Hair: Chapter Two

I opened my eyes only when we were outside the door of a small shop, wind and snow pelting our bodies.  I bravely gazed with glazed frozen eyelids.  In front of me and Dad, who had arms wrapped around my five year-old frame and me, clinging to his wool chest, was a red, white and blue striped pole.  Through the glistening swirl, I thought it was moving.  We advanced through the wooden door with writing on the glass.  The jangle of a bell above me.  Closing the door with a booted foot, Dad set me down.  I glanced back out the windowed door.  Sure enough, that crazy pole was rotating.  The smell of vinegar, rubbing alcohol, cigar and cigarette smoke, mingled with Grandpa sweat, engulfed me.  Too many other unidentified foreign smells clouded my thawing eyes as I looked around.

'So, this is a barbershop.'  Not unlike Floyd's on Andy Griffith which, coincidentally, just played the previous week on TV.  A new character was introduced: Floyd the Barber.  I do remember Mom and Dad talking quietly about "a first haircut."  My first Haircut?  Up to this point, My Hair was clipped unevenly by Auntie Jenny, a robust, talkative Italian on Dad's side of the family.  She always made me nervous because of her constant chatter, bless her heart, about her roomytoid pains, new pasta recipes and the local gossip.  I knew more about suffering, sauces and Susie than anyone my age should have.  But not enough attention to My Hair.  I stood stock still, absorbing the new surroundings.  A wall of huge mirrors.  Large strange-looking chairs of black and, oooh, shiny metal things all around and on it.  I was hoisted up onto this cushy, cold, over sized high chair and buckled in.  Time for a ride?  Without warning and with a Sssnap, a long, white drape was slung over my body and an itchy, cardboardy neck collar was fastened.  It smelled clean.  My eyes bulged.  A bit snug around the throat, pal.

"First time here, huh?  Well, we'll take care of you in a jiffy."  His breath smelled of smoke and Doublemint.
"Hey Floyd."  Dad winked at me.  "Yup, first time for Mark here.  Let's give him a crew cut."
"Hot rag for his face?  Might loosen up that thick beard."
So, that's how it's going to be.  Cracking jokes.  Tying me down, raising the chair higher, higher, till I was tall and then twirled around to face the mirrors, making me dizzy.  I saw myself looking like Casper the Unfriendly Ghost.  A shock came over me, kinda electrical, kinda like just a couple of weeks ago, Christmas, when my sister Jane urged me to put my tongue on a battery for my Army truck.  A buzz-sawing-whirring sound closed in on me.  On My Hair.  That Thing in his hand making all that noise, oooh shiny, but at least not scissors.  I relaxed a bit till That Thing raked My Head.  Taken by surprise, I straightened my back and gracefully, slowly slithered down the thick, padded chair, almost hitting the floor, which I might add, had plenty of Someone Elses'  Hair.

"Whoa, there.  You almost fell."  Dad gracefully pulling me back up, 'Floyd' gracefully straightening my clean sheet, me gracefully back in the chair, my throat pinched a little tighter.
"Maybe, we'll use the board."  And out came a little wooden table, gracefully placed on my lap and under my arms.  More restraints for the squirmy boy.

Back came the grinding, noisy thingamajig.  And then something overtook me.  Time slowed down.  My heartbeat almost stopped.  In slow-mo, I felt My Hair being tugged, tingled, electrified again.  Then the clouds opened up and I shrieked, yelped, thrashed, screamed, spewed tears, clenched, arched and shrieked some more.  But gracefully.  The noise was turned off.  Dad looked at me with a stern eye and smiled.  I still cried, I couldn't help it.  I'm being scalped here.  My Hair.  And it hurt.

After sliding and writhing and squirming, I finally was too tired to slide or writhe or squirm.  I was too tired to fight.  I was all dried up.  It must have been a terrible scene.  Several older gentlemen, smelling of oil and Brylcreem, gave me a mean-old-man look and the cash register rung out.

"Thanks, Jake.  First-timers never enjoy it, do they?"

"Well, you cut it so short, he won't have to be back for a long, long time.  And we won't have to hear such racket."  Jake casually glanced at Dad and smiled.  'Floyd' was smiling.  Dad smiled.  Everybody was smiling on this painful, eventful day.  Except me.  And My Hair laying on the tiled floor like fallen soldiers, cut down in their prime, entwined with other, darker more mature veterans.  Oh, the pain.  The misery.  But, My Hair will rise again and claim victory.  Defenses were erected.  Plans were drawn up.  And the battle rages on for the  survival of the troops.  Survival of My Hair.

Oh ya, My Haircut.  It was, indeed, a crew cut.  If any of you know what that looks like, you understand, at the time, we all had a variation of this haircut.  If you don't know what a crew looks like, please refer to the chart below.  I believe it's the one on the bottom row, far right.  Nice, huh?