One sunny day when I was eleven, Kenny and I retrieved a large mirror from my basement, stole across the train tracks and from a perch on top of the loading dock aimed a laser beam of bright reflected sunlight over the main street, through the barber shop window, and into the eyes of Mr. N–, who at the time was giving one of his take-no-prisoner haircuts to an unfortunate. Collateral damage.
Villainous? Yes. But it was adolescent retribution with cause. The eye-blinder was for all the pinches, puckers and nicks he put into 
my oversized ears and skinny neck over one year of forced and anguished visits.
Before each haircut I pleaded with my dad, showing my scars, revealing iniquitous horrors, but he must have had some kind of mutual commercial agreement, to wit: Mr. N– bought our Springside Shopping Center groceries, and I, with father’s coin, got his Pool Hall and Barber Shop haircuts–bloodletting thrown in at no cost.
As for my friend Kenny, he had a vested interest in the crime, although to a lesser degree; because, after a couple of regrettable Kenny croppings, his dad gave in to my friend’s protests and stopped sending him.
The barber was probably not what we had imagined him to be–part senile, part shell-shocked. But he was shaky. We assumed it was from age, or from whatever went on at the Legion.
It was the clippers’ never-to-be-changed blunt edge of the sickle that tore the skin. And whenever he went for it, snapping the electric servo into rabid life, I slunk into his black leather barber chair so far that he had to give the hydraulic foot pump two more kicks to get me back to slashing height.
But when he was on me I stayed stone-still. Only my dilated pupils moved, darting this way and that, trying not to seize on the leather strop hanging by my side, or stop at the shelf by the window where the straight razor soaked in a fluid-filled glass jar. A dermatological tailings pond.
My motionless state didn’t matter. There was hamburger to be made. And when all the cuts were stanched–some requiring time–I left shorn, but looking like I had an angry English hedgehog dragged over my head and down the back of my neck. Quitting the chair and emerging from his shop was like a scene from Hellraiser.
So I didn’t feel bad, when on that bountiful sun-sweet day, he came racing out the front door brandishing a comb still dripping with blue Barbicide. Me and Kenny just flattened ourselves into specks. Mr. N–, confused, finding nothing close by, recalculated and lifted his head to our horizon. But at that distance he couldn’t make us out, let alone make the chase. So he shook his comb in our direction and retreated into his den twisting the Venetian shutters closed.
Kenny and I took an exaggerated circuitous route back to the Shopping Center, where I lived, and which happened to be right beside the barber shop. We slunk through the back door and into the basement, put the mirror back in its place, and setup living with our perfect transgression.
I’m still living with it. You see, to me, long hair was more than an anti-establishment statement, it was also a safety measure. Even now, 40 years later, I resist the shearing chair. It had crossed my mind, but I’ll not start my new year with a haircut. Cheers!
Happy New Year! Love to all!
Reading quotes on creativity this morning I found this: “Build yourself wings. Fly straight ahead. Walk a straight line. Visit. Leave a special sign on the door. Make a gift of words. Mark your path with books. With clothes. With food. Join two distant places. Two rocks. Two people. Bridge a river. Build a city of sand. Raise up a mound.” Milan Knizak Somehow this reminded me of you. Thank you for the gifts of your words. Happy New Year to you, your family and many blessings.
Ellen, Thank you so much for the quote and the wishes. And here’s wishing you continue to mark your own path with the amazing beauty of your own art. New Year Blossoms to you!
Hi Steve
Happy New Year
The picture is priceless.
You never told us that you lived the Nazarite vow.
I suppose the beer doesn’t disqualify you as it is not technically a fruit of the vine.
Best Wishes
Len
btw
was your father’s ‘barber of uncivil’ named
S. Todd by any chance?
Awesome story and fabulous picture! !Terry and I wish you and Deb a blessed 2009! Sue
Hey Len, I applaud your facility at justification. And yes, the allusion to S. Todd is acurate while not literal. (Kind of like scripture)
Thanks for dropping by.
Hi Sue, Thanks for the note and happy you approve of the pic. The very best to you and Terry and all yours in 2009!
This article should have a warning header – perhaps “Caution: May cause oral turbulence resulting from to merriement”.
I had to time my morning meal’s mouthfulls between chuckles to avoid a messy situation.
Who knew the kid pictured would one day write as the author does?.
Hau’oli Makahiki Hou 2009!
Thank you Fred! Back at you–as you suffer in Hawaii–a brilliant 2009 to you!
I remember Mr. N- too, and was also a victim of his, but being 10 years your senior, his shakiness was perhaps not quite so advanced when I was being shorn there. But I confess to a bit of disappointment – I had always thought that your long hair did have a more ideological origin – although the Nazirite vow one didn’t come to mind!
Sam, No disappointment necessary–as the hair grew, the ideology grew…it was a very narrative process.
&*$!~#<@ !!! That we ME in the chair that day, Stephen!!!
__________
Childhood trauma = been cutting my own hair for 15 years now. These days I wonder why I never got up and just walked out? Starving children in China certanly never got my left-overs.
What do you think, does God send people to hell because they spilled their milk as kids?
Us girls also have our bad hair stories… my mother liked to ‘slick’ my hair back when I was younger. I thought it looked “stupid”!! Less blood than your story though…
Craig, I remember the confusion those threats caused. And Craig, you’ve got great hair! You just part it wide.
Lucy, Elvis was in and so, I’ll bet were you.