New glasses, new image by Manny

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The idea of getting glasses for the first time was a bit nerve-wracking. To suddenly have your face profoundly altered by an accessory was scary! And then there was the daunting task of choosing the right frame (when one had no experience with that), not to mention all the comments my "four-eyes look" would attract....

Did I want something that gave me a scholarly look...or a sporty look, or a professional look, or an authoritarian look, or a funky look?! Perhaps a frameless look...like nothing had changed? Or, a bold, in-your-face clunky black plastic number?! I was at a loss.

What I needed was advice...someone who could tell me which frames looked best on me.

I did some research and read a lot of reviews. A fellow named Bernie at an optical shop near my house got a lot of praise for helping guide nervous newbies like me through the process. ‘He’ll assess your coloring, your face shape, your profession, your hairstyle...and come up with a winner!’ That review sold me on Bernie. I scheduled an appointment online with him.

When I got to Eyes Emporium and checked in, the assistant told me to start browsing for frames I might like, that Bernie would join me shortly.

It was both fun and intimidating sorting through the seemingly endless display cases. I was drawn to the big clunky frames, although I felt that my first pair of glasses should be more discreet.

Bernie joined my search within minutes. He was a friendly, cheerful sort...and very handsome with his thick blond blocks that he wore in a feathered 1970s retro-look, complete with central part and mullet. His clothes also conveyed a 1970s vibe with low-slung hip-hugging bellbottoms and a striped knit shirt with a crew neck.

We chatted a bit and he grabbed a few more frames. Then, we sat at a counter to start the selection process.

One by one, the frames were tried and put into a "maybe" pile and a "no" pile. The "no" pile dominated with most of the frames. Even those in the "maybe" pile had not been clear winners.

"What’s wrong?" I asked the expert. "I can’t find anything that looks good on me."

Bernie hemmed and hawed, before saying, "I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but...."

My heart sunk! What could he be thinking?!

"Really, the problem is not with the frames, it’s with your face shape -- something you obviously can’t change -- and your current hair style. All that length on the sides...."

"My hair?!" I stammered. "But, it’s almost like yours! Just a different color -- mahogany instead of blond."

"Oh, you have great hair! I love the mahogany color with those fiery auburn highlights," Bernie stammered. "Yes, the hair length is like mine, but you have a very differently shaped face. It’s a very ROUND face, almost a perfect sphere. And, with all the hair feathered on the sides, it looks oval. But, NOT the ideal oval...which is like an egg standing on its tip...but an awful oval...like an egg on its side."

I looked stunned, perhaps puzzled.

"Oh, I’m not making any sense," Bernie commented.

Then, he took a pair of frames -- a horn-rimmed traditional number -- from the "maybe" pile and said, "I think these. Try them on again."

I did, but was not impressed.

"That thing about face shapes, what you were talking about," I began. "You like my hair, but don’t think the way I wear it is right for my round face. Is that it?"

Bernie smiled, looking relieved that I did understand his point.

"Precisely. You need a different haircut. Maybe getting the glasses is the time to adjust your whole image. New glasses, new haircut…new you," Bernie suggested enthusiastically.

"But, what kind of haircut...?" I asked, cautiously.

"You need to minimize the sides. I mean zero them out, really. And put a little height on top," Bernie recommended.

"Zero them out?" I stammered.

"Yep," Bernie emphasized. "Clippered off to zero. Nothing on the sides. But, height on top."

"Like one of the sculpted concoctions, towering high?" I asked in disbelief. "I’m not sure I could go in for that sort of constant attention and maintenance."

"I hear you. Actually, I was thinking of something more practical," Bernie replied. "Of all these glasses, which do you like the most. I mean, just looking at them on the table, not on your face."

"These!" I exclaimed, selecting a pair of retro-1960 frames made of clunky black plastic. "They sort of scream out, ‘yes, I got glasses, and what of it?!’ A bit in your face."

"So, you don’t mind a bold look that attracts attention?" Bernie asked.

"Should I?" I replied.

"Of course not! Be yourself," he answered quickly. "And, here’s what I suggest. Maximize the new look with a haircut that will match perfectly -- you need an in-your-face FLATTOP! A plush deck on top that elongates your face vertically instead of horizontally."

A flattop?! I pawed at my plush, thick hair.

"Cut all this off?" I stammered in disbelief.

"About 90% of it," Bernie laughed.

I put the glasses on and pulled my hair away from my face.

"I don’t know," I stammered. "Maybe too much change all at once?"

Bernie looked at me, pensively, and then pulled the counter mirror toward himself. He pawed at his gorgeous blond hair.

"I’ve been thinking about shaking things up, myself, in the hair department. Having all this chopped off..." he murmured with an underlying tone of excitement.

"What? Why?! You look like a male model, Bernie," I stammered.

"That’s what I’ve been told...repeatedly," he sighed. "Truth is, I’ve grown weary of the pretty boy look. There’s a barber shop in this very plaza that has a ‘Flattop Specialist’ sign in the window. I’ve been so tempted of late to just pop in and get one myself."

"And, it would go with your face shape?" I asked.

"You mean my perfect oval that would be a perfect compliment to any style of glasses or haircut?" Bernie laughed, not even trying to feign modesty.

"We could go together, to that barber shop," I suggested, my heart starting to pound wildly.

"Those long, pampered mahogany lock being stripped off by a set of fast-feed Oster clippers, piling up in small mounds at the barber’s feet?" Bernie asked, laughing at the image he’d conjured up.

"Yes, adding to the carpeting of beautiful blond hair already on the floor!" I replied jovially.

"Let’s finish up your order here," Bernie said, holding up the huge set of black plastic specs that was going to make me look like a brutally stern 1960s father or school principal or parish priest. "I’ll put you down for the complementary one-hour delivery. They’ll be ready by the time we’re both sporting flattops!"

Bernie looked one more time in the little counter mirror.

"Yep, it’s coming off!" he announced gleefully, working his fingers through the glossy, feathered silk.

Then, he picked up the black clunky frames I’d selected and slipped them on.

"I like these," he commented. "They’d go well with my flattop too and intensify the 1960s vibe. The store manager likes it when the employees sport frames instead of contact lenses. I’m going to order these glasses for myself -- we’ll be twins!"

Bernie finished some paperwork and handed it in at the counter.

"I might be a bit late from lunch," Bernie told his colleague. "And, you might not recognize me when I get back!"

Bernie was babbling excitedly as he guided me out of the optical store and down the line of shops in the plaza. He pressed closely against me as he put his arm around my back near the waist in a very familiar manner.

"You can’t imagine how excited I feel," he purred.

"Oh, I think I can," I replied. The feeling was mutual.

"To see us both with flattops and clunky black glasses! That will be amazing!" Bernie continued. "I’m so excited, I could pee!"

Feeling his excitement, I added, "And piles of our shorn hair on the shop floor. I’ve never had my hair cut ultra short before."

"Are you nervous?" Bernie asked.

"Sort of," I confessed.

"Me too! But a nervous excitement. I mean, it’s just a haircut, but once the glossy locks start to fall, there’s no going back," Bernie said. "People are going to be absolutely shocked when they seen me shorn of all this fluff."

The handsome Bernie ran his fingers through his hair, as if he were savoring the last morsel of an excellent dessert. One long caress to remember the way his pretty boy mane felt...so soft, so golden, so silken -- such thickness and length.

And, then, we arrived at the door of the shop! Peering in the window, we could see that both barbers were busy and that a few men were in the waiting area.

"Look at the line," I stammered. "Maybe we ought to call this off."

I was definitely developing cold feet.

Bernie pointed at the 'Flattop Specialist' sign next to the door and swatted playfully at my locks.

He brushed off my suggestion and pulled the door open. With a directive motion, Bernie urged me to enter.

"You’re going to be first in the chair," he whispered.

"Okay," I croaked.

The two barbers acknowledged us. The older one locked his stare on my hair as he continued clipping his client unabated.

According to the nameplate stuck on the mirror, his name was Neal. He stood with the easy confidence of someone who’s a natural pro. The wire-frame glasses and the neatly trimmed beard, coupled with a white "Barber Strong" jacket, conveyed a sense of precision and perfection. There was no doubt in my mind that Neal had earned the "flattop specialist" moniker through decades of experience. My shag was going to ignite his craftsman instinct, I felt.

Everything about the shop suggested longevity. The red‑upholstered Koken chairs with their heavy chrome frames weren’t just furniture -- they were the anchors of the shop. Their worn seats had accommodated generations of customers, from boys getting their first trims to old-timers coming in for a cleanup and conversation. The long counter clad in pale blue formica looked like it had been tidied up and wiped down thousands of times.

My attention turned to the maroon waiting chairs with wooden arms -- a staging ground where shaggy manes awaited the summons...‘NEXT!’

The men already in the waiting area seemed like they had all the time in the world, flipping through old magazines, scrolling on their phones, and chatting about the weather, the game, or local events.

Bernie and I settled in for the wait. I was able to observe my new pal discreetly via the mirror. He had such gorgeous hair. ‘Having it all chopped off’ seemed like such a pity.

"There’s not a chance you might get cold feet about the big chop once I’m in the chair?" I asked, curious as to how he’d respond.

"Nope!" Bernie said emphatically. "Today IS the day! But, you seem to be wavering. Don’t feel like you need to go through with this."

He looked at my hair.

"Maybe you just got caught up in the moment," he suggested. "I can go first if you need more time to reconsider your decision."

I took a deep breath.

"No, I’ll go first. Change is scary, but I trust your opinion that it’s for the best," I noted.

Bernie and I watched the dominos fall. One by one, the men in front of us took a seat and endured cape, clippers and duster before being dispatched.

Well before my summons, I calculated that my lot would indeed fall to Neal.

"Next!" he called, looking right at me.

As I stood, my knees buckled slightly.

"Do you want me to explain what you need?" Bernie asked.

"Yes, that would be great," I whimpered.

What a little woos! I couldn’t even tell the barber what I wanted. I felt like a little boy being sent to the big chair by my father who was adamant my shag would be shorn.

I stared at the old me in the mirror; that was the last I saw of my styled locks widening my round face in an undesirable way.

I eased into the chair that faced toward the waiting area. It was like being in a suspended state of semi-consciousness -- slightly aware that a momentous change was about to unfold, but no real inkling of how I might like (or hate) the new me.

"My friend here is getting a flattop. Both of us, actually, are here for flattops. Our first! So, you need to really put everything into it," Bernie said to Neal.

"We both always put everything into all of our haircuts," Neal replied, somewhat defensively. "Whether it’s the first or the 500th!"

"Of course," Bernie said quickly, trying to recover from the unintended slight. "Take the sides to zero, all the way to the crown, and leave it plush on top. You think he can leave here with an inch-high deck?"

Neal explored my hair a bit with his hand and brush.

"I think so, perhaps even a bit higher," Neal concluded. "The sides and back to zero or lather shaved."

"Shave ‘em smooth," Bernie said in a definitive tone.

"And, that’s what you’re getting too, pretty boy?" the other barber asked, injecting himself in our discussion.

I could tell that the use of the descriptive term ‘pretty boy’ rattled Bernie.

"Yep," Bernie answered, a bit flummoxed as he flicked the thick curtained forelock away from his green eyes.

"Well, come on over and take a seat," barber Pat said, tapping his chair. "This is all yours."

I could tell Bernie’s excitement was begin to mount as he eased into the large Koken chair.

A white cape sailed through the air and floated down around me, concealing my old self. I felt Neal fastening it tightly about my neck.

Then, behind me, I heard a set of clippers whirl to life. Neal’s hand gripped my head and nudged it forcefully into a bowing position.

I heard Bernie chatter, "I’ve passed this place a hundred times and that ‘flattop specialist’ sign by the door outside has always intrigued me."

I was now staring into my lap, but I could hear Bernie’s cape fluttering into place.

"You’ll finally find out what a manly haircut is all about," Pat laughed. "Look at your awful mullet! Pretty soon this back will be satin-smooth scalp."

Bernie let out a nervous giggle.

"That’s why I’m here," he emphasized.

Suddenly, I felt the clippers plunging up into my nape, tight to my scalp. I swooned and gripped the arms of the chair beneath the cape. All my senses went numb as the clippers climbed up the full back of my head.

I heard a second set of clippers roar to life nearby, adding to the hum in the shop. Bernie’s chatter fell silent. We were both on our way to radical change -- to flattops!

Neal and Pat worked in silence, stripping away our locks.

As Neal began to address the side of my head, the cape quickly morphed from solid white to a houndstooth-like pattern of mahogany. Huge clumps of hair, including graceful swirls and lengthy locks, were scattered about it in an abstract, artistic manner. My shiny hair lay still and purposeless on the cape.

Neal had me sit up straight.

"Let’s tackle the top here," he said, snagging my dangling forelock with his comb.

In a split second, he had lifted it off the forehead and run the clippers down the comb’s plastic teeth. A mass of beautiful hair fell past my astonished eyes.

Neal chuckled, "Love to do that!"

Then, he continued, "So, it’s your first time to go flat?"

"Yes," I croaked, my mouth feeling dry. "I hope I’ll like it."

"Oh, you might," Neal said, not sounding very convinced. "My experience with big changes like this is that it takes some getting used to. Of course, there’s no quick solution if you don’t take to the new look."

Gee, thanks for stating the obvious and making my stomach churn, Neal!

"Your pal, though, certainly seems to be enjoying the experience," Neal continued.

As if reading my mind, Neal swiveled my chair enough so that I could see what was happening to Bernie.

I let out a gasp. His HAIR! It was being decimated. The scene looked straight out of a boot camp barber shop!

He looked so vulnerable as Pat continued relieving him of his iconic retro hairstyle.

"We’re going to leave here totally transformed," I remarked in a tone of wonder.

"How’s it looking?" Bernie asked me.

"Short," I remarked.

He reached out from under the cape and gathered up a handful of his cut hair.

"Look at all this," he commented, holding up a fistful of hair.

Then, I watched Pat relieve Bernie of his forelock in the same way that Neal had taken mine off.

Snag, lift, zip! It’s off!! Straight to his lap!

Neal swiveled the chair back to its original position so that I wouldn’t continue to be distracted.

"Now comes the important part. Taking the deck down -- plush and flat as a board," Neal said. "Try not to twitch or shift in the chair."

"Yes, sir," I replied quickly.

As he worked, snippets of my hair showered down around my face like a fine drizzle. I felt my excitement level increasing. I was going to leave the shop with a flattop -- something I could never have imagined when I styled my hair that morning!

I heard Pat ask Bernie, "Are you sure you don’t want a landing strip? A nice big wide one up on top?"

"Not today," Bernie said quickly. "Maybe some other time. I’d like to feel the clippers graze the top of my head at least once."

"Once you feel that, it won’t be just once!" Pat laughed. "My flattop men get addicted to that! You’re looking so much better without all that ‘pretty boy’ hair flopping about."

The fact was, I thought Bernie was SO handsome with his nice, thick hair cascading in layers about his head. But, soon it would be swept up and discarded in the Plaza Barber Shop dumpster.

"Now for the lather shave," Neal announced.

The warm foam felt glorious and the strokes of the razor intoxicating. I could’ve sat there all day! A moist towel was used to wipe away the remnants of foam and leave my noggin clean and smooth.

"Ready?" Neal asked, preparing me for the big reveal.

I felt anxious as the chair swiveled around toward the mirror.

"Voila!" the barber exclaimed.

My mouth fell open. I could not believe it was me in the mirror!

"That’s, uh...that’s amazing," I stammered, unsure of what to say.

Neal smiled broadly, proud of his work. He put a few finishing touches of the immaculate, plush deck, then quickly finished my cut and unfastened the cape.

I showed off my new haircut with pride to Bernie.

"Once you get your new glasses, you’ll see even more clearly how much better you look," Bernie commented cheerfully.

Then, it was time for Bernie’s ‘big reveal’. Pat swiveled the chair around slowly.

"There you go...the new you. Flat as a board!" the barber laughed.

Bernie also gasped on seeing the new him for the first time.

"OMG! People are going to be shocked," he stammered.

"What? There gonna miss Mr. Pretty Boy and his fluffy locks?" Pat scolded. "This is a bold clean look! Last chance for a landing strip. How about it?"

"I really need to get back to work," Bernie said nervously. "But, there will be many future opportunities to pop in and feel the clippers graze the top of my head."

"If we’re still open when you get off work this afternoon, stop by and you’ll get your strip. I want my new clients satisfied," Pat stated.

Bernie and I were pumped up as we scampered back to the optical shop. Our new, clunky black plastic glasses would be waiting for us!!

As predicted, there was a general wave of shock and disbelief as Bernie showed off his new shorn look to his colleagues. Some were neutral, some were negative. No one said they liked the flattop!

Neither of us could stop taking peeks of our new haircuts in the mirrors that were all over the shop.

Bernie’s hands almost trembled with excitement as he opened the envelope with our new glasses. He removed his contact lenses.

"Let’s put them on together," Bernie suggested.

Our new 1960s visual with the flattop and clunky black glasses was SHOCKING!

"No one will recognize me," I stammered.

My stomach churned. How could I ever confront my friends, family and colleagues with this totally different look?

Bernie leaned over and whispered, "You know, what I like most about the flattop is that NO ONE praised it. I could tell no one liked it. Isn’t that great?!"

I did not follow Bernie’s logic one bit. Most people want their looks admired....

I watched Bernie stride around the office showing off his new glasses.

"Not a single smile or word of encouragement," he said gleefully when he returned to the counter where I was seated. "But my boss did say I could take the rest of the day off since we’re super slow."

Bernie made us pose for a selfie, heads so close together that the flattops look liked one, extended Kansas field of wheat after harvest.

"I need a new wardrobe," Bernie announced. "There’s a thrift store at the other end of the plaza. Want to come with me?"

"Let’s choose complete outfits for each other!" I exclaimed.

"I’d love that!" laughed Bernie. "Bye-bye bellbottoms...hello peglegs!"

My mind turned to a cozy changing booth in the thrift store, helping my new friend Bernie ease out of his bellbottoms....

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