Nash Girls: The Wrong Man to Challenge

It was approximately 7:30 on a Thursday morning when Harold Peterson pushed open the door of Frank Miller’s barbershop.
Across the street, the night shift at the Nash automobile factory had finished at seven o’clock. After twelve hours of work, the employees were pouring out of the factory, some heading home and others stopping for a little entertainment before retiring for the day.
Frank Miller had built his business around those workers.
His barbershop opened at six in the morning and closed at ten, then reopened at six in the evening and stayed open until ten. He didn’t bother with the traditional hours most barbers kept. He wanted the Nash employees, and he had arranged his business to accommodate them.
It had proven to be a brilliant decision.
But recently, something had changed.
Women were coming into the shop in greater numbers than men.
And they weren’t coming for ordinary trims.
They wanted their hair bobbed.
The new fashion was spreading through the Nash factory like wildfire. What had begun with a handful of daring young women had become something approaching a movement.
Girls who had worn their hair long since childhood were now marching into Frank’s shop, climbing into the barber chairs, and asking to have it cut short.
Some wanted it at their shoulders.
Others wanted it at their chins.
And a few of the boldest wanted their necks exposed, with the hair clipped close beneath a sharply defined bob.
Frank and his two barbers, Walter and Eddie, had never seen anything quite like it.
And business had never been better.
That particular morning, all three barber chairs were occupied by women.
Walter was finishing a short bob on a dark-haired factory worker. Eddie was preparing to remove nearly two feet of hair from a young blonde. Frank himself was standing behind a brunette who had asked him to cut her hair considerably shorter than her friends had dared.
Several more women occupied the waiting chairs.
There was laughter, conversation, and the occasional cloud of cigarette smoke.
A few of the women had brought small flasks, taking discreet drinks while discussing their evening at the factory.
It was an atmosphere that would have been unthinkable in a traditional barbershop only a few years earlier.
And Frank loved every minute of it.
He was making money.
His barbers were making money.
His customers were happy.
Then Harold Peterson walked through the door.
Harold was a supervisor at the Nash factory, responsible for overseeing many of the women who had just finished their twelve-hour shift.
He was already in a foul mood.
A production mistake during the previous shift had caused considerable trouble, and Harold had spent much of the morning trying to determine who was responsible.
Now, having stopped for what he expected would be a quick haircut, he found himself staring at a room full of women.
He stopped just inside the doorway.
“What the hell is this?”
The laughter quieted.
Frank looked up from the woman in his chair.
“Morning, Harold.”
Harold ignored the greeting.
He looked from one barber chair to the next.
“Have I walked into a beauty parlor?”
A couple of the women exchanged amused glances.
Frank continued combing his customer’s hair.
“Nope. Same barbershop it’s always been.”
Harold pointed toward Walter’s chair.
“Then what’s she doing in there?”
“Getting a haircut.”
“I can see that!”
“Well, then I don’t understand the question.”
A few of the women laughed.
Harold’s face reddened.
“I’m serious, Frank. Since when did you start letting women take over a man’s barbershop?”
Frank set his comb down.
“Since they started paying for haircuts.”
That brought another round of laughter.
Harold wasn’t amused.
He recognized several of the women. They worked under his supervision at Nash.
And the sight of them sitting in barber chairs, smoking cigarettes, laughing, and having their hair chopped off seemed to infuriate him even more.
“Don’t you girls have homes to get to?”
One of the women answered before Frank could speak.
“We just worked twelve hours, Mr. Peterson. We’re spending our own money.”
“You ought to be spending it on something sensible.”
“Like what?” another asked. “A husband?”
The women erupted in laughter.
Harold turned toward her.
“Watch your mouth, young lady.”
Frank stepped away from his customer.
“Harold, they’re off the clock. They’re customers in my establishment. You don’t supervise anybody in here.”
Harold stared at him.
“You’re telling me how to handle my own employees?”
“I’m telling you how to behave in my shop.”
The room grew noticeably quieter.
Harold glanced at the woman sitting in Frank’s chair.
Her long brown hair had already been shortened considerably, and Frank was preparing to trim the back close to her neck.
“Look at that,” Harold muttered. “Cutting off perfectly good hair. You girls are starting to look like boys.”
The woman looked directly at him through the mirror.
“That’s funny. I was just thinking how much better my hair looks than yours.”
Eddie coughed to disguise a laugh.
Harold turned toward him.
“You think something’s funny?”
Eddie shook his head.
“Not particularly.”
But his grin suggested otherwise.
Harold took another step into the shop.
“I’ve been coming into barbershops my entire life. Men could sit around, have a conversation, talk about work, talk about politics, maybe tell a joke without worrying about offending some woman.”
Frank folded his arms.
“And?”
“And now look at this place!”
Frank looked around.
Three occupied chairs.
Several customers waiting.
Money in the register.
Women enjoying themselves.
“Looks pretty good to me.”
Harold shook his head.
“You’re ruining the business.”
“Funny. My bank account says otherwise.”
One of the women near the window spoke up.
“Maybe you should find another barbershop, Mr. Peterson.”
Harold spun toward her.
“Nobody asked you!”
Frank’s expression hardened.
“That’s enough.”
Harold turned back.
“What?”
“I said that’s enough. You don’t come into my establishment and start shouting at my customers.”
Harold laughed bitterly.
“Your customers? These girls ought to be ashamed of themselves.”
The brunette in Frank’s chair lifted her chin.
“I’m not ashamed.”
“Well, you ought to be.”
Frank moved between Harold and the barber chairs.
“Harold, you’ve got two choices. You can sit down and wait your turn, or you can walk back out that door.”
Harold looked at the waiting women.
“Wait my turn? Behind a bunch of women?”
“That’s generally how waiting works.”
Another ripple of laughter traveled through the shop.
Harold’s temper finally broke.
“You’ve turned this place into a damned fairy parlor!”
Frank’s smile disappeared.
“Careful.”
Harold stepped closer.
“What are you going to do about it?”
Frank didn’t move.
“Nothing, provided you settle down.”
Harold was a large man, accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed.
At the factory, his position carried authority.
But inside Frank Miller’s barbershop, his authority meant very little.
And that realization only made him angrier.
“You think you’re a tough fellow, don’t you, Frank?”
“No. I think I’m a barber trying to run a business.”
“Well, you sure don’t act like one.”
Frank sighed.
“Harold, I’ve got customers waiting. Either sit down or leave.”
Harold stepped closer until the two men were nearly face-to-face.
“What if I don’t feel like leaving?”
Walter stopped cutting.
Eddie lowered his scissors.
The women fell silent.
Frank looked Harold directly in the eyes.
“Then you’re going to make a very foolish decision.”
Harold laughed.
“You threatening me?”
“I’m advising you.”
Harold shoved Frank in the chest.
It wasn’t a particularly hard shove, but it was enough to send Frank backward a step.
Several women gasped.
Walter started forward.
Frank raised a hand.
“Stay where you are, Walter.”
Harold grinned.
“What’s the matter? Afraid to fight?”
Frank straightened his vest.
“Harold, I’m going to give you one last opportunity to walk out that door.”
Harold raised his fists in a mocking imitation of a boxer.
“Come on, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Frank glanced toward the wall behind his barber chair.
Several framed photographs hung there.
Most customers barely noticed them.
They showed a much younger Frank Miller wearing a Navy uniform.
In one photograph, he stood beside several sailors.
In another, he wore boxing gloves.
And in a third, he stood in a boxing ring with his arm raised in victory.
Harold had apparently never paid them much attention.
Frank looked back at him.
“Harold, did you ever serve in the Navy?”
Harold frowned.
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Just curious.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Frank nodded.
“Well, I did.”
“So?”
“I spent a good deal of my time boxing.”
Harold snorted.
“Congratulations.”
Frank continued.
“Won a few matches, too.”
One of the women glanced at the photographs.
“Mr. Miller, is that you in those pictures?”
Frank nodded.
“That was me, all right.”
Harold looked at the wall.
For the first time, he seemed to notice the photographs.
But pride prevented him from backing down.
“So you boxed a little. Big deal.”
Frank shrugged.
“You’re right. It isn’t a big deal. Which is why I’d prefer you just walk out the door.”
Harold made his decision.
He swung.
It was a wide, angry punch aimed at Frank’s head.
Frank moved aside almost effortlessly.
Harold’s fist passed through empty air.
Before Harold could recover, Frank struck him sharply in the face.
The blow snapped Harold’s head backward.
He stumbled against an empty waiting chair.
A woman screamed.
Another jumped to her feet.
Harold touched his mouth.
There was blood on his fingers.
“You son of a bitch!”
He lunged forward again.
Frank slipped the next punch and drove a hard blow into Harold’s stomach.
The air rushed from Harold’s lungs.
He bent forward, gasping.
Frank stepped back.
“Had enough?”
Harold straightened with difficulty.
His face was turning red.
He charged again.
This time, he managed to grab Frank by the front of his shirt.
The two men stumbled against one of the barber chairs.
Frank twisted free.
Harold swung wildly.
Frank ducked and delivered a quick combination, one blow to the body followed by another to the face.
Harold staggered backward.
His legs tangled with a waiting chair.
He crashed to the floor.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Harold lay on his back, blinking at the ceiling.
Frank stood over him, breathing heavily but otherwise remarkably composed.
“Now,” Frank said, “are we finished?”
Harold struggled to sit up.
One eye was already beginning to swell.
His lip was split.
He looked around the room.
Every woman was staring at him.
Some appeared frightened.
Others were clearly struggling not to laugh.
And a few looked thoroughly impressed with Frank Miller.
Harold tried to stand.
His first attempt failed.
He grabbed the arm of a chair and pulled himself upright.
Frank took a step toward him.
Harold flinched.
Frank stopped.
“I’m not going to hit you again, Harold. Not unless you give me a reason.”
Harold wiped his mouth with his sleeve.
“You’ll regret this.”
Frank shook his head.
“No, Harold. I don’t believe I will.”
“You assaulted me!”
Walter finally spoke.
“Harold, I watched the whole thing. You shoved him, and then you threw the first punch.”
Eddie nodded.
“So did I.”
One of the women raised her hand.
“So did every one of us.”
Harold looked around the room.
He suddenly realized that he had no friends in that barbershop.
Not one.
Frank pointed toward the door.
“Go home, Harold.”
Harold glared at him.
“This isn’t over.”
Frank picked up his comb.
“As far as I’m concerned, it is.”
Harold stood for another moment, breathing heavily.
Then he straightened his coat, adjusted his hat, and limped toward the entrance.
Before he reached the door, one of the younger women spoke.
“Mr. Peterson?”
He stopped.
“What?”
She smiled sweetly.
“You might want to put some ice on that eye.”
Several women burst into laughter.
Harold yanked open the door and stepped outside.
The bell above the entrance jingled violently behind him.
For a few seconds, the shop remained silent.
Then Eddie looked at Frank.
“Well, that was something.”
Frank straightened his vest and checked the buttons Harold had nearly torn loose.
Walter shook his head.
“Frank, I had no idea you could fight like that.”
Frank glanced toward the old Navy photographs.
“Been a few years.”
One of the women laughed.
“You certainly haven’t forgotten how.”
Frank smiled faintly.
“Well, I don’t intend to make a habit of it.”
He returned to his barber chair.
The brunette was still sitting beneath her striped cape, watching him through the mirror.
“Now,” Frank said, picking up his scissors, “where were we?”
She touched the shortened hair near her cheek.
“You were about to cut the back nice and short.”
Frank grinned.
“That’s right.”
He lifted her hair with his comb.
“How short?”
She looked toward the other women.
Then she smiled.
“Short enough that Mr. Peterson will have something else to complain about when I go back to work tonight.”
The entire shop erupted in laughter.
Frank positioned his scissors at the nape of her neck.
“Well, ma’am, I believe I can accommodate that.”
SNIP. SNIP. SNIP.
Dark locks fell onto the white cape.
Walter resumed working on his customer.
Eddie gathered the blonde’s long hair and prepared to make his first major cut.
The conversations started again.
Cigarettes were relit.
The women laughed about what had happened.
And Frank Miller returned to doing what he did best.
Cutting hair.
Making money.
And running the most unusual—and increasingly successful—barbershop in Kenosha.

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