I had previously shared the story of my first flattop when I was a freshman in college. This is the story of my second, which took place almost ten years later.

At the time, I was not in a great place mentally. My relationship with my boyfriend was failing due to mutual dissatisfaction and infidelity. I hated my job because my boss was a tyrant, and I had little in the way of friends or family where I lived. Most evenings after work, I would watch haircutting videos and fantasize as a means of escape.

I had a fairly boring haircut—short on the sides and parted to the side on top, typical of most men in the office. I would get it cut monthly, always telling my barber, “The regular, please.” He was an older Italian man named Fino—a first-generation immigrant with a strong accent. He was quite talkative and would regale me with stories of his youth and his two hobbies: gardening and winemaking. His barbershop was traditional, with old haircut posters on the walls. A barber pole spun outside, and inside it always smelled like aftershave and talcum powder. There was no TV, and he didn’t take appointments, meaning I would sometimes wait over an hour for a haircut. This was perfectly fine, as I enjoyed watching him cut hair. He liked to cut hair short—no one left his chair with more than a few inches of hair.

One evening after work, I was feeling particularly down. I had spent the better part of an hour watching flattop videos and jerking off. I’m not sure what came over me (maybe it was mania), but I resolved to get a flattop. I was due for a haircut anyway. It was 6:30 p.m., and his shop closed at 7:00, so I quickly got dressed and rushed over. When I arrived, he was about to lock the door. Seeing a familiar face, he let me in, as he liked me and enjoyed our conversations.

I sat down in the chair as he tightened the cape around my neck. Instead of saying, “The regular, please,” I pointed to a picture of a flattop on nearby poster and said, “I think I want to try something shorter.” He looked very surprised and raised his eyebrows. In his thick accent, he said, “That is very short.” I replied, “I think it’s time for a change, you know?” He didn’t say anything further and started cutting while telling me how well his tomatoes were doing that summer.

He had a rather unconventional method for cutting a flattop. First, he wet and combed my hair back, then applied the clippers directly to the crown of my head. Once he felt it was even and short enough, he used the same blade (a number #2) to trim down the sides. He then worked on the sides, making them as square as possible, all while maintaining steady conversation, as I sat paralyzed, watching my flattop begin to take shape. Finally, he gelled the front to square it off. The entire haircut took under 30 minutes. At the end, he asked if it was short enough. I enthusiastically said yes. I paid and left, admiring myself in the mirror on my way out.

Driving home, I couldn’t stop checking myself out in the rearview mirror. There was something about the sharp angles of the flattop that felt like a new me and a sign of my desire for change. For the first time in months, I felt like I had some control over my life, even if it was just by the simple act of sitting in a barber’s chair and saying, "I want this."

When I got home I could stop staring at myself in the mirror. I had beaming smile. It wasn’t just about the haircut anymore — it was about me taking action, deciding that I deserved to feel good about myself, even when everything else around me felt like it was falling apart.

The next day at work, I got many comments. Some were positive, others were surprised, but all I could think was: It doesn’t matter. I’d made a choice for myself, and that was enough. For the first time in a long while, I felt like I could handle whatever life threw at me and it was the start of a new chapter.