Figure 1.--.
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Figure 1.--. |
Of all the many haircuts of my life I remember especially one I received in Summer 1967, when I was 14 and a half. Summer of '67 is recalled fondly by some as the "Summer of Love." Hippies, love-ins, and psychedelia were icons of the time. Not everywhere in the US, however, and certainly not in the southern, conservative town where I was growing up. At 14 and a half I was aware that the times, they were
a'changing - in more ways than one. Fads and fashions were becoming "mod," and I was growing up. I wanted to look like my peers - longer hair and stylish clothes. Nothing extreme, but I didn't want to stand out, to look different. I'd let my hair grow a little longer, and with dad out of town on business, I could get away
with it - up to a point. Then, the axe would fall, or more exactly, the clippers.
At 14 and a half I was aware that the times, they were
a'changing - in more ways than one. Fads and fashions were becoming "mod," and I was growing up. I wanted to look like my peers - longer hair and stylish clothes. Nothing extreme, but I didn't want to stand out, to look different. I'd let my hair grow a little longer, and with dad out of town on business, I could get away with it - up to a point. Then, the axe would fall, or more exactly, the clippers. And, I wanted to dress the part, too. Long pants or jeans, not shorts, were what young men of the world were wearing. It didn't matter that the hot summer was
starting, shorts were for kids, not guys like me who were going into high school that fall.
My parents planned a 2 weeks vacation that summer to visit my grandparents, aunt, uncle, and cousins who lived in the deep, coastal South. It was going to be
hot and humid, and I needed new shorts and summer clothes, my parents decided. What's wrong with the clothes I have, I asked. "They'll be too hot." "We'll
be going to the beach, you don't want to wear those clothes to the beach. No. We're getting you some new shorts. Tomorrow." With my father weighing in on the
discussion, just add, "Case closed." I remember that vacation with my parents well. My clothes and hair length surely were provoking some strong reactions at that time. It had been going on for some time before our trip. Maybe it had to do with all the changes going on in the country - anti-war protests, hippies; the drug and sexual revolutions, and they didn't want to become a surly or rebellious
teenager.
Summer vacation from school had just started. My mother went shopping and purchased several pairs of shorts for me and brought them home. Often she took us shopping for clothes. She some times wanted us to try the items on. And we could have our input. But she did not always take us with her when she went shoppong for our clothes. I wasn't there this time for the actual purchase. Maybe that was meant to avoid trouble (attitude) from me in public!
I recalled how much my mother and father both wanted me in shorts.So, the next day, I had some new khaki shorts to go with my white gym socks and sneakers.
I gave the shorts little attention, so mother, insisted I put them
on. That much of my wardrobe I could keep. "Put them on!" said my mom in a voice and style that reminded me of Shelley Winters on the late show. "I will," I answered. "NOW! NOW!" came the reply. Okay, I know a Crusade when I hear one.
And when I emerged from my bedroom in shorts,
mom said, of couse, "Now, you look really cute! Aren't
they so much more comfortable than those long pants?"
Not a question so much as a statement. I wanted to go
change back right then and there, but this was about
lunch time, and my dad came home. He immediately noted
the change, and of course he didn't say I looked cute,
but that I looked so much better. "Aren't they more
comfortable and cooler? (or someting to that effect.
And this was not so much a question as a statement of
fact, just like my mom's pronouncement!) But, unlike
my mom, dad was willing to leave no doubt where
matters stood. The critique escalated: "your mother
has bought you those clothes, and you're going to wear
them; do you understand?" Interpretation: I'm going to
wear them or else, and I don't want to find out what
else means. So, that was that.
So, shorts it was for this high school sophomore on our vacation. My cousins are really good guys. The oldest, Eddie, was 10 that summer, and he and his
parents, went out of their way to entertain us. Eddie was perfectly happy in a cotton tee shirt, shorts, and barefoot or sneakers. Being a little on the short and
small size for my age, I looked no more than a year or so older than Eddie, a bit tall for his age, especially in my summer clothes.
Eddie's dad was in the military, and of course he preferred short hair. So, my uncle and dad had the same ideas about how their boys should be groomed. The
first Saturday morning of our vacation, my dad told me that Eddie and his dad, and my dad and me were going to get haircuts, because mine had grown too long. "A
new family ritual?" I thought, but dared not say. So, Eddie and me, in tee shirts and shorts, would be shorn under our dads' supervision. Does it get more
humiliating? Never ask; of course it does.
Eddie and I went first. Eddie's hair, short already in my view, was being mowed even shorter. My barber asked my dad - I've suddenly become invisible - how he
wanted my hair to be cut. "Like his cousin's there would be just fine." Maybe it'll be like my old regular haircut, after all, I thought. Hahh! My sides and back were trimmed with scissors. Then, clippers buzzed, tapering and trimming. The barber was
about finished, I thought. Okay, so far, so good. "STRIKKK", the clippers were on again, and this time sounded ever so powerful. Up the back of my head, digging deep into my already short hair went the clippers. Up, up, to the crown of my head. Up and down and across the sides and back of my head. I don't
remember how many trips the clippers made, but my
scalp back there was feeling irritated. Finally, the
buzzing stopped. A razor and warm lather shaved the
hair on my neck and around my earlobes right down to
the skin. Now, for the top of my head. My hair was
combed straight down over my forehead. Scissors cut
the fringe shorter; ummm, shorter; again, the scissors
cut my fringe shorter. What's left to cut??!! My dad
asked the barber to thin my thick hair with thinning
scissors. These shears effectively cut away any
remaining bulk up top. "So, we're done. I hope," I'm
thinking. Not quite. The coup de grace was an
application of hair tonic (Vitalis? Brylcreem? No
matter) and a final combing. The barber handed me my
glasses and held a mirror up to me. My back and sides
were the proverbial whitewalls - cut at close as
clippers can go, tapered and rounded towards the top,
where my hair was just long enough to part and comb.
And held snugly in place with hair tonic. Don't know if it's worth adding to The Haircut
page, but I remember that when my haircut was
finished, the barber, as all barbers I experienced
backed then, took a brush dipped in some fragrant
talcum powder and brushed away any clipped hairs from
around my face. For a while, anyway, a kid or grown-up
smelled as sweet as a rose bush. Just what I wanted!!
At least the barbers didn't give my cousin and me
lollypops, or "suckers", for being good boys while we
had our hair cut!!
Cousin Eddie
- 4 and a half years younger - and I had the same
haircut and wore virtually the same tee shirts and
shorts. I thought, "We almost look like classmates.
5th or 6th grade classmates." What's a hippie? Am
I going to San Francisco? No. Oh, sorry; no, sir. Am I
going to wear a flower in my hair? No, sir.
My grandparents thought our haircuts made my cousin and me look "darling, just darling!" If the expression had been invented then, I'd have said, "Just shoot
me." And what did my mom have to add? "And they look so cute, too, in their shorts! I told John we just HAD to get him some shorts for this trip!"
Well, all in all, I had a good time on that vacation.
But no self-respecting 14 and a half year will
admit that, will he? So, as I grew up, eventually I
could grow my hair longer, and for a few years even
had a mustache. Gasp! So, now that I can wear any
clothes I want and wear my hair any way I want -
shorts are perfect for hot weather and so is a haircut
like, like, like ... the one I got when I was 14
and a half.
This experience was mainly about a haircut, but the little boy clothes added to the impact, of course. I was no stranger to either short hair or short pants,
but this haircut was as short as I'd had, probably, since I was 6 or 7. And as for clothes, I wanted to wear stuff that reflected that I was growing up. Parents have other ideas, though. Ironically, they would tell us, "Act your age!" But in other ways, they seemed reluctant to see us grow up so fast. C'est la
vie.
Today, it's very common to see teenagers in shorts and tee shirts and with very short hair. Young readers may read my account and ask why I was so humiliated. Well, think of having to go to PE class, gym, at your high school with a haircut you don't want and wearing a shirt with Superheroes or action figures decorations!
That was how I felt.
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