Sissy Roger and Old Bill by Roger

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Every one told me I looked like an old lady with my hair, it was that long. I would tie it in a short ponytail at the back to stop it from brushing against my shoulders. I was in my late 40’s at the time. My wife even had shorter hair than me. All my mates would tell me that I looked like some character from the wild west. I’d get very embarrassed every time they yanked my ponytail out and retied it into some sissy position. I wanted all their taunting to stop, but I didn’t want to lose my long, precious hair.

One day, my best friend Corey and I sat in his living room watching TV, each holding a can of beer and talking about the stuff that went on at work.

After there was a silence which the TV couldn’t conveniently fill, he said:

“You know, your hair is really long. It doesn’t look manly to have your hair beneath your shoulders. You should get a trim sometime.”

I became a little nervous, and thought of all my mates teasing me and my hair. The last time I had had a trim had been 6 months to a year ago. “Maybe…but I don’t know a good barber or hairdresser that does the job properly.”

“Hmm…” While he was trying to think of something, I observed his short crew cut. It looked good on him, not me though. Then he said “I don’t know, but why don’t you come meet some mates of mine at work tonight? They’ll have an idea or something. Oh! And maybe Old Bill will be there!”

“Who’s old Bill?”

“He’s like the best barber around. But he doesn’t usually come. He’s either off at work or cutting his son’s marine friends hair.”

I thought and then agreed. So we hopped into his car and went all the way to his friend’s house. They were all holding beer and watching TV too, and they all looked like they had just sat for a haircut. I said hi and we all talked and watched for half an hour. Old Bill didn’t seem to be there. All the guys started to do the same thing all the other guys did. They teased my hair, and said I needed a good haircut. Then just as I got to know some of them pretty well, the doorbell rang, and Corey went to get it. He exclaimed as he opened the door:

“Old Bill! Great to see you man!”

A man looking a little younger than me stepped in. His dark brown hair had natural grey streaks in it giving the crew cut this cool sorta look. I admired his hair, while he greeted everyone else. When he came to me, he said in a deep taunting voice:

“And who’s this sissy over here?”

I went a little red, and before I could introduce myself, one of the other guys called Mark jumped up and said:

“This is Roger. Don’t you think his hair needs a great deal of work?” The others laughed as he said it. Bill looked at me, then without warning grabbed my head and started feeling over it, studying every inch. I didn’t move, but just let him see it. When he was done he released his strong grip and I, still red in the face, took a step back.

“Let’s play cards first.” He said. “We’ll deal with sissy Roger later.” The others were chocking with laughter as we all took a seat at the table. We played a couple of good games.

Then, Fred (another guy) said:

“Ok, whoever looses this game, gets a haircut by Bill, for free.”

“Yeh, and they have no say in what he’s gonna do to their hair. He can do whatever he wants with it.” They were all smiling and looking at me. They knew somehow I was going to lose. I knew it too and kept my head high and played best as I could. Corey nearly lost, but of course, who lost? Me.

“Haha! Now Rog has to get a haircut!”

“Come on Bill! Let’s go to your house. The basement is the best place I’d say.”

So they dragged me out and into Bill’s house. It was a strange sorta place, where he didn’t exactly fit in. Then we went to the basement and I thought the absolute opposite. The basement was very small, but perfect for what it was used for. There was a proper barber’s chair sitting in the middle, against an old office desk with about 10 mirrors perched at different angles so that you could see everything that happened from back to front, from side to side. He sat me down and took a long black cape and tied it around me. I felt my balls quiver, ‘cause I was scared, but excited and that’s what scared me. I looked at my hair for the last time. He opened one of the desk drawers and took out a large black leather pouch. I looked at the other contents of the drawer as he tied the pouch around his waist. All these old combs, scissors, brushes and clippers were in there. Then he added some of the better looking materials from the drawer to his pouch and attached a clipper to a power-point and all its attachments went on the trolley.

He had attached his waist pouch by then and sat on his portable stool. Fred went upstairs and got all of the guys a beer, then cheekily handed me one. They all sat at the back on a bench or chair, waiting to be entertained. I gulped down my beer and the cutting started.

Bill left my hair in its tie, and before I could figure out why, he pulled from his pouch a sharp pair of scissors and said:

“Ready to loose the sissy stuff?”

He didn’t wait for my reply, and I watched in one of the mirrors that portrayed my back; the blades pulled sharply together with a SNIP and most of my long locks fell limp to the floor and the hair-tie sprung into his face, then too joined the locks on the floor. My friends ‘whooped’ and cheered, and I sat solemn faced, my head feeling a lot lighter now that most of its bulk had been chopped off. Bill was sitting upright, scissors still in his old, barber’s hand. Then, as if he’d been in a daze, came back to his senses and picked up a long black comb. My hair was now uneven, but too long yet to use a clipper on. So he dipped the comb into a jug of water and lightly combed through my still lank locks. My hair was now just hanging under my ears, and it tickled annoyingly. Then he started to trim the hair carefully around, concentrating very hard. I didn’t expect he’d had a customer that actually needed scissor trimming in a long time. I had finished my beer, and now since I was bored, started to notice details. Every 6 or so times he got to trimming a few strands, he’d go back to the previous pile of strands and recut them. And the ‘snip’ sound that emerged from the scissors always became more delicate if he snapped them quickly together. But when he was concentrating extremely hard, the ‘snip’ would become slow, and drawn out, ending with the blades pulling together with an extremely quiet, but apparent ‘clip’.

So that went on for some time, until he reached my side-burns. My hair is thin, and the sideburns were long but didn’t connect to my beard. I always trimmed them enough so that you could put your finger underneath them and flap them up and down. But like I said, they were long and limp. He combed through them a couple of times before deciding what to do with them. He inserted two of his fingers on either side of the right sideburn, and levelled it off to about halfway. He then bent the hair between his fingers at an angle, and placed the blades ready to cut half of them off. Then, he again paused and tilted my head downwards so that I was staring at the cape covering my knees. The only way I could judge how short he was cutting my sideburn was to try and feel how far up the blade was going, and also how long the ‘snip’ was drawn out. I saw that I already had heaps of wet cuttings on my cape, dark and long, and cut. He again placed his fingers on each side of the sideburn and slipped the cold blade on either side like the fingers. It felt about halfway, the cold blade tingling my skin in a nerve-racking sort of way. I prepared myself by closing my eyes and opening my ears, and it came extremely slowly. The elongated ‘snip’ was loud and I could remember the moments between the beginning and end of when the blade pulled together. It was so slow and loud, and at the same time, soft but wet hairs fell silently to the cape. And yes the ‘snip’ (or should I say “sniiiiiiiiiippp”) went on that I came accustomed to its sound, and actually quite liked it. More and more hairs fell to the cape, and as more hairs fell, the happier and more excited I became. Then at last he finished the sideburn with the ‘clip’ indicating the end of the scissors cut and did the same to the other. But when he lifted my head to show me how they looked, I exclaimed “Hang on!” The guys looked at me in surprise, then annoyance. Old Bill gave me a somewhat annoyed look as well, and I changed my sentence without thinking. I gulped and said embarrassed “They need to be shorter.” The guys chuckled and nodded their heads and Bill shrugged as if to say “Your call.” And he redid the sideburns (both) as slowly as the last time.

Yes, of course he finished. And now my hair was too short to cut with the scissors anymore. It was nice looking, but still not manly. By that time I was scared and was ready to get up but Old Bill pushed me back down saying ‘We’re only halfway through. Sit down.” I sat, wondering what an earth he could be doing now. He faced the trolley, hiding it from my view as I studied his back. He dipped the comb again in the water and turned around with a pair of clippers in his right hand.

“How long has it been since you’ve had the clippers put to your head?” he asked as he put some attachment on. (I don’t know of any so…)

“Last time when I was 15.” I said, and the guys sniggered in the back. I turned red again.

“Really? Well, say hello to the old fella! He’s gonna pay service to you today.” He smiled and again combed through my hair at the back. I watched in the mirror that showed the back of my head, and he flicked the clippers to life. A ‘buzz’ drone that sounded like it would never end emerged from the small machine, and he sat on his portable stool and held my head steady as he stared so hard at my head in vast concentration I thought he might explode. He ran the clippers for the first time in years over the back of my head and I felt so strange. He did the same to the rest of my head as well as the sideburns. Then with a last flick he switched it off and put it back on the trolley. I examined my head of almost no hair now, but I had to admit it looked really good. But something wasn’t right. He removed the cape and dusted all my soft cuttings to the ground and saw the look on my face and asked: “What, you don’t like it?”

“No, no, no. It’s just…” I couldn’t see what he’d done wrong yet the picture didn’t fit. He seemed to guess quicker than I had.

“Ahh.” He said in realisation and he pushed me back into the chair and wrapped the cape around me again. He stood and reattached the clippers and regathered the scissors and comb.

“What are you doing? It looks fine!” I said, wondering if he thought that I thought he hadn’t done a good enough job.

“I see all sissy.” He said coming to the front. “You need to get rid of that Van Dyke moustache and beard and get something manly done to your face.” He then studied my facial hair. Indeed the Van Dyke look suited the old me, but this new haircut totally mismatched.

He tilted my hair backwards, and ‘snipped’ off a lot of the beard. Then he took the clippers in hand and pushed it around my face. The cuttings falling now were heavy on my lap, getting heavier and heavier each time he ‘snipped’ or ‘buzzed’ it off. Then he reached my moustache and immediately grabbed the scissors and cut them the same way he did my sideburns. And with the corner of the clippers he buzzed a bit of them off as well.

Yes I did get out of there looking totally different. I had looked in the mirror and saw a more positive, greater looking me. And believe me, every 3 weeks I go to Bill, and get a fresh haircut, just for 5 bucks.

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