Your first haircut

Do you remember your first haircut? Probably not, but it was probably traumatic. I don’t remember but I have the blond curls in an envelope that someday I might glue back on.

From what I remember every summer I got the yearly haircut. I was given a couple of bucks and sent to Cary Street to Bob’s Barbershop across from the Byrd Theater. Back in those days going to the barber was like going to the doctor (which in history they were).

There were no reservations so you just entered and took a seat awaiting the call to the rotary chair. Depending on the number of other hairy guys to be sheared, you just sat waiting the procedure.  

There were pictures on the walls of photos of headshots associated with the latest fashions and magazines showing how the celebrities combed their hair, but I was not here for a choice. I flipped through the hunting and fishing magazine until the man in the white coat motioned for me to come up and hop into the rising leather captain’s chair.

I have no idea if my parents called and told this stranger what sort of slicing and dicing was to be done on my head but once I was strapped down in a sheet and a toilet paper roll around my neck, I was at the mercy of this guy with sharp instruments.

Barbers like to talk so there is almost as much talk as the dentist. “What would you like?” he asks while he was arranging the torture tools. “Just a little bit off the sides” I’d say while trying to get a breathe under my collar before my head was tossed back by a powerful hand and this roar of an electric razor next to your ear.

The regulars continued to share jokes distracting this butcher was the blade got closer to my ear. Just close your eyes and wait for the blood bath to begin.

Now I know those razors have plastic attachments that cut a distance from the skull, like raising your mower blade above the grass. All I remember was feeling whatever fuzz was on top of my head falling on my shoulders and rolling down to the floor. Your hair, like your fingers and toes are part of you and now is being swept off the floor.

Just to make sure you understood the power this man had he’d take a straight razor and wipe it back and forth on a strap, then lather your neck to scrap the final roots coming scary close to your jugular vein.

I understand the buzz cut. I simple take no prisoners that will last through the summer and into the school year. I never had a completely shaved head but was pretty close to those boot camp styles. All through elementary and junior high school I was not going to impress the opposite sex with my waves even with the customary gift of Brylcreem along with the Old Spice after-shave before shaving.

Not having any hair was easy to maintain with combs or brushes but while Elvis and Kookie and Fabian were getting all the girls, the rest of us had to put on caps or just look dorky.

Then ‘The Beatles’ arrived with mop tops meaning combing down whatever you had on top over your eyes was cool.

In high school being cool was imperative with being popular so for those who dared, the hair grew longer. Even though some girl friends would clip and trim, the principal had certain appearance requirements on the length of girl’s skirts or guy’s hair, so I missed a few days.

In the 60s and in college it was all about hair. Haircuts had become a sign of the past.

Yet when my mother asked me to get a haircut because my grandmother was coming to visit, I obliged the request. I wasn’t quite spiffy but I passed.

While Bob is probably still sitting in the swivel chair discussing baseball scores while putting his combs in that weird liquid and rubbing his hand together with that sweet aftershave, I’ll not be seeing him again.

I appreciate to learn about how sharp scissors can be and even tried that straight razor, but for the most part getting your haircut is like mowing your lawn.

Next week it will all grow back.