Fiction originally published in Mosaic (OSU): 2010 Issue
I keep my eyes glued to the mirror, partially to concentrate on the task at hand (this sort of thing requires focus) but mostly because I don’t want to have to look at his face.
The worst part about it is that this whole time he hasn’t raised his voice. Not one bit. Instead he’s using a quiet restrained tone to indicate his disappointment. It’s barely audible over the buzz of my hair clippers.
I’m barely able to make out his soft words: “You’re an adult now. It’s time you stopped messing around and act like one. Show some mature judgment.”
Pausing to check the length on both sides of my head, I determine they’re good enough. It’s a little shorter than usual because I’ve set the clippers to #2 length instead of the usual #3. Using my left hand, I begin to feel out the back of my head. You should use your dominant hand to operate the clippers and the other one to designate a spot towards the back. Personally, I prefer to use the spot where my hair grows out in a circle, towards the top of my skull. This is how you trim the back—the part where you can’t see—evenly. You clip up from the bottom and use your non-dominant hand as a reference point of where to stop cutting.
“Son, you can’t do this on your own. Just on some whim.”
This is why I don’t come over to my mom and dad’s house more often. Normally, I would never do this here but the power at my apartment went out after I was already a third of the way into this haircut and I really didn’t have any other choice.
My dad still thinks of me as a child. I swear he’ll still be giving me this same spiel when I’m forty-five. It’s the exact speech that thousands of preaching fathers give to their pimple-faced boys right before handing over the keys to the family sedan. My father doesn’t care to acknowledge that I can legally drink or that I’ve been making it through college on my own by working thirty hours a week for the past three years.
“Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes but I’m not some idiot kid anymore so you can quit with the warning about how bad drugs are and reminding me to wash my hands before dinner.”
“Well, this isn’t something you just do out of nowhere.”
I resist the urge to scream that I’m not completely brain-dead. I focus on examining the back of my head with an old hand mirror. I’m happy to discover an even length to go with my sides.
“You can’t decide to just ship off all the…”
My eyes shift away from the mirror, for the first time since I started cutting, to look at my father. The guy leaning against the washer with the graying temples and slouching posture stops talking midsentence because my expressionless stare has just told him the following:
“I already did. It’s a done deal old man.”
Back to the task at hand.
You should go up about two settings for the top of your head. Relax, this is the easiest part because you can see it clearly in the mirror. It goes quick. For three minutes, a constant buzz is the only sound echoing in the basement, and all that’s left to do is blend in the sides with the top.
“I remember when you used to cut it into a Mohawk.”
“Yeah, well now it’s a buzz cut. It’s going to be that way for some time.”
As I’m changing the setting to #2 again, he says something so quiet that it’s impossible to hear.
“What’s that?”
“I asked, ‘When do you start?’”
“I go to basic training in two weeks. That takes six weeks and after that it depends. I’ll probably be sent overseas a month after basic.”
“Where you going to put all your stuff? Who’s going to watch after your dog?”
“I’m going to put it all in storage. Beth is going to take Kashmir. She’s got a big backyard.”
“Seems like you’ve got it all planned out.”
“Yeah, seems like I do.”
I shut off the clippers and brush the stray hairs off my face. I can’t stop myself from saying, “You used to go on and on about how this war was the right thing for us to do.”
“It is the right thing for the country to do. That doesn’t mean you need to be the one fighting it.”
“Fair. Weather. Patriot.”
He nods and walks upstairs without another word. I complete the haircut and a final inspection says I’ve done a good job. As I’m cleaning up, sweeping up the departed hair from the cement floor, something tells me I’ve missed something.
I forgot about lining up the back. You’ve got to cut off the upper neck hair so you don’t look like a slob that showers once a week. I know what needs to be done. I walk upstairs. You can’t cut the back by yourself. If you try, the line you make will be shaky and uneven at best. You’ve got to make sure there’s someone else to finish it.
I find him pretending to read the paper.
“I need your help. Can you cut the back? You always cut the back.”
“Of course I can. That’s what fathers are for.”
Afterwards he tells me, in his normal voice, the one that’s a notch too loud for conversation in such a silent house, about the space he’s cleared in the garage for my stuff. He shows me the doghouse he started building for Kashmir and where he’s going to put it in the yard. He tells me he’ll help watch my money when I’m away. My dad goes on and on all afternoon.
And I just listen to him for the first time in years.