An Old Pic (2): The French Crop by GermanCut

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In Germany, hairstyles in the 80s usually had no names. This also applies to the hairstyle that was very common and ridiculed at that time, the mullet. If you wanted a mullet, you ordered from the hairdresser "Front short, back long", in German Vorne kurz, hinten lang". This resulted in the 90s in the intentionally ridiculous short form Vokuhila".

That's why it's an anachronism that I gave this story the title "The French Crop". The term did not exist at that time, at least in Germany.
But on an old photo you can see me with a hairstyle that is very similar to a short "French crop" of today. I had the hair on the top of my head short and combed forward, while the sides were not shaved as short as it is usual with the French crop today.
I was 17 years old at the time, and this haircut marks a turning point in my life. It was a beautiful time that I like to remember.

The photo was taken by my new school mate Britta in a park in my hometown. I present myself not only with short hair, but also in a simple, well-fitting white T-shirt, blue jeans and red fabric sneakers. Nothing special, really, but a short time before I was usually dressed quite differently.
For about two years I had cultivated the following style oversized T-shirts, shirts and wool sweaters, often combined with an old work vest of my father, plus lace-up boots, even in summer. My hair reached the tip of my nose and stood out in all directions. It wasn't a particular style, but a strange mixture of eco and punk.
I wasn't very popular at school at the time. I was one of the few working-class children in the midst of students whose parents were academics or businessmen. I already felt a slight tendency towards my own gender at that time, while my classmates apparently were all straight. I learned much later that I was not the only gay in school. I was a sucker in most sports and, to be honest, often quite grumpy.
The long hair and the thick clothing were, I believe today, my armor, which was supposed to protect me from attacks.
On the photo, I don't wear this armor anymore. It was no longer necessary.

Just before the photo was taken, I had gone on holiday without my family for the first time in my life and spent three weeks with a youth group near Bordeaux by the sea.
Of course, I was a bit scared before the trip. What I was most afraid of was that I would be the outsider again within the youth group, where I didn't know anyone. But everything turned out differently.

Already on the way to France, I met Jens. We were sitting in the same train compartment. He was a little shorter than me, and his brown hair touched the top of his glasses. We shared my Walkman, which meant that he got one of the headphones, while I put the other one in my ear. Together we listened to my cassette recorded from the radio Billy Idol, Depeche Mode, Kate Bush, Gianna Nanini and Desireless "Voyage, voyage" to match our trip to France
But I didn't just get along well with Jens. I hadn't felt so comfortable in a group for a long time, so safe, so relaxed.

And I loved France from the beginning.
I loved the countryside, the towns and villages.
I loved the Atlantic. The Baltic Sea was a bathtub in comparison.
I loved the language, although despite four years of French lessons, I often hardly understood anything. We had read books by Maupassant and Camus in class, as well as newspaper articles from "L'Humanit" and "Le monde", but I had to look up in the dictionary what "bucket" meant in French.
I loved the people, even the annoyed salesman, as ten of us entered his small shop to buy wine and cigarettes for the evening.

It was in the evening. Jens and I were sitting on the beach and looking at the sea. Jens had brought his small radio with him. The super maxi extended version of "Pourvu qu'elles soient douces" by Mylne Farmer has just been played. We had taken an excursion with the group and went swimming in the sea afterwards. Because of that and the heat of the day, we were both a bit exhausted.
Jens opened a bottle of red wine with his pocketknife, I lit a non-filter Gauloise ugh! and threw the pack to Jens.
"I should have had my hair cut shorter before the trip. It's way too hot for this fur", Jens said without a particular cause after taking a sip from the bottle and handing it to me.
I fumbled with my hair, which reached over my eyebrows. I had been to the hairdresser just before the trip, but I had begged the hairdresser to cut off only very little, because I didn't want to go on vacation with an embarrassing hairstyle. Meanwhile, my hair was not only bleached by the sun and seawater but had the texture of straw and was difficult to comb. Jens looked only slightly better.

I thought of the young French guide in the nature reserve that afternoon. He was a very hot, broad-shouldered guy with short blond hair and short-shaven sides. While he was talking, I had positioned myself so that I had a good view of his neck. I was aroused and envious at the same time at the sight of the short stubble.
"We could look for a hairdresser in town tomorrow", I said.
"Yes, and what's next?" replied Jens.
"We just go in and say Je voudrais les chevaux courts, monsieur!"
Jens choked and spat out the wine. "You just said you want short horses."
I laughed. "The hairdresser would think we were crazy. I don't think that was a good idea of mine. Even in German, it is difficult to explain to the hairdresser how you want your hair cut.
Jens twisted his mouth. He seemed to have had his own experiences.
"I don't want to risk anything", he said, "Short hair can mean anything. In any case, I don't want to leave the barber shop with an army kamikaze cut.

On the radio, Mylne Farmer was just being replaced by Desireless when Jenny, Tina and Ralf appeared.
"Ah, the boys have wine!" cried Jenny, grabbing the bottle and taking a big sip. We didn't protest, but offered everyone some of our wine. The two of us wouldn't have drunk the bottle anyway.
"Who's coming with me into the water again?" Tina shouted, and instead of an answer, we all took our T-shirts off and ran into the surf. Voyage, voyage.

This trip to France had given me new self-esteem. Back home in cooler but still summery warm northern Germany, I made a decision. I would go to the hairdresser and have my hair cut short. I should have done this before the vacation, but I still lacked the courage. However, I didn't know which short hairstyle I wanted. Should I just ask the hairdresser for a short haircut and trust that he will do it right? That would be very daring.

Coincidence came in support. When I entered the barbershop, a boy, maybe 13 or 14 years old, was already sitting in the barber's chair. There was already a lot of blond hair on the floor. The hairdresser was cutting the hair on the top of his head very short. Since there was already a lot of hair on the floor, it was evident that the boy's hairstyle was nearing completion. An idea struck me.
The hairdresser put the scissors aside for a moment, went into the next room and came back with a colleague.
"Take a seat", the other hairdresser told me.
I sat down, the cloak was put on me, and I took a last look at my straw-like long hair in the mirror.
"How would you like it?" he asked me.
"I'd like to have the same hairstyle as him", I replied and nodded to the boy next to me.
The hairdresser laughed. "Another one who wants to get rid of his mat today!"
Then he took the scissors, clamped a tuft of hair between his fingers and cut the hair just above it. In a very short time, I lost well over half of my hair, which had been at least 15 cm long. What remained was a short coat of maybe 5 cm. I saw in the mirror that my hair didn't look like straw anymore. The hair now looked soft, healthy and shiny.

The hair at the back of the head and on the sides was cut to 2 cm or maybe less with comb and scissors. Suddenly the door opened and a guy came in, walking towards the boy next to me. He was apparently his father.
"Sorry, it took a little longer", he said to the boy, "but I'm just in time."
The boy's neck was cleaned, the cloak was taken off. The boy looked a little skeptically in the mirror.
"It looks good. Just as short as my hair", his father said, running his fingers over his hair, which was even shorter. His hair stood out stubbly so that the scalp was visible, and his hair was less than 1 cm long on the sides and neck. When he glanced in the mirror and stroked his short stubble on his head and then his short-shaven neck, I felt a heat rising up.
The hairdresser, who was still holding the boy's cape, said while looking at us "You boys look great! In summer, your haircut is ideal."

Indeed, the summer and with it the high mood in which I had been since France was not yet over.
When school started again four days later, I saw six other classmates with short hair short and combed forward. Only our pretty boy Alex had something similar to a flat top with almost shaved sides. Of course, it looked great on him. But I also thought that my new hairstyle looked good on me.

A regained self-esteem led to my short haircut, which in turn contributed to my self-esteem.
Uncharacteristically for me, I spoke to a girl during the break who was new at school. Her name was Britta. We quickly got into conversation, and we arranged to meet the next afternoon to take pictures together.
We met in the Palace Gardens, which strangely enough was called that, although there was no palace. The park was picturesque, but also a bit strange. There were pedestals on which statues would normally have had to stand. But these were empty.
I climbed onto one of these pedestals, completely the self-confident person I was now, and took the place of an ancient deity while Britta giggled and took a picture.
That summer was mine.

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