I remember growing up – my mom was very strict. I suppose she had to be – she was trying to raise 6 kids all by herself. I was the oldest boy in my family, but not the oldest. I had 3 older sisters that I had to deal with.
Anyway… as we got older, into our teens, I remember – first being driven to (in an old ’52 DeSoto), and then later having to walk to – a Barber College – to get our haircuts.
If I recall correctly, since they were training students to become barbers, they couldn’t charge that much – basically enough to pay for the electricity and materials consumed, I suppose. The price for a haircut? It’s been a while, but I seem to recall it being a whopping fifty cents. Per customer. Well, that meant that myself and two brothers cost about a dollar-fifty to get haircuts.
When we would walk down to the barber shop, it was kinda fun, as we got to get away from the house, and any constant nagging that seemed to be the norm. We were out on our own. Sorta.
At the barbershop, when it was our turn, we would get into the chairs, and the barbers would put the hair-bib on us – then they would ask how we wanted our haircut. Being that we were Jehovah’s Witnesses, we had to have our hair cropped real short… or was that just a requirement of my mom’s?
Anyway, we would tell the barbers – ‘Regular man’s – take a lot off the top’. With their instructions, they would begin the task of cutting the hair– or shaving our heads.
After the haircut, they would always spin us around to look in the mirror to inspect the work and approve it – or not.
I remember one time, the barber that cut my hair – did a good job… although he had left a bit more hair on my head than they normally did. I kinda liked it, and approved the cut, and I was done.
Well… when I got home, my mom just about flipped her wig. It wasn’t done right! My hair was too long! I had to go back! … and tell the same barber that he had to cut more off my head. Which he did… my face burning red.
I learned that there was no allowance for common sense – or ‘style’ while living there. From then on, when inspecting my hair after a cut, I was sure to tell the fella, “No… take more off the top. It won’t pass inspection.”
I remember one barber – after hearing this asked credulously, “Whose inspection? Are you in the military?”
“Nope.” I replied. “My moms’.”
snip snip snip went his scissors… cutting more off the top.