When a Haircut is Not Just About Cutting Hair

            There are many questions with which mankind has struggled:  Which came first, the chicken or the egg?  If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?  Do you shape the world, or does the world shape you?  Some answers come hard.  Others just get complicated.  Some questions have different answers depending on who you are and what you are doing.  For the most part, for me, the answer to the last question would have to be that I have been shaped by the world.

            I grew up in small towns.  My father was a music teacher with a master’s degree.  He liked teaching in smaller communities to be away from the hustle and bustle of the city.  Every six years or so we would move to a new town, changing schools and friends.  Our family consisted of my mother, my father, my four older brothers and my older sister.  We were poor, I guess.  When you are young and no one else you personally know has much money, you do not know that you are poor.  My father would give us haircuts instead of taking us to a barber.  He would take out his clippers, comb, and scissors and put a chair in the middle of the floor and cut our hair one at a time starting with the oldest and progressing to the youngest.  That was me.  By the time he finally started to cut my hair he was tired and was apt to make mistakes.  I honestly do not remember having my father cut my hair without getting cut right behind my ear.  This happened every time.  It might be behind my right ear or my left, but I always got cut.

            Today I dread having my hair cut.  I inwardly cringe when my name is called and I have to sit in the chair that reminds me remotely of a dentist chair (also a rather frightful and unhappy memory). I sit ridged, gripping the arms of the chair, my eyes closed, waiting for the clippers or the scissors to do their dirty work and cut more than just my hair.

            When the barber or hair stylist finally says, “How is that?”  I tell them it looks fine.  I don’t have my glasses on and can’t see myself in the mirror, but if my agreement that he has done a good job will end the ordeal, I’m all for it.  I bound out of the chair, and hurry to pay my bill, leave (escape) just happy to get out and away from that chair in the middle of the floor, those clippers and scissors.  I don’t breath easily until I arrive home.

My wife will critique my hair cut; she’ll often see something uneven or some obvious stray hairs that didn’t get cut and she’ll ask me why I didn’t have them fix it.  I will tell her, honestly, that I didn’t notice it at the time.  She will role her eyes and mutter something about “men.”  I don’t care, I survived another trip and can now wait another four months or so until, what hair I do have, becomes too unruly and needs to be cut again.

I think it is safe to say that the world of my youth has helped to shape me and the world I live in today. Parents take note:  seemingly small experiences of your children’s youth can have far-reaching effects in their future.

(Source:  The Hair Archives)