Flattop punishments by Jo

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Thinking back to my childhood, it has become painfully clear how I wound up where I am today—a freshly graduated barber in a small town in nowhere USA. I had purchased the small one chair shop from a retiring barber and was excited to have my own place to make my mark on the world.

Unfortunately, after a few months of operation I was nearing the point of having to close the place. A new Supercuts opened in town and business dropped off dramatically. I secretly wonder if the old barber didn’t know this when he decided to retire.

Anyway, back to why I wound up here. Sitting in an empty shop all day gave me time to contemplate these things you see. When I was young, mom would handle most of the parental tasks like clothes shopping, doctors appointments, homework, and the like.

She would even handle taking my brother and me to get our regular haircuts, at the same place she got hers cut, that is unless we stepped out of line. Then dad would intervene. We’d know when we had gone too far because dad would grab whoever was in trouble and order them to get in the car.

We knew what that meant, and knew not to talk back. When I was the one being punished I’d hang my head low and quietly sulk as I made my way out to the car. Even though the drive was only 10 minutes, time seemed to slow as I’d stair at my reflection in the passenger side window knowing that I’d look radically different on the way home.

Finally, we’d arrive at the barbershop where dad got his hair cut. It was a stand-alone building with a spinning pole and big front window so passers by could gawk at the occupants of the two barber chairs inside.

With just a look, dad communicated that I was to get out of the car, go inside and not say a word about the fate that awaited me. In I would go and take a seat on the wooden waiting bench, watching the people in the chair and wondering why they would ever come here on purpose. The ultra short haircuts everyone left the shop with were not in style, and I never saw any other kids in this shop. Mom’s knew better. No, this shop was reserved as a punishment to help keep kids in line. A lesson I obviously would need to be taught again.

When my turn came, I’d make my way to the chair through all the long hair clippings and neck tissues that the barbers would just throw on the floor. I’d hop up in the big chrome and red leather barber chair, my legs not yet long enough to reach the foot rest, and the barber would quickly apply the neck strip and whisk the light blue silk cape over me.

While roughly combing through my longer surfer dude hair, he’d look at dad and ask "what are we doing today, dad?" Dad would look me in the eye and say"he needs to be taught a lesson to remember so next time he has a choice make he’ll make the right one. Flattop with a nice landing strip please." To which the old barber would always respond, "one flattop to remember coming right up!" And he always said it with such enthusiasm, like he couldn’t wait to relieve me of my shaggy mop and make me look more like what he thought all boys should look like again.

The sound of the scary sounding clippers would quickly fill the shop as the barber would place the bladeless clippers at my left sideburn and run them up the side of my head sending 3" locks of blond hair raining down the cape. I remember sitting there frozen with anxiety about what I would look like when he was done and the teasing I would most certainly face at school on Monday.

The barber would clamp his free hand on top of my head and roughly reposition it as he skinned me bald on the back and sides. Mostly, I’d stare at the growing pile of hair in my lap. Occasionally, I’d look up at dad who just sat stoically watching my transformation, perhaps thinking back to when he was a kid in my position.

Once the back and sides were hairless to the barber’s satisfaction, he’d turn off the big clippers and grab his scissors. Starting at the front, he’d snip the hair off about an inch from my scalp and work his way back until all the long hair on top was gone. Next came the pink Krew Comb flattop wax and blow dryer to get the remaining inch or so of hair to stand straight up. Once we hit that point I knew to hold my head perfectly still or the barber would scold me.

Starting at what was left of my bangs, he’d hold his comb horizontally less than an inch from my hairline and run the clippers over the comb removing anything above the comb. He’d repeat that process a little further back and work his way towards the back of head. By the time he got to the crown the comb was resting on my scalp, cutting all the hair on the crown so short I looked like I had a bald strip running down the middle of my head. I later learned that was what the barber had called the "landing strip".

The barber would then keep making minute horizontal passes until he was happy that it was perfectly flat on top. Then he’d hold the comb vertically and work his way around the back and sides to create a clean vertical wall around my flattop. He’d finish up be putting shaving cream on the back and sides of my head and quickly shaving them smooth.

I think to be funny he would always ask "short enough for you dad?", like it was even possible to go shorter. I would have to fight not to scowl when he said that for fear dad might say "no" if he saw my face.

The barber would then undo the cape, throw the neck tissue on the floor with all my blond hair, quickly shave any neck hairs that had been covered by the cape, then spin me around towards the mirror giving me my first look at my 1950’s haircut. I’d tip my head down and just sigh as I saw how big he made the landing strip on top of my head. It would take weeks before I’d have hair there again. The barber would grin at me in the mirror with a sinister grin, then spin me back towards my father and lower the chair for me to get out.

Dad would head over to the cash register while I just stood there next to the chair rubbing what was left of my hair and looking down at all the hair I had lost. We’d leave and once I got home, I’d head to my room to hide from the world. I’d try to stay home sick on Monday, but my parents only fell for that once and since then saw right through that ruse.

I had Krew Comb at home, which should tell you I was punished more than once, and I was forced to use it the first few weeks after the cut because of the landing strip. After that the top and front would be long enough that I could wet them down and comb the hair forward to look like bangs and start the process of regrowing my hair.

It was this repeated trauma that created my hair fetish and led me into the glamorous world of barbering. So here I sit today reflecting back on those days when I had an epiphany. I now understood why that barber had his devilish grin and what I needed to do to save my shop.

I took out an ad in the local Sunday paper that read, "Punish your child, give him the chair! $10 Flattops for any child needing an attitude adjustment."

Below that I showed an old Saturday Evening Post drawing of a grumpy boy getting a flattop from an old fashioned barber.

The following day, I opened and things were slow all morning as usual. A little after 3pm a mother with her mop top son in tow came in. He did not look happy to be there, nor did he look like he had ever seen the inside of a barbershop before.

"Is this the place from the ad?" The mother asked. "It is, hop on up here young man and let’s get you squared away", I said as I laughed to myself at the flattop pun.

"Get in the chair Joey and don’t make me tell you twice or your punishment will be worse!" his life mom threatened.

Joey had no sooner made it into the chair when two more mothers came in with their distraught sons moping behind them. "Take a seat ladies, it won’t be long" I instructed.

I caped Joey quickly, stomped on the foot pedal to raise him with as much jerking as I could, then grabbed my trusty Oster clippers with the #00000 blade and set about shearing this naughty sheep as tight as I could.

Because this was my first punishment haircut, I had a decision to make here on poor trembling Joey—how short am I going to take these punishment flattops? Hmmm….i could choose anything between a regular flattop and a horseshoe flattop. Any choice is clearly not in style now so all would be suitable punishments. Hmmm. In the end my decision came down to the whole intent of the special—to punish—so poor Joey, and all future "Special" customers were getting a horseshoe flattop. The other deciding factor was that the longer the boy had to wear the haircut to grow it out, the more likely mom or dad might come to like the haircut and I’d gain a regular customer.

And so, with three moms and two scared boys fixated on poor Joey, I skinned his back and sides clean of hair sending masses of dirty blond locks everywhere, then placed the still guardless clippers on his crown about two inches back from his bangs and pulled the clippers straight back carving a bald strip over the top of his head creating the horseshoe.

All mouths hung open and not a sound could be heard other than my hungry clippers as they layed waste to Joey’s former crowning glory. Using my comb horizontally I quickly took the length on the top down until it was flat on top and about 1/2 inch in front where it was longest and 1/8 inch at the back of the horseshoe.

I cleaned up his hairline with shaving cream and a straight razor. About that time two more moms entered, each with a son in tow, the boys both shell shocked by the sight of the boy in the chair and the volume of hair in his lap.

I spun Joey around so he could look at himself in the mirror, and made a point of holding up a mirror behind him so he could see the full horseshoe that he now called his haircut. He started bawling, and I now understood why my old barber had such a devilish grin on his face when he’d turn me to see my new haircut.

As Joey’s mom paid for his haircut, I instructed her that she’ll want to bring him back every 2-3 weeks to keep that haircut looking sharp. She turned to Joey and said, "Oh, we’ll be back regularly unless his behavior improves". All the other moms heard this and nodded their heads. I knew that some would be repeat customers, some maybe even regulars.

By the end of the day, I had given 8 special flattops.

On Tuesday, I had already given 12 after school "special" flattops as word was spreading.

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