I still can't believe it Part 2 by vykonavatel77

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This is the continuation of the story "I Still Can't Believe It Part 1."
At the end of the summer holidays, on our way back from Uncle Andreas's place, our car broke down. It was Saturday, August 30, 1975, and I was 14 years old.
The mechanic determined that the repair would take several days because a new part had to be ordered.
We headed home by train. The train wasn't due to leave for more than three hours. Unfortunately for me, my father spotted a small barbershop for men and boys across from the station. The barber said that on this particular Saturday, he was only cutting the hair of students from the local boarding school. My father persuaded him, and the barber agreed to cut my hair as well, so I would start the new school year with a perfect haircut. My hair was cut very short, and every day I checked to see if it had grown back yet. The hair on the sides of my head and at the back of my neck was only nine millimeters long.
Twenty days passed since my haircut in that strange town. On Friday evening, my father handed me a piece of paper and told me to memorize what was written on it. He then said the car was fixed and that on Saturday morning, we would take the train to pick it up from the repair shop.
I took the paper and began to read silently "The student stands on the black mark by the barber's chair. When the barber looks at him, the student looks the barber in the eye and says loudly 'Sir, I am a student in the Xth grade I would like to request a classic school haircut...'" I was seized with panic. That was how the boarding school students checked in with the barber. I didn't understand why I had to learn this procedure. I had a bad feeling about it, but my father wouldn't tell me anything more.
On Saturday morning, we headed for the train before nine o'clock. Less than an hour later, we got off. My father's steps led straight to the barbershop. "Michael, come here quickly," my father called out. I knew he intended to have me get a haircut from that stern, authoritarian barber again. I started pleading with him, saying my hair was still short and that the barber was mean to the boys. My father replied, "I see, Michael, that you need stricter discipline." Before we entered the shop, my father handed me a green slip the local boarding school students carried red ones.
My father greeted the barber and said, "I'm leaving my son Michael here I'm going to the auto repair shop." There were nine boys of various ages in the shop. Another boy was sitting in the barber's chair with white lather on his head.
I watched as the boys asked for their haircuts and then thanked the barber afterward. I also observed how quickly they would hop into the chair and then jump down onto a white mark on the floor. Now I understood why my father had given me that slipit contained clear instructions for cutting the hair of the local boarding school students. I remembered that during my first haircut, the barber had told my father that the boys from the local boarding school came to him every three weekseven during the holidays.
All the boys got the same haircut, whether they were younger or older than me. Just one more boy to go, and then it would be my turn to have my already short hair cut. My whole body was trembling, and my palms were sweaty.
I stepped onto the black mark on the floor and waited for the barber to look at me. I stared into his eyes and tried to say as loudly as I could "Sir, I'm an eighth-grade student I'd like the standard school haircut, please." The barber snapped at me "You little bastard, sit in the chairnow!" Terrified, I obeyed his command instantly. I didn't even understand how I'd managed it. I gripped the armrests of the barber's chair, keeping my back straight and away from the backrest.
Once the barber had wrapped me in the long cape and pulled it tight around my neck, I carefully leaned back against the chair. He combed through the hair on the crown of my head. He struggled to get the comb through, remarking, "You've got really thick hair." He picked up a pair of thinning shears and began to thin out the hair on the crown. Since we were facing away from the mirror, I couldn't see how much hair I had left, but a significant amount was piling up on the cape. He continued by shortening the hair on the crown, made a parting, and divided the hair into right and left sides. He tilted my head to the side and cut the hair short on that side, then repeated the process on the other. Tiny clippings, just a few millimeters long, fell onto the cape. He tilted my head forward and cut the hair across a large area of the nape. Using scissors and a comb, he blended the cut into the longer hair on the crown. As he dampened the sides and back of my head, I closed my eyes and tried to picture how high up the nape and sides I had been shaved the last timeafter all, I wouldn't see my cut hair in the mirror until I got home.
The door opened, and my father walked into the barbershop. I was actually pleased, thinking the barber wouldn't be quite as mean to me now as he usually was to the boarding school students.
When the barber finished cutting my hair and applied a greasy cream, he combed it through one last time. He released me from the cape. Just as the barber required, I hopped off the chair and stood on the white marka maneuver I, like the other students, could execute in about four seconds. I handed the barber the green slip my father had given me, looked him in the eye, and said loudly "Sir, thank you for my precise school haircut. I am proud to be a regular client of yours." The barber replied, "You little bastard, get out of my sight." I quickly ran out of the shop. My father stayed behind to talk to the barber.
On the way home, we stopped to run some errands. In the car, I timidly remarked, "So, that was finally the last haircut with that rough barber." My father replied that my bad behavior required strict disciplinenot just at school and at home, but at the barbershop, too.
Once home, my father showed me a handful of green slips. "I've already prepaid for more of those perfect haircuts for you. You'll be taking the train there every three weeks." I tried to convince him to let me go to an old-fashioned barbershopthe kind he wantedbut one located right here in our town. My father flatly refused. It didn't help even when I mentioned that the barber called the boys "Bastards" and demanded absolute silence in the shop.
In response, my father said the barber was displeased that I hadn't wanted to get a haircut that morning. He sent a message if I didn't voluntarily go for a "school cut" every three weeks, my father would call him, and I'd get a different styleone where he'd use a 1 clipper guard on the crown, leaving the hair there no longer than three millimeters, while the rest of my head would be shaved smooth.
Those words shocked me. I was terrified of having even shorter hair I would have looked like an army recruit. I stopped pleading or resisting once I was handed the green slip and the train fare. I resigned myself to my cruel fate. I went to the barbershop regularly. I knew exactly where to stand, when to hand over the green slip, how and when to look the barber in the eye, and how to hop onto and off the chair. On the train, I would always rehearse the words asking for the haircut and the thank-you phrase over and over again.
After those first short cuts, I went through hell at school. Even boys who went to old-fashioned barbershops laughed at me. But eventually, they got used to the fact that the hair at the back and sides of my head never had time to grow back properly before being shaved off again.

Did you like the story? Or do you have any comments? Please leave them below. It encourages me to keep writing. Thank you.

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