Frank
My name is Georg. When I was 12 years old, I really wanted to grow my hair long. In the 70s, it was normal and chic to have longer hair and all my friends were allowed to grow their hair. Only I fought with my parents for every inch and hated regularly going to our old village barber who could only cut facon and hedgehog slices. That’s why he also had the nickname “Schnippelpitt” among the young people.
As soon as my hair hung over my ears, my father dragged me to this guy and I was shaved without being asked. Every time the same: ears and sides free, neck shaved and max. 3 cm at the top. The corpulent Schnippelpitt wore an old-fashioned nylon smock, had only a wreath of hair himself and in his shop it always smelled unpleasantly of hairspray, plastics and cigar smoke. Luckily, one day his daughter Johanna joined the business and gave me more modern round cuts that left my hair just above my ears. She had completed her apprenticeship and master craftsman’s examination at a hairdresser in the city and was therefore up to date.
Despite everything, I refused to go to the hairdresser with all the tricks and my mother finally had an understanding, convinced my stubborn father and I was allowed to let my hair grow from winter until the end of summer. However, I had to promise her to have my hair trimmed by Johanna before the start of the new school year. This was a good compromise because my blonde hair was fortunately growing quickly.
To the displeasure of my parents, they finally reached far over my shoulders until the end of the summer. My thick hair was blonde, wavy and very healthy and I was very happy when I looked at myself in the mirror. I would have liked to let it grow even further. But as the last day of summer vacation approached, my mother reminded me of my promise. I complied and she booked a hairdresser appointment with Schnippelpitt. I was frustrated and hoped that Johanna was there and wouldn’t cut my hair too short.
One day before my hairdresser appointment, my brother asked me to go shopping with him on his motorbike to the village. I sat down in the pillion seat and we rode down a hill where our family’s house was located. On a straight, narrow country road, a car came towards us on our side of the road and did not turn around. My brother tried to swerve, but we collided almost head-on with the car. Obviously, the driver was blinded by the sun and hadn’t noticed us. My brother only had abrasions, but I was badly injured in the knee.
I didn’t notice anything about the accident itself, as I became unconscious due to the violent impact. I was taken to the nearest surgery hospital, where I was operated. It was only after a good 12 months that I woke up from the coma and could not leave my bed in the hospital for another 6 months. After this time, my doctors sent me to a special rehabilitation clinic located 300 km from home. I slowly learned to walk again and my motor skills recovered completely.
The training was very intense and I was happy to make progress month by month. After the first 6 months, I was able to walk short distances on two crutches. During my time in the hospital and in rehab, I was taught by a private teacher and therefore did not fall behind academically. The best part, however, was that there was no hairdresser there! The rehabilitation clinic was located in the countryside beyond any village. My parents didn’t complain about my hairstyle, because they were happy about my good progress. In the hospital and in rehab, my caregivers helped me take care of my hair, which was now very long, so that it was in good condition.
At the end of my rehab, they reached almost to my belt at the front and covered my entire back up to my buttocks like a wavy carpet. I now wore a curly, hip-length middle parting that completely covered my face if I didn’t tuck it behind my ears. Before training, I always made myself a ponytail or braid. I felt like a cool rock musician with my golden, wavy curls. I received many compliments from my supervisors and coaches and never wanted to have my hair cut again.
Finally, I could move halfway with a crutch and it wouldn’t be long before I could walk without a walker. My doctor examined me one last time and was very pleased with my progress.
So my doctor discharged me from rehab after more than a year and a half, looked at my long mane and asked me if his people should drive me to the hairdresser in the next village to have my hair cut off. I would look chic if my parents picked me up. I was horrified and told him that I had always wanted hair so long and it could get even longer.
At home, my relatives and neighbors were happy about my return. I visited old friends in the village and many were happy that I was back and could move quite well with a crutch. I constantly got compliments because of my golden overlong hair. After a few days of settling in, it was time to go back to school. The holidays were over and I couldn’t wait to see my old schoolmates again! I hoped to now have the longest and coolest hair in my class or even in the whole school. My parents wanted to send me to the hairdresser beforehand, but I refused and had no intention of letting anyone get to my curls. After all, after years of unbridled growth, they were longer than I had ever dreamed of. Even for the time, they were exceptionally long for a boy and I felt grown up enough at the age of 16 to decide on my own hairstyle.
On Saturday morning before school started on Monday, my mother helped me wash my hair, dried it with the hair dryer and brushed it out a little wistfully. It took a good two hours to get the hair mass into shape. Afterwards, for the first time since rehab, I looked at myself completely from the front and back in a man-sized mirror in our hallway and was thrilled by my golden blonde mane. My mother said that I might need new clothes for the start of school and asked my father to go into town with me. I bought new jeans, shirts and a black leather jacket in a department store, where my open hair really came into its own. The saleswomen complimented me and some girls in the department store looked after me. Only an elderly woman from my village, whom we met by chance, hissed that I urgently needed to go to the hairdresser. By chance, I met a schoolmate from my old class with straight brown shoulder-length hair, who was amazed at my “insane mat” and thought my outfit with leather jacket was cool. I expected to be the star in my class on Monday.
Everything was fine and we made our way home again in the late afternoon. But as we drove through our village, my father stopped in front of my hated village hairdresser. My blood pressure shot up dramatically, because I guessed what he was up to. I looked at my watch. It was 2:10 p.m. and was relieved. Because at this time the salon should already be closed on Saturdays. My dad turned off the engine, turned to me, and said, “Boy, we know you’ve been through a lot and you love your long hair. That’s why we didn’t put you under pressure during your recovery and besides, no one was interested in your appearance in rehab.
But the rehab is over and you’re back in life. Take a look at yourself! Your hair is so long that you can almost sit on it! You are the laughing stock of the whole village. With the best will in the world, we cannot and do not want to send you to school like this. For your information, the opening hours have changed since your accident and the shop now closes on Saturdays at 16:00. Get out, because you now have a hairdresser appointment. ”
I was shocked, tucked my hair behind my ears and begged my father not to do this to me, but he remained firm. He got out, opened the passenger door and dragged me out of the car by my jacket. Then he handed me my crutch and with blowing hair I entered the store with him disgruntled. The door bell rang and in the empty waiting area he called briefly into the salon: “Hello, I’m bringing you Georg. Call me when he’s done.” He helped me out of my jacket, hung it on a hanger, took my crutch away from me and disappeared. So escape was out of the question.
The ladies’ salon was full and in the men’s salon only an older man with thinning hair was served by Schnippelpitt. Schnippelpitt hadn’t changed and still looked like he did before my accident. At the sight of him, I felt a nasty tingling in the pit of my stomach. My hope was that Schnippelpitt’s daughter Johanna was in the business. It would certainly save me a terrible massacre. Before I took a seat, she came out of the ladies’ salon and looked at my freshly washed hair from all sides. I was relieved and sighed.
Visibly impressed, she grabbed a strand, checked the length and joked: “My goodness Georg, it’s unbelievable how long they are! I hardly recognized you! The last time you were here, they just went over your ears. Your hair is super beautiful and much, much longer than your mother said on the phone! They hang almost up to your buttocks in the back. You could be braided with beautiful braids. It’s great that you’re coming by again. What can we do for you?” I sat down on one of the wooden chairs in the waiting area and saw in the mirror opposite how my hair slipped over my right elbow and stammered:
“Only cut the tips!! … and can you take me right away?”. But Johanna laughed and became clear:
“Only the tips? You’re joking, Georg! You haven’t seen the inside of a hair salon for ages! With this mega-long mane, you can’t show up anywhere. Take a look in the mirror! You look scary and desperately need a proper haircut! You are the topic of conversation in the village and everyone is tearing their mouths over you! More than half a metre has to come off!” I was angry and poisoned her: “Didn’t you understand me! I don’t want to have my hair cut off! I like it the way it is. I’m just sitting here because my parents tricked me! Just do what I tell you, you stupid goose!” – Johanna was offended and shrugged her shoulders: “I’m sorry, I’d love to serve you, but unfortunately the ladies’ salon is packed today. It’s a pity, because you don’t get such a mass of hair under the scissors every day. My father will take care of you right away.” I was shocked and before I could even think clearly, Schnippelpitt appeared, looked at me and mocked: “Nice to see you, Miss Georg! You look even worse than your father said! But this is more than overdue! You’ll get your turn right away!” I could expect no mercy from him.
He went back to his customer and shaved off his neck. Meanwhile, I listlessly leafed through a car magazine, stroked my middle parting hair for the last time and looked at myself in the mirror. The tips brushed over the magazine before I tucked them behind my ears. I had to resign myself to my fate. Two ladies with curlers looked over at me from the ladies’ salon, laughed and whispered. One said that the time had finally come. The boy with the longest hair in the village at the hairdresser was the attraction of the day.
After an infinite 5-10 minutes, Schnippelpitt took off his customer’s cape, brushed it off and cashed. The customer looked at me with wide eyes as he left and left the store. I sighed, because now it was my turn and Schnippelpitt led me to one of his three barber’s chairs. I shook my hair for the last time and took a seat. Schnippelpitt grabbed my hair from behind and laid it on the backrest. In the mirror I saw that they covered half the backrest. Then he called Johanna to hold up my hair, put a paper ruff around my neck, tied a blue nylon cape around me and pumped up the chair. I took off my glasses and he began to comb my hair out on all sides with relish. “What a mat! How can you let your hair grow so long as a young man? It looks like a haystack!” I was paralyzed, tried to protest, but couldn’t get a word out. He didn’t bother to moisten my hair or ask what I wanted. Quickly he combed my middle parting over my face like a curtain and cut it snip, snip … 3 cm above my eyes. Long thick strands slipped into my lap. “Now you see something again, my son…” Then he roughly cut off the hair all around at chin level, divided it with a comb and pinned the upper hair to the head with clamps. Now he began to saber off the sides and the back of my head with his clippers. The whirring of the machine brought tears to my eyes. Mountains of hair slid onto the floor and into my lap. Then he opened the clamps and cut the upper hair with the scissors to just under 2 cm. What a horror! I now saw a teenager with a 50s hairstyle in the mirror and imagined how my long-haired schoolmates would tease me.
Finally he was done, combed through the upper hair briefly and put it in. He handed me my glasses and took a mirror to show me his work from behind. He said, “Now you look reasonable again. Your father will be glad!” I was so shocked by the terrible clear-cutting that I couldn’t get a word out. All off, off and over with the super mane! He brushed me off and removed the cape. I stood up and looked with tears in my eyes at the mountains of my cut blonde hair that lay scattered around the barber’s chair. I reluctantly paid and called my father to pick me up. He grinned happily when he saw me. But at home, my mother was angry and reproached him violently. She had agreed with him that my hair should stay fashionably long. She had not wanted to do such a sheep shearing to me. At school, my long-haired classmates made endless jokes about my hairstyle, because they had expected me with a super long mane. After 2 days everything had calmed down and they were happy that I was back. I didn’t go to Schnippelpitt anymore.
