My first haircut

 It was my first haircut at six. My mom and grandma would comb and brush it. Dad looked on, waiting to boil over. He did just that when he came home from work one night, stopping at what he saw. There I was, my long hair flowing as I danced around the room in a dress. That's it, he said, taking me up to my room and dressing me in boys' clothes. He took my hand and softly told me we were going downtown to see Ted the barber. He was just about to close, but he stayed open for my dad because they were in high school together. Ted went to the corner of the shop and came back with a small wooden horse he had modified to fit on the arms of the barber chair. Have a seat, partner, he said, and with Dad's help, I was on the mighty steed pretending to be my favorite TV character, Mr. Roy Rogers. My dad told Ted to turn me back into a boy, and Ted set to cutting and snipping until my long golden locks lay on the floor beneath me. Then, with a soft brush, he dusted me with talcum powder and pulled a cherry lollipop out of his apron.

Upon arriving back home, Mom and Grandma made a big fuss about me losing my mane, but it didn't take long for them to realize I looked like a boy my age should. Years passed, and as a young man in the era of rock 'n' roll and Woodstock, I grew my hair long again, but that was my decision. Mom would make a fuss when I came for a visit, showing me pictures of my first haircut and of me dressed like a girl, and we all got a good laugh, except Dad, of course. He looked up from his newspaper and grunted, telling me he'd better take me back to see Ted the barber, who I imagined had shaky hands after all this time.

I remember that first haircut and Ted the barber, who's long since passed away, his shop now a Subway sandwich shop. I stop in front of it when I'm in town, looking into the glass window, seeing the six-year-old me with flowing locks looking back at me, wishing for a cherry lollipop.

Mike 2026