The Haircut Story Site

Maik and Tim - Part 1: In the mood by GermanCut

Maik and Tim �" Part 1: In the mood for a new haircut

31°C. I sit, my forearms on my thighs, my head hanging, in the shade of our small terrace. From time to time, a light breeze cools me down. But that doesn't help much: my body shines like oiled and my hair, chestnut-colored, almost curly and tied into a light braid with a hair tie from the forehead and temples, is wet by the sweat. Surprisingly, my hair looks good even in this condition, but I find it clearly too long at these temperatures. Since the heat wave, I've been thinking more often about making short work of my hair.
Yesterday was my last day at work. Tomorrow, we want to go on vacation. "We" means: my wife Nina, our son Tim and me, Maik. Tim is 16 years old, and it will probably be his last vacation together with his parents.
Most of the things for the trip are already packed, so I treat myself to the little break outdoors. "Keep a cool head" it is said, but my head feels hot, which is not only because of the temperatures, but also because of the thoughts that rose in me. They revolved, once again, around my hair.
I love my hair. I've been wearing it like this since my twenties. I have already received many compliments because of them. But I would never say that my hair is the greatest thing about me. I am 45 years old, a roofer by profession, over 1,90 metres tall and well built, because not only my work requires physical effort, but I practiced martial arts in my youth and now go to the gym at least three times a week. I have a handsome muscular body, without being a muscleman, otherwise: tanned skin, striking facial features, three-day beard, blue eyes with a tinge of green. I often attract attention, not only from women, but also from men. I enjoy both. I love my hair, but it's just one part that adds to my overall look.

My wife comes through the terrace door, gently wraps her arms around me from behind and runs her hands over my hairy chest.
I take my shoulders back and tense my muscles. Nina begins to massage my chest muscles vigorously. I look at her, saying: "Yes, the chest-hair will be trimmed today! I want to get off to holiday with a clean start. But in any case, I have to do something with my hair." I pull up a strand of hair with a pretended disgusted look. "I'm going to go to the barber right away." �" "Yes, please do that! We’ll have lunch a little later today. There is still enough time. But please take Tim with you! He desperately needs a haircut and was just too lazy to cycle into town yesterday." �" "Okay, we'll leave right away," I say as I start looking for my clothes. I already wear my colorfully patterned swim shorts, a sleeveless shirt, which is already very worn out and falls loosely over my upper body. I slip into my sliders and I'm done. I'm more than casually dressed. Everyone can see that I hardly thought about my clothes. "Awesome dude!" I say to myself. "I’m someone who doesn't care much about how he comes across to others! All that's missing is the right haircut, a haircut that fits to my clothes."
Nina has told Tim that I would go to the barber with him right away. Experience has shown that it always takes a little time for Tim to finish. But finally, he appears: polo shirt, gray shorts, white tennis socks, immaculately clean sneakers. My 16-year-old son �" as neat as a pin. Even his hairstyle, a grown-out low fade with long blond hair on the top, still looks neat, although the hair falls into his eyes. "Just relax!" is often on my mind when I look at my son.
"See you later," Nina calls. "Surprise me, boys!"

Tim and I get into the car and drive off with the windows wide open. "Why did she just say: 'Surprises me, boys?'. I didn't understand that", Tim says to me. I answer him: "I think your mother would like to have us both with completely new haircuts. 'Just a trim, please' would not be surprising. She wants two ‘new guys’. Imagine how she will stare when we come back with a completely different hairstyle!" Tim bites his lower lip, pulls on his long blond top hair. I suddenly say, "Tim, do you know what? You don't have to go to school for a few weeks and I don't have to go to work either. So it doesn't matter what we look like. I think we both get a bold haircut!" "What do you mean with 'bold'? Tim asks. "You'll see," I say, "I'll be the first to get my hair cut. Then it's your turn to get the same hairstyle. Deal?" "Hm," Tim says, "let's see." Enthusiasm sounds different.

My destination is Mr. Bollmann's barbershop. Many of my colleagues have been there, but often only once. Mr. Bollmann is known for his low prices, but also for his rather unrefined haircuts. "Totally messed!" some commented on their new haircut, especially those who were a bit vain with their hair. Many found their new hairstyle much too short, because Mr. Bollmann uses the hair clipper with great pleasure, but not always with good results. I had been dreaming of such a summer haircut for a few days: extremely short and inelegant. A haircut that we used to mock about as we were children: "Did you get under the lawnmower?"
We stop at the barbershop’s opposite. "M. Bollmann �" Barber" can be read above the shop window. We enter; a bell is ringing. "Welcome to the year 1965!" the bell seems to sing. And the furnishings prove this right: two heavy chairs with imitation leather upholstery in front of large, slightly cloudy mirrors: next to them black-and-white photos with hairstyles that were fashionable several years ago - or never before; a shelf above the checkout with a tiny selection of hair-gel and shampoo, a puny green plant in a plastic planter by the window, and last but not least Mr. Bollmann himself: a man in his early 60s in a white shirt and dark-cloth trousers with a short haircut without any refinement. My son looks around and seems to suspect that a wish like "I would like to have a low fade, and just a little trim on the top" would have little chance of being heard. Mr. Bollmann may not even know what "low fade" is.
But it's not Tim and my turn yet, because a man has already been asked to take seat on the chair. Type "warehouse-worker", maybe five years older than me, with a wiry body and despite the summer still conspicuously pale. He wears a wide-unbuttoned checked shirt, cut-off jeans, gray worker’s socks and sneakers. His hair can only be described as a mullet: dark blond hair that lacks any shape and has grown deep into his neck and forehead. "How should it be, Andi," asks Mr. Bollmann. "Like the last time," he replies. Apparently a regular customer, who probably uses to take a lot of time between his visits. Mr. Bollmann immediately picks up the clippers and shaves up the customer's neck - very short. The sound of the clippers electrifies me: this crackling sound! The clippers run through the thick hair and leave only 3 millimeters of short stubbles. In a twinkle of an eye, not only the neck is bare, but also the sides are shaved short. They look skinned compared to the mop of hair on the top of the head. I glance briefly over at Tim, who is sitting next to me and can't take his eyes off this radical procedure. At one point, he audibly sucks in the air and exhales it trembling.

The machine is put away and the scissors are used. "It's a pity," I think, but what the scissors are doing is also worth to see! A tuft of hair from the top of the head is clamped between the fingers and cut off exactly above them. An extremely short brush with little more than two centimeters of hair length remains of the mullet. The eyebrows of the customer suddenly stick out strongly, and I notice that he has a mustache that is only now really coming into its own. This haircut is certainly not a masterpiece, but it has turned an inconspicuous guy into a real guy, at the sight of whom the word "awesome" flashes up.

I sit there with my legs apart as Mr. Bollmann brushes out the customer's neck and lets him examine his hairstyle with the help of the hand mirror. "Thank you," says the customer. The third sentence that was spoken during the last quarter of an hour! Mr. Bollmann is not a chatterbox! When the customer's cape is taken off, masses of tufts of hair fall to the ground.
"Take a seat," says Mr. Bollmann in our direction as he goes to the checkout with the customer, who runs his flat hand over his short brush and then strokes his shaved neck with a visible sense of well-being.
My decision has been made. I want a haircut like this, but even more extreme. I put off the hair tie and walk to the chair, not without saying briefly to Tim: "Deal? Same hairstyle as me?"

(To be continued - if you want!)

Comments