Mother-in-Law Miracle by Manny

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Mother-in-law miracle


"What’s wrong?" I asked my pal Tristan, who was obviously stewing over something.

He sat in the cafeteria looking down-in-the-dumps and pushing uneaten food around on his plate.

"Nothing," he muttered, in an expressionless manner that conveyed just the opposite.

"Come on," I chided.

He looked up at me and reversed course on his assessment.

"Everything," he muttered.

"Nothing’s wrong, everything’s wrong…. Make up your mind! Did your house get crushed by a falling tree? Has your daughter been diagnosed with leukemia? Did you get a notice from the IRS that you’re being audited? Did you get sacked from your job?"

With each outlandish scenario, Tristan relaxed a bit more and started to smile.

"It’s my mother-in-law," he said. "She’s coming for a three-week stay, starting Sunday."

"So?" I replied. "When my mother-in-law comes, it means free childcare; Nancy and I can go out in the evening without worrying. Nonna bakes apple pies that are to-die for! And, she always arrives with a generous check for the kids’ 529 education funds."

"Nonna sounds like the fairy godmother," Tristan sighed. "Mine…well, think of Maleficent! She arrives spewing criticism and condemnation. Why are we still living in a cracker box? Why do I have such awful table manners? Why don’t I spend more quality time with the kids, and why don’t I make them mind their manners better? Why aren’t I more regular at church? And, have I ever thought of taking her daughter on a special get-away so she can indulge herself?"

"And, I guess the answer would be that…." I said gently.

"Don’t you start on me too!" Tristan snapped. "I don’t care about half of the stuff she harps on about or the money to address the other complaints. And, that can be blamed on THIS!"

Tristan pulled his thick, blond ponytail from behind and draped it down his chest.

"She doesn’t like this either," he harumphed, as he fondled his trademark tress -- a glistening golden tail that dangled down nearly to his waist. "Get a decent haircut, and you might get a promotion in the office, she nags!"

"Well, on that topic, I have to agree with her," I said, sorry that I’d begun the conversation.

We both ate in silence for a while.

Finally, Tristan spoke. "I get what you meant about how things could be really bad with falling trees, ill children and unemployment. It’s just that I dread three weeks with that woman."

I didn’t respond. We kept eating.

Then, he came back to our conversation, again. Poor guy….

"So, you agree about the hair…the big chop," Tristan groused.

By this time, the tail had been slung back behind him.

"Ever heard the advice to look and dress like the next job up the ladder you’re aiming for? See any of our managers with a monstrous mass of hair streaming down their backs?" I laughed. "Seriously, Tristan, you need to visit a barber…."

"…and get a decent haircut. Tapered short around the ears and up the back, parted on the side and combed over. Would that please you? I’m sure it would delight dear Ma-ma as she makes me call her!" Tristan said in another outburst of frustration.

"Hey, don’t pin your aggravation on me! I was just trying to be helpful," I snapped.

I stood quickly, eager to leave.

"I’m sorry," Tristan stammered. "Don’t leave. I’ll try to be less grumpy."

I sat back down, as he requested.

"Yes, less grumpy. That’s really what you need," I remarked. "Try to focus on the positive things in your life. Even with your mother-in-law’s visit. Does she cheer your wife up at all and play with the kids?"

"Yep," Tristan said. "She also cooks the family meals, so we have some great food; and, Laurie gets a break from arriving home from work and launching right into domestic chores."

Tristan pulled his tail back around and fondled it, a bit.

"I really should cut it," he murmured. "You’re right about the managers here; this is obviously not helping."

He sat silently, cogitating. Then, he studied my haircut. It was like the fussy businesscut he had described earlier. A medium taper around the ears with a side part. A longer, fuller forelock swept over gave me just the tiniest bit of flair and showcased the rich chestnut color of my hair.

"I can take you to my barber, after work, if that would help," I said, despite some reservations that, somehow, I might become the focal point of his frustration again.

Tristan stood up, looking weary and drained.

"I don’t know," he said without any emotion. "I’ll think about it."

Back at my desk, I tried to focus on the spreadsheet glowing on my monitor, but my mind kept drifting back to Tristan and that ponytail. Why had I piled on him? He was already feeling miserable….

I told myself it was because I cared about him and wanted to help. And that was true, partly. But there was something else under it.

The truth was, I’d always believed in fitting in -- smoothing the edges, keeping the peace, doing what was expected so the world didn’t push back so hard. I guess that was how I was raised and how I’d always survived. Follow the norms and life tends to go easier.

To think of funny, quirky Tristan -- walking around with that golden rope of hair trailing down his back -- I wondered whether I might be a bit envious of his spontaneous, easy manner! There was a part of me that wanted to shed the conformity and push back against the societal norms. Maybe be a bit wild, even! Less reliable, less dependable. But, I knew I probably could never withstand the reactions, opinions, judgments, and assumptions that unconventional behavior would invite. Frankly, I could never understand why someone would willingly take on that kind of friction.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my temples. Was I helping him, or just trying to make him more like me? That was a question that I didn’t have to answer! I stared at the spreadsheet again. The ball was in Tristan’s court, not mine….

A few hours later, I got a text from Tristan that led to a brief exchange:

- It’s a go…
- What?
- He sent an emoji of a man’s thick lock being threatened by a huge pair of scissors
- I replied with an emoji of a barber’s pole, followed by a question mark
- He concluded with a thumb up, followed by a suggestion we meet in the lobby at 5 p.m.

On the way to the barber shop, Tristan told me that he had made a list of pro’s and con’s about visiting the barber shop.

Pro: better chance at promotion in the workplace; help pave the way for a smooth start to the three-week visit by his mother‑in‑law; less haircare; donate the tail to a wig charity; he didn’t want to eventually become a geezer with a beer belly and stringy gray ponytail!

Con: feeling bummed about the compromise; loss of identity.

"You know, Rudy," he said. "It was a fairly easy decision to make, once I put it down on paper. But, I still wonder if I’m caving into pressure or just growing up. Anyway, it won’t be the end of the world. I’ll cut my hair and see how I feel about being Rudy-like with his neat, perfect, corporate haircut!"

He reached over and mussed up my fussy little businesscut!

"If you find conformity so awful, it will grow back…eventually," I said, smoothing my hair into place.

Tristan took an imaginary pair of shears to the base of his ponytail and clamped his fingers closed on the mass of shimmering gold.

"I’m pretty sure I won’t like the new look," Tristan concluded. "Just giving you a heads up. Don’t expect any joyful conversion to the ditto-head look."

"Remember what I said about trying to be less grumpy? Why not adapt a more positive outlook?" I chided as we pulled into the parking lot of the barber shop.

"Because that’s not me!" Tristan snapped. "Got it?!"

The bell over the door jingled as we stepped inside; the familiar scent of talc, aftershave, and clipper oil wrapped around us.

My barber, Vince, was finishing up with a customer. The clippers were humming in that low, confident way that always made me feel like everything was under control.

Tristan froze just inside the door to the barber shop. I mean froze, like a deer staring down a semi. His hand went instinctively to his tail, clutching it, like someone might try to snatch it from him. For a moment, I thought he might bolt and rush back to the car.

"You don’t have to do this," I murmured.

Tristan gave a dismissive wave regarding the comment, and we took seats in the waiting area.

"I’m sorry for snapping at you, for being grumpy," Tristan said in a low, contrite voice. "I’m going through with this, the big chop. So, continue being supportive. Continue being patient. And, I do want to try to be more upbeat -- like you, a glass half-full kind of guy."

Vince turned to me, and asked, "Rudy, weren’t you just here last week? Need a cleanup?"

"Not today," I said. "I’m just accompanying my friend here, giving him a bit of moral support."

Vince’s eyes locked onto the shimmering rope of blond hair draped over Tristan’s shoulder. His eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t comment -- one of the reasons I liked him. He wasn’t the type to make a spectacle out of someone’s choices.

After Vince finished with his client, he nodded toward Tristan.

"Have a seat here, young man," the barber said, patting the throne-like chair.

Tristan ambled over and sat stiffly, like the vinyl cushion might bite him. One hand pawed his tail nervously, as if trying to memorize the feel of it before it was taken from him.

Vince chatted cheerfully as he cast the cape around Tristan’s shoulders, pulling the tail free to dangle in back and securing the cape with a big metal clip around the neck.

Tristan’s ponytail looked like one of those heavy chords used to tether ships to the dock as it hung in limbo, waiting for the chop. Golden brown and thick. Old growth stuff!

Vince lifted it gently, weighing it in his hand. "So, this is coming off? Some of it? All of it?"

Tristan inhaled sharply.

"Cut my hair just like Rudy’s," he said quickly.

Tristan’s eyes were wide and his breath shallow. I imagined his fingers gripping the armrests beneath the cape, like he was bracing for impact. And, I admired Tristan for biting the bullet and "doing it" despite every nerve in his body objecting. He was clearly stepping into a version of himself that he did not welcome.

Vince reached for the scissors, and Tristan closed his eyes.

"Shall I?" Vince asked, showing extra caution about inflicting such a momentous change.

Despite the careful approach to his client’s massive tail, Vince’s fingers betrayed how anxious he was to unleash the fatal coup against it. Holding the shears, his fingers itched and fluttered as the blades opened and shut. With his other hand, Vince grasped the tail near the base possessively.

Tristan took his time in confirming his assent to the execution.

"Do it," Tristan finally said in a low, firm, determined voice.

Vince nodded businesslike and lifted the tail off the back of the chair. It was almost a yard long!

I felt a strange tightening in my chest. Feelings of guilt, feelings of awe, and feelings of anticipation all jumbled together.

Vince positioned the blades of his shears at the tail’s base, right where the hair thickened into its strongest point. The metal glint and flashed in the neon lighting.

Then came the first assault. It was hardly decisive. Hair that thick and imposing never goes easily. A rough sawing sound, as if cutting through fibrous rope, filled the small shop.

Tristan flinched, eyes still shut, jaw clenched so tight I thought he might crack a molar.

The determined barber continued at the base of the tail with relentless zeal. He would take it clean off, there was no doubt about the outcome!

Halfway through his labor, Vince paused to adjust his grip. The ponytail dangled, half‑severed, like a bridge about to collapse.

"You’re doing great," Vince old his client in a display of rare kindness.

Tristan didn’t respond. He maintained his traumatized grip beneath the cape, looking like a man braced for impact.

Then, with a final decisive thrust, the blades of the barber shears clamped shut and the last strands gave way.

The ponytail was off!

Vince held it up for a moment -- a gleaming, heavy thing. It looked almost unreal, like something that should belong in a museum exhibit titled Artifacts of Former Lives.

"This must weigh three pounds," the barber remarked in a half joking, half serious manner.

Tristan stared at the severed tail in Vince’s hand. A raw grimace flickered across his face -- loss, disbelief, maybe even grief or remorse?

"Do you want to keep this?" Vince asked, still admiring his hunting trophy.

"Why not?" Tristan answered quietly. "Give it to Rudy. I was quite attached to it…."

"Well, you’re detached now!" Vince laughed, his quip falling flat.

Vince handed me the magnificent ponytail and I felt a bit antsy holding it. Why did he want to keep it? As I pondered that, Tristan spontaneously explained.

"I’ll send it into a charity that makes wigs for kids," Tristan said. "Or, maybe I’ll have a wig made for myself. Something to hide under when I need a break from social conformity."

Tristan emitted a bitter laughed, and I followed with an awkward chuckle of my own.

"Ready for the rest?" Vince asked, reaching for the clippers as he surveyed the chin-length bomb that had formed when the tail came off.

Tristan nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t. Not really.

Ready or not…

Vince certainly was!

"A business taper, just like Rudy’s," Vince said, repeating the initial instruction just to make sure there had been no change. "Do you want the slightly longer, fuller length that Rudy sports, or a standard short-back-and-sides?"

Tristan didn’t have the energy to answer. He sat, deflated and morose, staring aimlessly ahead.

No response was actually required -- Vince had a plan. The clippers roared to life. Vince was going to take the former longhair down to a presentable, professional look for the business world.

I glanced around the shop as I had done many times before, waiting for my turn in the chair.

Ah, that chart of "official hair styles for men and boys" circa 1960 -- the one that had probably hung there since Eisenhower. The crew cut, the butch, the Princeton, the ivy, the flattop. All those square, disciplined silhouettes lined up like soldiers.

My eyes gravitated toward the depiction of the flattop which took me back to adolescence. It was the haircut my father sported proudly and praised for its crispness, precision, and the "sharp" way it made him look. He’d finger the bristly deck like it was a badge of honor.

For me, though, his unfashionable haircut was a huge source of embarrassment. Why couldn’t he be modern like the other fathers and sprout long hair and mutton chop sideburns?

My comfort was that he didn’t inflict the outdated, square look on me. I was allowed to wear my hair the way I wanted -- within certain limits, of course. Nothing too long, nothing too wild, nothing that would make the neighbors talk. My "freedom" had boundaries.

Maybe that’s why I’d always gravitated toward neatness and conformity, toward the safe middle lane where no one stared too long or even noticed at all.

A sudden buzzzzzz from the clippers snapped me back to the present.

I glanced over at Tristan.

Vince had already taken the first pass up the back of his head. Tristan’s clipped nape caught the gleam of the shop’s neon bulbs; his shoulders jerked slightly at the vibration, but he didn’t say a word. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, unblinking.

The second drive took the medium taper farther up the back of Tristan’s head. The flow fell away in sheaves, morphing toward the world of "tidy" and "acceptable" -- even "official"!

Flowing, golden hair still covered Tristan’s ears, but the back was now in full conformity to the office norm.

This wasn’t just a haircut -- it was Tristan’s dismantling. I hoped he would somehow accept the fate he’d chosen for himself. The haircut had been his decision, after all. Why did I have to keep reminding myself that?!

Vince shifted his stance and ran the clippers up one of the sides. More hair tumbled down the cape, sliding to the floor in soft, shimmering piles. Another pass. Another cascade of blond.

I looked back at the haircut chart on the wall -- all those tidy, obedient silhouettes -- and increasingly understood why Tristan loathed conformity. Why were there "official" lengths? Who decided those eight lengths were suitable for men and boys?!

Vince kept working, methodical and unhurried, the clippers rising higher with each pass. Tristan’s hair, once a shimmering curtain, was now falling in blond avalanches down the cape, sliding to the floor in growing drifts. Every time another lock dropped, I felt a tinge of Tristan’s pain.

I tried not to stare, but it was impossible to avoid the show, quite a riveting show!

My eyes returned to the chart -- it was ironic that after wishing my father would let his hair flow, here I was, decades later, nudging my friend toward one of the acceptable lengths of clean, conventional conformity.

Vince finished the other side by sweeping the clippers up in smooth arcs.

Then, he tackled the final frontier â€" the fringe that hung long, almost to his chin. It was time to employ the shears again.

He combed the thick golden veil down with care. Then, with careful snips at the eyebrow, Vince scissored off the length just below the eyebrows.

SNIP, SNIP, SNIP.

He came back for a second go at them, this time slightly angling the bangs so that one side hung just below the brow while the other side was shortened to just above it.

Tristan’s profile emerged…sharper, more exposed. Without the curtain of hair, his face looked younger, almost boyish…even vulnerable.

I gazed at the long tail resting on the chair beside me. It was sort of creepy. Why had he entrusted the thing to me?!

Vince continued with the scissors, blending the top with quick, confident snips. The sound was softer now, but somehow more intimate. Tristan’s breathing steadied. In the end, he would leave with a rather full top, like mine.

All right, we’re almost done," Vince announced. "Just need to clean up the neckline."

He tilted Tristan’s head gently forward. A few final strokes of the trimmer, followed by a dusting of talc.

Tristan sat there immobile, as if waiting for permission to breathe. Out came the hand mirror to display the back. The medium taper was perfect -- short at the nape and very precise.

"Take a look," Vince said.

Tristan gave a non-committal nod, a tacit acknowledgement that his looks had changed. I couldn’t read his feelings. Probably, just relief that it was over.

As he descended from the chair and caught a glimpse of the floor, I saw him grimace again -- a quick, transient look of pain. However, he still chose not to vocalize any reaction, positive or negative.

All Tristan said to the barber was a pro-forma "thank you" as he paid.

We left the shop together.

"Here’s your tail," I said casually as he handed him the severed chord.

He gazed at it momentarily -- the tail had been the anchor of his free-spirit identity.

"Laurie’s going to be shocked when I come home," he replied, absentmindedly. "She doesn’t know about the haircut."

I wanted to ask him what he thought of his new look, but it was safer to let him broach the subject, if he so chose.

I sighed…I always was playing things the safe way. Why couldn’t I just be more spontaneous? If I wanted to know how he felt, why not just ask him? I was feeling rather disgusted with my own mild, mealy character…or was it my personality?

As we reached the car, I had an idea…why not talk about me and my tendency to always play things safe and keep a low profile? We could have an interesting chat and not fear into any minefield that might be percolating beneath his blank exterior…any repressed trauma of the tail-ectomy.

I turned on the engine and delivered an open-ended conversation starter.

"Tristan, do you think there’s hope for me? Like, to not always be so preoccupied about what others think? I’d say, ‘to be more myself’ but I’m not sure who ‘myself’ is," I began to babble.

"Rudy," Tristan replied in a steely, steady voice that made me feel uneasy.

He was staring straight ahead, jaw tight, the new haircut making his features look sharper and more steely.

"Have you ever done anything that wasn’t expected?" Tristan asked.

I blinked. "I, uh, what do you mean?"

"Something that would make others stare and murmur… ‘whoa! what happened to Rudy?’ I know you understand what I mean," Tristan replied with a defiant tone of challenge in his voice.

I was pretty sure I didn’t like where the conversation might be heading.

"You pushed me to get this," Tristan continued, feeling the shorn nape. "You didn’t force me, but you nudged. Encouraged. Advised. Whatever word you want to use."

"I was trying to help," I said weakly.

"I’m sure you were. And, your suggestion meant a trip way outside my comfort zone. I’m there now! And you? Safely cocooned in your comfort zone!" he sighed.

"So, what would you suggest?" I replied, swallowing hard.

"Here’s my advice to you, since you asked whether there was hope for you to stop being so influenced by societal norms and expectations. Do something that scares you! Something that forces you to stop hiding behind your neat little plastic image of a person named Rudy," Tristan urged.

I swallowed. "Like what?"

"I don’t know. You tell me!" Tristan snapped. "What would make you freak out and feel vulnerable and exposed?"

My mind flashed back to the chart on the wall -- to the dreadful flattop!

Without thinking, I blurted out, "Get a flattop!"

Instantly, I regretted the honesty. OMG, I could never…!!

"Perfect!" Tristan laughed. "That’s what you need! That’ll be your challenge. To get a flattop. Turn the car around. Come on! Let’s be spontaneous!"

My heart lurched.

"What would Nancy think?!" I exclaimed. "Let me think about it. I’ll come up with some other idea."

Tristan shrugged and gave a disdainful smirk. "That’s my Rudy. Not spontaneous, but calculated. Not a risktaker, but a guy who’s addicted to playing it safe. Did you hear yourself…‘What will Nancy think?’ You don’t want to change as much as you think, my friend."

I felt mortified. The tension was palpable.

"You’ve had the same haircut since…what? College? High school? You’ve never taken a risk with your looks. You’ve never done anything that would make people look at you twice," Tristan noted. "Because you’re too preoccupied about what others or what society or what the office culture thinks!"

My heart beat wildly at the thought of walking into the office with a squared‑off, military‑sharp flattop. It was the haircut I’d feared since childhood -- loud, aggressive, impossible to ignore.

I glanced over at Tristan. He was watching me with unsettling calm.

"Tristan," I said, voice barely steady, "since I was a teen, I’ve loathed the flattop. It was my father’s signature haircut -- a source of pride for him and embarrassment for me."

"Why?!" Tristan demanded. "Why should you be embarrassed that your father liked his flattop? Was it a crime or immoral?"

"No, it’s just that it was so in your face, so out of style!" I stammered.

"But, the point is that HE liked it and was proud to sport it. Listen to yourself!" Tristan exclaimed in exasperation.

I stopped the car. Tristan had made his point in an extremely pointed manner. Nervously, I pulled an illegal U-turn.

"No one is forcing you to do anything," Tristan smirked, knowing he’d beaten down my resistance.

The tables had been turned dramatically. We were now on track to visit the barber shop for a second time -- the place where I would be asking for a haircut that I absolutely dreaded.

The return trip to Vince’s Barber Shop had a stark, diametrically different aspect to it. Tristan’s tail chop was a step into the world of conformity. My flattop would be a step out of my safe, staid zone of comfort.

"When the barber gently lifts that bulky forelock -- that fussy capstone of your businesscut -- and zips it off with a clippers…I’m going to give a cheer," Tristan laughed.

He was enjoying my discomfort! I had certainly not been so mean, or so gleeful, when he faced a brutal change. What if I had cheered when Vince pulled off his tail and held it up like a hunting trophy?

Now, Tristan was practically giddy about my dread in "willingly" taking a difficult step away from my comfort zone.

"Don’t pretend you weren’t secretly thrilled," he said, leaning back in the passenger seat with a smug little smirk. "You loved watching me squirm when Vince was sawing this off."

Tristan playfully lashed me with his severed ponytail.

"I did not," I snapped, more sharply than intended.

"Oh, come on. You were glowing. You had that ‘mentor guiding the lost soul’ look. Very noble. Very self-satisfied," Tristan continued.

"That’s not fair," I muttered.

"Neither is life," he shot back, still grinning. "You! Creeping into work tomorrow, nerves aflutter and stomach churned, all because of the flattop. I can imagine the whole scene!"

I gripped the steering wheel tighter. My palms were damp. The closer we got to the shop, the more I felt the absurdity of it! I was a man who had spent decades cultivating a polished, unobtrusive, corporate image…and now I was voluntarily heading toward a dreaded haircut. And, yes, Tristan was absolutely right about how I’d be feeling tomorrow morning. Why was I trying to prove something unnatural to myself, why was I tormenting myself?

But, I wasn’t going to back out of this! I would not give Tristan that pleasure of seeing me weasel out of this decision "I" had made. And, deep down, I thought there was merit to his painful point. I needed to test myself…

Tristan stretched, settling deeper into his seat, his newly shorn hair brushing the headrest. He looked so much better without that golden tail, I thought. He was actually quite handsome, something I’d never noticed before. He’d probably never admit he liked the business taper.

"Just think," Tristan said lightly, "in a few minutes, you’ll be joining me in the ‘freshly shorn and slightly traumatized’ club."

I exhaled slowly. "You know, I could still turn the car around."

"You won’t," he said confidently. "You made the U-turn. You committed. And honestly? I’m proud of you."

That caught me off guard.

He wasn’t smirking now. He wasn’t teasing. He was looking at me with something startlingly sincere.

"You’re stepping out of your bubble," he continued, reaching over and giving me a warm caress. "It’s good for you."

I swallowed. "It feels reckless."

"Good," he said. "You could use a little reckless."

The barber shop came into view -- the striped pole spinning lazily, the windows glowing warm against in the dusky evening sky.

I felt strangely calm as we pulled into the parking lot.

"Ready to have this security blanket snatched from your head?" Tristan laughed as he rumpled my businesscut.

"Let’s get this over with," I replied grimly.

My legs felt a little wobbly once outside the car. I had been to this shop scores of times over the past two decades -- about every three weeks for the same conservative business cut, the same tidy side part, the same gentle taper…. Vince could probably cut it blindfolded!

This visit would be dramatically different.

"Did you forget something?" the barber asked as we re-entered the shop.

"After watching my friend shed his tail," I began, "Uh, I, uh, decided I’d shake things up a bit myself."

Vince blinked, still not catching on to my meaning.

"Shake things up?" he asked quizzically.

"I want a flattop, Vince!" I blurted out.

Shock was followed by awe. Vince broke into a smile.

"Never in my life….!" he laughed. "Well, hop on up there. A flattop it will be!"

Within moments, I was sitting stiffly in the chair, cape fastened tight around a strip of itchy tissue, looking like a man who’d just signed a contract he hadn’t fully read.

Tristan lounged in the waiting area nearby, arms folded, wearing the smug, satisfied grin of someone who had successfully talked his friend into doing something bold. Maybe too bold. He enjoyed watching me squirm as I was being wrenched out of my comfort zone.

Vince chirped and chuckled, "A flattop…Rudy shaking things up! What a way to end the evening."

"Make it a short flattop," Tristan added from the waiting area.

Vince moved forward, taking Tristan’s request into account as he planned to reshape my staid image.

"Well…all right then. But don’t blame me when you look in the mirror and faint," he said as he took a comb from his chest pocket.

He combed my hair to the side and then forward, so that the bulky four-inch fringe dangled just above my eyes in strands of gleaming chestnut.

Then, he snagged the carefully cultivated forelock -- the polished capstone of my businesscut --and lifted it away from the scalp. The captive tress rose like a monument to decades of caution.

I heard the clippers whirl to life. My stomach dropped!

Tristan babbled something excitedly and crowded by with his camera, filming the momentous event.

"Last chance," Vince warned, as he positioned the clipper blade within close range of the doomed lock.

The mighty swoop of hair quivered in the face of the Oster’s predatory, hungry teeth.

And then…BUZZZZZZZ…and ZIP!

Off the mass came in one decisive swipe. Lightning fast, and it was over!

The severed chunk fell swiftly to the cape and landed like a dark, undeniable verdict. No more businesscut for you! The demolition of my old look had begun in earnest.

Tristan kept videoing, laughing and smirking throughout my ordeal.

Vince didn’t pause. Another pass. Some remnants of stray hair that had escaped the initial assault joined the fallen and forlorn forelock in my lap.

A strange mix of exhilaration and dread began rising and falling in my chest.

After quickly taking the length of my top with clipper and comb working in perfect harmony, Vince shifted toward the side. He ran the clippers up through my temple with a roaring vertical pass. A clean, pale stripe appeared instantly, the hair on the side reduced to stubble so short it barely was visible. I felt the cool air hit like an Arctic blast.

Tristan let out a delighted, disbelieving laugh. "Oh man, Rudy…that’s tight. It’s like you joined the Marine Corps!"

Vince repeated the motion, pass after pass, building stark whitewalls around my ears. The sides were gone in minutes. I felt like I was being stripped bare -- naked and vulnerable without my familiar business style.

Then came the back. Vince tilted my chin down with an authoritative force he’d never used on me before. It was the grip of a determined, unleashed barber!

I felt him carve an upward path through my hair that, to my horror, plowed right through my cowlick and continued down the top of my head toward my hairline.

He was crafting a horseshoe. I was getting SHOED by Vince!!!

The thought made me swoon, and I clung to the arms of the chair for support.

"And there’s a dramatic end to the business cut," Tristan stammered, for the first time not sounding flippant, but a bit worried.

"Now the real work," Vince murmured.

His clippers began the finer points of his sculpting assignment. The sound changed. More tufts of hair shot forward in little bursts, raining down to the cape like dark confetti.

Vince moved with total authority: front to back, side to side, checking angles, adjusting the comb, shaving the deck smooth.

Tristan stammered. "That’s, uh…short enough, Vince. Uh, actually a lot shorter than I had in mind."

Vince didn’t even look up. "He might as well do it right. A flattop baptism by fire!"

OMG! I wasn’t just edging out of my comfort zone…I was being cast into a purgatory of relentless, comfortless torture!

Tristan grinned. "He looks incredible…uh, incredibly different, that is!"

Then, I watched Tristan momentarily fuss with his own plush, blond businesscut.

"Perhaps I didn’t have you cut my hair short enough, Vince," my pal laughed nervously.

Vince stepped back, squinted, then leaned in again. He switched to bare blades and freehanded the final touches -- crisping the edges, sharpening the corners, leveling the sparse deck that remained a bit more.

After that came the finishing ritual. Vince brushed off the loose hairs, dusted my head with cool talc, and applied some fragrant butch wax. With a stiff brush, he coaxed the tiny bristles upright, making the deck stand at perfect attention.

Finally, came the full reveal with via hand mirror.

I just stared blankly at the virtually bald back. There was nothing to see or to say. I felt absolutely sick to my stomach.

The look was more severe then bold. The sides were practically bare. He lifted the mirror up to showcase the shape of the shoe on top. It was a tight, sparse, uncompromising deck. The few short bristles that remained of my dreamy forelock gleamed with the waxy coating.

Tristan snapped a few "after" pix.

"Rudy… you look like you could command a battalion," he said, patting my shoulder. "I’m proud of you!"

"I actually did it," I said softly. "And, believe me, this haircut is the farthest thing from any sort of comfort zone for me…."

Vince asked. "What does that mean? That mean you’re committed to this new length -- for the next twenty years, until I retire?"

"No, Vince!" I said bluntly. "The opposite! Come on, get this cape off me. How long for my businesscut to grow out again?"

I couldn’t get out of the chair or the shop fast enough. Vince would not be seeing me back again in three weeks, that was for sure!

"I think I’ll call in sick tomorrow," I grumbled to Tristan.

He stroked my exposed scalp in back. "Don’t you dare! You are going to stride into the office and take all the gawks and ribbing like a man!"

Then, he added, tenderly, "I meant to say…WE are going to stride into the office…together!"

"And, I'll want to hear all about how things go with your Ma-Ma…the perfect son-in-law with his new staid business professional look," I replied with a wink and a smile.

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