The Haircut Club

 

The Haircut Club

The two of them were sitting on a fence, spitting tobacco, passing a flask, bored.  Out of nowhere, Jed said “I think I’ll get me a buzz cut.”  Barney came back with “With your ugly skull?”

“Or I could go all handsome bald, like Bruce Willis.”

“For that, you’ll need a facelift, too.”

Jed already had short hair, like any self-respecting redneck, but he wanted it shorter; like Vin Diesel or Lex Luthor.  Barney had short hair too, like all the other farmers in town.  In the lulls between planting and harvesting, they all came to town for haircuts.  It all started out of necessity during the head lice epidemic of 2014.  Short hair was here to stay in Podunk county. 

“Even women got short, short hair these days.  Just look at Ellie May down at the feed store.”

“She got that from radiation, dummy.”

“What about that Thelma Lou seamstress gal?”

“She got Chemo, you moron.”

Jed and Barney preferred crewcuts, a tad longer than buzzcuts.  Flat tops were too jarhead, mohawks too punk, long hair too hippy, flips too Elvis, and Mullets too rock n’ roll.  But, cut or no cut, what they really wanted was to just sit in Lloyd’s barber shop, shoot the bull, smell the Mennen, watch the glide of a stainless blade on skin, and listen to Merle Haggard on the RCA.

“You know what I like best about getting a haircut?  The way Loyd handles a man’s head.”

“You got that right pal.  Like he’s cradlin’ a baby.”

“My wife ain’t no good at it.”

“No woman is.  It’s a man thing.”

“I’m gettin’ excited.”

“Enough talk, let’s go.”

So Jed and Barney drove on down to Lloyd’s shop with its spinning striped pole out front, and moseyed in like it was no big deal, just another chore.  Arnold was in the chair, Jethro up next, then Otis, then Forrest. 

“Howdy boys,” said Jed to the whole room, and four howdies came right back at him.  Then Jed sat and grabbed last month’s Tire & Tractor Times, swim suit edition. In the other chairs sat all the short-haired country boys he’d grown up with, and dropped out with.  None of those boys really needed haircuts, they just wanted comforting.  They’d chewed and spat and cursed congress all day, and were ready for some fun.   One by one, their heads got cut and massaged.  Finally, it was Jed’s turn.

Lloyd asked “How do you want it this time, Jed?”

Jed said “Short,” Lloyd commenced snipping and clipping up in the air over Jeb’s head, pretending there was something worth cutting.  Then came the good part: the un-snugging of the collar, the hot lather on the neck, the whisk brush all about the ears, and a slap of aftershave on the cheeks.  Then, the climax; Lloyd’s magical finger massage from the top of the scalp down to the blades of the shoulders.  It only lasted a few minutes, but it sent tingles all through the body of any man whose only physical contact with living creatures all day was squeezing udders and chopping chickens.

When Jed was done, he collapsed in a waiting chair and swooned.  Barney was next. But when Barney commenced to moaning, Lloyd cut him off and pointed at a sign on the wall over the mirrors that said “No Moaning.”  Lloyd waved his straight razor overhead, threateningly, and shooed them all out, then turned off the spinning pole and locked the door.   

The fresh smelling, clean cut, good ol’ boys had dutifully stood up and marched out in unison on Lloyd's command, like always.  Out front they spit Skol a bit, slugged a shot or two, damned congress, and went their different ways to start up their identical F-150s.  They drove home east, west, north and south out of town on the only four roads in Podunk. 

Lloyd hollered behind them “See you tomorrow,” and they hollered back through their open rifle back windows “Yep,” they would.

The boys drove home to their country hovels.  Lloyd drove home to his suburban estate.