Paul
For as long as he could remember, Anthony Balistrieri had known the sound of factory whistles.
They marked the beginning and end of working days in Kenosha, Wisconsin. They told men when to leave their homes, when to report to the automobile plants, and when they could finally return to their families.
For the Balistrieris, those whistles had been part of life for nearly thirty years.
Anthony’s father, Joseph Balistrieri, had started working at the Thomas B. Jeffery Company around 1910, when the company was producing Rambler automobiles.
He was a young man then, willing to put in long hours for the promise of a steady paycheck.
When Nash Motors took over in 1916, Joseph stayed.
His wife, Margaret, joined the Nash workforce in 1917.
Before Margaret ever reported for her first day of work, she made a decision that would change her appearance more dramatically than anything she had done in her adult life.
She decided to cut off her hair.
Margaret Balistrieri had always been proud of her hair.
It was thick, dark, and exceptionally long, reaching nearly to her waist when she let it down. Since girlhood, she had worn it in the traditional manner expected of respectable young women.
Most mornings she spent considerable time brushing it, gathering it, twisting it, and securing it with hairpins.
When properly arranged, it formed an elegant coil at the back of her head.
Joseph liked her hair that way.
In fact, he could hardly remember seeing her with it any other way.
Margaret was preparing to enter a very different environment.
The automobile factory was nothing like the domestic surroundings she had known. There were moving belts, machinery, exposed mechanical components, and men and women working long hours around industrial equipment.
She had already been warned about loose clothing and unsecured hair.
One woman she had spoken with explained that long hair needed to be kept securely contained while working around machinery.
Margaret understood the danger.
She could have continued pinning her hair tightly against her head. Many women did exactly that.
She had another concern.
Her hair was heavy, and the elaborate arrangement she wore every morning took considerable time to prepare.
She imagined waking before sunrise, dressing for work, arranging her hair, preparing breakfast, and then spending an entire day in the factory.
It seemed unnecessarily complicated.
One evening, while sitting at the dressing table in their bedroom, she began removing her hairpins.
Joseph was seated nearby, reading the newspaper.
One by one, the pins came out.
Her hair gradually loosened until the full length fell down her back.
Joseph glanced over.
“You’re letting all that down now?”
“I’m thinking about cutting it.”
He lowered the newspaper.
“Cutting what?”
“My hair.”
“How much?”
Margaret gathered the length over one shoulder and examined it.
“Most of it.”
Joseph stared at her.
“Most of it?”
“I don’t want to spend half an hour putting it up every morning just to go work in a factory.”
“You’ve had long hair as long as I’ve known you.”
“And I’ve spent a good part of my life taking care of it.”
Joseph set the newspaper aside.
“Well, what are you thinking of doing?”
Margaret reached for a small magazine she had been keeping beside the dressing table.
Inside was a photograph of the famous dancer Irene Castle.
Castle had attracted considerable attention for wearing her hair unusually short.
Rather than the elaborate arrangements common among women of the previous decade, her hair was cut into a neat, rounded shape that followed the contours of her head.
Margaret pointed to the photograph.
“Something like this.”
Joseph leaned closer.
“That’s awfully short.”
“That’s the idea.”
“People are going to think you’ve lost your mind.”
Margaret smiled.
“People can think whatever they like.”
The following Saturday, Margaret visited a small hairdressing establishment in downtown Kenosha.
It was a modest shop with large mirrors, a washstand, several wooden chairs, and a heavy adjustable chair used for cutting hair.
The proprietor, a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Whitcomb, had been dressing women’s hair for years.
Most of her customers came to have their hair washed, curled, arranged, or pinned into elaborate styles for special occasions.
Very few requested that their hair be cut dramatically short.
Margaret entered wearing her usual long skirt, blouse, and coat. Her dark hair was pinned into a substantial coil at the back of her head.
Mrs. Whitcomb greeted her pleasantly.
“Good morning, Mrs. Balistrieri. What can I do for you today?”
“I’d like a haircut.”
“Certainly. Just a little off the ends?”
“No. Quite a lot, actually.”
The hairdresser studied her.
“How much are we talking about?”
Margaret removed the magazine photograph from her handbag.
“I’d like something along these lines.”
Mrs. Whitcomb looked at the picture.
“Irene Castle?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a very modern hairstyle.”
“I know.”
“Are you certain?”
Margaret nodded.
“I’m starting work at Nash. I want something short that won’t take forever to arrange in the morning.”
The hairdresser examined the photograph again.
“Most women who ask me about this style decide to keep their length and have it pinned underneath. It gives nearly the same appearance.”
“I don’t want it pinned underneath.”
“You want it actually cut?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Whitcomb paused.
“All of it?”
“All of it.”
The hairdresser gave a small, surprised laugh.
“Well, Mrs. Balistrieri, I believe you’re about to become one of the shortest-haired women in Kenosha.”
Margaret smiled.
“Then I suppose people will have something to talk about.”
The First Cut
Mrs. Whitcomb helped Margaret remove her coat and guided her into the cutting chair.
A clean white cloth was placed around her shoulders, followed by a larger protective cape.
The hairdresser fastened it securely at the back of her neck.
Then she began removing the pins from Margaret’s hair.
There were more than twenty.
Each pin was placed carefully into a small dish beside the mirror.
As the final pins came out, Margaret’s hair fell loose.
Mrs. Whitcomb brushed it thoroughly, drawing the long dark strands down Margaret’s back.
The ends extended almost to her waist.
“My goodness,” the hairdresser said. “You really do have a beautiful head of hair.”
“Thank you.”
“And you’re absolutely certain you want to part with it?”
Margaret looked into the mirror.
“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”
“Very well.”
Mrs. Whitcomb separated the hair into several thick sections.
She began at the back, gathering a heavy section into her left hand and drawing it straight downward.
Then she picked up her long steel scissors.
“Once I start, there won’t be any putting it back.”
“I understand.”
The blades opened.
Margaret watched their reflection in the mirror.
Then came the first unmistakable sound.
Crunch. Snip. Crunch. Snip.
The scissors worked through the thick bundle with considerable resistance.
Mrs. Whitcomb continued until the entire section separated.
Suddenly, a long length of dark hair was hanging freely from the hairdresser’s hand.
Margaret stared.
For the first time in years, the hair at the back of her head no longer extended down her back.
Mrs. Whitcomb placed the severed length on the counter.
“There,” she said. “We’ve certainly begun.”
Margaret reached behind her head.
Her fingers encountered hair that ended just below her shoulders.
It felt strangely light.
But the haircut was nowhere near finished.
The hairdresser gathered another section.
Again the scissors opened.
Again came the deliberate cutting sounds.
More hair fell across the cape.
Long sections accumulated on the floor around the chair.
Margaret watched as the familiar appearance she had known for most of her life gradually disappeared.
The woman looking back from the mirror was changing before her eyes.
The Castle Bob
Once the bulk of the length had been removed, Mrs. Whitcomb began shaping the actual haircut.
She combed Margaret’s damp hair straight down and studied the natural way it fell.
“For the style in that photograph, we’ll need to bring the sides up considerably,” she explained.
“How short?”
“Just below your ears, perhaps a little shorter at the back.”
Margaret nodded.
“That’s what I want.”
The hairdresser began cutting carefully around the right side.
She lifted the hair with her comb, held it between her fingers, and trimmed it into a smooth, rounded line.
The dark strands dropped onto the white cape.
As she worked upward, Margaret’s right ear gradually became visible.
She had not worn her hair short enough to expose her ears since childhood.
Mrs. Whitcomb moved to the left side and repeated the process.
The long pieces framing Margaret’s face disappeared.
In their place was a neat, close-fitting bob.
The hairdresser then moved behind the chair.
“This is where we’ll take it a little closer,” she said.
Margaret felt the comb against the back of her neck.
Mrs. Whitcomb shortened the remaining hair at the nape, using her scissors and comb to remove the heavier growth.
She worked gradually, keeping the lower hair close and blending it into the rounded shape above.
The result was not the severely shingled cut that would become fashionable years later.
It was an early Castle-inspired bob, with a soft, rounded outline, shorter hair around the nape, and enough length through the upper sections to maintain a feminine shape.
The hairdresser stepped to the side and inspected her work.
“I think we can bring the back just a little closer.”
Margaret smiled.
“Go ahead.”
Several more small sections fell away.
Mrs. Whitcomb then combed the front into a gentle side part.
She arranged the hair so it curved naturally toward Margaret’s cheeks.
A little hair tonic helped smooth the shorter strands into place.
Finally, she brushed away the loose clippings.
“Well,” she said, “I believe we’ve done it.”
Margaret looked at the mirror.
She hardly recognized herself.
Her long hair was gone.
The thick coil she had worn every day was gone.
Instead, her hair rested close to her head, following the shape of her face.
Her neck was visible.
Her ears were no longer hidden beneath heavy arrangements of pinned hair.
She turned her head slowly from side to side.
The movement felt entirely different.
Nothing pulled at her scalp.
There were no pins.
No heavy knot resting against the back of her head.
She reached up and ran her fingers through the short hair.
“Oh, my goodness.”
Mrs. Whitcomb smiled.
“Well?”
“It’s so light.”
“That’s usually the first thing a woman notices.”
Margaret continued studying herself.
“And I won’t have to spend all that time putting it up.”
“No, indeed. Though you’ll still need to keep it properly combed and contained where your work requires it.”
Margaret nodded.
The hairdresser lifted a hand mirror and showed her the back.
The closely trimmed nape was perhaps the greatest surprise of all.
Margaret turned her head to see the shape from another angle.
“That’s really all the hair I have left?”
“That’s all.”
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
Then Margaret began to laugh.
Mrs. Whitcomb joined her.
“I suppose there’s no going back now,” Margaret said.
“No, Mrs. Balistrieri. I believe you’re committed.”
Joseph’s Reaction
Joseph was waiting at home when Margaret returned.
He heard the front door open and called from the kitchen.
“How did it go?”
“Come and see.”
He stepped into the doorway.
Then stopped.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Margaret removed her hat.
Her newly bobbed hair settled neatly around her head.
Joseph stared.
“Margaret?”
She laughed.
“Yes, Joseph. It’s still me.”
He approached her slowly.
“You really cut it all off.”
“I told you I was going to.”
“I thought you might change your mind.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
Joseph walked around her, examining the back.
“Good heavens. Your neck’s showing.”
“Apparently I have one.”
He laughed despite himself.
Margaret turned toward the hallway mirror.
“What do you think?”
Joseph considered the question.
It was not the hairstyle he had fallen in love with.
It was not the traditional appearance he had always associated with his wife.
But there was something unmistakably confident about the way she carried herself.
“You look different.”
“That’s rather obvious.”
He smiled.
“You look younger, actually.”
Margaret turned toward him.
“Do I?”
“I think so.”
She ran her fingers through the short hair again.
“Well, I certainly feel lighter.”
Joseph touched the back of her head, surprised by how little hair remained.
“That’ll take some getting used to.”
“For both of us.”
He kissed her forehead.
“As long as you’re happy with it.”
“I am.”
The First Morning at Nash
On Monday morning, Margaret rose before sunrise.
For the first time in years, she did not begin her day by gathering a collection of hairpins.
She washed her face, dressed, and stood before the bedroom mirror.
Her hair needed only a few minutes of attention.
She dampened her comb, arranged the side part, and smoothed the rounded bob into place.
Then she put on her work clothes.
Joseph was already waiting in the kitchen.
“Ready?”
“Nearly.”
He looked at her hair.
“That certainly didn’t take long.”
“Exactly.”
They left the house together.
Outside, Kenosha was awakening.
Workers were making their way toward the automobile factories, lunch pails in hand.
The morning air carried the familiar industrial sounds of a city whose fortunes were tied to the production of motorcars.
Margaret walked beside Joseph, feeling the cool breeze against the back of her newly exposed neck.
She had never experienced that sensation before.
At the factory, several women noticed her haircut.
One asked whether she had cut it for the new job.
“Partly,” Margaret answered. “And partly because I was tired of spending so much time looking after it.”
Another woman smiled.
“I’ve been thinking about doing the same thing.”
Margaret laughed.
“Then I can recommend it.”
Before beginning her duties, she followed the plant’s requirements for securing her hair around machinery.
Even with her shorter hairstyle, she understood that safety depended on keeping hair properly contained.
But the change had already made her morning routine considerably easier.
As the factory whistle sounded, Margaret looked toward the building where she would spend her working days.
Joseph had begun his career with the Thomas B. Jeffery Company around 1910.
He had remained when Nash took over in 1916.
Now, in 1917, Margaret was joining him in the automobile industry.
She had entered the hairdresser’s shop with the long, carefully pinned hair of the previous generation.
She had emerged with a modern, practical haircut that reflected the changing world around her.
It was only one small decision in the history of the Balistrieri family.
But it marked the beginning of something much larger.
