My oldest son recently joined the air cadets. I like to josh around with him by calling him a “space cadet.” Joining any organization that is even remotely linked to anything to do with the military requires courage, determination, discipline, commitment, and most importantly — a military haircut.
So when my son was told that his hair was too long (aka touching his ears), he announced that he needed to get a haircut. His two younger brothers, who were within easy earshot when my eldest son made this request, immediately demanded that they also get haircuts.
My children are very competitive when it comes to any perceived favoritism. It doesn’t matter what it is. If I give one of them noogies, the other two line up for theirs.
Since my young air cadet needed a military-style haircut, I was more than capable of delivering this service myself with my electric razor. Just slip on the number two attachment, and watch the hair fly! The other two, however, wanted a particular hair “style” that was beyond my capabilities and required a trip to the hair “dresser.”
If there is one thing that distinguishes my childhood days from my own children’s childhood days, it has to be the demise of the barber and the rise of the hairdresser. When I was a young lad in need of a haircut, my Mum would give me 50 cents — 35 cents for the barber, 15 cents for a bottle of coke and a bag of chips after the haircut for me — and shoo me out the door.
The barbershop itself was a cold sterile place, full of straight lines, polished chrome, and bright lights. It was so clean; you could eat off of the floor, so long as you didn’t mind the odd hair in your soup. The operating theatres of today are in fact modeled after the barbershops of yesterday. You would wait your turn sitting in one of those rows of chairs that are all attached together, the sort you find in bus stations and air terminals, only not as comfortable. When it was my turn, the barber would hoist me into his chair and commence to give me my haircut. He didn’t have to ask what “style” as there was only one style back then and it was what we affectionately referred to as a “bean shave.”
Barbershops have long since been replaced by hair “studios.” These are warm inviting places with soft curves, and potted plants, and a nice waiting area with sofas that are far nicer than anything you have in your living room. Before your child gets their haircut, they are asked what style they would like. Unfortunately, since the advent of hairstyle magazines, there are about a zillion hairstyles to choose from. Go into any hair “studio” and you will find a table that does not contain any useful magazines like “Times” or “The National Enquirer.” No, you will find a table littered with hairstyle magazines, some of which are actual books. These magazines and books are filled with models sporting hairstyles that you would not wish upon anybody, even that discourteous sales clerk who would not refund you your money for some lousy paint that still didn’t cover the old paint, even after five coats; but that is another story.
Some of these models have had their hair “styled” into something resembling the Eiffel Tower, or the London Bridge, or the HMS Bounty. Can you imagine someone actually going out to a social function with one of these hairstyles? The temptation to say something like, “How’s the view from up there?” or “Do you get a headache during rush hour?” or “Avast ye scurvy dog, prepare to be boarded!” would be irresistible, to me anyway.
Anyway, the boys all have their new haircuts, my oldest son still has both of his ears, and I am due for my own haircut at “Le Hair de Ville” tomorrow.
Nick Burn is a freelance writer, husband, father of three, engineer, teacher, and webmaster for the Canadian Catholic Information Network. In his spare time (hah!), he enjoys camping, skiing and reading.
