Every Inch Counts

“Mommy, please! Please don’t make me. I promise to never ever be bad again. I promise to stay in the lines when I color next time. I swear I will never ever leave my slippers in the bathroom.”
“Tyler, you are getting a haircut and that is final. I want no further protest or discussion from you. Do you see your hair? Tyler, honey, mommy promises that it won’t hurt. Would you like it better if daddy cut it for you instead because if he sees your hair like this after today mommy will be in big trouble and so will Tyler, ok sweetie?”
I guess that was the trick…my father. It seemed if ever you needed me to behave all you had to do was mention that name. I guess now you would call it some messed up form of blackmail, but whatever I really don’t give a damn anymore.
Playing baseball in the park, shooting hoops in the backyard, or fishing in the lake were not activities that were included in my weekends. I remember that weekend as if it were yesterday no matter how hard I concentrate on forgetting it. I begged, I pleaded, I even cried until my face turned bright red and seemed to shine brighter than Rudolph’s nose. I was never really into the whole haircut era when the mothers bring their screaming sons into the shop for the first time as they are met with the clippers and ask for “the boys special” or if you were really lucky, “the mushroom cut” every fucking Saturday. It started when I was about four, no maybe five, but every single Saturday I would have to endure the sing-song voice of my mother that rung through the house and seeped through my bedroom door, “Tyler…. Haircut!” I would purposely try to sleep late. After twelve it was always extremely crowded. Nearly impossible to even have a place to stand because the assholes who call themselves gentlemen wouldn’t even offer their seat to a mother and her son. This suited me fine because just the thought of that black, leather chair that seemed to engulf your entire body until you feel like you’re suffocating, sent chills down my spine and made me shiver with fear. Nothing seemed to calm me down, usually I was the only five year old screaming and yelling at the top of my lungs until the point where they felt as if they have reached full capacity and with the intake of another breath of air I would surely faint. The two and three year olds never had a problem with haircuts; they would simply sit there while the clippers chipped away at their hair, patiently waiting for the cherry lollipop after its completion. But anyway, it seemed no matter how long I slept, my eyes would always open a second too early and I would fail every time, one way or another.
This one particular weekend had to be the worst. Friday was possibly the worst day any first-grader in Mrs. Webster’s class could think of. First, I couldn’t have the yellow crayon to color my sun; I had to color it orange. Who in the fucking world would color a sun orange? No one in his or her right mind, no one with any sense as to what the sun looks like. This sun would have been perfect, such a beautiful circle shape, no lumps or unnecessary curves, just one continuous line slightly curved to meet at the ends. I reached over to obtain the yellow, but not just any yellow, this yellow had been just sharpened by Mrs. Webster the day before and had the type of point that could trace the thinnest line. I distinctly remember just as I went to grab it, Sheila…Sheila Bernstein, the girl with the disgusting running nose grabbed it first and everyone in the class knew once she touched something, you don’t want it back. So already I was pissed off and ashamed to bring my artwork home; I was the only damn kid in the class with an orange sun.
Even before I got my small, three and half shoe size foot in the doorway completely I was greeted by the man I had to refer to as my father, “Tyler, let’s go… I’m giving you a haircut. Go in the kitchen and wrap the towel around your neck.” I responded, “But I’m not supposed to get a haircut until tomorrow…Mommy says so.” Obviously, this was the incorrect response because even before the statement was fully out of my mouth I was met with a face that I will never forget. He knelt down so he was my size, a six foot one man brought down to a mere three feet. My little innocent face flushed crimson as my hazel-greenish eyes filled with tears while I stared at the face that stared at me.
“I’m your father and if I say I’m giving you a haircut then I’m going to do just that. I need no consent from you or your mother. No son of mine is going to prance around looking like…you.” Although some of the words extended past my vocabulary, he made his point clear and I didn’t dare respond. I simply just retreated to the kitchen, holding the right side of my face that throbbed as if a million needles had just been pulled in and out repeatedly.
The change was so sudden. In a voice that seemed to be appropriate for a thirteen-year-old girl experiencing puberty, he entered the kitchen holding his clippers with the smile of a killer thrown upon his face, “Who’s ready for a haircut? What will it be son? Mushroom? Bald? Trim? You name it, I’ll do it.” I didn’t quite understand the little game he was trying to play, but I did know that I had no particular interest in being a participant. Honestly, I was more afraid of the little games than when he actually showed me his anger.
Of course, I was supposed to be the good little boy, the son that never makes a mistake, the son with the highest grade on the math test, the son who always had a fresh haircut and smile on his face to greet his mommy after work. “Look at my baby. Tyler you look so cute with your haircut, but I think I’m going to take you to the shop to meet your new barber and maybe while you’re there he can give you a mushroom cut. Your daddy really likes that style, don’t you, honey?”