A Trip to the Barber

                                   

A TRIP TO THE BARBER

Visiting my mother's grave was on the next day's agenda, long overdue.  I parked on Main Street and strolled over to the barbershop; one in the chair and one waiting was the extent of the barber's commerce.  Living in a small town afforded me several advantages.  Even though a heightened terrorist-alert loomed over our nation, I felt reasonably secure and accustomed to my laidback lifestyle.  The barber was a tall, medium-built fellow who made polite, small talk.
   
"How's it goin'?"
   
"Not bad," I said, sliding into a seat to wait.  Why isn't Bill Jr. minding that second chair?"   
   
"He's helping fix the bandstand at the high school.  Graduation time is right around the corner.  Weather good enough to suit ya?" he asked, without looking up or missing a snip.
   
"Wouldn't have it any other way, Bill," I returned.  His obligatory howdy was over.  The person in the chair would receive the bulk of the conversation. This was an age-old tradition to be enjoyed when it was your turn.  There was no rule to this effect--it had always been that way. 
   
The aroma of hair tonic and mention of graduation reminded me of a dream my mother had as a child.  She witnessed two trains passing one another in the sky.  Well-groomed teenagers singing glorious songs occupied the train going up; confident voices overflowed with a deliberate, reassuring vibrato.  Mom remembered a sense of well being glistening in their eyes and a brilliant, guiding light. 
   
The train going down was filled with terrified teenagers, tearing at one another with teeth and fingernails.  Their faces were distorted and drool dripped from their mouths.  Parched, split lips begged for water and confused cries of regret and shrieks of hopelessness consumed the darkness.  The train hurled out of control. 
   
My mother, then only ten-years old, was overwhelmed by the experience and confided in her parents.  Having been raised in The Old-Fashioned Missionary Salvation Church, they believed the trains were bound for glory and damnation.  They warned my mother of a hell so hot that it could make you sweat on a cold day.  As you may expect, this left quite an impression on a small child.
   
What caused my mother to remember the dream in 1970, in time for my high school graduation, were the hairstyles.  Oddly enough, the kids heading for damnation resembled my friends and me.  I wore shoulder-length hair and my black friends sported Afros.  These were popular trends of the day, along with bellbottom trousers and tie-dyed T-shirts.  The times were a changing: sex, drugs, rock and roll, and the Vietnam War dominated the evening news. 
   
To the best of my mother's recollection, she rarely saw any men with long hair in rural Kentucky in the 30's, and absolutely no one with the huge processed hairdos.  The sudden, widespread phenomenon convinced her that it was a sign ushering in the "Last Days"--The trains were a coming!  And with the salvation of my soul in jeopardy, Mom wouldn't let up, not for an instant, until I cut my hair for graduation.  She refused to be persuaded by my protests. 
   
My friends thought I was "plastic" for giving in.  Those were the days of doing your own thing--of being real.  Conforming for any reason was a step in the wrong direction; it certainly affected my status at the graduation party and picnic.  Change required our unbending allegiance and gave us a feeling of invincibility.  I assured my fellow trailblazers that the incident was unavoidable and only a temporary setback for "The Cause".  It seemed like only yesterday. 
   
"Your turn daydreamer," the barber said, touching my shoulder.  "How do ya want it cut, the usual?"
   
"A little shorter will be fine, yeah, just a little shorter will be quite all right."