The Haircut…
1958. My junior year of high school was about to start. Elvis was King. Rock ‘n Roll was here to stay. Poodle skirts, bobby sox, and big hair were the rage with the girls. Boys wore tight pants with little straps and buckles on the back. Those were complimented with turned-up shirt collars, white socks, Weejun loafers, and hair.
The most perfect coif in our little high school was owned by Dwayne. Flat-top, not too short, not too long, what we called a ducktail, and the rest of the world, I later learned, called DA for ducks-ass. All this was brushed and combed to perfection, then held together with a pomade called goose grease, at least in our neck of the woods.
Unfortunately, my birthright was naturally curly, wavy hair. It was
curly when I was a baby, and 60+ years later, it is still curly. As a young boy I didn’t know the difference. My hair was like every other lad’s hair. Think late 40s, early 50s haircut. Close cropped on the sides and back, and long enough on top to part it and comb it down flat. The little flip over in the front was called a roach for some reason I never understood.
Every male old enough and young enough to sit up and still for fifteen minutes got his hair cut every week. In those days haircuts were 25 cents for a boy and 35 to 50 cents for a man. It was like a rite of passage as a male in our culture to pay weekly homage to the town barber. Everybody did it. No one thought much about it. Some families were plagued with having a father, uncle, brother or friend who claimed to know how to cut hair, a skill usually learned one afternoon during their first days as a buck private in the Army. We were not so unfortunate.As the mid-50s rolled through, things began to change. Cars were larger, more powerful, and many had sprouted fins or wings. Russian spies were thought to be everywhere, as the US was engaged in a new kind of war called cold. Fashions were changing for the first time since The Big War. Music was changing with the arrival of Rock ‘n Roll. And hair styles were changing. Teenagers wanted to look like, dress like, act like, talk like — hell, they wanted to be, the current recording or silver screen heart throbs. I just wanted hair like Dwayne’s.Every time I mentioned getting a flat-top, Momma freaked out. She proved how little native intelligence she had by rejecting my perfectly logical argument that everybody has one. She threatened me in every way she knew, short of chopping me into small pieces and feeding me to the turtles in Beaver Creek. Nevertheless, as a sophisticated almost-16-year-old, I knew what was best for me. Sure, I would have to deal with her later, but what could she really do after I already had it cut, other than fuss about it for a couple of days. She would get over it. And I would be James Dean cool, just like Dwayne.Shack was our barber, one of two in town. Before reaching the top of the long staircase to his shop, you could smell the smoke. Shack and most of his adult customers smoked, as attested by the overflowing ashtrays. Scattered around were well worn copies of Argosy and Field & Stream, Readers’ Digest, maybe an old Look or Life magazine. When my turn came, I climbed nervously into the chair. As Shack draped the barber cloth over me, he questioned, “The usual?” Shack was a man of few words. He listened and took in everything, he knew everything going on in town, but never said much.”Nope. I want a flat-top this time.”"A flat-top? Hmmm…” He felt my head, gently probing with fingers as if examining a Ming dynasty vase. “Hmmm…” Looking from every angle. Studying. Making a mental topo map of my head. “Hmmm…”Finally he moved around in front of me so he could look me straight in the eye and said, “You can’t wear a flat-top.”Flabbergasted, I asked why.”Because your head is shaped like a watermelon. To make it flat across the top it would be down to your scalp on the top and two inches long out on the edges. Wouldn’t look right. Your head is shaped like a watermelon.”As I started to protest, he came closer and almost whispered, “And besides, Miss Louise would kill me.”Damn. Momma got to him before I did. I told Shack I needed to think this through, got out of the chair and left. Grinding on it while making a couple of circuits around Court House Square got me all stirred up. That is to say, good and mad. Brave enough and stupid enough that I should have been locked up for my own good. OK, I knew what to do…
Heading down to the other shop where they probably didn’t even know me, I had a chance to regain my cool so that when, after waiting my turn and getting in the chair, I was able to shrug it off when the barber, James was his name, called me by name and asked after my mom and dad — by name. Damn! Did she get to him too?
When I told him I wanted a flat-top, he happily agreed. Then, just as the cutting started, he hesitated and then said, “You may not be too happy with this. Your head is shaped like a watermelon.” What the hell is it with barbers and watermelons? I told him I had heard that before, but to go ahead and do it.
As I walked home, my mind started racing. What was Momma gonna do? What was I gonna do? Would I live to see the dawn? How hungry were those turtles? What did I really look like, anyway? The first glance in the mirror was a shocker. Down to the scalp on top, two inches long on the edges. I looked like I had been scared real bad. My head was shaped like a watermelon!
While I stood frozen in front of the mirror trying to figure out what to do next, Momma walked in, took one look and shrieked “Winston Edward, what have you done? What in the world is wrong with your hair?” When she used my first and middle names like that, it meant real trouble. As I turned toward her, she clasped her hand over her mouth as if muffling a scream, and then started crying. Nothing gets to me quite as fast as making Momma cry. And she knew it. Then we both cried. I tried to comb it, she tried to brush it. No matter what we did it would not lay flat and cooperate. Then we both had a good laugh. And we agreed to shape it up as best we could, and let it grow out. An astute parent knows when the child’s self-inflicted punishment is sufficient. Maybe those turtles would have to fend for themselves for another day.
About the only good thing about screwing up your hair is that it will grow out and give you another chance. And so it did. I remained quietly envious of Dwayne and all the other cool, hip guys who had flat-tops and ducktails. But the experience had taught me two valuable life lessons: those with watermelon heads should not have flat-top haircuts, and Momma ain’t always wrong.
16 Comments so far
::whistles “The Fishin’ Hole” as he reads::
Very very nice.
Not only did I thoroughly enjoy this, but I could feel your mother’s panic when she first saw your head. You were an adorable little guy….watermelon head and all. Wonderful story Winston Edward.
I grew up in the same era and for me the routine was to go to the “Beauty Shop” with my mother and be subjected to a permanent wave, electric clamps on the curls and highly odiferous chemicals. My first real act of rebellion was to refuse to have my straight hair subjected to that torture. I learned to make my own pin curls with bobby pins, and my mother thought I looked like a street urchin.
That’s a far cry from nose piercings and body tattoos, right?
Winston, you make me nostalgic for the 50’s, and I wasn’t even born yet. Another great story from my favorite watermelon head.
cute little boy… and good story. I remember when haircuts on boys were such a big deal and possibly that’s why I didn’t care what my son did whether really short or longer than mine. He still varies the length and just went back from a pony tail to GQ– both of which look great. It was so important back then though– for men and women. There wasn’t a lot of long hair on girls either. Page boys, bubble cuts, pony tails and that was pretty much it for what was ‘okay’
Thanks for the memories. I can smell the barber shop from here. Up until those days, men’s haircuts had been administered with an almost military precision; brave were those who stepped outside the rules. Consider yourself an honorary member of the Haircut Hall of Fame for paving the way for those who followed… those who would later turn the common, everday haircut into a work of art.
Me? I had a DA. It made me a sitting duck, though, for the nuns at Cathedral Academy, who seemed to prefer talking to me after they had yanked my head back by that irresistable, greasy little ducktail. (It’s a Catholic thing.)
*Jealous of your curls* I’ve wanted, all my life, for my hair to hold a curl for more than 5 seconds, but alas, my genes go against me. My duaghter, on the other hand, has the curly gene, inherited from her other parent, and has done her level best to overcome it! I cired when she said she wanted a straighener. I cried when she dyed her hair the first time, not some godawful color, but still… I’ve never colored my hair and never will; I don’t like the effect of the chemicals.
You truly have a way with words. Why don’t you quit killing yourself fixing those damn computers and just write for a living? I honestly believe you could manage just fine.
Thanks to all for the kind comments. And Teressa — if only it was that easy! I’m not at all sure who might pay me enough, or pay me at all, for writing my little essays. If you know who or how, let me know.
My mom tells me of the time she wanted short hair and my grandmother wasn’t going for it. So, my mom, in her hubrus, put her hair in a ponytail, and lopped the entire thing off. She had a bald spot in the middle of the back of her head for months. Still makes me chuckle.
I had to write to say that I was born in 1958 and therefore had no information on the haircuts of the day, until, say, about 1965. Beatles haircuts are the first ones I remember.
‘Twas 1988 when I was in my junior year of high school and I had big hair, which was fine then. Lately, the style is long and STRAIGHT which is hard to do when you’ve got curly hair.
Also, I want to say that I concur completely with the very last phrase of your essay.
Winston, I remember haircuts at James Darnall’s barbershop underneath the City Drug Store. I went every other week instead of weekly. I had your same problem of not being able to comb my hair because it was so thick and kinky–a 1950’s version of Kinky Friedman.
Another top FLAT-TOP DUCK TAIL was that of Bendell Wilkes. Perhaps the best I’ve seen, but its all in the eye of the beholder.
At that time I had a real problem with Dwayne. He, Anne, and I were running for student body president. Dwayne had plastered his flat top silhouette on every wall in the school. This caused me an enormous amount of grief, therefore, I took a silhouette of my footprint and plastered it on every step in the high school. Those steps of Jimmy were running up every staircase. Necessity is the mother of invention!
[...] Look back a couple of days at The Haircut.. and the thick brownish line I use as a separator. Been using it for at least a year with other [...]
What a wonderful story. History, nostalgia and how we look! I could write a book about my hair, curls, haircuts and such. Suffice it to say, I am finally happy with my hair as it is - short of long, curly or frizzy or, as a 4-year-old child in my center once described it as: “big, very, very big.”
I must say, Winston. You were a really cute little fellow.
I shed some tears back then too. My hair is also curly and my mom persuaded me that a flat top was not for me. I wasn’t happy, but an obviously more obedient child than you, and I reluctantly accepted her advice. My younger brother and most my friends sported flat tops and I was jealous. What in the world was I thinking? I love the pictures, a cute little fellow indeed.
Okay! I don’t remember Bendell Wilkes, however, I sat behind Dwayne in many many classes. I agree with you Winston, that Dwayne had the best flat top. I voted for Anne in the election, but I eventually wed Jimmy!
I still don’t remember Bendell Wilkes!