Private Barber
Many thanks for reading the mechanic stories, everyone! Hank will be back soon in Part 3.
I was going through some old files and found some posts I made on the Experience Project (anyone remember that site?) in the early-mid 2010s. Since I’m on a writing kick, I thought I’d share more than just fiction.
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“What got you into hair cutting?”
“When did you realize you had a hair fetish?”
“Have you ever cut anyone’s hair?” (Yes, but that’s a story for another time)
Over the years, on countless apps, forums, websites, people asked me questions like the ones above. For the first two questions, I gave basically the same answers each time. It was rooted in past trauma, gradually evolving into intrigue and excitement. Conversations I’ve had online over the years showed that I wasn’t the only one. I do know, however, that not everyone in this community developed their fetish as a response to trauma. These stories and recollections are real life experiences and thoughts and told to the best of my memory.
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For my entire childhood and into early teen years, haircuts felt like a punishment. Something I dreaded. I remember hearing things like “If you don’t comb your hair we’ll shave your head like they did to the boys in school where we’re from.” Most of my earliest memories (around the age of 3) were negative. One was choking on a mushroom. I am still here, thank God, because my mom did the Heimlich successfully. The next was being trapped in highchair in the kitchen with my mom and dad taking turns trying to cut my hair.
They meant well, of course, but I wasn’t having it. I remember crying and flailing. A lot. They gave up and took me to a barber. That was less uncomfortable, but I was still scared to be there. The big chair, machines, and tools. A barber I didn’t know. I recall looking in the mirror and not linking how I looked. For some reason, I thought I looked like a cat. My mom tried to distract me with a magic slate. I remember writing the words “Uh oh” with my mom helping me. More like, “Uh oh, another unwanted haircut.”
The funny thing is, that my mom had to take me with her to her hair appointments. Her stylist, Bob, was very nice. He looked a lot like Freddie Mercury in the early 80s, short hair and a big mustache. I felt comfortable around him. One time, I remember ask that he cut my hair after he finished with my mom’s hair instead of going to a barber. Perhaps I thought it would be less unpleasant of an experience, compared to the barber or anyone else. It was so long ago (early 80s), but I think the girls who worked there giggled and told me he wasn’t working at the salon that day.
Not long after that, I remember watching my aunt chop my sisters hair from mid-back to around the shoulders. Apparently, working as a receptionist at a salon made her qualified for the job. My dad and I left during the cut to ride bikes (a plastic Dukes of Hazard “Big Wheel” tricycle for me). It made me uneasy, but I didn’t say anything. My sister was happy with it. For some reason, I jumped on my aunt after seeing the results and playfully wrestled with her. She was in her teens and played along having no idea how I felt about it.
On another visit to the relatives, my mom let my aunt cut my hair again not long after it had already been cut. WTF? She even sang “Yellow Submarine” at one point during the process. I guess it distracted 5-year-old me and how I didn’t like the result. Of course, I didn’t dare say anything.
It’s not my parent’s fault they didn’t want their son to look like a slob. Looking back, it occurred to me that language was an issue. They hadn’t been in America for long and English was their 3rd language. They learned the King’s English in school and had few opportunities to practice other than filling out immigration paperwork or maybe watching TV. Then, suddenly they’re in America and lost in the slang. Everything is more difficult. Of course their English improved, over time. It’s hard enough for a lot of people to explain what they want to a barber or hair stylist in their native language. For so long, I took that for granted. It’s more recently, when I realized why while growing up I got so many bad haircuts. I was simply too young to understand how hard everything must have been for them.
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The longer my hair got, the worse the anxiety would get. I knew the next haircut was coming up. Looking back, I know it was a bit unruly thanks to a cowlick at the crown. I swore I had the worst bed head on the planet, so I know I needed one. Any mention of the subject, anything on TV or movies related to haircuts, was enough to make my stomach sink. Army induction? Prep for surgery? Big makeover on Donahue? I didn’t want my parents to get any reminders. They even knew I hated haircuts and always seemed disappear when the subject came up. Could they blame me?
It seemed like everyone was preoccupied with how I looked. One time, during while visiting relatives, my father must have grumbled that my hair was getting too long. He couldn’t stand any man with longer hair. In the 70s and 80s, he must have done a lot of grumbling! Longer hair on men was not socially acceptable where they were from. My grandmother suggested the barber shop down the street. We walked. One look inside was enough to make my heart race and stomach turn. Looking around and seeing so much hair on the floor was scary yet mind blowing. I vaguely remember looking over and watching a barber run clippers up the back of an older client’s head, leaving a swath of stubble behind. Maybe he was getting a flat top. The clippers were loud and sounded angry.
I now know those were the legendary Oster 76s in action. So much hair came off! One chunk of the client’s salt and pepper hair on the floor looked like a cube. I wanted out. Thankfully there was a one hour wait that day and we left. Apparently my grandmother was going to take care of it, but thankfully never did. What a relief! Some time earlier, she tried to trim my father’s beard for him and the clippers jammed. I heard him yelp. I couldn’t watch.
Back home, mom eventually found a barber nearby. The barber had a brown wavy skullet and big mustache, but I needed the haircut? The irony was not lost on me, even then. He was nice enough. He’d always use 3 machines on me. First were the classic Oster Model 10 Progienic to remove the bulk. At 6, they were loud and scary! After that, I think were the much quieter and less scary Wahl seniors, and a trimmer to finish. We went there for the next couple of years, until he moved away. Apparently “he needed the money”, according to my mom. Even though the experience was miserable for me, I couldn’t deny that I felt better afterwards. It was the longest possible time before the next visit and I wasn’t struggling with my unruly hair.
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Looking back, so much of these negative experiences came down to lack of communication. I simply didn’t have the coping tools, let alone the courage to speak up. What child does?
It’s only appropriate, that those who took me for all of those unwanted haircuts hated that I buzz my head for a long time. I went from dreading the idea of a crew cut, flat top, or other traditional short boys cuts, to regularly clipping my head clean in my late 20s. I didn’t care what they thought. They were no longer allowed to make that choice for me. I’m lucky my head has a good shape. My whole family has admitted as much and don’t say anything negative any more.
Giving up on the war with hair loss, became a blessing in disguise. I never get tired running any one of my clippers all over my head whenever I feel like it. I own more clippers than I’ll ever need, including different versions of the Osters that terrified me as a child. When questions about the size of clipper collection come up in a chat, I simply respond that I work in a skilled trade and like and appreciate/collect good tools, which is absolutely true.
Thanks for reading! Stay tuned for part 2, where I delve into the transitional events and people that changed haircuts from a scary to exciting proposition.
