Paul
The morning shift had just begun at the Nash automobile factory, which meant the women who had worked through the night were finally free to go home.
Across the street, Frank’s Barbershop was already crowded.
Frank was working in the first chair, Vivian occupied the middle chair, and Eddie, the youngest barber, was busy at the third station.
Several young women from Nash were waiting for haircuts. Most were between eighteen and twenty years old, and all had worked the seven-in-the-evening to seven-in-the-morning shift.
The shop smelled of shaving soap, hair tonic, cigarette smoke, and freshly brewed coffee.
Vivian had just finished cutting a young woman’s shoulder-length hair into a short bob. She held up the hand mirror so her customer could examine the back.
“That’s much better,” the woman said. “I was getting tired of having all that hair hanging around my neck at work.”
“Most of the girls are going shorter,” Vivian replied. “Especially the ones working twelve hours.”
At the third chair, Eddie was giving another young factory worker a close haircut with hand-operated clippers.
The young woman had requested something almost as short as the men’s haircuts Eddie ordinarily gave.
“Are you sure you want it this close?” Eddie asked.
“Absolutely. I’m tired of fussing with it.”
Eddie squeezed the handles of the clippers together, working carefully upward from the nape of her neck. Each movement removed another narrow strip of hair.
The young woman smiled as she watched the dark clippings fall across the white barber cape.
“Keep going,” she told him.
Meanwhile, Frank was trimming the hair of a young woman who wanted hers cut above her ears.
The shop was filled with conversation.
But one particular conversation was becoming increasingly heated.
THE BASEBALL LEAGUE
Twenty-year-old Kathleen O’Rourke sat in one of the waiting chairs, her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“I still say the whole thing is unfair.”
Her friend Nora Sullivan sighed.
“Kathleen, you’ve been complaining about that baseball league for more than a week.”
“And I’ll keep complaining.”
“Why? They’re having their first game in a couple of days. The season isn’t even going to last very long.”
“That’s not the point.”
Kathleen leaned forward.
“Nash tells everybody they’re doing something wonderful for the employees and their children. They organize this baseball league for boys between nine and thirteen years old, and then they give the mothers extra time away from work to watch their boys practice.”
“That’s nice for those mothers,” Nora replied.
“Of course it is! But what about everybody else?”
Another woman, Bridget Murphy, looked up from her magazine.
“What about us?”
Kathleen threw up her hands.
“Think about it! Nearly every woman working our shift is under twenty-one. How many of us have thirteen-year-old sons?”
“None that I know of,” Bridget answered.
“Exactly! There’s only one woman on our whole shift who’s even old enough that we think she might have a boy that age.”
“Then why are you making such a fuss?” Nora asked.
“Because they’re giving special privileges to certain employees simply because they happen to have boys of a particular age!”
Vivian glanced toward the waiting area but continued working.
Kathleen wasn’t finished.
“And there’s something else. That baseball field doesn’t have lights!”
“So?”
“So how in God’s name are the night-shift mothers supposed to watch their boys practice when they’re working from seven at night until seven in the morning?”
Bridget shrugged.
“The boys could practice during the daytime.”
“And their mothers would be home sleeping! They’d still miss everything, and they wouldn’t get those extra breaks.”
“Kathleen, you’re making yourself miserable over something that doesn’t even affect you.”
That remark made Kathleen’s face redden.
“That’s exactly the attitude that lets management get away with things!”
Nora shook her head.
“It’s a little baseball league. Not the end of the world.”
“It’s favoritism!”
“Well, they’re not going to cancel it just because you’re angry.”
Kathleen stood up.
“Maybe somebody ought to march right into that Nash office and tell them what we think!”
“Then go tell them,” Bridget replied. “But stop talking about it every morning.”
Kathleen’s eyes narrowed.
“I’ll tell you something. I wish I had one of those machine guns Walter’s been working on out at that farm. Maybe then those fellows in the office would listen.”
The barbershop became noticeably quieter.
WALTER’S MACHINE GUN
Frank stopped moving his scissors.
“What did you just say?”
Kathleen looked toward him.
“I said I wish I had one of those guns Walter’s working on.”
Frank lowered his comb.
“What Walter?”
“The Walter who used to work here.”
Vivian looked at Frank.
Eddie stopped clipping for a moment.
Kathleen continued.
“You know perfectly well who I’m talking about. The older barber who left here to work out on that farm.”
Frank’s expression hardened.
“And what makes you think Walter is working on machine guns?”
Kathleen almost laughed.
“Because I’ve heard about them!”
“From whom?”
“Walter himself.”
Frank carefully placed his scissors on the counter.
“Young lady, I think you ought to be careful about repeating stories you don’t understand.”
But Kathleen was enjoying having everyone’s attention.
“It’s supposed to be a new kind of machine gun. Something a man can carry around instead of one of those enormous things that need a whole crew.”
Frank said nothing.
Kathleen continued.
“They’ve been talking about a gun that could be carried by one soldier. Something smaller than those heavy machine guns the Army uses.”
“And who told you all this?” Frank asked again.
“There’s a connection with some people in Ohio. They got hold of an experimental model, and they’re supposed to be studying it out at the farm.”
She leaned forward.
“It’s something called the Persuader, or at least that’s what Walter calls it.”
Frank felt his stomach tighten.
The early Thompson concept was still experimental in 1917. Its designers were exploring a portable automatic weapon, one that might provide a soldier with much greater close-range firepower than an ordinary rifle or pistol.
The idea was ambitious.
Unlike the heavy, tripod-mounted machine guns already familiar to the military, the proposed weapon was intended to be portable enough for an individual soldier to carry.
The experimental Persuader concept was associated with belt feeding, unlike the later Thompson guns that would become famous for their detachable magazines.
There were still enormous questions about the design, its reliability, and whether the concept could ever become a practical military weapon.
For the purposes of Walter’s project, the farm offered a secluded place where the men could examine an experimental model away from the automobile factories and crowded streets of Kenosha.
Frank knew enough about Walter’s activities to understand that Kathleen was discussing matters she should not be announcing to a room full of strangers.
But he also understood that some of her details might be exaggerated.
“Kathleen,” Frank said quietly, “where exactly are you hearing these stories?”
She smiled.
“Well, there’s something you don’t know.”
“What’s that?”
“Walter’s my godfather.”
Frank stared at her.
“Your godfather?”
“That’s right. I’ve known him my whole life.”
Vivian looked from Kathleen to Frank.
Kathleen continued.
“He visits my family. He talks to my father. I’ve heard plenty about what they’re doing out there.”
Frank rubbed his forehead.
“Well, that explains a few things.”
Kathleen smiled triumphantly.
“And I’ll tell you something else. I’d love to walk right into that Nash office and have a serious conversation with the people making these decisions. They ought to provide fair opportunities for everybody, not just certain mothers on certain shifts.”
Frank spoke sharply.
“Without any gun, I hope.”
Kathleen shrugged.
“I said I wished I had one. I didn’t say I was going to shoot anybody.”
“That’s not something to joke about.”
“Who’s joking?”
Frank looked at her for several seconds.
Then he returned to his customer’s haircut.
FRANK’S EXPLANATION
A few minutes later, Kathleen began talking about Walter again.
Frank interrupted.
“Young lady, I think there’s something you ought to understand about Walter.”
Kathleen looked up.
“What?”
“Walter’s getting on in years.”
“So?”
“So he was starting to say some very strange things before he left here.”
Vivian turned slightly toward Frank.
Frank continued.
“Some of the stories he was telling were so inaccurate that I became concerned about him. I actually encouraged him to leave the shop.”
Kathleen frowned.
“That’s not what he told us.”
“Well, I’m telling you what I saw.”
Frank picked up a clean towel.
“At his age, I sometimes wonder whether his memory is beginning to fail him. I wouldn’t go diagnosing the man, but I’ve worried about whether he’s developing some kind of dementia.”
Kathleen shook her head.
“Walter knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Does he?”
“Yes!”
“Then perhaps you can explain why he would tell a twenty-year-old girl about supposedly secret military weapons.”
Kathleen hesitated.
Frank continued.
“And this company you keep talking about, the one supposedly connected to Ohio? For all I know, it might not even exist.”
“It does exist!”
“Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met the people running it?”
“No, but—”
“Have you ever actually seen this machine gun?”
Kathleen fell silent.
Frank nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
“But Walter told me—”
“Walter tells a lot of stories.”
Kathleen folded her arms.
“I believe him.”
“That’s your privilege.”
Frank returned to his work.
But privately, he was deeply troubled.
He knew Walter had been involved in unusual work at the farm. He also knew that Kathleen had mentioned details that were far too specific to dismiss casually.
He couldn’t decide whether Walter had been careless with his conversations or whether Kathleen had somehow learned more than she was admitting.
Either possibility worried him.
THE WAITING CHAIR
Over the next forty minutes, the shop gradually emptied.
Vivian finished a close bob on one woman, leaving the nape exposed and the hair neatly tapered behind the ears.
Eddie completed another haircut using his hand clippers, then brushed the loose hair from his customer’s neck.
Frank finished two more customers.
Kathleen remained in the waiting area.
She had originally come in for a simple trim.
Her hair was thick, dark brown, and fell several inches below her shoulders. She ordinarily wore it pinned up while working at Nash.
When Frank finally finished his customer, he looked toward her.
“Kathleen, you’re next.”
She stood.
“Finally.”
She walked over and settled into Frank’s chair.
Frank fastened a white barber cape around her shoulders.
“What are we doing today?” he asked.
“Just take a couple of inches off. I want to keep enough to put it up.”
Frank nodded without saying anything.
He combed her hair backward, studying its length.
Kathleen glanced toward the mirror.
“Not too short, now.”
Frank reached toward his tools.
Instead of picking up his scissors, he selected his hand-operated clippers.
Kathleen noticed.
“What are those for?”
Frank didn’t answer immediately.
He positioned himself behind her, placed the clippers at the front of her hairline, and squeezed the handles.
The first movement sent the cutting teeth into her hair.
He continued straight backward along the center of her head.
A wide, uneven strip of dark hair came away.
Kathleen stared into the mirror.
For a moment, she couldn’t comprehend what had happened.
Then she screamed.
“FRANK!”
He stopped.
“What?”
“What have you done?”
She raised her hands toward her head.
A pale strip of closely cropped hair now ran from her forehead toward the crown.
The remaining hair hung long on either side.
“That’s not what I wanted!”
Vivian turned around.
Eddie looked up from sweeping.
Kathleen’s breathing became rapid.
“I told you two inches! Two inches!”
Frank set the clippers on the counter.
“Well, Kathleen, perhaps now you understand what it’s like when somebody does something you didn’t want.”
She stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t want you discussing Walter’s activities at that farm.”
Kathleen’s expression changed from shock to anger.
“You cut my hair off because I was talking about Walter?”
Frank said nothing.
“You did that deliberately?”
He looked at the strip running down the middle of her head.
“Yes.”
Vivian stepped forward.
“Frank, that’s enough.”
Kathleen began crying.
“You had no right!”
Frank looked at her reflection.
“You’re right. I didn’t.”
But the admission did nothing to restore her hair.
THE HAIRCUT SHE NEVER ASKED FOR
Kathleen tried to stand.
Frank moved away from the chair.
She pulled off the cape and hurried toward the mirror on the wall.
She turned her head from side to side.
The strip was impossible to conceal.
“Oh, my God.”
Nora, who had remained in the shop, approached her.
“Kathleen…”
“Don’t.”
Kathleen ran her fingers over the short stubble.
“What am I supposed to do now?”
Vivian came closer.
“We can even it out.”
Kathleen turned toward her.
“How short?”
Vivian hesitated.
“Very short, I’m afraid. But we can leave a little length if we use the scissors carefully.”
Frank spoke from behind the chair.
“The clippers would make it more even.”
Kathleen looked at him with open hostility.
“You’ve done enough.”
Frank lowered his eyes.
For several minutes, she stood in front of the mirror, trying to arrange the remaining hair over the shaved strip.
Nothing worked.
Finally, she sat down again.
“Just finish it,” she whispered.
Vivian approached.
“I can do it.”
Kathleen shook her head.
“No. He started it. Let him finish.”
Frank looked at her.
“Are you certain?”
“I want it even. That’s all.”
Frank placed a fresh cape around her shoulders.
This time, he explained exactly what he intended to do.
He would use the hand clippers to remove the remaining length, leaving a short, uniform covering of hair.
Kathleen nodded reluctantly.
Frank began at the back of her neck.
The clippers made their familiar clicking sound as he squeezed the handles together.
He worked slowly upward, removing the long hair that had taken years to grow.
Thick brown strands slid down the cape and collected in her lap.
Kathleen stared straight ahead.
He moved to the right side, carefully clipping around her ear.
More hair fell.
Then the left.
Finally, he worked across the crown, blending the remaining hair into the original strip.
When he finished, Kathleen’s head was covered with short, unevenly colored stubble.
Her ears, neck, and forehead were completely exposed.
She looked almost unrecognizable.
Frank brushed the loose clippings from her shoulders.
“There.”
Kathleen stared into the mirror.
“I look like a boy.”
Vivian answered quietly.
“You look like a young woman with very short hair.”
Kathleen didn’t smile.
THE STRAIGHT RAZOR
Frank reached for a clean towel.
“Would you like me to shave it smooth with the razor?”
Kathleen immediately shook her head.
“No. No, I’m good.”
Frank looked at the remaining stubble.
“Well, I think you ought to have the whole experience.”
Kathleen turned toward him.
“I said no.”
The room became quiet again.
Frank had already gone much too far.
For a moment, he seemed prepared to argue.
Her long brown hair lay scattered around the base of the barber chair.
She exited Frank’s chair.
She looked at it, then at Frank.
“Do you think this is going to make me stop talking about Nash?”
Frank didn’t answer.
“Because it isn’t.”
She reached for her coat.
“And Walter is still my godfather, whether you like it or not.”
She walked toward the door.
Before leaving, she turned back.
“You know something, Frank? I came in here angry about a baseball game. Now I’ve got something a whole lot more serious to be angry about.”
The door slammed behind her.
AFTER KATHLEEN LEFT
For several moments, nobody spoke.
Then Vivian approached Frank’s chair.
“What in God’s name were you thinking?”
Frank stared at the hair on the floor.
“I was trying to stop her from talking.”
“By cutting her hair off?”
“She was talking about things she shouldn’t know.”
Vivian folded her arms.
“Then you should have talked to her.”
Frank looked toward the front window.
Outside, Kathleen and Nora were walking toward the Nash factory grounds.
Kathleen had pulled a scarf over her closely cropped head.
Frank sighed.
“Walter’s her godfather.”
“So she says.”
“That means she may know a great deal more than we thought.”
Vivian shook her head.
“And now you’ve given her another reason to be angry.”
Frank looked down at the hand clippers lying on his counter.
He had spent years building a reputation as a barber who would serve women when other shops refused them.
That morning, he had betrayed the very trust that had made those women his customers.
And he had done it because a twenty-year-old factory worker knew something about a farm outside Kenosha.
Vivian picked up the broom.
“Frank, if Walter really is working on something important out there, you had better hope that girl doesn’t decide to tell everybody what happened here.”
Frank didn’t answer.
Across the street, the Nash factory whistle sounded.
In two days, the company baseball league would hold its first game.
And Kathleen O’Rourke had no intention of forgetting either the baseball league or what had happened in Frank’s barber chair.
