An Old Pic (1): The Shape Cut by GermanCut

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Some days ago, I was cleaning up the attic. At the top of a shelf stood a shoebox. Curious about what might be inside, I stood on tiptoes and tried to pull out the box which was wedged between old books. It slipped out of my hands, and its contents spread on the floor many, many photos.
I grabbed one and shuddered. It was a photo of me and my family taken at the wedding of Aunt Christel and Uncle Jupp. I immediately remembered the whole tragicomedy. It was the tragicomedy of a haircut.
I would like to tell you what happened, and it will be a slightly different story than those ones I usually write.

Wham!... I slammed the front door and ran into the bathroom with my head down. Relieved that I hadn't met anyone from my family in those few meters, I locked the bathroom door and looked at the disaster in the mirror I couldn't blame anyone for this terrible haircut, neither my parents nor the hairdresser. It was wholly my fault.

We had been invited to the wedding of my dad's sister. I found it exciting and was very proud, because I, who had just turned 14, was allowed to come along.
They said You are adult now."
On the other hand, my two sisters, a few years younger than me, would stay with a family in the neighborhood, while I would go to a small town near Cologne with my parents and grandparents.

The closer the day came, the more my parents urged me to go to the hairdresser. My mother had already been there and came back, as it seemed to me, with twice as much hair as before. We are in the 80s and pompous perms with lots of hairspray were fashionable. With my father, I didn't really see any difference after his visit to the hairdresser. He already had little hair at that time, although he was in his late 30s.

"Stefan, tomorrow we're going to the wedding. So today, right after school, you're going to the hairdresser", my mother said firmly. "Do you always have to do everything at the last moment?"
It wasn't that I was afraid of the hairdresser. Hello, I was 14! But for a too long time, I wasn't sure whether I should have my hair cut like my secret idol at school.
I thought one of the older boys was totally cool. I admired him every time in the schoolyard during breaks. He was very tall, had a striking face and wore great clothes. But what I admired most was his hairstyle. As I said, it was the 80s. "New Wave" had also reached Germany and along came a certain fashion style. The hippie-like attitude of the 70s was over. Concerning the hairstyles, too. This boy wore his black hair long on top of his head and with a side parting, while it was very short at the nape of his neck and sides. I wanted this hairstyle too for looking just as cool and adult as he did!

I had finally made it to the hairdresser. I sat on the chair with my cape on and looked in the mirror while the hairdresser combed my hair.
"Just a little shorter?" he asked.
"Uh... no, I would like to have the parting somewhere else, maybe a side parting. And I want to keep the hair long on top, but the other hair short."
"Hm, I think what you want is a shape cut", he replied to my somewhat frizzy description.
I shrugged my shoulders. I didn't know the term.

"Then let's see", he said and grabbed a very special pair of scissors. I had never seen anything like it. It was a pair of thinning scissors with which he worked extensively on my neck. And I hadn't experienced their use yet They didn't seem to cut the hair but rather plucked it out. It didn't feel very pleasant. When the hairdresser also cut my sides with it, I could see how short it was. For the first time, I asked myself if I took the right decision.

He sprayed my hair with water, combed it to one side and snipped it for a very long time. I had the impression that he cut more the air than my hair, because hardly hair fell on the cape except for small damp lint.
Then he used comb and scissors to match my sides and neck area to the hair on the top of my head. This also took a lot of time. I thought it was the most elaborate hairstyle I've ever had. But he wasn't done yet.

He reached for the hair clipper. With short jerky movements, he ran it over the hair of the back of my head and sides, which had already been very short. My hair had never been cut with clippers, and I found it exciting and scary at the same time.

When he put the clipper away, I thought that it was finally done. But the hairdresser only opened the cape and loosened the crepe paper around my neck. From a strange rubber bottle, one of that kind, I used to oil my bicycle chain, the hairdresser dripped a liquid onto his fingers and rubbed it on my neck and near my ears. He took a razor and gave my haircut exact contours. Then he straightened my parting again, combed my hair to the side and fixed it with a generous amount of hairspray.

The hairdresser let me check my new hairstyle from all sides with the help of the hand mirror. The hairline at the back was very high, my neck suddenly seemed twice as long as usual, and my ears were huge and glowed red.
I opened my eyes wide in shock, which was noticed by the hairdresser, because he asked somewhat uncertainly "That's exactly what you wanted, right?"
I answered "Yes, that's right. Thank you very much!"
I paid, said goodbye, got on my bike and rode home as quickly as I could.

And there I was, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at my new hairstyle, which I had wanted just as the hairdresser had cut it, but which didn't look cool at all. I thought I looked like a behaved altar boy.
At that moment, I learned a lesson Something that looks totally cool on one person can look totally stupid on another.

"Stefan, what are you doing in the bathroom for so long? Are you okay?" I heard my mother's voice. I hardly dared to open the door. I knew my family's tendency to dramatize everything. And indeed, by opening the door and so to speak raising the curtain, the performance of "The Firstborn's New Hairstyle A Haircut Opera" started.

My mother opened her eyes wide and showered me with questions, her voice rising very high "What did you do? Which hairdresser have you been to? Did he give you the hairstyle without asking you?"
I was tempted to lie and blame the hairdresser, but then I told the truth.
"I had imagined it to be completely different," I whined. "I look so stupid!"
My mother said "Let's see if we can save something!"
I was really desperate, so I let my mother comb my hair. When was the last time she had done that? When I was seven?

My grandma appeared in the doorway and I heard her alto voice "Stefan, you finally have a grown-up haircut that looks good! You look like a young gentleman!"
I had the best grandmother in the world, but what she said didn't reassure me at all. After all, what 14-year-old boy wants to look like a "young gentleman"? The fact that she didn't just say it to comfort me, but that she really meant it, only made the whole thing worse. I was close to tears.

My two little sisters joined us and grinned "Gee, Stefan, your ears are pretty big! And red!"
"That's not true at all", my mother said to them, not looking very convincing.
I hadn't even noticed that not only my mother, but also my father had come home from work.
"Stefan, it really doesn't look that bad", he said. "When I was your age, your grandma sometimes cut my hair. That looked really bad! And I had to go to school like this!"
My grandma gave him an angry glaze but then laughed. "At least you looked neat!" she said.
Strangely enough, that comforted me a bit. No matter how terrible my new hairstyle was, my father had experienced something worse and endured it like a man!

In the meantime, my mother had tried all kinds of things with my hair She had first combed everything back, but my hair was too short for that. Then she tried to turn the side parting into a middle parting, which didn't work at all. Then she combed my hair into my forehead, which looked very strange. At the end, I had the same hairstyle as at the beginning. But either my mother didn't notice, or she wanted to deceive me "It looks much better this way", she said with a smug smile.

Six people were standing in and in front of the bathroom. Then it became seven.
"I don't know why the boy is making such a fuss", my grandfather said and got upset. "Everything is all right! When will we have dinner?"
That was the last aria of the haircut opera, a word of authority spoken by my grandfather.

The next day, early in the morning, five people squeezed into our little Fiat. During the several-hour drive, I sat in the back seat between my grandparents and fumbled with my hair.

We had changed our clothes and were standing in front of the church. "Come with me, Stefan!" my mother said, and directed me behind a side chapel. "Close your eyes now!" she ordered, took a small can out of her purse and sprayed me extensively with hairspray. "And now take your hands off and stop fumbling with your hair!"

We sat far at the front of the church and waited eagerly for the bride and groom to move in. To my left sat my father and smelled of "Irish Moss", my grandmother to my right exuded a heavy patchouli scent. I myself smelled of hairspray. Not only did I have a hairstyle that looked weird, but it also smelled weird.

The organ suddenly began to play a fanfare at full volume. Everyone rose from their seats. Aunt Christel in a long white wedding dress and veil moved in with Uncle Jupp and a large entourage the groomsmen and the maids of honor, the priest and the altar boys, one of whom enthusiastically waved the thurible.
Irish moss, patchouli, hairspray and incense I was no match for this olfactory attack. I sank to my knees. "Not now, Stefan!" my father whispered and pulled me up. He had obviously misinterpreted my nausea and thought I wanted to pray.

The bride and groom took their seats while the organ struck up softer sounds. It sounded like silver raindrops. And just as silver the voices of the choir began

Exultate Deo adjutori nostro jubilate Deo Jacob"

Rejoice to God our helper sing aloud to the God of Jacob"

I listened to this incredibly beautiful music by Alessandro Scarlatti and forgot all the nausea and my terrible haircut. I did not understand a word, because it was Latin, but it filled me with ease and cheerfulness. Music can do magic.

I was afraid that Uncle Jupp, who liked to make jokes, might make jokes about my haircut. But he didn't. He only looked at me at the party for a moment with pity, without saying anything about it.
I was afraid that some guys of my age might be at the party who would tease me. That did not happen. Instead, I talked a lot with Yvonne, a cousin I didn't know yet. She thought my hairstyle was "cool". But she was a fan of vampire films and perhaps that's why she had her own aesthetic perception. I hardly thought about my new haircut during the whole day. I didn't fumble with my hair either, but at most lightly stroked my neck. My shaved neck was a new experience that I liked. "It looks like s**t, but it feels good", I thought and wondered if there couldn't be a hairstyle that not only feels good but also looks good.

I looked again at the photo taken in front of the restaurant where the wedding-party was taking place an ugly gray building where only the beer advertisement and a few red geraniums outside the windows provided color
On the left are my grandparents, dressed in dark clothes and frozen in pride in their youngest daughter.
In the middle, Aunt Christel in her wedding dress, with a veil that makes her bright red hair peek out.
Uncle Jupp, smiling like his wife, with a blond mullet and moustache
next to him my father with thinning hair
my mother in a cinnamon-colored dress with shoulder pads and a breathtaking perm. And then me with a dark jacket, gray pleated trousers, light blue shirt and tie. I try to smile but only stretch my lips. With the suit and the haircut, I look older than 14. Much older. Even older than today, 40 years later.

Be sure, I never ordered a shape cut again!

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