Helm seemed to have a change of attitude.

"Now, if it so happened that you went to Lowe’s to get that new light fixture for the bathroom I’ve been wanting replaced…and, you decided to pop into that barber shop in the same plaza…and you made sure to get your money’s worth," Mrs. Helm said with a sparkle in her eyes.

I realized that she was giving him the green light to submit to a severe shearing!

"You’re a gem!" Mr. Helm gushed. "You might even like it this time!"

Then, Mr. Helm turned his attention to Derek, "And, you, Buddy…you are coming along! End of story. No objecting. And those curls are getting clipped!"

Mr. Helm took a playful swat at Derek’s big mop of curls.

"If you add a stop at the ice cream parlor, and I won’t mind as much," Derek said with a twinkle in his eye -- the same look his mother had given moments earlier.

"And maybe some mini-golf on our way home?" Mr. Helm asked.

After an evening of playing cards and Risk, the Helm family turned in for the night.

I lay in bed imagining our upcoming visit to the barber shop and watching Mr. Helm shed his magnificent mane of silken hair. He was so handsome, and that plush mane of gleaming chestnut enhanced his looks! I wondered what sort of kick he got from getting scalped.

Suddenly, I felt myself getting hard. OMG!! Could I do it? Tell the barber to cut my hair to the same length he had cut Mr. Helm’s? I was sporting an overgrown mop that looked horrible.

Yes! I would do it! No matter how short Mr. Helm had his hair cut, I would say ‘the same as his.’

It took ages for me to settle down, and my sleep was fitful at best.

The next morning, as we drove to the Lowe’s plaza, I was able to study Mr. Helm’s hair. It was swept back from his face, lapping over his ears about halfway to the lobe and significantly covering his collar in the back. There wasn’t a dull or gray strand to be seen. His hair was full of body and vitality. Periodically, he would smooth it with his hand or take a peek at it in the rearview mirror.

"So, how short are you going to have the barber cut your hair, Mr. Helm?" I asked.

He turned around and flashed a big smile. He enjoyed the focus on his impending transformation.

"It’s a secret," he said, mysteriously. "Why do you want to know?"

"I like secrets," I replied.

"Remember what Mrs. Helm told you about her father’s haircut?" he asked.

My mind raced.

"He was a cop," Derek recalled.

Then, I blurted out, "A flattop!"

"Dad, don’t do that!!" Derek shrieked. "A flattop?! It would be so embarrassing."

"I think your mother would find it sweet and nostalgic. She misses her daddy," Mr. Helm said, totally not convincing any of us, including himself.

It occurred to me that, if Mr. Helm ended up with a flattop, I would too!!

"What do you think, Kyle?" he asked me. "Flat as a board on top? Sides and back shaved clean? I would like a landing strip, but I’m afraid Mrs. Helm would have me sleeping in the basement if I came home with a patch of scalp on top. So, I’ll have the barber leave it plush and boxy."

"A flattop sounds extremely short," I stammered.

"Look at this!" Mr. Helm exclaimed, holding his forelock straight up. "A good five inches will come off the top! That would be almost a year’s worth of growth taken off with one swipe of the clippers."

"Haircuts excite you, don’t they?" I asked.

"Yep, they’re fun. I enjoy them -- makeovers, especially. They can be scary and exciting, like riding a roller coaster. Watching clumps fall to the cape in the mirror is like zooming down an incline full speed. Frightened eyes, wide as saucers. Heart pounding!" Mr. Helm exclaimed.

"Except, when you get off the roller coaster, everything goes back to normal in seconds," Derek deadpanned. "But, when you step out of the barber chair, that’s your new look for MONTHS! All the taunts and jokes and comments…."

"How about a baldy cut for you, Derek?" Mr. Helm asked, snickering. "Curls aren’t conducive to a flattop."

"Baldy cuts are for little boys!" Derek protested. "How about a fade with a mass of curls left on top? Those blow-out haircuts are trending these days. Or a mullet?! A big mass of curls dangling from the nape with shaved sides."

"Fine, just tell the barber what you want," Mr. Helm said.

"I’m going to get a haircut too. I have money, so you don’t have to worry about that, Mr. Helm," I said.

"Just a trim?" Mr. Helm asked.

I demurred and said I was still deciding.

I tried to imagine Mr. Helm with a flattop. My groin stirred. I was torn between wanting to see him shorn by the barber and wanting him to maintain his magnificent mane of hair that gave him such a distinguished look.

Finally, I said, "If the flattop looks good on you, sir, maybe I’ll get one myself."

He didn’t reply, right away, but I saw him smile broadly.

Then, he commented, "So, I will know what you think of my haircut when you tell the barber how you want yours cut. Is that it?"

He had me!

"I guess so," I mumbled.

"My guess is that the two of us will leave with boxy flattops with beveled edges," he replied.

When we got to the plaza, Mr. Helm drove straight to the barber shop.

"I’m so excited," he murmured. "Finally, a flattop!"

He took out a brush from the glove box and ran it through his dreamy mane.

"I’m not going to be able to do that once the barber has dispatched these dreamy tresses to the floor!" he laughed.

Mr. Helm had a spring in his step as we approached the shop.

"This is it, boys!" he chirped in an animated tone.

The barber was a cheerful-looking man in his late 50s whose own hairline had gone far beyond the ‘receding’ description and was in full blown MPB. Dressed in a simple white jacket that zipped up the front, he greeted us cordially.

The shop matched the barber’s traditional appearance with all the essentials -- three throne-like barber chairs upholstered in maroon vinyl on the left and a long pew-like bench to the right for those waiting. On the walls were vintage barbershop signs like "Flattop Specialist" and "Ask for Wildroot."

I sauntered across the checkered linoleum to a large vintage chart of "official haircuts." My eyes locked on the flattop!

"It’s been a while, hasn’t it," the barber remarked as he studied Mr. Helm’s grown out executive coif. "Who’s first?"

"Derek, you go first," Mr. Helm said. "Kyle and I are going to do a little research and find a photo of the exact flattop we want."

Derek seemed excited about his father letting him choose his own haircut.

"Do you cut mullets?" he asked the barber as he climbed up onto the footrest of one of the big hair-cutting thrones.

"What is it with boys your age and mullets?" the barber remarked. "It’s a trend I’ve already gone through once when I was fresh out of barber college. Sure, I can cut a mullet. But, it’s full price even though you’re only getting half a haircut."

The barber cast a huge white cape that completely covered not just Derek but almost the whole chair, approaching the floor. Atop the pyramid of white cotton was a mass of curls which shimmered in the glow of neon.

Mr. Helm got out his phone and started showing me photos of different flattops.

"This is what I really want," Mr. Helm said, displaying a stern-looking military office with an extremely short flattop and push broom mustache, "But, Alice would kill me!"

"Show me something longer," I said.

It felt like Mr. Helm was my own father as we chatted together and laughed and leaned in close to each other, looking at various flattops.

"Do you like the way Derek’s mullet is taking shape?" I asked.

"Poor boy. Those curls were always a pain. At one point he rebelled against the baldy cuts I gave him in the kitchen. I wasn’t please about it, but Alice insisted that I let him grow his hair out," Mr. Helm recalled. "If he wants that rats’ nest streaming over his collar in back like that, I’m fine with it."

Mr. Helm fiddled with his forelock.

"I hope this all comes off in one piece. Lift and ZIP with the clippers…and, suddenly it’s resting in the lap!" he laughed.

"I’ll miss it," I confessed spontaneously.

Mr. Helm looked surprised.

"Miss my hair?" he asked incredulously.

"No, I mean, uh, um," my tongue was twisted. "Miss my own bangs…uh, maybe. I mean, getting a flattop too."

The barber was showing Derek the back of his new mullet with a hand mirror. The lad smiled broadly.

As he stepped down from the chair, Derek was all smiles.

"I love my mullet," he beamed, turning around completely so that we got a 360 view of it.

"Now, it’s my turn under the cape!" Mr. Helm chirped, rising and giving me a final smile before ambling away.

The glistening, soft waves that covered his collar were heading toward their date with the electric fast-feed clippers. Shortly they would be falling toward the collection of Derek’s curls that were scattered about the base of the barber chair.

"I’m here for my very first flattop," Mr. Helm announced as he mounted the footrest and eased into the comfortable upholstery.

The barber grinned widely!

"Ah, now that’s a haircut I love to give," he said.

"I see from the little sign there that you are a ‘flattop specialist’," Mr. Helm noted.

The barber began brushing and smoothing Mr. Helm’s hair with his hand.

"Satisfaction guaranteed, or your money back," the barber purred. "You’re certainly going to shed a lot of hair! Are you sure about this? You can have you money back, but not this fancy style."

Mr. Helm held up his forelock, like he’d done in the car.

"See this? It’s the first thing I want taken off!" he chirped gleefully. "I can’t wait to see it in my lap!"

"Ah, I see," the barber replied, "So there’s no chance of getting cold feet."

The huge white cotton cape billowed through the air and fluttered down, totally covering Mr. Helm’s body.

"I want the sides and back skinned, but leave it long and boxy on top, with slightly beveled edges," Mr. Helm instructed once the cape had been fastened snug around his neck.

"You have given this a lot of thought!" the barber remarked.

When he’d first engaged with Mr. Helm about the haircut, the barber had seemed hesitant. But, as he prepared to begin the transformation, he was full of energy and seemed eager to put an end to the executive look.

"Let’s take care of this first," the barber said as he seized Mr. Helm’s forelock with comb and snapped on the huge set of Oster’s.

Mr. Helm held his head still and blinked repeatedly as he waited for the carnage to commence.

The barber brought the clippers right to the captive lock.

I was on the edge of my seat observing every faint movement.

A dull hum filled the barbershop. Mr. Helm’s excitement and anxiety were palpable as he sat still as a statue.

Suddenly, the clippers plowed right across the teeth of the comb, a mere inch from the scalp.

I watched the drama with awe -- the massive forelock falling to the cape seemed to transpire as if in slow motion.

"Timber!" Mr. Helm exclaimed. "The forelock is history!"

I couldn’t contain myself; I jumped up from the waiting area and rushed over to see it laying in Mr. Helm’s lap.

"Good riddance?" he asked, appearing rather odd with the massive chunk out of his stylish executive coif.

Then, Mr. Helm reached out from under the cape and took the severed forelock into his hand.

"Look at this!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Helm held the beautiful lock that covered his palm up as an exhibit before tossing it to the checkered linoleum floor of the shop.

"Plenty more to follow," the barber chuckled, as he forcibly nudged Mr. Helm’s head down.

A shriek filled the shop as the hungry metal teeth of the Oster’s hit Mr. Helm’s lush nape. Almost the whole way up the back of his head the unforgiving clippers climbed, stripping the glossy mane to mere stubble.

I stared in wonder as sheaves of Mr. Helm’s shiny hair fell quickly down past the cape. This was going to be a huge transformation! And, I was next in the chair!!

"Big change," the barber murmured as he began the second drive with the clippers. "You might not recognize yourself."

I sat mesmerized, watching Mr. Helm’s bowed head being stripped of his executive coif. I crossed my legs nervously, hoping Derek wouldn’t notice anything unusual in my crotch. Fortunately, he was engrossed in a game on his phone. His father’s transformation did not interest him.

"Something different this year for my spring shearing. A flattop!" Mr. Helm said in an upbeat tone.

"Did you want a landing strip?" the barber asked.

"Not this time, but perhaps on the next go around," Mr. Helm replied.

The barber folded down his ear and brought the clippers through the full sides that had been worn swept back. A huge clump of cut hair fell to the cape; Mr. Helm’s eyes bulged wide with excitement.

"Wow, that’s short," Mr. Helm stammered as he watched the barber clip off the sideburn and take the clippers up through the temple.

"It’s what you asked for, right?" the barber replied, a bit defensively. "Skinned sides?"

"Of course, short is good," Mr. Helm murmured, still taking in the severity of his crop.

The barber smiled and predicted, "You won’t miss this fussy style one bit."

Mr. Helm squirmed in the chair. There would be no more styling sessions with the brush and blow dryer in the morning as he readied himself for the office.

"I may not miss it, but my wife will…." he commented.

The barber continued tackling Mr. Helm’s lush top using clipper over comb, taking the length off in quick, effective thrusts of the Oster’s. Mr. Helm’s glossy hair was sent in every direction, raining down alternately in snippets and torrents.

Lift and clip, lift and clip, lift and clip. The sound of the metal teeth of the clippers running down the plastic teeth of the comb made quite a clatter.

His shoulders piled high with cut hair, and his lap accumulated a cauldron of glimmering locks. The amount of hair on the cape and the floor continued to increase relentlessly.

Finally, Mr. Helm’s head had been shorn of all significant length. The barber employed a blow dryer to get the short strands standing erect. As he maneuvered the blast of warm air, massive amounts of hair flew off the cape to the floor.

"I feel so lightheaded," Mr. Helm commented.

The barber was extremely careful as he began flattening the top, very gingerly, at first, and then picking up the tempo.

"Not too short," Mr. Helm warned.

"How about a gentle grazing on top, an almost imperceptible landing strip?" the barber suggested.

Mr. Helm squirmed. I could see him gripping the arms of the chair firmly.

Oh, no….he was going to do it! To say yes!

"Go for it!" he blurted out.

In an instant, the clippers sailed down the top, gently grazing the scalp and leaving a small oval, a bit larger than a quarter, exposed.

Without asking, the barber took another swipe and doubled the size of the strip!

Mr. Helm jolted in his chair.

"What an amazing feeling!" he gushed. "Kyle, you need a strip too!"

My stomach churned.

"I want my hair cut just like yours," I said, in order to commit myself right then and there to a brutally short flattop.

"I’m almost finished here," the barber noted. "That is, unless you want the sides and back lather shaved."

"No," Mr. Helm said quickly. "I think this is short enough. I have my wife’s reaction to consider."

"She’s not going to be happy," Derek taunted.

"I daresay she won’t care much for your mullet either, son!" Mr. Helm retorted.

The barber tidied up Mr. Helm’s neck before working a little product into his short, bristly top leaving it with a waxy sheen. No more soft, lustrous locks for Mrs. Helm to ply her fingers through!

"I love it!" Mr. Helm gushed as the barber held up the mirror to show off the virtually bald back of his head.

The cape came off, and Mr. Helm instantly felt his shorn head.

"Wow! This is quite the look," he said, approaching the mirror to make an in-depth assessment.

He bowed his head to see the landing strip better.

"Whoa! That’s a big patch of scalp up there!" he commented with an anxious tone.

By that time the barber was motioning for me to take a seat.

I found myself dreading the haircut…but feeling secretly upbeat that Mr. Helm and I would experience superior bonding with matching flattops.

"First flattop, young man?" the barber asked as the cape sailed into place.

"Yep, and I want mine to look just like Mr. Helm’s," I said.

"Mr. Helm? You mean, he’s not your father?" the barber asked as he fastened the cape snug with the big metal clip. "The way you two were chatting I thought for sure you were family."

"He’s like a son to me," Mr. Helm explained. "And once that mop of his has been shorn into a spiffy flattop, we’ll even look alike!"

"I’ll have this shag taken care of in a jiffy!" the barber promised. "It’ll be farewell to the mop and hello to the landing strip!"

I studied my shag in the mirror. It was sort of a big zero. Just an overgrown mop -- no particular style or distinctive. I was relieved it would soon be gone.

The barber moved quickly. In an instant, my head was forced into a bowing posture. I saw a curtain of hair dangle in front of my eyes. My heart rate sped up. I gripped the arm chair.

Then, it happened!

The clippers roared up the back of my head, and I felt a blast of cool air where the hair had been stripped away.

"Take him down to the wood!" Mr. Helm called out cheerfully from the waiting area.

Even though I instinctively tried to dodge the clippers, I was no match for the barber. Why couldn’t I sit there still and erect, welcoming my brutal divestiture as Mr. Helm had managed to do? I admired him more than ever.

The barber chided me to, "sit up straight and stay still!" I felt like a little boy being admonished by an authority figure. OUCH! How embarrassing!

I gritted my teeth and determined that I would take my new flattop like a man.

"I was thinking I might go for the lather shaved sides and back," I commented, infused anew with determination to be bold and fearless. "And, as to the landing strip…make it generous!"

"I can lather shave the landing strip, as well," the barber noted. "Yes, you will leave here quite transformed. No more shag in your face or covering your ears."

"Mr. Helm set a good example for me," I said, a bit under my breath.

"I was happy to give him a flattop," the barber said. "It’s not often a man with nice thick hair and a salon style comes in here requesting a flattop."

The clippers zoomed up the side of my head, and I watched clumps fall away. My prominent ears had no place to hide. I felt woozy.

The barber showed no mercy to any length left on my head. Shorter and shorter and shorter he took me.

"A nice, clean-cut look," he murmured as he surveyed my stripped noggin.

Then he began lathering up my stubble.

"That looks like wonderful fun," Mr. Helm said as he watched the barber begin to scrape me clean. "One day, I’d like a full chromedome. Everything scaped smooth. No place to hide. Just scalp and face and ears!"

My throat felt dry and I swallowed hard.

"Would you like to see what that looks like, Mr. Helm?" I asked, despite constrained breath and uncooperative lips.

"You mean, you? BALD! Shaved smooth?!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, sir," I eked out.

"I would love that!" he replied. "So brave, so manly!"

"DO it," I told the barber. "Cueball. Hairless. I’m ready to come clean."

"A real tough boy," the barber remarked.

I watched as the razor scraped me smooth. It was cathartic, coming clean.

Mr. Helm stood close by and beamed.

"You’re quite a guy, Kyle!" he told me as he studied my shaven head. "We’ll leave here with one mullet, one flattop and one cueball!"

Then, Mr. Helm looked at the floor. "So much hair! Is there a broom? I can help with the clean-up."

The barber indicated one was in the back.

Mr. Helm hummed and whistled while he swept the shorn locks into a huge pile.

My scalp was swabbed with a warm, moist towel and I blinked to hold back tears as I studied my enormous ears.

"What are your parents going to say when they see their new, hairless wonder?" Derek asked, pointing and laughing at my naked head.

"I don’t care," I murmured.

Mr. Helm put his arm around me as we walked away from the barber shop.

"On to Lowe’s! I can’t forget to pick up that light fixture," he said in an upbeat tone.

Mr. Helm’s comforting hand stroked my naked scalp. That’s all I needed. I was glad to be bald. I was glad to be thought of as brave and fearless.

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