Short back And Sides

Short Back And Sides


The boy steps out into the sunlight, an outstretched hand shielding his eyes. The other hand searching the space in front of him, for his father's hand. They are both glad to be out in the air, after several days of hibernation from the rain. The boy tries to match the length and pace of his father's stride as they walk towards the barbershop. Every few seconds he gives a little hop, trying to get back in step.

“Don’t step on the cracks dad,” the boy shouts as he dances over the cracked pavement.

The father has already been through the traditional precursor to a haircut, chasing the boy with the garden shears and calling him a big lassie. The boy, in the past, has looked forward to this little bit of fun with his dad. Recently though, he is becoming less than enthusiastic about the performance.

“Getting too big for that nonsense” his mam had said “ Leave the boy alone, you wont get away with that for much longer.” The boy knows his mother can see the changes in him.

The pair walk together on their usual route. The streets are becoming busier every year and they have to weave their way through the throng of bodies.

“I remember when there was hardly a car on the road, now you can’t move for them.”

“Mam says its progress da,” says the boy holding his father’s hand tighter as they try to cross the road.

Thompson’s barbershop is tucked away in a little corner. The building next to it was once a cinema, before its closure years ago. The walls are covered in graffiti but in his familiarity, the boy has ceased to notice its jaded appearance.

“Used to go there every week I did, only cost two jam jars to get in,” says the father. The boy nods and looks up smiling, trying hard not to mention that the same story has been told on a hundred other haircut days.

The little bell above the door sounds their arrival as they enter. The boy loves it here; this is a man’s place. The smells always remind him of his granddad, smoke, hair oil and clean-shaven fragrant chins. In the middle of the blue tiled floor sit two old fashioned heavy chairs covered in faded red leather. They are bolted firmly in place and look like instruments of torture. The walls are lined with several mirrors; each one surrounded by faded photographs of boxers and football players. The shelves are cluttered with combs, scissors and various little tubs of colourful oils and creams. The waiting customers sit huddled at one end of the shop. The boy can hear their hushed football conversations.

Mr Thompson the barber works neatly around his customer. A snip here, a snip there, and in between shouting “ Aye that was definitely offside, that refs a blind.” A sweep of his comb and a quick spray of oil “Born out of wedlock he was.” Mr Thompson has owned the shop for as long as the boy can remember. He is always bragging that once, back in the sixties, he had given Tom Jones a haircut.

“Made a right arse of it as well,” the boy’s father whispers. The boy giggles and moves towards the chair when his name is called.

“ Jesus Davie look at the size of him” the barber shouts to the father as he pumps the metal arm raising the chair. “Getting bigger every time I see him.”

The father smiles and replies, “It’ll no be long and the lassies will be chasing him” a few seconds later he adds “No wi that hair cut mind you” all three of them laugh. The father picks up a newspaper and reads the headlines. His head shakes and he tutts loudly.

“World is moving too fast for me. Just don’t know what to make of it anymore.”

The boy sits staring at his reflection as Mr Thompson goes to work with his scissors. Locks of his soft brown hair fall to the floor. He thinks about a time in the near future, when he will be able to say

”But dad, I don’t want a short back and sides.”

The barber brushes the loose hair from the boy’s shoulders then stands back to admire his work. The boy hops from the chair rubbing his little hand over his newly shorn head. He stands for a moment, looking at the pile of hair strewn around his feet. He traces little circles on the floor with the toe of his shoe.

The father pays the barber and exchanges a few whispered words before stepping out into the sunlight. The boy’s head feels cold in the chill; he shivers and pushes his shoulders up around his naked ears.

“ Lets go and see what yer ma thinks of yer new haircut,” says the father walking away. The boy chases after him reaching out for his hand .The thick fingers close gently around the boy’s and he is surprised to find, hidden in his father’s palm, a lock of his own hair.