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The Haircut, by David Moore

 

It was spring and I came home from school with a notice that class pictures were about to be taken in school at the end of the week. This, normally, would not have been such a big deal but it was short notice and I needed a haircut before I was to be immortalized in an infamous school portrait.

For another reason, this would not have been such a big deal because I lived in a family full of hairdressers and barbers. Out of my 11 aunts and uncles, 5 of them owned clippers and one of the family events on a Sunday night every month or so was a “clip in” in my grandmother’s kitchen, with my uncle doing all boys.

I was going on 9 years old and secretly longed for a chance to get a real haircut, in a real barbershop like my Dad, without an audience of giggling cousins. It just so happened that the stars were in line and my Mom forgot about the picture date until the day before the big shoot and it was crunch time. It didn’t make much difference to me whether I was trimmed for the picture, but when I got home from school on the day before the big shoot, my mother told me to ride my bike back downtown and get a haircut.

Initially, I was taken by surprise when she handed me a fist full of quarters and told me to go get one. Although I was the oldest of the kids she was sending me into the town center, all by myself to tackle this manly chore, alone. I had never even sat in a barber chair for a real haircut. This was going to be a big event in my transition to manhood.

I ran out the door and began my journey back into town, all of a mile away, all alone. The trip was all uphill so I have plenty of time to savor the anticipation of the experience. I finally arrived at his small, one-chair shop next to the florist. Mr. McHale’s barbershop was in a small wing of an ancient building on the edge of the center. The big old door was well worn and the hinges squeaked as I slowly opened it to peer inside. The room seemed huge but in reality, couldn’t have been more than 12’ square. The shop had a sort of sweet smell. On one wall was a shallow counter with a large mirror over it. Directly in front of it was a barber chair sitting on a big white porcelain base with well-worn leather cushions.

On the back wall was a small potbelly stove with a bucket of coal next to it and a small cast iron pot sitting on top. Beside the stove pipe was a rack of shaving mugs on the wall similar to the one that I had seen at my grandfather’s house. Sitting in the corner was a little old man, Mr. McHale, the barber who looked up from his paper and said, “What can I do for you today, young man?”.

 “I need a haircut for my school picture” and he motioned for me to sit in the chair. I plopped my hat and jacket onto the chair next to the door. As I approached the big chair, he placed a large black cushion on the seat, a concession in my ascent to manhood.

Once seated he spun the chair around as I gazed into the mirror. He pulled a big white and blue striped sheet off the hook next to the mirror swung across my chest and fastened it around my neck with a big safety pin. He pumped the chair up as he looked over my shoulder and looked into the mirror. “Well how would you like it?” he asked and I replied again that I was having my school pictures taken tomorrow so, not too short. He began to clip and I was fascinated to watch in the big mirror in front of me. It was not my first haircut for sure but it was the first one that I could watch and not be the subject of an audience.

He began to clip and I was fascinated to watch in the big mirror in front of me. It was not my first haircut for sure but it was the first one that I could watch and not be the subject of an audience.

When he finished up, he swung me around to the mirror and asked, “How does that look?”

"That’s good,” I replied. He then picked up this big brush, which looked like a long shaving brush, sprinkled some powder on it, and proceeded to brush the cut hairs from my neck with quick sweeping motions. I think I choked on the cloud of sweet-smelling powder about my head as he unfastened the cape from around my neck, and shook it out. He stepped on the pedal on the back of the chair and I could hear the hydraulic oil rush out the chair as it settled back down to the floor.

I jumped out of the chair, reached into my pocket, and pulled out my four quarters, placing them into his hand and saying thank you with a big smile. He walked over to a cigar box on the end of the counter, dropped the quarters in, and handed me a dime. I was so excited by my accomplishment, I grabbed my hat and coat and bounded outdoor, proudly mounted my bicycle and flew down the hill, full speed, all the way home. 

When I got home my mother asked to see it and I casually dismissed her inquiry with “Aw Ma, it was just a haircut, no big deal," as I glowed inside with a huge sense of accomplishment.

 

 


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