Not My Hair

Sometimes, you really don’t want to hear someone else’s story, but then, sometimes you don’t have a choice… We’ll talk about this later.

All my life I have hated—maybe even despised—two reoccurring events that would happen to me on a regular basis; happen to most people on a regular basis—getting a haircut and going to the dentist. Not going to the dentist wasn’t an option since I had no desire to be toothless at a young age. At least that’s what my mother told me would happen if I didn’t go. But the haircut thing, now that was different. I really didn’t have to get a haircut. Well, I actually did until I got in high school; that’s when my mom said I could look like a tramp if I wanted. The problem was I hated long hair almost as much as I hated getting it cut.

So, until I got out of high school my mom always cut my hair. And she did a pretty good job. She would always ask if I wanted a buzz—all of the hair cut down to the size sprouting grass—or a regular cut. Sometimes in the summer I’d go for the buzz cut but most of the time a regular cut meant short on the sides and just long enough to comb on the top. And I must admit she did a pretty good job. Not like some of the kids whose mom’s had no idea what ‘short on the sides and long on the top’ meant. Those poor kids would have been better off stealing a pair of classroom scissors and doing their own hair.

Mom continued to cut my hair even when I got out of high school, not because she did such a fantastic job—remember I said she did a pretty good job—but because I was too cheap to go to the barber. I kept waiting for the day that my mom would charge me but she never did.

Six months out of high school I got my first haircut by someone who wasn’t my mom, but it still wasn’t a barbershop cut. I went in the Navy and was treated to a ‘boot camp’ haircut. If I thought my mom’s buzz cut was short… well, the “two minute boot camp buzz cut” was so short it made my head feel like sandpaper. I would have appreciated having my mom’s sprouting grass cut. So, for the next four years I allowed the Navy to cut my hair for free rather than treat myself to the luxury of a barbershop cut.

Once, while our ship was docked in Hong Kong, myself and a shipmate walked the streets, taking in the sights. We came across a barber shop that specialized in haircuts given by very beautiful women. My buddy talked me into getting one so we walked in and sat down to wait our turn. The first thing I noticed was that you couldn’t see the person getting a haircut. Once you sat down in the chair, the girl barber pulled a curtain all the way around you so you were completely enclosed. I also noticed that there was a lot of noise going on behind the curtain and it wasn’t just the sound of clippers. And then I saw the sign that read “All Special Cuts $20” that’s when I realized this wasn’t just a barber shop. I decided this was not going to be the place that I lost my ‘barber shop haircut virginity’ so I got up and left.

I managed to finish the four year stint in the Navy without setting a foot in a real barbershop—excluding Hong Kong but I’m not sure that was a real barbershop anyway. To be honest, I’m not sure they even cut hair at all. Once those curtains were closed, they may have just turned on the clippers, set them on the counter and went about their other business—whatever that might have been.

Because I kept a relatively short haircut while in the Navy, it took some time before it grew long enough for me to actually even think about getting ‘my ears lowered.’ Not sure why my mom said that when it was time for a haircut. Anyway, mom was now past the hair cutting stage as her arthritis was getting bad. I remember hearing that my brother got the last haircut she did before throwing out the clippers. They said he looked like one of those Cabbage Patch dolls after a four-year-old took a pair of scissors to it. Even after he went to a real barber to get it fixed he still received a number of “not so nice” comments from his high school classmates.

I happened to be at a family gathering and my sister took one look at my hippie style hair and said, “When are you going to get that mop of yours cut?” After explaining that I wasn’t sure I was ready for my first real barbershop haircut, she said, “Why don’t you let me cut it? I do your brother’s hair and he must think I do an alright job since he keeps coming back.” I wanted to say, “He probably keeps coming back because he’s so cheap,” but I didn’t—his hair actually looked good.

Two days later I went to my sister’s house on my lunch break, sat down on a bar stool in her kitchen and let her have at it. Now there were some drawbacks to getting it cut there. One; they have a cat and I hate cats. And, I hate cats almost as much as I hate getting a haircut. Naturally, the first thing the cat did when I sat down was come out of its hiding place and start rubbing his extremely long haired body against my legs. Of course I was wearing navy blue pants and the cat was all white, so, for the rest of the afternoon I got to pick white cat hair off my pants. The other drawback was the kids; her kids and the neighborhood daycare kids. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, but when I’m getting my haircut and the kids are running throughout the house my chances of ending up like the Cabbage Patch doll increased ten-fold; however, that never happened so I continued to have my sister cut my hair for the next few months.

Finally the time had come. I had stalled on this silly idea that I was never going to get a real barbershop haircut long enough. I needed to man up and realize that everyone goes to a barbershop sooner or later and it was my time now. I mean, it wasn’t like he would cut off my ear or something. It was just a damn haircut. So for the next few days I did a little research and found the barbershop that I thought would fit me perfect. It was a one barber, two chair shop on a busy street with a big picture window that looked out on the sidewalk so you could see the people walking by as you got your cut. I had driven by this shop several times and there was never anybody waiting. On this particular day when I drove by the waiting chairs were empty so I went around the block, parked the car and walked the half block to the shop.

I had just finished eating two ‘gut-bomb’ tacos for lunch and my stomach was trying to tell me that I should have had the chicken noodle soup instead. I was thinking about turning back but decided to tough it out since I had come this far so I pushed open the door and walked in. The first thing to hit me was the heat. It was a cold December day outside and he had the heat up so high it felt like a sauna inside. I’m sure it didn’t help that I was wearing a long sleeved shirt with a sweater over it.

“Have a chair, son, I’ll be with you in just a few minutes,” the barber said through a big smile that showed his coffee stained teeth. He had to be seventy-five-years-old if he was a day.

I smiled back, nodded and turned to sit down then noticed there was another man in the shop, besides the one getting his hair cut, sitting in the second barber chair. He was apparently there to just talk with the barber because he didn’t look like he needed a haircut and he still had his coat on. How the hell could he just sit there with that coat on in this heat; I was roasting. I stood up to take my coat off and wished I had brought in my bottle of water.

I picked up last year’s November issue of Field and Stream and pretended to look through it when I realized the man in the chair, not getting a haircut, must have just started to tell a story when I walked in. His voice was loud, annoying and he could have been a baritone in our church choir. I was feeling more sick to my stomach and this guy’s voice didn’t help. I tried not to listen to the story but that was impossible…

“Like I was saying, my brother-in-law, who lives in New Mexico, worked for a guy that used to pan gold. My brother-in-law is nothin’ but a criminal anyway and he steals some of the guy’s gold and gets caught. So this guy puts a gun in my brother-in-law’s back and brings him to an old shed. Inside the shed is a work bench with a steel shackle attached to it. He asks my brother-in-law, ‘which hand did you steal the gold with?’ and my in law says, ‘I don’t know, I guess my right hand, why?’ Then the guy takes his right hand and puts it in the shackle and locks it…”

With my stomach being the way it was and the heat and this guy’s voice and now the way the story was beginning to unfold, I thought I was going to throw up. If I had only brought in that bottle of water.

“…then the guy opens up a drawer and pulls out this big old machete and starts to sharpen it. My brother-in-law’s eyes get about as big as baseballs. ‘You’re not going to cut off my hand are you!’ The guy smiles at my brother-in-law and says…

This was about as much as I could take. I didn’t want to hear what this guy was going to say next. I mean, I really didn’t have to hear it, I could pretty much visualize it; which makes my stomach even worse.

“… no, no, I’m not going to cut off your hand, you are. I’m going to hand you this machete and start the shed on fire.”

I stood up, put on my coat and headed for the door, “I’ll be right back,” I said, “I need to get something out of my car.” Needless to say I never came back, I never even drove past that barbershop again.

Three years later I was shopping for groceries and while standing in line to pay I heard this boy in back of me—he must have been three or four—talking to his mother. He appeared to be too big to be riding in the cart but I’m guessing the mother did that so she wouldn’t need to chase him around the store. I came in at the middle of their conversation…

“…but why, mom. Why do I have to get a haircut. I don’t want to get a haircut.”

“Because your hair is too long, that’s why.”

I smiled to myself, reached back and grabbed a hold of my twenty-four inch long ponytail and pulled it over my shoulder running my fingers through it like it was a horse’s mane. I turned around just far enough to see the anger in the little boy’s eyes.

He pointed at me and said, “He didn’t get his haircut so why do I have to.”