MY 5 MEMORABLE HAIRCUTS
True Short Stories
by
Lee Carey
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This compilation of short stories is true. Any people, places, or events are the real deal.
Copyright © 2011 by Lee Carey
SMASHWORDS EDITION
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may be given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, that is fine. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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MY 5 MEMORABLE HAIRCUTS
Haircut: the act or process of cutting and shaping the hair
The idea to write a humorous story about haircuts originated from my recent (5th) memorable haircut...July 27, 2011. You will hear more about this one later, so, for this simple writer, let’s keep these haircuts in order.
Anyway, on the drive home, after the aforementioned haircut, this brainstorm entered and zipped around inside the same head housing a bad haircut. Well, by the time I entered our house it had dissipated like a summer morning fog. “Whew, glad that silly seed of a story didn’t sprout,” I said, walking into the bathroom. Suddenly my reflection appeared in the mirror, and ‘POW’...that seed sprouted and turned into a blooming lemon tree! So, time to make lemonade. (Anyone care for a ‘Screwdriver’?)
1st MEMORABLE HAIRCUT
“NO FIRE, PLEASE.”
When: Late summer of 1953. (I was three years old.)
Where: Back Alley Barber Shop. Then Portlock, now Chesapeake, VA.
Who: Mr. William Hughes, licensed barber.
This very special event took place one evening after supper. My dad cheerfully said, “Son, come on and ride with me to the barber shop. I need a haircut.”
“Okay, Daddy,” I replied with the natural excitement of a child. (See, I had no clue what was in store for me.) In the past, I’d heard my dad say he was going to Back Alley for a haircut, but all I ever noticed when he returned home was he always smelled different. Maybe tonight I’d have the chance to see what went on at the Back Alley. For me, this was a special occasion.
Now, I knew what a haircut was because my mother had been giving me little trims with her shiny scissors (sometimes she would save a lock and put it in an envelope) from time to time, especially before we went to church or something fancy. I never minded because it didn’t hurt, but I would sit through the silly procedure because she rewarded me with ice cream, if I didn’t squirm around.
My dad and I climbed in our car, and in a few minutes we arrived at the Back Alley Barbershop, located on a narrow street, across from a tidal finger of the Elizabeth River. There were a lot of people sitting along the edge, holding pieces of string; my daddy said they were crabbing. My nose quickly filled with yucky smells. Daddy explained that was because it was low tide. (I decided to never swim in that water.)
I walked proudly up the steps with my daddy, and we entered the shop. Mr. Willie Hughes smiled and spoke to us. Mr. Hughes was a very nice man with a head full of thick white hair. Over the years, I learned what being a nice man really meant. We sat down and I picked through a big stack of comic books. I chose Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd.
When Mr. Hughes finished clipping the old man (back then everyone was old) in his chair, my daddy stepped up, calmly taking a seat in the fancy chair. I continued flipping pages, looking at the pictures in the little boxes. The fragrant smell inside this place caught my attention. I’d never been anywhere that smelled like this. If I paid attention, I might find out where it came from. (It sure beat the stink of low tide.)
My daddy and Mr. Hughes talked and laughed. The whole time those skinny, shiny scissors clicked, powered by Mr. Hughes fingers, dropping pieces of daddy’s hair onto the striped sheet covering him from the neck down. Then, to my surprise, Mr. Hughes lit a long wooden match and lifted portions of dad’s hair up with a silver comb, stopping with about a quarter of an inch exposed, and, then guess what? He set daddy’s hair on fire! And let it burn for a few seconds! Then he whipped the comb straight up and the little flames disappeared. By the time all of this registered in my young brain, Mr. Hughes did it again. Now my hands were shaking, and I noticed the nice smell was gone and a real nasty odor floated over me. It made the low tide stink smell good. What in the world was going on? My mother never lit my hair on fire…talk about squirming…I’d have run real fast to the back yard, ice cream or not. I tried to tell my daddy what was happening, but I couldn’t speak. All I could do was sit and hold my breath. Finally, after Mr. Hughes had burned most of daddy’s hair, he blew out the long match. I was surprised, but happy, to see my daddy still had hair.
Next, Mr. Hughes picked up what looked like a thin sharp knife and whipped it back and forth on a wide leather belt attached to the chair. I better watch this. No telling what this ‘nice man’ will do next. These old man haircuts are scary. Then as I watched every move Mr. Hughes made, he stuck his hand under a chrome box and hit a button...and suddenly, his hand filled up with whipped cream. He took the cream and smeared it around daddy’s ears and on his neck. This is crazy. When I get old, no way I’m getting into that chair.
Mr. Hughes gently put his hand on my daddy’s head and leaned it to one side. The comic book slipped off my knees and hit the floor. Then, the white-haired man with the permanent smile thumbed daddy’s ear down and started shaving off the white cream with the knife. That’s stupid. Why did he put it on in the first place?
Mr. Hughes did the same thing to the other ear, and then started on his neck. He missed some of the cream, but then he took a white towel and wiped it off. In a flash, he grabbed a funny-shaped bottle and splashed red liquid into his hands, clapped them, and rubbed it on daddy’s neck and around his ears. When he was finished, a strong smell overtook the nasty odor and drifted my way. The new smell made my eyes water, but I think staring so hard kept them watering. When I thought things were finished, Mr. Hughes took the scissors and stuck them into my daddy’s nostrils and clipped. Now why would he do that? We don’t have hair in our nose. Mr. Hughes placed the scissors on the counter. I figured he had run out of places to snip hair. Then he picked up a shiny object and turned it on. The buzzing sound caused me to scoot up to the edge of my chair. He pushed daddy’s head forward and started running the buzzing machine along the outline of the hair on daddy’s neck. The big mirror showed me what was happening to the back of daddy’s head. He finally shut off the machine and said, “There you go, Lee. You’re as good as new.”
I released a big breath of air and leaned over and picked up Bugs Bunny. Then Mr. Hughes carefully removed the striped sheet and pulled the wide piece of white cloth from around daddy’s throat. I don’t like this place.
My daddy smiled and stood up and handed Mr. Hughes some money. The white-haired man nodded. “Thank you, Lee. So, you think it’s time for little Bobby to get his first haircut?” (Since my first name was Robert, the family called me Bobby. I changed it to Lee in the 4th grade.)
“Yes. His mother has been trimming it a little, but he’s a big boy now.”
Well, let me tell you...I froze. My eyes fell to the comic book to find Elmer Fudd aiming his double-barreled shotgun at Bugs as he dove into the hole. I looked around hoping to find a hole to dive into. In fact, I would have dove into the stinky mud of low tide, but before I could muster the courage to run for the door, my daddy said, “Come here, Bobby. It’s time for your first haircut. Don’t worry, Mr. Hughes is gentle and he’s never cut off a little boy’s ear.” Daddy and Mr. Hughes thought that was funny. I didn’t.
Staying seated, I shook my head.
“Bobby, look...Mr. Hughes even has a special board he puts across the arms of the chair, so you’ll sit up high. Come on, it doesn’t hurt, and he’ll give you a couple of pieces of Bazooka Bubble Gum when he’s finished.” (I loved bubble gum...but not that much.)
I cut my eyes to the door and wondered if I could outrun them. I knew how to get home from here, and I was sure my mama would protect me, especially if she knew what went on here.
Daddy walked over and leaned down. “Now, Bobby, you need a haircut by a real barber. Get up and sit in the chair. I’ll be right here to make sure everything goes okay.”
That look in my daddy’s eyes was familiar, usually appearing after I did something wrong, but it also meant he was serious. My sweaty hand put the comic book in the empty chair and I looked up at him. “I don’t want Mr. Hughes to set my hair on fire.”
Both men laughed. “He’s not going to do that, Bobby. That’s singeing, and it’s only for old men...it keeps us from going bald.”
Now, at three years old, I’m not real smart, but his statement made no sense at all. If I didn’t want to go bald, the last thing I’d do is put fire on my hair. In fact, I wouldn’t go near a man with scissors and clippers, even if he was smiling. But, what do I know?
So, on wobbly legs I stood and eased, with daddy’s big hand on my back, toward the fancy chair. Now, I did think the chair was neat. I mean, it would spin around real easy, and when Mr. Hughes pumped a foot pedal on the base, it would go up and down. I’d love to play in it, but right now this place was far from a playground.
Mr. Hughes said, as he placed the red, padded board across the arm rests, “Hop up, Bobby. I promise not to cut or hurt you.”
My blue eyes looked over to my nodding daddy. “No fire?”
“No fire, Bobby. You won’t feel a thing...I promise. Climb up and I’ll go get us a cold Coke.”
A thought crossed my mind; I wondered how much more neat stuff I could get if I refused to climb into the chair. My ‘little used’ memory quickly decided against that selfish maneuver because I would probably get something I didn’t want. So, I put my foot on the wide, weird step and climbed up onto the ‘not really soft’ padded seat. My eyes automatically went to the Bugs Bunny comic book. Elmer hadn’t fired his shotgun yet.
Suddenly, warm, gentle hands applied the wide piece of cloth around my skinny, sweat-covered neck. “Is that too tight,” asked Mr. Hughes.
I shook my head.
Next, he whipped out the striped sheet, flapped it in front of me, and let it float over my body. Bye-bye shorts, knees, and tennis shoes. I felt it being fastened over the white gauze. Wonder what he uses to hold it tight? The cool feel of a metal clothes pin touched my neck and clipped onto the bib.
Butterflies zoomed around inside my belly. Sweat bubbled on my forehead. My hands gripped the padded board so no one would see them shaking. My mind began comparing this event to another one I hated...going to the doctor. Right now I wasn’t sure which was worse. At least I’d not seen any needles.
Mr. Hughes slowly spun the chair until I was staring into the face of a terrified little boy in the mirror. “I’m only going to shape it up and trim the fuzzy hairs on your neck, Bobby. These are clippers,” he said, picking up the buzzing machine.
“Do they hurt?”
“Not at all.” He put his hand on my head and eased it forward. I jumped when the cold blade touched my neck. “Easy, son,” the man said.
I saw my daddy approach, smiling, and holding a small bottle of Coke. Nothing funny going on here, Daddy. “You’re doing just fine, Bobby,” he said, and then took a sip of Coke. “I’ll save some for you.”
As I pictured taking a long drink of the delicious Coke, Mr. Hughes said, “Now it’s time for shaping, Bobby. I’ll use these.” He flashed the longest scissors I’d ever seen, right up under my nose, and clicked them several times. “I’ll use the comb to lift your hair to the proper length and snip...like this,” he said, snapping the shiny blades.
“Okay,” I whispered, focusing on the still-scared face in the mirror.
“You’re doing just fine, Bobby,” he said, raking my blonde hair with the comb. “Here we go...snip...snip...and see, nothing to it.”
In the mirror, I saw my eyes bulging as the barber, in the white coat, opened and closed the scissors...and my hair floated onto the sheet. “Yes, sir.”
The mirror’s reflection showed my daddy standing beside the chair, still smiling. Maybe I’m doing okay and he’s proud of me. Really, I’ve felt no pain...yet. If I see the long match, I’m outta here.
Mr. Hughes finished snipping, sprinkled a little dab of Brylcreem into the palm of his hand and rubbed it into my hair. Then he gently combed my hair. “Now, I’d say you’re looking real fine, Bobby. Let me put some powder on your neck to keep you from itching, and you’re done. I’m proud of you. A lot of little boys cry...you’re brave.” I had cried like a baby…inside.
My daddy nodded and handed me the greenish bottle of Coke. I quickly took a long swig. As I handed it back, I said, “Thanks, Daddy. This wasn’t so bad.”
“I knew you’d do just fine. Mr. Hughes is a nice man and a very good barber. Next time I come to see him...you can come too.”
“Daddy, my hair don’t grow as fast as yours. But, I’ll come with you and look at comic books,” I mumbled while Mr. Hughes unhooked the sheet and cloth from around my neck.
As I pushed from the padded board, Mr. Hughes handed me THREE pieces of Bazooka Bubble Gum. “Bobby, you were a real trooper.”
I looked into the nice man’s blue eyes and nodded, taking the squares of gum wrapped in little comic strips. “And it didn’t even hurt, Mr. Hughes.”
My daddy and Mr. Hughes laughed, as did the other men in the shop.
Maybe I really had come through this first-time experience like a champ. So, guess I’m a member of the Back Alley Barber Shop group. Not bad for a scared little boy...
When we walked outside, I noticed the folks were still crabbing. My daddy placed his hand on my shoulder. “I’m proud of you, Bobby.”
“Thanks, Daddy. I still can’t understand the fire thing. Does mama know about it?”
Daddy chuckled. “No. That’s our secret, son.”
*Author’s Note: Forgive me for applying years of writing experience to illustrate this experience of ‘me’ as a three-year-old. If I’d written it from what I knew then...you’d probably not have read it. I’m also positive most of you recall your ‘first’ haircut...and if you’d care to share, email me. I’d like to hear...and maybe do another segment of “Memorable First Haircuts”. (I’ll withhold your name if you wish.) Thank you.
Later in life, I learned that Mr. Hughes, on his day off, would take his little black bag and visit the hospital and give ‘free’ haircuts and shaves to sick men. When they asked how much they owed, he’d reply, “Not a dime, friend. Say a prayer for me. I do this as a service to the Lord.”
Now, I don’t know what you think about that, but I’m very thankful and proud that this generous man gave me my first haircut. In fact, he cut my hair until I was about thirteen. When he got up in age and had retired, I stopped by to visit him one day. (His house was next door to his shop.) His daughter said he was in the shop. I found him sitting in the fancy chair, alone, in the ‘now closed’ shop. We talked about the old days for a while, and he explained he hadn’t cut hair for a couple of years because of bad circulation in his legs, and just plain old aging. Well, on that day, everything I’ve shared with you came rushing back. I asked, “Mr. Hughes, do you think you could give me a haircut?”
His normal smile appeared beneath a head of still-thick white hair. He replied, “It’d be my pleasure, Bobby. I noticed you looked a little shaggy.”
I climbed into the same chair, minus the padded board, and held back tears. Yes, a thirty-three-year-old man recalling his first haircut by a Godly man...savored every single snip and clip of this kind barber. After he was finished I stood and reached into my pocket, like my daddy always did, and handed him some money. He smiled and handed it back. “I thank you, but this is probably my last haircut, son. It’s on the house. Oh, and I still remember your first one.”
My dad was a regular until Mr. Hughes retired. The Back Alley Barbershop was also where my uncle, grandfather, and cousins were kept looking presentable for many years. “Thank you, Mr. Hughes.”
A while later, Mr. Hughes passed from this earth to his heavenly reward. I believe mine might have been one of his final haircuts. But, as you can see...I’ve never forgotten this very special man.
*His son, Paul, appears in Haircut #4.
2nd MEMORABLE HAIRCUT
“GOOD-BYE ‘ALMOST’ LONG HAIR”
When: Late June – 1968 – 8:00 am. Saturday. (17 years old...two weeks after HS graduation.)
Where: West View Barber Shop, Virginia Beach, VA
Who: Mr. Robert Butler, USN retired, licensed barber.
Okay, readers, here’s a few hints to test your imagination skills and see if you can guess where this story is going: The year – My age – The barber...and The title. I’ll bet you know...however, you’ll find out the real reason for the haircut.
At this point, the back-story is as pertinent as a comb for a haircut.
On a beautiful summer Friday night I had a super date with my girlfriend, Marsha. We’d been out to a nice restaurant for dinner, fancy enough for me to be wearing a sport coat and tie...I don’t recall if it was a special occasion, but it must have been because I don’t like dressing up. Anyway, after dinner we cruised up and down Atlantic Avenue and listened to good music while taking in the sights. Around 11 pm., we stopped by Carrol’s Hamburgers, the locals’ hangout, on Virginia Beach Boulevard. (The home of the 15-cent hamburger is now long gone.)
We parked about mid-way on the right side of the parking lot, allowing us a clear view of everyone. (Except the yellow VW Bug behind us.) We waved to some school friends standing outside their cars, laughing and talking. Since the night was going so well, and considering I’d just graduated (thank the Lord), I remembered the unopened pint of Mr. Boston’s Cherry Sloe Gin tucked away in the trunk. Now, even though it was cheap stuff ($2.40), it was priceless to me since I was four years too young to legally possess it. However, the purchaser was a mean-looking black man nicknamed ‘Graveyard’ who worked at Guille Steel Plant where I held a summer job. ‘Graveyard’ was way past twenty-one, and looked like forty-miles of bad road. So, when he handed me the ‘prized’ pint, he also gave me a stern warning: ‘Boy, you get caught with this stuff, you best not mention me, or, you’ll wish you hadn’t. I replied, “No, problem, Graveyard. We’re cool.”
Well, the bright idea of a Coke with a splash of the cheap cherry booze flashed through my head. Great idea, Lee. So I mentioned my sudden brainstorm to Marsha. Her reply was, “Lee, please don’t...you don’t need that. We’re having a great time without it.”
“Aw, why not? Come on, I’m celebrating getting out of high school. I won’t fix but one,” I replied, cutting my eyes at her. My assessment; her opinion was locked. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Hey, I see Ray and Paul over there...bet one of them will buy it from me.”
“Good. I’d rather see you sell it than drink it,” she cooed, snuggling closer.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, forgetting the refreshing drink and acting happy.
I slipped from my clean ’63 Nova II, sitting on ‘red-line’ tires and white rims, and stepped around to the trunk. In a smooth move, I pulled the bottle out and jammed it behind my back, under my coat. This cool graduate then strutted across the parking lot and up to his friends. The deal was made, money exchanged hands, and I strolled back to my car and ‘happy’ girlfriend. “Done, Marsha. Maybe you were right.”
She kissed me and replied, “I’m proud of you, Lee.”
As the Four Tops jumped from the AM station, a shadow preceded the body that suddenly filled my open window. My first thought – it was a friend or ours – until a deep, unknown voice said, “Sir, please step from the car.”
I leaned my head out of the open window and my eyes scrolled upward until they landed on an open wallet containing a shiny badge. Oops...a cop.
My thin, trembling body crawled from the car as questions and new-found fears pricked my brain like dull darts. “Yes, sir. What’s the problem?”
“Please show me your driver’s license and registration card, and then empty your pockets.”
“Yes, sir.” My fumbling fingers worked my wallet over like a lady works a ball of dough, finally producing the ‘asked for’ cards. Next, I shoved a sweaty, trembling hand into my left pocket (where I always kept my money) and grabbed a few bills and change and placed it on the hood of the car. Then I dug my right hand into that pocket and removed a Zippo cigarette lighter, two one-dollar bills, and a quarter, a dime, and a nickel. Uh-oh...that’s the money Ray paid me for the booze. So, I placed that on the hood and stepped back and eyed the two piles of greenbacks and coins. (Back in the day, the ABC store glued a tan receipt on each bottle they sold...the price was in large numbers. Well, that little tag read $2.40, and equaled the second pile of cash, ruining a chance for the perfect lie.)
The policeman, dressed in civilian clothes because he was moonlighting, checked my license and nodded. “Mr. Carey, I’m placing you under arrest for bootlegging.” (I’m not a Mister! I’m a dumb teenager.)
Marsha had been listening, and upon hearing ‘arrest’ her head popped from the window like a jack-in-the-box. Fear veiled her cute face. My tongue instantly became numb and my little brain, foggy.
“Mr. Carey, I’ve radioed for a patrol car. It should be here any minute. Please take a seat in your car and hand me the keys. I’ll be right back.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied, thankful the words slid from my dirt-dry tongue. I slipped behind the wheel and handed the big man my keys.
We sat in silence watching the policeman stroll casually between parked cars toward my buddies who were still standing beside their shiny rides, laughing and talking. (Probably planning on fixing a Cherry-gin Coke.) I whispered, “I’m in big trouble, Marsha.”
She placed a soft, trembling hand on mine. “Maybe he’s just trying to scare you. He’ll probably give you both a good talking to and a stern warning.”
A strong fist tightened around my stomach. A sand dune filled my mouth. To speak took serious concentration. “I hope you’re right, but if you’ll remember, this kid doesn’t get lucky breaks.” I faked a smile and slowly shook my head. “Think about it, Marsha.”
She gave my hand a light squeeze. “Well, the time you were arrested for cussing in public was dropped in court.”
I nodded. “Should have been, it was a Mickey Mouse arrest by a rookie cop. But the damage was already done when they called my parents and told them I was at the First Precinct. And, I was on restriction until the court date...two lousy weeks. No surfing, no beach, and no dates.”
This particular rotten incident had taken place a couple of months earlier. It came about because I loaned my car to a friend who needed to take his girlfriend home. He was supposed to come back here to Carrol’s, and pick Butch and me up. Well, the nit-wit thought we were going to catch a ride to Shoney’s, another one of our hangouts. So, we’re standing in the Carrol’s parking lot waiting for simple Wayne when we see my car zipping past down the boulevard. I was ticked off. So, Butch, in his goofy voice, made a stupid statement. “Well, we could thumb up to Shoney’s.”
My angry reply to Butch was, “Bull shit...that’s five miles. I’m not hitchhiking up there.” Before I knew it, this big plainclothes cop grabbed my belt from behind and tippy-toed me to his police car, parked behind Carrol’s. He said, “Son, you’re now under arrest for cursing in public.”
On my court day, my worried mother went with me. The judge heard the evidence and quickly dropped the charges. Oh, but she gave the young rookie cop a stern look...and that made me feel a little better. But, as you’ll see, this incident was only one more brick in the wall, the one about to fall on me.
“That was stupid on the policeman’s part,” Marsha added.
I nodded. “And don’t forget my two surfing tickets last summer...both in the same month. That’s a stupid law anyway, but it still cost my mother two visits to the courthouse, and I had to pay eighteen dollars each. My dad was not giddy with happiness, either. See, I get no breaks, Marsha.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten those,” she whispered.
I leaned back against the seat, trying to relax my tensing neck muscles. My heart sunk when I saw the policeman escorting Ray toward us. And, in one hand, he held the brown paper bag containing the bottle of cherry gin. At the same time, red-flashing lights appeared behind us. “Well, the cop car has arrived and here comes Ray and the cherry gin.” I leaned close and looked into her eyes, doing my best to be brave. “You drive my car to your house. I’ll try and come pick it up tomorrow...depending on what happens, because I’m sure my dad will blow his stack about this one.”
Large, warm tears wet my cheeks as Marsha leaned over and hugged me. “Everything will work out, Lee.” We kissed and I quickly slipped from the car and met Ray and the officer as they approached. The policeman handed Marsha my keys and guided Ray and me to the marked Ford sitting behind my Nova, its bright red rays spinning around the parking lot. Before entering the car, I glanced back and saw everyone standing and gawking at the two criminals entering the backseat of the cop car.
In the cramped seat, we joined a raving drunk man in his 30’s, smelling like alcohol and vomit, claiming, using a colorful array of cuss words, his innocence. (I wondered if he’d be charged for cursing in public.) I quickly flushed my idea of trying to talk, above this babbling nut, the patrolman into letting us off with a harsh warning. His bland stare showed he was past listening to anything from the criminal’s gallery. I worked hard not to add to the putrid aroma by dumping dinner. Ray kept mumbling something about this whole mess being my fault for offering him the booze. My normal reaction would be to debate his stupidity, but tonight completely missed the normal mark. Here I sat, sandwiched between a nasty-smelling, cussing drunk, and a whiner. What a rotten way to end a fantastic evening, knowing the worst part was yet to come.
The plainclothes officer scribbled out his report and handed it and the unopened bottle of cherry gin to the patrolman, and off to the First Precinct we went. The drunk continued, non-stop, with cuss words and names for cops I’d never heard. In between slurred comments, he’d pause and belch, and then spit on the floor. I slumped down, held my nose, closed my eyes, and prayed.
After we arrived at the one-story brick building, Ray and I were escorted into a brightly lit room with a table and several chairs. I assumed the drunken ass wasn’t as lucky with his accommodations. Good for him.
Ray started bitching about my salesmanship and then revealed the fact that he was on probation for a previous run-in with Johnny Law. I shook my head, aiming my stare out the window into a dark night, wondering about Marsha and what her parents would think of me. That thought quickly fused with what my parents would think of me. A cold shiver raced up my spine. The phone is probably ringing at my house right now.
The hour dragged slowly by. Each second produced a different, gut-wrenching image of my future. Suddenly the door opened and a heavy-set sergeant entered with Ray’s father. He was a short, stocky man, and it appeared he was drunk. His eyes looked like two cherries floating in buttermilk. Ray stood and the two hugged as if Ray had been awarded ‘Teen of the Year’. I’ll bet Dad won’t hug me.
The sergeant handed Ray’s father a clipboard and told him to sign and then he could take his son home until the trial. The man chuckled and said, “Sure, officer. I’m sure there’s been a mistake. My son’s a good kid.”
Father and son casually strolled from the room, arms draped over their shoulders, laughing. Some kids get all the breaks.
Twenty minutes later I heard voices outside of the door. One was very familiar. My heart pounded my chest like a runaway jackhammer. I raked my fingers through my hair and tightened my tie. The door opened. Uh-oh.
The big sergeant entered, followed closely by my unhappy dad. My eyes quickly focused on the clipboard clutched tightly in the officer’s pudgy paw.
After the formal charge was explained to my dad, the man offered the clipboard and pen to him. Dad’s eyes never left mine. “Where did you get the booze?”
Those few words painted an accurate portrait of ‘Graveyard’, complete with gold tooth and long scar on his cheek. His words replayed in my head, ‘Boy, you get caught, best forget me or you’ll wish you had’. “A man I picked up hitchhiking, Dad.”
“Sir, if you’ll sign here you can take your son home until the trial.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t know his name, Dad. I gave him a ride and he went into the ABC store.”
The officer offered my dad the clipboard. “Just sign here, sir, and you both can be on your way home.”
“Officer, did my son break the law?”
“Yes, sir. He’s charged with bootlegging. It’s a pretty serious offense. But, since he’s under eighteen, we’ll allow him to go home with you until trial.”
My dad gave me the coldest stare I’d ever seen. “I will ask you one more time…who bought it for you?”
I slowly shook my head and lifted my shoulders. “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you what, Officer. Since my son broke the law, it’s best for you to keep him until the trial.” My dad turned and walked out of the room. The sergeant followed.
Up until this moment I figured maybe there was a thin thread of hope in this sad comedy of stupidity. Now...nothing. I would become a ‘jail bird’, a criminal with a record, the black sheep of the family, and the truth was...I was a good kid. Sure, I was mischievous, daring, and very creative, but those qualities do not a convict make. Or do they?
Thirty minutes later the sergeant entered the room, looking official and very serious. “Mr. Carey, follow me, please. Your cell is ready.” (He made it sound like my hotel room was now clean and available.) He stepped aside, allowing me to exit first. My legs felt like soggy noodles. The iron fist re-tightened its grip on my stomach. My cell...that’s as personal as it gets.
We moved briskly down a dimly lit hallway. Suddenly tan cinderblock walls gave way to iron bars. “Here we are,” announced the officer. “At least you have a private room. Been a slow night.” He opened the cage door and stepped back. Had the situation had been different I would have said, ‘After you’.
My eyes scanned the six by eight cell. There was no toilet or sink. A narrow slab of steel bolted to the wall served as a cot, minus a sheet or pillow. A small square window, ten feet up, was filled with darkness. A cold sweat covered my face and neck. I wanted to cry. “Thank you, sir.” Where did that come from?
“It’s not fancy by any means. It’s a holding cell. If you need to use the facilities, just holler and someone will come escort you to the restroom. Tomorrow morning at seven o’clock we’ll transport you to the Chesapeake Juvenile Detention Center. You’ll stay there until your trial date.” After sharing that wonderful, heartbreaking news, the sergeant closed the door of my cage. Yes, it made that dreadful sound you hear on TV. Well, Lee, you’ve done it now.
I glanced at my watch. Twelve forty-five. The narrow bench was harder than stone, and icy cold too. My brain produced gruesome images of a young criminal, much too fast for me to fully process. With trembling hands I removed the noose, oh, I mean the tie, from around my neck and slipped out of my navy blue sport coat. “May as well use this as a pillow, I’m sure they’ll have convict clothes for me in the Center.” Whispering those words made my stomach flip and my skin ice over.
Sometime later, after saying my prayers, a restless sleep arrived. A couple of times I stirred, almost falling off of the bench. As I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard voices and phones ringing down the hall. Whenever thoughts of my parents formed, I tried to ignore them. I knew my mother would be pacing the floor and crying. And, in all honesty, I was sure my dad was awake and upset. I asked myself, was this predicament his fault, and quickly answered ‘no’. Then I recalled Ray’s father willy-nilly scribbling his name and taking him home. They were probably kicked back having a cold beer, laughing. However, I was not surprised by the different actions of other’s dads because mine had never been like my friend’s fathers. No matter how hard I tried, getting away scot-free from my antics and stunts was impossible. The simple fact was; dad was too smart. And I know he loved me...but ‘love’ was real hard to feel at the moment.
After a few more minutes of sleep, I woke up to another cluster of depressing thoughts. Would Marsha’s parents prevent her from seeing me again? Would Marsha even want to see me? I imagined our friends asking her, ‘How’s Lee?’ She’d say, ‘He gets out in two years. I’m so excited’. Yeah right, dream on.
Visions of holiday dinners with grandparents, cousins, and family members crept into my world of horror. Would they shun me? Would I even be invited? All of those thoughts were too much and stretched too far into the future. I had no future, except an upcoming trip to a center filled with ‘real’ teenaged criminals. Guess I qualify.
In the midst of a bit of decent sleep came the sound of iron rattling against iron. “Okay, wake up and get ready, boy! We’re leaving in fifteen minutes.”
I pried my crusty eyes open to find a different officer standing at the door. This guy was tall, lean, and mean. His dark eyes bore into mine like rusty nails. “Yes, sir. I’m awake.”
“Good.” He grinned, adding, “You stay put till I get back, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
I pushed my stiff body up and stood. After shaking out my wrinkled coat, I wrapped my tie around my neck and halfway tied it. One good thing, no mirror hung on the wall. I’ll bet I’m a sight for sad eyes.
The sound of heavy steps drew my attention to the hallway. “Let’s go, boy. Your parents are here for you,” growled the tall officer. “You’re lucky. Don’t think you’d fare too well at the Juvie Center.”
“My parents,” I squeaked. “What are they doing here?”
The door of bars opened with a loud clank. “Go ask ‘em yourself.”
I followed the big fellow as a case of nerves overcame me. I needed to pee and make my bladder gladder. My mouth felt like nasty-tasting cotton. And, I was scared.
We turned the corner. My eyes spotted my mother and father standing at the counter, talking to another officer. Oh, mom looks worried. And dad looks mad.
As their ashamed, scared son approached, they turned and stated at me. My words wouldn’t come, so I dropped my head and pulled up beside my mother. She put her arm around me and whispered, “I love you.”
Hot tears welled up in my tired eyes. I nodded.
After the paperwork was completed, my dad said, “Come on, let’s go.” The three of us walked out into a sunny Saturday morning. However, looking back, I don’t think any of us really noticed.
I crawled (slithered) into the backseat of our Buick. We rode in silence for twenty long minutes. When we passed our farm, I wondered where we were headed. Maybe they’re taking me to the center. Finally the suspense primed me to speak. “Where are we going?”
My dad’s blue eyes appeared in the rearview mirror. “You’re going to get that damn hair cut.”
What’s my hair got to do with this bad situation? That little nugget never popped up last night in my whirlwind of problems. “A haircut?”
“You may act like one of those long-haired kids, but you won’t look like one. Mr. Butler is meeting us at the barbershop. Today I’ll tell him how to cut it...and it will stay short until you’re eighteen, young man. We’ve answered our last late night phone call from the police when you’re picked up for one of your stunts.”
Now, I must tell you. Yes, in ‘68 kids began wearing their hair long. Remember the era of the hippies? However, compared to many of my friends, I was the last one out of the gate. In other words, if I combed it right, it barely covered the tops of my ears. Dad was right, I wanted it long...but evidently it would be a long while before that happened. I would turn eighteen at the end of August.
While I was calculating that, my dad said, “And, until you turn eighteen, you will drive to work, come straight home, and there you’ll find a list of farm chores waiting for you every day. You’ll do those, come in and eat supper, and go to bed. Other than those activities, consider yourself on restriction. No dates, no beach, no phone calls, no nothing. Work and home.” His eyes filled the mirror. “Or, you can leave home...go live with your wild friends...I don’t even care if you make it back for your trial.”
My mother reached over and stroked my dad’s arm. “You don’t mean that, honey.”
“I mean every word of it. If he wants to make his own decisions, he can move out. But if he lives with us...he’ll follow my rules. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I knew dad meant what he said. Not being the wild animal my parents probably thought I was, the next two months I would accept restriction...sort of like ‘work release’. When I considered spending time in the Juvie Center compared to living home...I’d choose home and suck it up. I wondered what Marsha would think of my ‘new’ situation.
We pulled into the little strip of shops off of Indian River Road. Mr. Butler, the barber, was just unlocking the door of the West View Barber Shop. He will enjoy giving me a military haircut.
His son, Robert, Jr., and I were best friends growing up from ’59 to present. We fished, played ball, and just hung out together. However, Robert had gotten serious with a girl during senior year and she demanded, and received, most of his time. Mr. Butler retired from the United States Navy but lived like he was still in. His yard was immaculate, he demanded the most from his four children, and saw to it they walked a tight line. Oh, and Mr. Butler, even though he was a nice man, detested long hair...period.
We walked into the fragrant, two-chair shop. “Nice to see you all this morning,” Butler said, dusting off the fancy chair. “So, Lee, you want Bobby (the name my family and friends called me) to get a real man’s haircut today, right?”
“I do, Robert. The kids may think long hair is the style, but until my son gets out on his own, I’ll determine what’s stylish. Cut him like he was in the Navy.” Dad motioned for me to get into the chair. (This was much different than my first haircut.)
Mr. Butler flapped the white bib several times, popping it like a whip. “You know I can do that, Lee. Hop right up, Bobby.”
My mind flashed images of me twelve hours earlier, sitting in a nice chair across from Marsha in a semi-fancy restaurant. A priceless summer night lay before us. That sweet scene cracked right down the middle when Mr. Butler spun the chair around and my reflection filled the mirror. Oh, man...I look terrible. My hair looked like I’d put my finger in an electrical socket. My eyes were half-open and framed in red. My usual smile was A.W.O.L.
However, there was a smiling face in the mirror, as Mr. Butler fastened the strip of white cloth tightly around my boney neck. “So, Lee, how are your homing pigeons doing this year? Winning any races?”
Here I was in the midst of my worst-ever ordeal and they’re talking about homing pigeons.
I could see my dad’s reflection in the mirror, nodding. “Pretty good, Robert. Took second place last week from Gastonia, NC.”
“Not bad. And how are you doing, Mrs. Carey?”
My mother forced out a fake smile and nodded. “I’ve been better.”
“I understand, ma’am. All’s shipshape at the Butler household. Looks like Robert and Loretta are getting serious. I want him to join the Navy before he makes any permanent plans. I’d sure hate to see him get drafted.”
“I agree. Bobby will probably get drafted because he played around in high school and his grades weren’t good enough for me to spend my hard-earned money to send him to college. That would have been nothing more than a four-year party.”
“Bobby, why don’t you go down and join the Navy? It’s a good career. I spent thirty years in there. Miss it, I sure do.”
“Maybe, but I’ll wait and see what happens,” I replied, wondering how this topic was relevant considering all I had on my plate this morning.
Mr. Butler picked up the shiny electric clippers and fired them up. His broad smile went east to west as he pushed my head forward and started mowing my blondish hair up my neck and the sides of my head. Oh, this is gonna look awful. Maybe it’s a good idea I won’t be seeing Marsha or any of my friends for a couple of months.
The white bib filled quickly with my treasured curls. The man’s hand on my head pushed and pulled like I was a Hurst knob on a four-in-the floor gearshift. Well, I won’t need my comb for a while.
Before I knew it, Mr. Butler’s hand was filled with hot shaving cream and he was slapping it on and around my ears and neck. After wiping his hands, he quickly picked up a straight razor and grabbed my ear and bent it out of the way. Ow! That hurts. With the speed and precision of a surgeon, he removed hair and cream in a flash. Then he grabbed a bottle of green liquid, splashed his hands, and smacked my neck and sides of my head. That stuff burns. I closed my eyes as the strong fragrance caused my nervous stomach to tighten.
“How’s this look, Lee?” asked the proud, grinning barber.
“Take a little more off of the top. I don’t want it hanging in his eyes,” replied my dad.
My mother flipped pages on a magazine. Guess she didn’t care to watch her little boy being sheared like a lamb.
Butler grabbed the long silver scissors and clicked them several times, pulled a long black comb from the pocket of his white coat, and raked it through my sun-bleached hair. The man went wild clipping and snipping as my hair floated onto the bib. Might as well just shave my head.
When he was finished, he picked up a round broom-like brush and filled it with white powder and whisked it all around my neck. A sweet-smelling cloud surrounded my almost bald head, causing me to gag. Man, this day was starting out to be a doozie, and it’s only eight-fifteen.
“There you go, Bobby. That ought to hold you for a few weeks. What do you think?”
My eyes locked on the sad looking young guy staring back at me. I think this is one ugly haircut. All I need now is a Popeye suit and I’d be jigging across the deck of a battleship. “It’s short,” I whispered.
In a flash Mr. Butler whipped the bib and neck cloth off and spun me around to face my parents. “Now he looks like a man, Lee.”
“Looks fine to me, Robert,” replied my dad. “Okay, son, pay Mr. Butler and don’t forget the tip.”
I crawled from the chair and scratched my already itching neck. My sweaty hand pulled a five-dollar bill from my pocket. “Thank you, Mr. Butler. Tell Robert I said hi.”
Mr. Butler shoved the bill into his pocket. “You’re welcome, Bobby. Take care and come back and see me.”
The three of them said good-byes as I walked outside, scratching my neck. “Well, let’s see what the rest of this day holds,” I whispered. “Bet it won’t be one of my best.”
*Author’s Note: Two very long, hot summer months were filled with work, work, and more work. I know realized, from experience, what the old-fashioned statement meant; ‘All work and no play’. After I went through serious withdrawal from dates, phone, and the beach, the only good part was my savings had grown nicely.
The court appearance went much better than I expected. The judge lambasted us about alcohol and being underage. He said he was going to make an example out of us to prevent others from breaking the underage alcohol law. Even my dad was nervous.
The judge sentenced us to ten days in jail. When he asked Ray if he had anything to say, Mr. Tough Guy shook his head and growled, “No.” His silly father grinned and nodded.
Well, when he asked me, I was on my feet faster than a frog on a June bug. I explained why I had sold the booze, and that I was glad because had I consumed it, I might have gotten into a bad accident. Then I pointed to the half-full bottle of Old Mr. Boston’s Cherry Slow Gin sitting on the table, out of the bag. I said, “Your honor, when we were arrested, the seal on that bottle had not been broken. It looks like somebody around here likes cherry gin.” The judge cut an eye to the red-faced bailiff.
When I was finished pleading my case, the old, bald headed judge said, “Mr. Carey, well said. I too am glad you didn’t consume the alcohol. Since I feel you realize the error of your ways, I’m going to suspend your jail time, however, if you enter my court within a year, you will do thirty days in the city jail.”
“Your honor, I promise you this...I won’t even come to the courthouse to get my city sticker. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Friends, to this day, I’ve not been arrested (a few times I probably should have been). And, Marsha and I dated a few more months. Then in May of 1970 I received the formal letter from Uncle Sam, inviting me to spend a couple of years in the Army. Like a good American, I went, and thankfully returned.
As I matured, I thanked my dad many times for the tough decision he made to leave me in jail overnight. He said it was one of the hardest decisions he had ever made, but knew it would be a life-lesson for me. And it was.
I heard not long ago that Ray continued to get in trouble and ended up doing serious jail time. I have no idea where he is now or what he’s doing. There’s the difference in a wise father and a not so wise father. I’m thankful I was born to the father and mother I was. I miss them both, a lot.
Now, let’s move along to my 3rd most memorable haircut. Thank you for your time.
3rd MEMORABLE HAIRCUT
“ONE STYLE FITS ALL”
When: June 20, 1970 (I was nineteen.)
Where: Fort Campbell, KY. (Army Base)
Who: Some fat, grumpy Army barber. (Probably not licensed.)
In previously mentioned haircuts you probably noticed a dose of barber civility. However, in this particular instance, I doubt this grumpy-looking man holding the scissors and clippers could even spell ‘civility’...much less define it. And another thing...I don’t believe he’s ever uttered these words, ‘How would you like it cut?’ If he has, I certainly didn’t hear it...and I watched him and five other barbers drop pounds of hair from a large number of new soldiers (recruits) during our first stop, after arriving at ‘Reception Week’. (That too is a bunch of BS...it’s more like ‘Hell Week’.)
Time for a little back-story: June 18th was a beautiful summer morning on Atlantic Avenue in Virginia Beach, VA. Glassy blue waves rolled onto the beach as seagulls darted and zipped through a cloudless sky. Several surfers enjoyed ‘dawn patrol’, cutting and slicing up five-foot beauties. (Oh how I wanted to be out there instead of where I was headed.)
I sat on a wobbly, wood bench, facing the ocean with four other ‘unlucky’ draftees at the Trailways Bus Station, waiting for a ride to take us away...probably very far away from this picturesque place. Our mood was solemn and subdued. Excitement was nowhere to be found. I’m sure the other guys’ thoughts were identical to those sloshing around inside my head. ‘Would we ever see our ocean again?’ ‘What was in store for us?’
I don’t know about the others, but I tried erasing all of the nightly news reports of the Vietnam War, especially the growing number of causalities of brave soldiers. (That proved to be a tough mental undertaking.)
So, I sat quietly with Kigerl, Johnson, Hamm, and Morris, waiting for our free ride. (I use last names because that’s the Army way.) We had never met before, but we were all from Virginia Beach, and had been ‘invited’ to go play soldier for two years. As the old saying goes; ‘Misery loves company’, so I guess we were thankful not to be sitting alone.
Now, since these stories focus on haircuts, I should tell you that Kigerl was, by all appearances, a full-fledged hippie. He had thick, sun-streaked brown hair, parted in the middle and resting on his shoulders. Mexican banditos would kill for his very thick, down-turned, brown moustache.
Kigerl gazed across the sand, totally lost in the rolling waves and blue sky. (Probably some sort of a flashback.)
Morris was a few years older and, compared to us, a clean-cut fellow. Poor guy was recently married and was leaving not only his new bride, but a good paying job with the local power company. No wonder he sat silently, looking depressed.
Now, Johnson, Hamm, and I had medium-long hair, but in comparison to Kigerl, we were bald. So, he was quickly donned the ‘Hippie’.
A half hour later the big bus rolled down Atlantic Avenue, stopped in front of us, and totally blocked our view of the blue-green ocean. I took this depriving action as a preview, yep, from here on out our ‘wants and likes’ would be trashed, with a loud ‘whoosh’. And…as you’ll see, I was spot on.
The ‘boys from the beach’ happened to be the first pick-ups, so we quickly claimed the back seats. The scene reminded me of when we loaded hogs for market into a large truck; they always grouped far from the entrance and huddled, in nervous fear. We were no different. Our driver said we would take Route 60 through Williamsburg to Richmond, VA. In each little town along the way we stopped to pick up four or five more ‘lucky’ young guys. As the bus filled, the atmosphere remained somber.
We arrived in Richmond and off-loaded, anticipation and wonder occupied our thoughts as the Army sergeant led us into the four-story brick building. He informed us, using a deep, gruff voice, that we would spend the rest of the day going through complete physicals, taking written tests, and finally, being officially inducted into the United States Army. From the smirk on his face, I had expected him to say we were going to have a fun day in the park.
I’ll spare you the boring details of our day, except to say, we spent a good portion of it walking around in our drawers. I quickly realized their goal was to strip us of ‘everything’, including our individuality to prove we were now the property of Uncle Sam. As the day wore on, there was a smartass or two testing the military waters with snide remarks and bad attitudes. In the blink of an eye they were sternly called down and totally humiliated. These guys are serious.
After completing the ‘official’ induction ceremony (yeah, a real heartwarming doozie) we were served a bland supper in the cafeteria and then escorted to a large, drab room lined with uncomfortable bunks to spend the night. Our agenda for the following morning included a commercial flight to Fort Campbell, KY for a week of ‘reception’. We were informed this is where we would be issued clothes, boots, equipment, etc., everything needed to transform a normal young guy into a real G.I. Joe. And, it wouldn’t cost us a dime. Whoop-de-doo.
Before dawn the following morning we were rousted from restless sleep and served a sad excuse for breakfast. I was thankful to have been raised on a farm since I now understood how our animals felt being led into the barn to eat dry oats and stale hay.
As the sun rose to begin a new day we were on the bus heading to the Richmond Airport. Conversation was minimal among the thirty or so ‘new’ soldiers. My mind flipped back to field trips taken in school, and in comparison, this adventure was night to day, and not in a good way. I’d like to be back on one heading to Jamestown to learn how the settlers made candles and butter. I wasn’t too keen on it back then, but it’s funny how present situations cause one to yearn for the past.
We were escorted (herded) across the tarmac and supervised (counted) as we boarded the plane. In case you’re wondering, we flew ‘coach’. The very attractive stewardesses knew we were new soldiers and treated us with respect. Remember, we were still wearing yesterday’s civilian clothes, and to the average person we could have passed for a group of college guys. (Now I really wished I’d studied harder in school.)
The flight was non-stop and uneventful, except for those poor dudes who had never flown. Of course, we beach guys were cool, finding humor in the misfortune and rattled nerves of the virgin flyers. It’s been said that when we poke fun at others’ weaknesses and fears, it’s only to hide our own. And, considering we were heading into completely uncharted territory, I now agree with that premise. My stomach felt like it was gripped in a vise.
The pilot performed a perfectly smooth landing and taxied up to the main building. (This was before planes pulled up and attached to the flexible tunnels.) Being the polite gentlemen soldiers are, we stayed seated and allowed the ‘civilians’ to leave the plane first. I also think the fear of what was to come added to our ‘you go first’ manners.
When our time came to depart, we sucked in a deep breath of stale air, stepped into the narrow aisle, and nodded to the cute stewardesses as we exited into a beautiful Kentucky summer morning. (Why couldn’t the weather have been rainy and nasty?)
The first thing we noticed was two large men in starched green fatigues, wearing hats like Sergeant Carter wore on ‘Gomer Pyle USMC’, standing beside an ugly brown bus. As we approached (in a snail-slow gait) the tallest one stepped forward and yelled, “Double-time over here, you sissies!” (I thought he would have been glad to see us.) Of course we broke into a trot and pulled up in front of them.
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