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Hey guys! Hope everybody is doing great. I have been away from the board for a few weeks. Life just got too busy. I have missed it all, and I am sure that I owe some folks some videos, so I will go back and see who I owe those to, in exchange for posting stories.

By the way, the stories are amazing! Thanks to everyone who has given us one. Keep them coming. If you have messaged me through email or Discord, and haven't gotten a response, I have been away from those contact points as well for a bit, so my apologies. I will get back with you!

Well, as I asked others to post their stories, here is the FIRST PART of one of my own. My first barber shop haircut! Enjoy!

In this story I will maintain discretion. Names and locations will have been changed, just because this is out on the open internet.

I grew up in a small town in the rural Deep South of the US, and I am in my mid-40s. In general, my “growing up” timeframe set to school years would be high school in the mid-late 90s; junior high school early-mid 90s; middle school late 80s; elementary school early-mid 80s.

From my earliest memory, until now, my mother has hated short hair on men in general, and me specifically, and hated barbers. When I say hated short hair, I do not mean that she likes long hair. She just would like for a man’s hair to basically be nondescript. Stylish, somewhat. Short-ish, and right on the edge of looking “neat.” That would be her preference. She would constantly criticize barbers. Her line, which I heard a million times, was that “barbers don’t know how to style hair. They only know how to skin your head!”

From my earliest memory, I was forbidden from going to a barber shop by my mother, and I was forbidden from having short hair. As my earliest haircut memory is pre-kindergarten, my hair was kept in a style that was about 4-5 inches on top, parted to the side in a “bushy” way. Kind of a longish business cut. The sides were an inch or more. They were cut with scissors and the stylist’s fingers, so I would say about an inch. Blocked around the neck and ears, right at the top of my ears where it barely covered them. My hair is medium-dark brown.

My dad had nothing to do with my hair, or really his own. It all stayed the same, and mine and my dad’s hair was done about the same. I never heard him mention his hair. He went to the beautician that my mother told him to go to, which was Mitzi. Mom made him an appointment and told him when to go. My dad isn’t exactly a wallflower, but my mother definitely wore the pants in those situations. I guess he figured it best not to fight her and that it wasn’t important anyway.

I wanted to go to the barber shop so bad. I was jealous of other boys who went to the barber shop. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t figure it out. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Anytime I heard someone mention “barber shop,” I perked up and listened. Every time I saw a fresh haircut, I tried to guess where they got it cut. Anytime I knew we were going to drive by a barber shop, I would strategically sit on the side of the car where the shop would be to get the best view. But, when looking, trying not to let anyone see me looking.

My earliest memory of getting my haircut was before I started kindergarten and that it was cut by a local beautician, Mitzi. This would have been in the early 80s. Mitzi was in a “beauty shop,” as we called it, called Razor’s Edge. I remember Mitzi being brunette in her 30s, with typical 80s hair, lots of spray. She was always smacking gum and talking. I am pretty sure she smoked, but not while she was cutting hair or anything. My mother would take me there every month or so after school. She had to make an appointment for me and my little brother and would take us both. Mitzi had another stylist partner, Annette, who was a bleach blonde with the same hairstyle as Mitzi. Annette never cut our hair. My mother always made the appointment for Mitzi, specifically. I never knew why. My mother also made appointments for my father to get his hair cut by Mitzi. He went when she told him his appointment was. Back in my earliest memory, my mother kept us all on a haircut schedule. I remember that Mitzi used those bright, crazy, loud 80s nylon capes. She would spray my hair pretty wet with water, and then do my whole haircut with her comb, fingers and scissors. I remember when there were brief periods of silence, being able to hear the wet hair clippings hitting the nylon cape and sounding like faint rain on the window.

At this time, neither haircuts, nor anything associated with them, had any significance to me.

During this time, there were three barber shops in town that I knew of. I would later come to find out about a very interesting, somewhat hidden shop in my town as well. However, that is a story for another day. As far as I knew at this point, there were three. Two were around the town square and one was out on the “highway” which was just the four-lane road leading into town from the interstate.

The first shop, Elite Barber Shop, was on the town square. It was the typical big glass window, with a door to the left of it, going into what seemed like a long and narrow room. A row of barber chairs and mirrors down the right side, and I can’t recall if it were old church pews or individual chairs for waiting patrons down the left side. As far as I knew, my grandfather went to Elite for his haircut. My very first memory of a barber shop was being in Elite with my grandfather. I remember everything in there being white, the walls, the counters, the barbers wearing white smocks, the cape/chair cloth, etc. I remember there being two barbers, both older men. I remember the dualing sounds of multiple clippers, or snips of scissors, and the talk of much older men. The barbers were both in their 60s, I would say. Their names were Mr. Norris and Mr. Jennings. My grandad got his hair cut, but I did not. I will describe my grandad’s haircut below. I remember some discussion with my grandad, and I don’t know if it was with me or someone else, that he would only let Mr. Jennings cut his hair, and never Mr. Norris. I later found a picture of Elite and my memory was confirmed. At the time of that visit, I remember enjoying the environment a lot. I later remember it seeming very comfortable, with the combination of the smell, the soft white striped cloth that the barbers put around their customers’ necks, the clean white smocks that the barbers wore, the low conversation, and the sound of snips and hums. It all felt like a warm hug, but one where I was expected to behave. The barbers were very friendly, and smiled at me and offered me bubble gum. It was just so comfortable. But, other than something fun with my grandad, it did not hold any significance with me. My impression, though, was that it was much more a serious and straight forward thing. At Razor’s Edge, there was always women’s chatter. They had music playing, or a TV on. It was bright, and just seemed, not necessarily chaotic, but busy. But, it wasn’t the sounds of haircutting tools. There wasn’t really the buzzing of clippers. Maybe the snipping of shears, but a lot of blow dryers and washing and rinsing, and dryer chairs, and things like that. Elite had the constant humming of 2 clippers, or clippers and snipping shears, or combinations of both. It was a low hum. There was conversation, but it wasn’t loud or boisterous. It was calm and even, between barbers and patrons, and just seemed to be a relaxed rhythm.

The second shop, Martin’s Barber Shop, was also on the town square. It was very similar to Elite from the outside. Big window on the right, door on the left. There was only one barber at Martin’s, Mr. Mike Martin. There was only one chair in his shop. When you entered, you entered into a long and narrow space. The chair and the mirrors on the right hand wall, and on the left hand wall there was a long church pew for waiting customers. I went to Jordan’s Barber Shop once, with my father, about the same time of going to Elite with my grandad. I remember the general interior, but I don’t have any specific memory of Mr. Martin or anyone else in the shop.

The third shop was Jim’s Barber Shop, and it was located out on the “highway” as it were called, that led into town from the interstate. All I ever heard about Jim’s Barber Shop was that Jim Martin, the barber there, could not cut hair. That he would mess your hair up if you went in there. That is probably my first memory of Jim’s Barber Shop. This came from my parents and from other people. I knew kinds that came to school with screwed up haircuts from Mr. Jim. It was situated in a little duplex building with an insurance agency on one side, and the barber shop on the other. You could not really see into Jim’s. The front door was like a front door to a house, with a paned window in the upper part, and tall narrow windows on each side of the door. There was a rear door also, that also had a glass exterior door. So, sometimes they would leave the actual door open, with just the glass exterior door closed. So you could see in and actually see someone in the chair if it was dark enough. But it was tough and you couldn’t really tell much about it. It turns out that Mr. Jim had cut hair at Elite Barber Shop in years past, and that he lit out on his own and opened Jim’s Barber Shop. I always thought about his name and Mr. Mike Martin, and wondered if there was any family connection, but there was not.

Jim’s is a little interesting in this whole saga, because I later found out that it was actually where I got my first haircut. I cannot remember exactly when I heard this story, but at some point in my adolescence one of my parents said something that alluded to my first haircut or Jim Martin and my hair or something. Of course I was immediately interested, but didn’t want to seem too eager, as I was self-conscious about anyone knowing about my interest. Anyway, I asked what they meant and they told me this story. Said that they took me to Jim’s Barber Shop for my first haircut. My memory is foggy here about what they asked Mr. Jim to do, which I am sure it was my mother telling him what to do. Anyway, according to them, the first thing he did was pick up the clippers and go all the way up the back of my head. I don’t know if my mother freaked out openly, or if she kept it inside. So, I don’t know if there was a “situation,” but she was apparently shocked, and extremely pissed off. They went further to describe out my head was “skint” on the sides and slicked and parted on the top. Basically what any barber would call a “little boy” haircut. But she was fixated on the fact that the barber turned me around to face the mirror, so they were standing behind me, and the first pass up the back of my head with the clippers being to the skin. After that, I was not taken to a barber. That’s when my time in beauty shops began. I have absolutely no memory of this. I knew that my grandad went to the barber shop. First, I went with him once. Second, I heard him mention it. Third, you could tell my the way his har was cut. It was what we would described as a "short taper," a "medium taper," maybe a "little boy's haircut but put on an older man." It was skin close about an inch and a half up the sides all the way around. Then tapered neatly from there up to a left-side part on the top. A typical "old man" haircut.

At some point, while I was going to Razor’s Edge, well before kindergarten, haircuts started taking on a new significance to me. I remember at first being interested in the cape being around my neck. But, at the same time, I would contrast my thoughts of the environment where I got my haircut (Mitzi at Razor’s Edge), to what I knew or remembered about a barber shop. So, for instance, I would think about the 80s, wild colors, nylon cape being around my neck, and that was interesting. But, then I would think about what I remember as being the striped white cotton, very clean, very neat, very uniform, cape used at the barber shop, and that would be even more interesting. The only clippers that Mitzi used, that I knew of, was these little cordless rechargeable edger clippers that she blocked my sideburns and the hairline of my hair with, and buzzed my neck. Well, I would think about those, and that was an interesting thought. Then I would think about what seemed to be the bigger, more powerful, louder, barbers’ clippers, and that would be even more interesting. I seriously doubt that I thought about these things then as much as I do now, but I know the thoughts were consistent and present.

At the same time that I was having these thoughts, I remember seeing a news segment, or 60 minutes or something, that had a clip of military recruits being shorn when they enter the military. I remember being absolutely mesmerized. It probably lasted only 5-10 seconds, but I honestly had never experienced that reaction before. I could not stop thinking about it. It bewildered me why I couldn’t get it out of my head, but I couldn’t. I thought about it being done to me. I thought about the entirety of the situation, the lining up, then being ordered to sit down, the haircut, the piles of hair, all of it. I believe that it was the earliest thought that I can remember that I just couldn’t shake for some odd reason. It haunted my thoughts for a week, solid.

At some point, not quite sure but it was between the 2nd and 4th grade for me, Elite closed. Closed completely, and both barbers retired. At about the same time, I guess Mr. Mike Martin retired, because Martin’s Barber Shop became Henry’s Barber Shop. I can’t say exactly when. Oddly, these were not major events to me at that time. However, one Saturday I was staying with my grandad, and he was going for a haircut and took me with him. But, this time, he went to Henry’s Barber Shop, on the town square where Martin’s used to be. The shop had the same layout that I recalled when I went with my dad to Martin’s Barber Shop, and I met the barber, Henry Davis. He seemed to be a little taller than average, being of just above average build, and he had dark hair and a mustache. That is all I remember about him from that time. My recollection of his attire was that he was in a white, short sleeved button down oxford shirt, and grey slacks. I remember that his chair was black and chrome, and he used the cotton pinstriped cape. The big thing that I recall was that he had vacuum clippers. I remember him having Oster 76s with a vacuum hose attached to them. I had never seen this before, and didn’t know it existed. My grandfather got his haircut that day, in his typical style. I did not get a haircut, because my mother would have freaked. The barber, Mr. Davis, asked if I was getting a haircut, and grandad said something like “no, his mama wouldn’t be too happy with me if I let you cut his hair.” The barber kinda rolled his eyes and said something like “well, that’s too bad.” My grandad said, sarcastically, “yep.” But, after he was done, I remember there was no one else in the shop and my grandfather playing with me and saying “maybe we WILL cut his hair” and he picked me up and sat me in the chair, then he went behind the chair and picked up a hairbrush off of Mr. Davis’s counter, and started running it up the back of my head and making buzzing sounds. I remember Mr. Davis saying, “I can give him a haircut if you want.” And my grandad saying “noooo, his mama would hit the roof,” or something of the sort. I did not get a haircut.

Well, as haircuts, in general became more of an interest, I wanted to go to the barber shop worse and worse. There wasn’t even one specific cut that I wanted, but I knew that I wanted it to look like it had been cut by a barber. To me, at that time, it meant that it just looked a little severe, maybe in how short it was, or in the way that it was cut such as in the taper, that it was apparent that a man did it and not a woman. Or, maybe it was just a “little” shorter, or there was a little imperfection, or a little “old fashioned” that made you know it was cut by a barber. A little less “styled” and a little more “barbered.”

I started noticing every boy’s and man’s haircut, and trying to guess or figure out if they got their hair cut at a barber shop or at a beauty shop. Or, I would sneak something about a haircut or a barber shop into a conversation and try to find out where they went to get their haircut. If I found out that they went to a barber shop, then I would nearly memorize their haircut schedule. If they needed a haircut on Friday, then a big day was Monday morning at school because they likely went to the barber shop over the weekend. If they did get a haircut, I would do everything that I could to get a look at it in every angle. I would imagine them getting a haircut in the environment of the shop that I knew they went to.

It started to eat me up. I wanted to go to a barber shop so bad I just couldn’t stand it. But, there was no way that my mother would let me do it. I could pitch a fit and take a stand and say I wanted to go, but I also was so self-conscious that she would think I was “weird” because I knew that there was something that the barber shop did to me, but didn’t know what it was. I was so worried that somebody would find out. So, it was either pitch a fit, which probably wouldn’t work, or I could just ride my bicycle downtown one day and go in the barber shop myself. To me, at that time, it was risking severe punishment just short of death and dismemberment from my mother. So, I figured that the only way that she couldn’t question it is if someone else took me or made me go. My 13-or-so-year-old mind then came up with the bright idea to bait some adult in my life to tell me I needed a haircut. So, I got up the courage to try this with a couple of my coaches, but they never bit. I would mention their hair, or them getting a hair cut and say something about how long my hair was and if they thought it would be better if I got it cut by their barber, and see if they would offer to take me. But, it never worked. So, alas, still nothing. It was all I could think about.

Finally, the Sunday after Thanksgiving of my 7th grade year, I rode to the closest city with a mall with my grandparents to do some Christmas shopping. My grandmother had a Chrysler Labarron that had a bench front seat, and a back seat. They picked me up early on that Sunday morning and off we went on the 2 hour drive to get there. My grandad was driving, and my grandmother sat in the passenger seat with me sitting in the middle of the rear bench seat of the small 4-door sedan. The first thing that I noticed when I hopped in the car was that my grandad’s hair was what I would best describe as “freshly barbered.” My grandfather wasn’t a disheveled man, but he was a working man. He brushed his hair every morning, but that was about it. Well, that morning his hair was so neatly tapered that it fell perfectly in place. All the way down to the fresh skin around the bottom. Probably 2 finger-widths of skin all the way over his ears and on his neck. The top was trimmed, so that it parted to the left and paid perfectly. It was still wet from his shower and laying neatly in place with comb-lines in it. Needless to say, I sat in the back seat all the way to the city and could not keep my eyes off of it. I was mesmerized. The ride seemed to be over in a heartbeat and I don’t remember anything but the details of his haircut. The taper, the neat line over his ears, the way the hair was fairly severely tapered that it was evident that an old fashioned barber did it, the structure and traditionalism of the overall haircut. It was as perfect as apple pie, the American flag and baseball in the summertime. I knew that he had gone to Mr. Davis to get his hair cut, and as I looked at his haircut, I could not help but imagine seeing him in Mr. Davis’s barber chair, getting his hair cut. The process of how Mr. Davis went about his haircut, watching the transformation from shaggy to neat. Then, the ultimate thought, having my turn in Mr. Davis’s barber chair right behind him.

The entire ride to the city, all I could do is stare at the back of my grandad’s head. I would say things to him and talk quietly, to get him to turn his head sideways to say it to me, so that I could see the taper over his ears and his sideburn. I imagined how Mr. Davis’s vacuum Oster 76 clippers took it to the skin, and the way that Mr. Davis “flicked” his wrist like he was scooping ice cream as he clipped around the bottom of the hairline. I wanted to ask him about it so bad. I wish he would tell me the entire story of getting his hair cut, the men that were in there, his visit with Mr. Davis, every single detail. Because I wanted to be in there with him. More than anything, I would have loved for him to say “boy, you need a haircut! I’m taking you to the barber shop!” All day, I was excitedly nauseous. I was so excited every time I looked at my grandad, but then it was like unrequited love because there was no way that I could get into the barber shop at that point in my life and I wanted to so bad.

But, I had an epiphany. I was just going to have to take it into my own hands. I could just ask my grandad if he would take me to the barber shop next time he went. No way, could I really? Would I? What would he say? Would he think it was weird? Would he defer to my mother? Would he say no? Should I do it in front of my grandmother? How should I ask him? What if he says that I have to ask my mother? Would I do it then? Would he think it was weird? My mind just took off! All of these thoughts ran through it and I got nervous as hell. Nervous, but EXCITED!! Just the thought of the words “barber shop” coming out of my mouth felt amazing. Could it really work? Would he actually do it? Oh, it was the greatest thing I could imagine. But, I was scared as hell.

So, the whole day goes by and I think its probably best to ask him when it is just the 2 of us, when my grandmother is out of earshot. So, when we stop for lunch, I think maybe she goes to the restroom. Nope. Maybe she goes in a store and tries on some clothes. Nope. Nothing. She stays with us the whole time. I’m not complaining. I love my grandmother. But, I wanted to talk to grandad alone. It just never happened. So, we start the drive home. I come to the conclusion that if I am going to ask him today, then it has to be in front of her. So over the course of 2 hours, I tried to bring myself to ask him. My mouth was dry. I was nervous. My hands were shaking. A couple of times, I opened my mouth to start it, and words wouldn’t come out. The only thing that I can liken it to is what I have been told it is like to ask a girl on a first date. I tried to bring myself to do it and I didn’t think it was the right point in the conversation. I was being the biggest chicken in the world!

Finally, we are pulling up in front of my house and they just stop in the street to put me out. I knew then that it was now or never. No more chances, this is it. So, as I told them good night and that I loved them, I tried to be very nonchalant and said “Grandad, next time you go to the barber shop, can I go with you?” He responded “well, I just got a haircut so it wont be for a couple of weeks.” “That’s ok,” I said, “just next time you go.” “Sure,” he said, “I will let you know when it’s time for me to go.” And, I said “Thanks! Good night” and closed the door.

OH. MY. GOD. Did it actually work? I was floating. He said he would do it! Holy crap, he said he would take me. I flew across our front yard doing handsprings into the November night. He didn’t act like it was weird. It was all good. He said he would, oh my god he said he would! Backsprings, cartwheels, fireworks, explosions, laser lights, confetti, they were all going off for me at that point. When I got home, I remember bounding through the door and heading straight for my room. I blew right by my parents, who asked me how the trip was. “Just fine!” I bellowed, running down the hall. “Kinda tired, going to bed, good night!” I said. All I wanted to do was go to my room and imagine what it would be like going to the barber shop with grandad. I tried to force myself to dream about it based off of my memories from the last time I was in there with grandad. I drifted to sleep, but didn’t luck out on the dreams.

So, I knew that it wouldn’t happen for at least a couple of weeks. That year, based on where Thanksgiving fell, grandad got his hair cut on November 30. So, I wasn’t sure if he would get this hair cut again before Christmas or not. I knew that if he didn’t get it cut by around Friday, December 20, then it may not happen until after new years, because of just the busy-ness of the holidays and the closing of businesses for Christmas and new years, which I figured the barber shop was closed for a bit. The other thing was that I played on the school basketball team, and had practice on Mondays and Wednesdays. So, that took a couple of afternoons a week out of my availability to go.

The other thing was how would this actually go down with my mother. One of the reasons that I wanted to ask my grandad out of earshot of my grandmother is that I knew that my grandmother would run right back to my mother and tell her about it. Now, it’s not like I was going to be able to go to the barber shop without my mother knowing, and/or having some protection from my grandmother and grandfather. I just wasnt exactly sure how that conversation was going to happen. I thought maybe it would happen sometime later, maybe when grandad got ready to take me. But, I knew that if my grandmother heard it, then my mother would know it just as soon as they got on the phone together, which would probably be as soon as my grandmother got home and called.

Well, as I suspected, on the ride to school the next morning she brought it up. “I hear you’re going to the barber shop with your grandaddy,” she said. Even though I was halfway expecting it, I did not have a response formulated. “Yes ma’am,” was all I could offer. In her typical style of denigrating barbers, she said “Well, you go if you want to, but all I am going to say about it is don’t cry to me when everybody is making fun of your haircut because it is messed up (she may have said ‘looks like shit,’ can’t remember).” Internally, I rolled my eyes but also wondered if she was right. Would the barber screw my hair up? Would the other kids make fun of me? I didn’t even know what kind of haircut I would end up with. Maybe this was a stupid idea and I would come to regret it. But, maybe not!! I was focusing on that. I had set this in motion, and I am not going to chicken out now.

About 2 and a half weeks later, on the evening of Tuesday, December 18, my mother was on the phone with my grandmother, and called my name. I came to her and she handed me the phone and said “here, talk to your grandaddy, I think he wants to talk to you about going to the barber shop,” and she handed me the phone. I took it, and there was his voice, “hey grandson” he said, “I am going to the barber shop tomorrow. You want to go?” My heart sank, what terrible luck. I couldn’t believe it. “Grandad, I have basketball practice tomorrow, and it wont be over with until 5:45pm,” I depressingly told him, which would be after the barber shop closed. I think that I hoped that he would say that he would go another day when I could go, but he just lightly said “okey dokey, we’ll catch you another time, good night!” “OK, grandad, good night,” I said, and hung up the phone. I couldn’t believe it. That quick. I was right there on the cusp, but scheduling blew it up. I was heartbroken. Furthermore, grandad didn’t seem to care, he is going to go without me or not. I kinda felt like it didn’t matter to him at all for the rest of the night. All I could think was that this was one of those things that would be forgotten about. Next time Grandad got ready to go to the barber shop, he wouldn’t remember. So close, but the ship just sailed. I drifted to sleep nearly in tears.

I went to school the next day and all I could think about was how I should be going to the barber shop after school, but instead I am going to basketball practice. I loved basketball, and was very proud to be on the school basketball team, but that day I had a terrible attitude and basketball practice was the LAST thing that I wanted to think about or do. All I thought about basketball that day was that it was keeping me from going to the barber shop. Depressed isn’t the right word, because that overdramatizes it, but I was definitely bummed out.

After second period (out of 6), though, I walked by the gymnasium and noticed a sign there, handwritten in black magic marker on a sheet of typing paper and taped to the door, “Basketball Practice Cancelled.” I couldn’t believe it, I had to let grandaddy know! So, I ran to the guidance counselor’s office. He was a nice man, and if I ever needed to call my mom to come pick me up, or if I left something at home, then he would let me use the telephone in his office. So, I ran into his office and asked if I could use the phone, which he was glad to allow me. I called my grandparents’ house and my grandmother answered. I asked to speak to grandad, and she said that he wasn’t there. I asked her if, when he gets back, can she please let him know that my basketball practice was cancelled and I could go to the barber shop with him after school. From the highest high, to the lowest low, I felt as she said “well, honey, he’s already gone to the barber shop. That’s where he is right now.” As this was a time before cellular phones, there was no way to stop him now that he had gone. “Ok, grandmama, well I will just go with him another time, then. Thanks,” I told her. “Bye, honey,” she said, and could obviously hear the disappointment in my voice. “Everything ok, whippersnapper?” my guidance counselor asked. “Yes sir, everything’s ok,” I sadly told him. The rest of the day, I went right back to being bummed out. It was a long day.

Since my mother was expecting to pick me up after basketball practice, I needed a ride home. I had called my grandparents’ house earlier, but had not let my mother know that my schedule has changed. So, when school got out, I went back to the guidance counselor’s office to call my mom. When she answered, I told her that basketball practice was cancelled and I needed her to come pick me up. She said, “no, your grandaddy is going to come pick you up and take you to the barber shop. He should be there in a few minutes.” Holy crap, I thought. No freaking way. It's happening. “Ok, I will see you later on, then,” I told her. “Remember what I told you about going to that barber shop,” she said. “Yes ma’am,” was all that I could say. I hung up and ran over to the window, and there sat my grandad’s truck. Here we go, I thought. It’s going to happen, I headed out the door to the thing I always wanted.