Frank
The fantasy stories of the german writer Karl May ( 19th century) are very popular in Germany. Some of his stories are describing the adventures of the indian Chief Winnteou and the white adventurer old Shurehand in America. The kids are loving the stories.
Winntous End
My mother found it convenient to just let my hair grow as a child. So she didn’t have to drag me to the hairdresser all the time. So it happened that I was allowed to wear very long hair as a boy. My hair was maroon and wavy. Since my parents were very wealthy, I had a private tutor until the age of 12 and did not need to go to the local school. My hair grew exceptionally fast and was finally so long that I could sit on it and it reached up to my thighs at the front. When I wore it open, everyone thought I was a girl and made jokes, which didn’t bother me. Since I was also uncut at the front, I usually wore my mane as a ponytail to have a clear view. When I combed them out at the front and put glasses over them, I looked like the hairy uncle of the Adams Family. My mother probably didn’t expect my hair to grow so long, and finally, to her chagrin, she had her hands full trying to keep it in good shape. The weekly washing and drying took hours and I had to be brushed several times a day so that the hair didn’t get matted. In the summer, mother braided me a hip-length thick braid.
When I was 10 years old, my mother had had enough of the time-consuming care of my hip-length hair and wanted to have it cut off. Since she didn’t want to force me to do so, she tried to convince me in a good way: “I know you love your hair. They’re beautiful, but they’re way too long and still bother you all the time. Please let them shorten them. After that, you look like a real boy and don’t have to endure any more scorn and ridicule. The lengthy washing, drying and brushing would then no longer be necessary. My hairdresser Tina is nice and will give you a chic modern short haircut according to your wishes.” I was horrified and screamed: “This is out of the question! I will never have them cut. Basta!” After all, I was the star among my friends, as we were all Karl May fans. When I played cowboys and Indians with my friends in the vast meadows and forests of my parents, I always played the leading role of the noble chief Winnetou. We had set up an Indian tent and made a campfire every now and then, where we gathered, smoked peace pipes and performed wild dances. With my magnificent feather headdress, leather suit with fringes and shoes, I also looked like a real Indian with my long braids or open wild hair. My hair was cut, my trademark and my pride and joy. No other boy was like me and the girls were jealous of my curls. Even the local press had become aware of us and published an article with pictures of our Indian camp and especially of me with two long braids in full gear with the headline: “Long-maned chief Winnetous gives himself the honor!”. Furthermore, it was reported that we had set up a great tent camp with a campfire and that I would lead the group. My hair would never have been cut before and I would therefore look like a real wild Indian. I was famous! Why should I ever voluntarily part with my hair? My mother sighed, gave up for the time being, and my mane grew for another two years.
Shortly before my 12th birthday, my father told me that he wanted to send me to a high-end boarding school in Switzerland at the end of the holidays. They would attach importance to etiquette and prepare me perfectly for life. What he meant by that, I didn’t understand in my naivety. It wasn’t until he hinted that I would have to have my hair cut off, of course, that I realized what he wanted to say. That was out of the question for me and I didn’t feel like going to boarding school in general, because I would only see my friends during the holidays. So, as always, I vehemently refused, but my father obviously didn’t give up yet. My parents put their heads together and whispered. Something was brewing, but I didn’t care, because I believed that they had no chance against me. I ticked off boarding school and continued to enjoy the holidays.
A week later, my mother booked a hairdresser appointment for the afternoon and asked me if I wanted to accompany her. The summer holidays were just coming to an end and all my friends were out with their parents. “Listen, at my hairdresser’s there is a great movable wooden Indian horse with a long tail, an original leather saddle and bridle, on which you can even ride properly. That’s something for you and you could pass the time while my hair is done. Or do you prefer to be bored at home? “Wow – a mobile Indian horse, that sounded interesting and I really wanted to see and try it, but I wasn’t really convinced. My mother frowned, described it again in detail and insisted that I should come with her and promised me a thick ice cream after the hairdresser appointment. I nodded in agreement and could hardly wait to come along.
Relieved, my mother smelled my ponytail briefly and was then of the opinion that my mane should be washed again. The hair had grown vigorously again in the last two years, already covered my buttocks and reached my thighs at the front. We went to the bathroom, she washed them for me, put a cape on me after rinsing, dried them with the hair dryer and brushed them out particularly thoroughly outside on our terrace. Then I put on my Indian clothes, shook and looked at my open hair from all sides in the mirror. I found myself simply stunning with the freshly washed, fragrant hair that covered my back and buttocks in gentle waves. Thanks to perfect care, they had grown over 40 centimetres in the past two years. I felt like a real wild Indian chief. My mother looked at me skeptically and said, “They’ve sprouted again. Now you can sit on your hair! What do you mean? Shall we leave your mane open today for once? Then you can really let off steam on the horse and admire.” That sounded good, I nodded and put on my feather headdress. In this elevator and my flowing, loose, freshly washed hair, we set off in the direction of the hairdressing salon. We stood out – people we passed looked after us. When we reached the hairdressing salon, which I had only known from the outside, we stopped just outside the front door and I was reflected in the shop window with my record-breaking flowing mane. In the window hung pictures of short hairstyles of men and women and behind the glass entrance you could see a checkout counter with three wooden chairs on which two boys were sitting. My mother looked in her purse to see if she had pocketed her purse, and we entered.
A bell rang when we opened the entrance door of the ladies’ and men’s salon “Haartraum”. A young hairdresser in tight black leather clothes with red, rasp-short jellied hair greeted my mother in a friendly manner. Then she looked at me from all sides and said to me: “Welcome, Chief Winnetou, I am Tina. My goodness, do you have a magnificent mane. You don’t see something like that every day. They are much longer than your mother told me on the phone. I’ve heard a lot about you and I’m happy that you’re finally coming to visit us. Your mother told me that you really want to get to know our salon horse. First of all, take a seat on one of the chairs in front of you for a moment! I’ll pick you up when our horse is ready for you.” She asked my mother to follow her into the salon and I sat down next to two boys my age with dark hair over their ears and parting curls far over their eyes, who looked at me puzzled and probably waited for her haircut. As I sat down, took off my feather headdress and threw my hair back over the backrest, the first one was called into the salon. Then the second boy asked me: “Do you get your hair cut too?” – “No, of course not!”, I replied indignantly. I only accompany my mother to look at the Indian horse and try it out.” -“Yes, the horse is great. You can bob back and forth and watch videos. I sit on it every 2 months when my parents send me to the hairdresser. ” He grabbed a yard-long strand of my hair and weighed it in his hand. ” Wow, what a mat you have! Not even my sister has that long hair! When was the last time you went to the hairdresser?” – “My hair has never been cut”- “Never? Why do you have such long hair?” – “I always play Winnetou, the noble Indian chief and that is only possible with such great hair! Besides, it suits me and the girls are jealous. I was even in the newspaper.” He let the strand slip out of his hand and looked at me skeptically and said, “Are you really sure they won’t cut it off today? I always get off the horse shaved.”
The first boy appeared with short hair, sat down next to me and the 2nd boy was called into the hair salon. He looked at me in amazement as I leaned forward to pick up a comic book from the magazine pile. “Is that a wig or are they real?” he asked. “Of course they are real. What else? “-“Good God, they’re already hanging over your ass. This is a real hair coat! My parents wouldn’t allow me to do that. It’s high time that they were cut! I’d like to watch that!” – “Oh, shut up! You’re talking nonsense! I’m not here to cut my hair!” I snapped at him harshly. “Then why are you sitting in a hairdressing salon!” he replied. I had enough of the ramblings, bent over the book and leafed through it. Somehow I had a queasy feeling in my stomach that I ignored. After 20 minutes later, the 2nd boy came out again shaved short with a parting. Tina cashed in on the two of them, said goodbye and went outside to take a cigarette break. After a few minutes she came back and spoke to me: “Sorry, it took a while until our horse is free again. Today we have a lot to do. Follow me, great chief, I will lead you to your wild stallion” – and she led me past three barber’s chairs to a brown-painted wooden horse at the end of the room, which was set up in front of a huge dressing mirror with a chest of drawers. In the first two chairs sat customers who looked at me in amazement. They had probably never seen a boy with such hair in an Indian costume. The horse looked like my mother had described it and was lovingly equipped with a red leather saddle, stirrups and bridle. In front of and behind it hung huge mirrors. On the chest of drawers lay a hair dryer, a roll of paper, a hair clipper, comb, brush and scissors and next to it hung a white plastic cape on a hook. Around it lay cut hair, which probably came from the boys,
Tina helped me into the saddle, strapped me in and turned on a western video and swept her hair up on the floor. Enthusiastically, I rocked happily back and forth. That’s how I had imagined it! My hair flew wildly back and forth and I could look at myself in the mirrors all around. From the front it looked like a tent and at the back, my hair mass covered the horse’s buttocks and parts of the tail. I shouted and felt like a real wild Indian on the warpath.
Meanwhile, my mother sat in the hairdresser’s chair next to me while Tina blow-dried her hair. When she was done with her, she came over to me, locked the wooden horse, turned off the video and grabbed a cape that was ready.
“So, now it’s your turn,” she said cheerfully. “Now we’ll take care of your wild mane! Today the mega-long mat comes off!” Puzzled, I raised my head and looked at her in surprise under my tangled curtain of hair. She brushed my hair out of my face, grabbed it up at the back and held it up, while a colleague put a paper cuff on me and tied a hairdresser’s cape. She let the hair fall and combed it carefully back, leaving me alone to free a customer from a drying hood, cape and paper cuff. She and accompanied her to the checkout. The customer looked in my direction and asked Tina if this was the first haircut for the boy. I looked at my beloved hair in the mirror for the last time – a thick wavy brown carpet that covered my back and the horse’s hindquarters. Then I looked horrified at my mother, who took a camera out of her handbag and took some photos.” Mom, what’s the point, I don’t want to! How can you do that to me!” I said in a brittle voice and couldn’t get another word out of my mouth. “We have no other choice because you are so unreasonable. Hair up to the thigh, it can’t go on like this! We also have to think about your future!” she replied unmoved. Escape was out of the question, as I was strapped in. I was trapped!
After long minutes, Tina came back and said to me: “Your mother told me that you are going to boarding school at the end of the month. Today you get your first real haircut, otherwise your parents would have to send you to a girls’ boarding school.” She frowned, looked at my hair length and said: “My goodness, they’re so long that you can sit on them! We have never had such an insane mane on a boy. When I came in, I thought you were an Indian girl at first. It’s high time that they come to an agreement! ” Tina looked at my mother and asked: “Shall we braid him a braid first?” She shook her head and said: “Don’t waste any time, get down with the wool. Give him a modern short haircut.” My parents had tricked me. Tina guessed what was going on in me, combed out the hair on all sides, grabbed her scissors, grabbed a meter-long strand, cut it to 5 cm and demonstratively let it slide to the floor. I was shocked! She lost no time and quickly shortened the hair piece by piece to about 5 cm. My lap was almost overflowing with cut curls. When she cut off my forehead hair, I could see how the curls slid along the cape to the floor, on which mountains of hair piled up. Tears welled up in my face. “An Indian knows no pain!” joked Tina as she fought her way mercilessly through my wool. When the rough cut was finished, she sprayed me with water and started the fine cut. She shortened the hair on the top of the head to about 3 cm. I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself anymore. Everything off, over and over with the hair! But it wasn’t over yet. Tina turned on her clippers, pushed my head forward and shaved out my neck and sides.
Tina blow-dried me and took off my cape, from which mountains of hair slid down, while my mother took pictures again. I now looked like every X-normal shaved boy on our street. Tina finally helped me off the horse, and I stood ankle-deep in my hair. Her colleague swept them into a huge haystack and stuffed them into a garbage can. Out and over with the splendour, I thought.
“So now we can show up with you again and send you to boarding school!” said my mother, put on the Indian jewellery, which now slipped too far into my face, gave Tina a big tip and we left the salon. Since that memorable day, I didn’t play in Cowboy and Indian, because my mother had sent the before and after pictures from the hairdresser to the newspaper, which published them under the headline “Winnetou’s hairy end”. To the horror of my parents, I then became a hairdresser and successfully built up an entire hairdressing chain, which can be found in almost every city. Tina’s salon is also mine now and I recently looked at the horse, which is still in use for children. Then I looked at my favorite photo: a before picture of me, on which only the horse and super long wavy hair can be seen, which cover the horse’s buttocks in cascades.
