BarberBrad
Two months had passed since Liz’s accidental bald shave at Tony’s Barbershop, a dramatic follow-up to the buzzcut she’d gotten by mistake at Vibe Salon. Liz, the 29-year-old graphic designer with a creative spark, had evolved from a shoulder-length hair devotee to an unexpected advocate for short styles. Her hair had grown out to about an inch, just covering her ears, creating a shaggy, untidy look that grated on her. She missed the crisp, velvety buzz of a fresh cut, especially the addictive ritual of rubbing the back of her head where the stubble prickled under her fingers. The short-hair life had won her over—she loved its boldness and simplicity, even if it came with a streak of misadventure.
Liz had been researching new styles, fixating on a faux hawk: buzzed sides with a slightly longer top spiked up for a playful, edgy vibe. She’d been raving about it to Ashley, her co-worker whose bike-trip buzzcut had triggered Liz’s hair saga. Ashley, now growing her hair back to a bob, was enthusiastic. “A faux hawk would look killer on you,” Ashley said over lunch, her chin-length hair tucked behind her ears. “You’re basically the short-hair guru now.”
Liz grinned, rubbing the softened stubble at her nape. “I just crave that fresh buzz feeling. But salons don’t always nail clipper cuts.” Ashley nodded, smirking. “Yup. Barbershops own fades—salons are shaky with short styles. Why not go back to your head-shave spot?” She teased, winking. “Tony’s, right? They messed up, but their clipper game was tight. They’d slay a faux hawk fade.”
Liz laughed, the memory of her glossy bald scalp still sharp. Ashley was right—salons often stumbled with short cuts, but Tony’s old-school barbershop had the skills. Returning to Tony’s felt like tempting fate, but Liz was ready. Third time’s the charm, she thought, determined to land her vision.
That weekend, Liz stepped into Tony’s Barbershop on Main Street, the familiar scent of aftershave and hum of clippers welcoming her. The red-white-and-blue pole spun outside, and the worn leather chairs and faded haircut posters felt comforting. Tony, the wiry 60-something barber with a thick Brooklyn accent, grinned wide. “Back again, kid! Want that clean shave?” he said, chuckling as he tied a cape around her neck.
Liz laughed, shaking her head. “Not this time, Tony. I’m thinking a faux hawk—short on the sides, longer on top, spiked up.” Tony squinted, puzzled. “Faux hawk? Like a longer Mohawk?” Liz clarified, “No, not super long. Buzzed sides, like a #2, and the top about an inch, spiked up.” Tony nodded slowly. “Oh, like a flattop?” Liz, unfamiliar with the term, shrugged but reiterated, “Maybe? Buzzed sides, #2, and the top longer, spiked.” Tony’s eyes lit up. “Got it.” In his mind, her words screamed flattop—a military-style cut with buzzed sides and a short, square, flat top. Liz’s miscommunication curse was back.
“Let’s do this,” Tony said, spinning her chair away from the mirror. “No peeking—trust the process.” Liz settled in, relaxed and excited for a cut she’d chosen. Tony fired up the clippers, their hum calming her nerves. He started on the sides, using a #2 guard to buzz her shaggy hair to a quarter-inch. Clumps fell fast, piling on the cape in soft, brown tufts and scattering across the floor like sawdust. The cool metal grazed her scalp, and Liz smiled, loving the buzz against her skin. The shop’s air hit her clipped sides, a crisp tingle spreading across her neck.
Tony worked with precision, fading the sides seamlessly up to her temples. After a few minutes, he paused and spun her to the mirror. “Check the sides—whaddaya think?” Liz’s eyes sparkled. The buzzed sides were perfect—tight, clean, with a subtle fade that screamed faux hawk. “Tony, this is exactly what I wanted!” she said, beaming. Her heart raced, but a tiny voice whispered, Tell him to stop? Just trim the top? The sides were so spot-on, she worried about risking the rest. But Tony was nodding, saying, “Good, good. Now we shape the top.” Liz hesitated, tempted to say, “Just a light trim,” but his confidence reassured her. He’ll spike it up, she thought, trusting him. Oh, how wrong she’d be—again.
Tony spun her away from the mirror, grabbing his clippers and a flat comb. Liz, buzzing with excitement, started chatting. “So, Tony, you catch the game last night?” Tony grunted, focused. “Yeah, Mets choked again. Typical.” The clippers hummed, and Liz felt hair raining down, more than expected for a “spiked” top. She assumed he was shaping it, so she stayed still, trusting the process. Tony’s voice cut in. “Don’t move, kid. Gotta get this top perfect.” Liz nodded, smiling, thinking this could be her best cut yet.
Unbeknownst to her, Tony was sculpting a textbook flattop. He held the comb parallel to her scalp, running the clippers over it to carve the top into a precise, half-inch square, flat as a tabletop. Hair fell steadily, short bits piling on the cape in a soft heap and dusting her shoulders like fine ash. The clippers buzzed rhythmically, each pass leveling the top further, creating a sharp, boxy plane. Tony tilted her head slightly, ensuring the sides blended into the flat top’s edges, his hands steady from decades of practice. Liz felt the comb’s teeth graze her scalp, the clippers shearing away length, and more hair tumbled down, some catching on her cape, some drifting to the floor in a growing brown carpet. She kept chatting about Tony’s grandkids, oblivious, her smile wide as she imagined a spiky faux hawk taking shape.
Tony paused, eyeing his work, then continued, fine-tuning the top’s corners to keep it geometrically perfect. The clippers made shorter, deliberate passes, shaving the top to a uniform, rigid flatness. Liz savored the buzz, the shop’s fan sending a breeze across her buzzed sides, thinking the top was being textured for spikes. Tony stepped back, satisfied, and asked, “Want the top shorter? Maybe a landing strip?”—referring to a slightly raised center strip common in flattops. Liz, picturing her spiky faux hawk, smiled and shook her head. “No, it’s good like this.” Tony nodded, brushing off stray hairs, confident in his flattop masterpiece.
“All done,” he said, spinning her chair back to the mirror with a flourish. Liz’s smile froze. Her head was a perfect army-style flattop: #2 sides fading up to a stark, square top, flat and severe, like a drill sergeant’s dream. It was not a faux hawk. The top, instead of spiky and textured, was cropped short and geometrically level, screaming 1950s boot camp. Her jaw dropped, her reflection a stranger—again. How does this keep happening? she thought, her stomach sinking. The absurdity was almost comical. She forced a fake smile, not wanting to hurt Tony’s feelings. “Wow, Tony… it’s, uh, super sharp,” she said, her voice tight. Tony beamed, brushing off her neck. “Classic cut, kid. You wear it well.”
Liz reached up, her fingers grazing the stiff, flat surface—smooth, square, and utterly wrong. The buzzed sides felt familiar, but the boxy top was alien. As she paid and stepped outside, the spring breeze hit her scalp, sharp on the buzzed sides but muted on the flat top. She rubbed the back of her head, the #2 stubble a comfort, but when her hand hit the square top, she burst out laughing. “Three times!” she muttered. “Three freaking times I get the wrong cut!”
On her way home, Liz stopped at a hardware store for gardening supplies—mulch and a trowel for her patio plants. At the checkout, the clerk, a middle-aged guy with a buzzcut, glanced at her flattop and said, “Got your military ID? We give a 10% discount.” Liz’s eyes widened, her hand flying to the square top. Oh my God, it’s that military, she thought, stifling a laugh. “Uh, no, I’m not in the service,” she said, cheeks flushing. The clerk shrugged, ringing her up, and Liz left, shaking her head. The flattop was that convincing.
Monday morning, Liz strode into the office, her flattop stealing the show. Ashley, sipping coffee, nearly choked. “Liz! Are you enlisting?!” she cackled, her growing bob bouncing as she laughed. Liz grinned, rubbing the buzzed back of her head. “Meet my ‘faux hawk,’ courtesy of Tony. Apparently, ‘spiked’ means ‘army square’ in his book.” Ashley doubled over, tears streaming. “You’re a legend. How do you keep doing this?”
Liz recounted the saga—the perfect sides, the urge to stop, the meticulous top carving, the landing strip offer, the hardware store mix-up—while the office roared with laughter. As she settled at her desk, she kept rubbing the prickly back of her head, the fresh buzz satisfying despite the flat top fiasco. The square top wasn’t her vibe, but it had a retro boldness she could lean into. Next time, I’m bringing a damn picture, she vowed. But deep down, Liz was embracing the chaos. Her hair misadventures were her brand, and she was ready to rock the flattop—military discount or not.
