Nash Girls: Harold Returns Home

Harold Peterson was having one of the worst mornings of his life.
He had walked into Frank’s barbershop across from the Nash factory expecting to straighten out a situation involving several of the young women who worked under his supervision.
Instead, he had gotten into an argument with Frank, the owner of the shop, a former Navy boxer who wasn’t about to let Harold intimidate his customers.
The middle barber had even warned Harold about Frank’s boxing experience.
Harold hadn’t listened.
Now, with his face bruised, his pride wounded, and several of his female employees having witnessed his humiliation, he wanted nothing more than to go home.
Unfortunately, even leaving was proving difficult.
His old 1908 automobile refused to start.
One of the women who had helped start the entire bobbed-hair craze finally came outside. Without saying much, she stepped up to his automobile, worked the hand crank, and got the engine running.
Harold was embarrassed enough already.
He climbed behind the wheel and drove away while the woman returned to the barbershop.
Across the street sat Frank’s beautiful Hudson Super Six. Harold couldn’t help noticing the difference between that powerful modern automobile and the aging machine he was driving.
By the time he reached his house, his face was aching.
His wife was waiting on the front porch.
She was thirty years old, considerably more mature than most of the young women Harold supervised at Nash. They had an eight-year-old daughter, and she had already taken care of getting the children off to school that morning.
She watched Harold pull into the driveway.
“Good heavens, Harold. What happened to you?”
“Nothing I particularly care to discuss.”
“Well, it certainly looks like something happened.”
She walked down the steps and approached the automobile.
“Move over. I want to sit down.”
Harold shifted across the seat.
She climbed into the touring car, took a cigarette from her purse, and lit it.
“Now, would you like to tell me what happened?”
Harold reluctantly explained that he had gone into the barbershop across from the factory to speak with some of the girls.
He told her about the short haircuts, the argument with the barber, and how the situation had gotten out of hand.
Naturally, his version made him sound considerably more innocent than he actually was.
His wife listened without interrupting.
Finally, she took another drag from her cigarette.
“Well, Harold, perhaps you shouldn’t have gone in there looking for trouble.”
“I wasn’t looking for trouble!”
“Apparently you found it anyway.”
Harold looked away.
“Those girls have absolutely no respect anymore.”
“Perhaps they’re simply tired of being told what they can and cannot do.”
He turned toward her.
“And just what is that supposed to mean?”
“Harold, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”
He sighed.
“What now?”
“I’ve decided that I’m going to work at Nash.”
For a moment, Harold said nothing.
Then he looked at her.
“You’re what?”
“I’m going to work at Nash. They’re hiring women, they’re paying good wages, and I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity.”
“But what about the house? What about the children?”
“Your mother has already agreed to come stay with us. She’s perfectly capable of cooking, cleaning, and getting the children off to school.”
Harold considered that.
For years, the responsibility of supporting the household had rested entirely on his shoulders.
The possibility of another paycheck was certainly appealing.
“Well,” he admitted, “I suppose the extra money wouldn’t hurt.”
“Exactly. And I think it would be good for me to get out of the house and do something different.”
Harold nodded.
“But you certainly won’t be working under me.”
She laughed.
“Harold, I wouldn’t want to work under you. I’ve heard enough about how you treat those girls.”
He frowned.
“I suppose I’ll have to arrange to work a different shift.”
“That would probably be best.”
For the first time that morning, Harold began to feel somewhat better.
Then his wife continued.
“There’s one more thing.”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“What?”
“I’m going to get my hair cut.”
“Well, that’s fine. You’ve been to the beauty parlor before.”
“No, Harold. I mean I’m going to have it cut short.”
He stared at her.
“How short?”
“Like those girls at the factory.”
Harold sat upright.
“Absolutely not!”
She calmly took another drag from her cigarette.
“Harold, I’m thirty years old. I think I’m perfectly capable of deciding how I want to wear my hair.”
“You’re a married woman! You’re a mother! You have an eight-year-old daughter! You ought to be setting an example!”
“I intend to.”
“By cutting all your hair off?”
“By showing our daughter that a woman can work, earn her own money, and make decisions for herself.”
Harold shook his head.
“And where exactly do you intend to get this haircut?”
She smiled.
“At the barbershop across from Nash.”
Harold couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“Not that barbershop!”
“Why not? From what I understand, they’re doing a wonderful business cutting women’s hair.”
“That man just beat me up!”
“Well, Harold, perhaps you shouldn’t have challenged a former Navy boxer.”
He looked at her in disbelief.
She finished her cigarette and dropped the remains into the dirt beside the driveway.
“Now, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to take me over there, and I’m going to get my hair cut.”
“I am not setting foot inside that place again.”
“Then you can sit in the automobile and wait for me.”
Harold looked toward the house.
He was beginning to realize that the morning wasn’t going to get any easier.
His wife opened the automobile door, stepped out, and walked toward the porch.
“Come along, Harold. You might as well wash that face before we go.”
He reluctantly followed her inside.
A short time later, they were back in the touring car, headed toward the Nash factory.
As they approached the barbershop, Harold could see several women entering and leaving the building.
Some had long hair.
Others were emerging with their hair cut dramatically shorter.
His wife looked delighted.
“Would you look at that! They’re certainly doing a wonderful business.”
Harold said nothing.
She turned toward him.
“And you know something else? With all these women going to work in the factories, I suspect short hair is going to become a lot more common.”
“God help us,” Harold muttered.
She laughed.
“Perhaps you’d better get used to it.”
They pulled up outside the barbershop.
Frank’s Hudson Super Six was still parked nearby.
Harold stared at the building where he had suffered such an embarrassing defeat only a short time earlier.
His wife opened her door.
“Are you coming?”
“I told you, I’m not going in there.”
“Suit yourself.”
She stepped out and started toward the entrance.
Then she stopped and looked back.
“Harold?”
“What now?”
“You could probably use a haircut yourself.”
He glared at her.
She smiled and disappeared through the barbershop door.
Harold sat alone in his automobile, watching the women come and go.
For the first time, he began to wonder whether the world was changing faster than he was prepared to accept.
And inside that little barbershop across from the Nash factory, his wife was about to become part of that change.

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