A Dream Come True by Flatty

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I had wanted to get a short haircut—a really short haircut—for as long as I could remember. But I had always been too self-conscious to go through with it—until June 1, 1985 (a date I will always remember).

I had just finished my sophomore year in college and had decided to take some summer classes at the State university, about 125 miles from the private college I regularly attended. The State school was in a college town where I didn’t know anyone and I figured it was the perfect time to finally indulge my fantasy of a really short haircut in relative anonymity. Classes were scheduled to start the following Monday. I woke up early Saturday morning, full of anticipation, and went for a long run to try to work off some of my anxiety. After a quick shower, I towel-dried my hair. I had always gotten lots of compliments about my hair—it was a dark chestnut color, thick, full and shiny, with a slight wave—and even though I knew that my hair looked great and that lots of guys (and girls) would kill to have hair like that, I had an increasingly overwhelming desire to watch it all hit the floor. Despite these urges, I had always worn it relatively long—fully covering my ears and well past the collar in back, and the front would hang past my nose if I combed it forward, which I did for what I hoped was the last time—if I could keep up my nerve. Combing it in place, I realized again that it really did look great the length that it was and started to have second thoughts—what would people say? How would I explain getting it all off? And yet, I wondered for the millionth time what I would look like with my fantasy cut—and realized that in a few hours, I wouldn’t have to wonder any more—I was finally going to go through with it. I quickly packed up my car and made the couple drive to the university town.

I had made the trip the weekend before—to scope out the right barbershop for my big transformation. I had driven past several shops until I found the right spot—University Barbers, an old fashioned barbershop with 3 chairs and a big plate glass window with a faded old poster that said “Look your best! Visit your barber every 10 days” and had picture of a bunch of different short hairstyles. I had parked the car and walked past the shop a couple of times—in addition to the poster in the window, there were lots of pictures on the walls of students from the college getting short cuts over the years (though most of the picture looked to be from the ‘50’s and ‘60’s—not many that looked that recent). Still, it seemed like the perfect shop—I had never been in a real barbershop before (in fact, I had never even had a set of clippers used on me at all), but this place was just like I had always pictured it.

Now, a week later, I drove right to University Barbers and parked about a block away. I turned off the engine and looked at myself in the rearview mirror, nervously running my hand through my thick dark hair. It was a hot day and my palms were sweating, but that had nothing to do with the heat. I was so nervous I could taste the adrenaline but I was finally going to do it. I got out of the car and slowly walked back towards the barbershop with weak knees, part of me telling myself that it wasn’t too late, I could still back out. In a daze, I walked into the shop and sat down. All 3 chairs were full and there were several people ahead of me. I grabbed a magazine and pretended to read it but all I could think about was finally getting my dream haircut. As the number of people waiting in front of me got smaller, my heart started pounding faster and faster, until it felt like it would leap out of my chest. Finally, the barber at the middle chair looked at me and said “next?” He was about 35, with piercing blue eyes and blond hair cut into a very short crew-cut, which was not a very common style in the mid 1980’s. I thought it looked amazing but was so nervous that I barely registered his haircut and weakly made my way into the chair. The barber put on the cape and said with a smile, “so what will it be today?” Taking a deep breath, I said, “I think it’s time to try a flattop”—and was shocked that my voice actually sounded steady. “Sure thing”, he replied, “that should help keep you cool with this heat we’ve been having. So, how short do you want it?” I could feel my heart pounding and my mouth was so dry that it was difficult to get the words out, but I said “Well, I figure if I’m going to get a flattop, I should go for it, so I want it extra short—pretty much to the skin on the back and sides and as short as possible on the top while still keeping it boxy like a flattop.” There—I’d finally said the words that I had fantasized about saying for years and there was no backing out now! “Are you sure?” he said. “That’s going to be a big change—if we start a little longer, I can always take it shorter if you want, but once I cut it off, it’s a lot harder to put it back on” he said with a laugh. Looking him straight in the eye, “I’m positive” I replied, sounding much more confident than I felt, “after all, it’s only hair and if I don’t like it, I can just grow it out.” He nodded, with another quick smile.

While he turned to pick up a set of clippers, I took one final look at my long, wavy hair. The barber switched the blade on the clippers and slowly combed my hair down on the right side. “You really have an amazing head of hair here—last chance to change your mind” he said. “Go for it” I replied, nearly ready to burst with the anticipation. “Sure thing!” he said as he flicked the clippers to life, set them at my right sideburn and swiped them straight up the side of my head. Long silky strands of brown hair cascaded past my shoulder, leaving a very white stipe of bare, bald scalp its place. He quickly made a few more passes with the clippers and before I knew it, all of the hair on the right side of my head was now in my lap or on the floor. He barely paused as he moved around to my left side and before long, the back and left side of my head had also been completely buzzed. The clippers snapped off and the barber said in a satisfied tone, “that’s much better—you must feel cooler already!” I realized he was right—I could feel the air move past my head—an odd and completely exhilarating feeling! As I was enjoying this new sensation, the barber sprayed some water on the long hair on the top of my head and then rubbed a large amount of waxy stuff into my hair and vigorously brushed my hair straight back. It looked strange to see the nearly bald back and sides next to the still long hair on the top, though it wouldn’t be that way for long. “Now for the fun part” he said. The clippers roared back to life and he took a large, narrow comb, rested it directly on the crown of my head and pushed the clippers across the comb from right to left. A huge chunk of my hair fell to the floor. Mesmerized, I couldn’t take my eyes off his hands as he repeatedly the process, moving quickly from the crown of my head forward. He then began attacking the long hairs remaining between the shaved sides and the short hairs standing up on the top of my head, expertly forming them into sharp, military looking corners. Finally, he spread some warm shaving cream on the back of my neck and used a straight razor to clean up the my neck below the hairline.

All too soon it was over. I was covered by long, 6 – 8 inch strands of wavy dark hair, which he quickly brushed off onto the floor. He handed me a mirror and to show me the back and top and said, “Well, what do you think? Is it short enough for you? I took the back and sides down with a Zero blade, the crown is about 1/16 of an inch and it’s about ½ inch in the front.” I couldn’t believe how it looked—the back and sides looked effectively shaved, with white, white skin glowing next to the tan of my face and neck. The top was so flat, boxy and precise that it looked like you could cut your hand on it. And you could see white skin showing through at the crown and top—not a shaved landing strip—he had kept it totally flat and boxy like I wanted—but the hair was so short that you could see the scalp through it. I tentatively reached up and felt the back of my head—it felt incredible, just like fine sandpaper. I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection—I could still see me in the reflection, but a different me—more mature, more athletic looking, more confident. After a minute, I realized that the barber was looking uncomfortable—I had been staring in the mirror and hadn’t said a word—“So, do you like it?” he asked nervously. I broke into a huge grin and said, “It’s perfect—exactly how I wanted it—you did a great job!” He broke into a matching grin, “Thanks, I’m glad you like it. You actually have the perfect hair and head shape for a flattop—it really suits you.” I could tell he really meant it. After all the years dreaming of sitting in a barbershop getting exactly this haircut, I finally had done it and he was right—I looked incredible!

“So,” he said, “if you really want to keep it looking sharp, you should come back every 10 days or so—2 weeks max. I’m Matt, by the way,” he said, holding out his hand. I gave it a firm shake, “Thanks a lot Matt. I’m Joe and I guess I’ll be seeing you in 10 days.” And that’s what I did—I had thought I would just get my dream haircut once, get it out of my system and let it grow back to a reasonable length in time for regular classes to start in the fall. But once I started, I was hooked. I saw Matt every 10 days like clockwork all summer long. The white scalp soon become a dark tan to match my face and neck. The funny part was, after all of my anxiety about being self-conscious with such an extreme cut (especially for the mid-80’s, when short haircuts were not nearly as common as they are now), I felt MORE confident with the flattop—it looked great on me and I knew it. I still had a little apprehension when I returned to school that fall—I did get comments but they were overwhelmingly positive. Everyone—guys and girls—wanted to touch my head, which gave me a thrill every time. Pretty soon, I had a new nickname—Flatty. I never looked back and have kept the flattop ever since—and I love it every bit as much today as I did when I first got it all those years ago.

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