The barber’s clippers buzzed with a menacing energy as they traced a path across the teenager’s scalp. I watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease swirling within me, as clumps of light brown hair surrendered to the machine, falling like lifeless dust motes onto the checkered tile floor. It was a spectacle I’d never witnessed before – the systematic dismantling of a youthful mop, reduced inch by inch to a mere shadow of its former self. My own haircuts as a boy had always been limited to the back and sides, the top left untouched. The idea of clippers venturing onto the crown of the head was a foreign, almost forbidden concept. A nervous excitement stirred within me, a physical manifestation that I awkwardly tried to conceal by clutching my backpack tighter against my body. “Bus is leaving, are you coming or just admiring the view?” a voice snapped from behind, jolting me back to reality as the queue shuffled forward.
Romano’s Gents’ Hairdresser, a classic, no-frills establishment, stood directly opposite the bus stop. My Saturday routine of wandering through town always culminated here, waiting for the bus home, my gaze invariably drawn to the theater unfolding behind Romano’s large, uncurtained plate glass window.
Romano’s was an institution, slightly worn around the edges, catering to a clientele that, to my younger, perhaps snobbish self, seemed distinctly working class. The unadorned window was a gift, offering an unobstructed view of men undergoing tonsorial transformations. Mostly older men occupied the chairs, but occasionally a younger man would be ushered in, often by a mother, for a compulsory shearing. Today, however, was different. A teenager, maybe sixteen, sat in the barber’s chair, seemingly willingly, about to have his head clippered. This was unusual, and undeniably captivating. The barbers, clad in traditional white coats, were clearly masters of the short, back and sides, a world away from the trendy unisex salons of the early 80s, places that offered perms and blow waves, the antithesis of Romano’s utilitarian approach.
My own hair, at seventeen in 1981, was a product of those unisex salons, specifically Aquarius Unisex Hair Design on the local high street. There, I’d emerge with a center-parted style, medium length, just kissing my ears and collar – the very definition of teenage conformity.
Childhood haircuts were a different story. Drags to Alec’s Gents’ Hairdressing Saloon with my father were traumatic events, always ending in a brutally short back and sides. These experiences bred a deep-seated haircut aversion. I’d avoid the barber’s chair at all costs. Yet, paradoxically, as time went on, this aversion morphed into fascination. I’d never admit it to my parents, but I started anticipating barber visits. The more time spent in the chair, the more treatments, the better. This led me to the salon, where hair washes and blow-dries became unexpected sources of intense, almost illicit pleasure.
But things were shifting. That night, Romano’s and the image of the clippered teenager dominated my thoughts. The salon’s allure was fading. I craved the stark efficiency of an old-school barber, the kind who’d administer a proper scalping, just like the boy at Romano’s. There was, however, a significant hurdle. Coming from a middle-class background, a skinhead haircut was simply not done. “Nice” boys had hair like mine – moderate, acceptable, neither too long nor, heaven forbid, too short.
Weeks trickled by, Romano’s and the clippered image remained stubbornly fixed in my mind. I wrestled with how to experience Romano’s thrill without attracting unwanted attention with the final result. Then, unexpectedly, my mother provided an opening.
“I’m calling Aquarius for my Saturday cut and blow-dry. Stephen, you need a trim too. Shall I book you in?”
“Uh, no, it’s alright, Mum. I’m going into town Saturday. Might get it done there.”
“Suit yourself, but it’s getting scruffy. I don’t care where, but you’re not wandering around looking like a tramp. Your appearance reflects on us, you know, and as long as you live under this roof…”
My mother’s familiar refrain about my ‘scruffy’ appearance faded into background noise. My focus was elsewhere, on the thrill of my impending Romano’s pilgrimage. The journey had begun.
My mouth was suddenly dry, a nervous flutter in my chest as I approached the bus stop. Ordinarily, this bus stop held no particular significance, but today was different. Across the road, the iconic red and white barber pole of Romano’s spun slowly, the red lettering above the window proclaiming “Romano’s Gents’ Hairdresser” coming into view. I crossed the street, my pace slowing, apprehension tightening its grip. Was this plan truly madness? Reaching the window, I paused, peering inside. The shop buzzed with its usual chaotic energy. Three of the four chairs were occupied, and five customers waited, including two teenage boys accompanied by their mothers.
“After you, young man,”
I jumped, startled. A white-coated barber stood just outside the door, cigarette in hand, finishing his break. He stubbed it out, held the door open, gesturing me inside.
“Err, thank you…”
Retreat was impossible. I was committed. Stepping into Romano’s, I was enveloped by a thick cloud of cigarette smoke and the sharp, medicinal scent of sterilizing fluid – a sensory time warp straight back to childhood visits to Alec’s. But this time, inexplicably, I was here by choice, a strange excitement bubbling beneath the surface. The barber followed me in, closing the door behind him. His smoke break seemed unnecessary; indoor smoking was clearly not frowned upon here. This was the 80s, after all; smoking bans were a distant, unimaginable future.
“Take a seat, lad, won’t be long,” the barber said, ushering his next, elderly client towards the chair and draping him in a red nylon gown.
I perched gingerly on the red vinyl waiting bench, surveying my surroundings. The small space was dominated by four imposing barber chairs, black leather atop heavy metal frames. Each had a round pedestal base, a foot pedal for height adjustment, and a footrest. The floor around each chair was a carpet of hair clippings, growing with each snip and buzz. Serious haircuts were underway, the air filled with the rhythmic snip of scissors and the drone of clippers. These barbers were efficient, no-nonsense operators. Mirrors lined the wall behind each chair, reflecting the scene, with white basins and an array of cutting tools beneath. At least two of the barbers were Italian, their rapid-fire conversations adding to the lively atmosphere.
The other waiting customers were, as expected, a world apart from my parents’ social circle. Two teenage boys, dressed in tracksuits, chewed gum loudly, their mothers engaged in a boisterous, swear-laden conversation. The remaining two were elderly men in flat caps, chain-smoking, one engrossed in a dog-eared Daily Mirror, randomly announcing horse racing odds to his uninterested companion. This was the antithesis of Aquarius Salon. I felt conspicuously out of place, deeply uncomfortable. Flipping through a tattered car magazine, I seriously considered making a discreet exit.
“Next please!”
I looked up. One of the track-suited boys was heading to the newly vacant chair. He was quickly enveloped in a faded red cape, hoisted upwards by the chair. He stared blankly into the mirror, fringe obscuring his eyes, radiating boredom and familiarity with the process.
“What’s he having Mama? Crew cut like-a usual?” the Italian barber asked, clippers already buzzing in his hand.
“Yeah, blitz it all off, love. Might as well get me bloody money’s worth, eh?” The boy’s mother cackled, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a plume of smoke towards the nicotine-stained ceiling.
Another crew cut. Incredible. I dropped the magazine, leaning forward, eager to witness the spectacle. As the clippers carved through the boy’s hair, great swathes fell onto the cape and floor. The familiar stirring of excitement returned. In what seemed like minutes, less than half an inch of hair remained. The second boy received the same treatment. As they left, only two of us remained on the bench. My heart raced. Could I go through with this? And could I reach the chair without my burgeoning excitement becoming… obvious?
“Next please!”
Right, here goes. I stood, hung my coat on the rack, and walked towards the vacant chair, strategically shielding my groin. I was assigned to the English barber, not one of the Italians.
“Haven’t got all day!!” he barked, impatiently shaking a red cape, foot poised on the chair’s height pedal. “Come on, sunshine, get in.”
I stepped onto the footrest and eased myself onto the black leather. Looking in the mirror, my need for a haircut was undeniable. But could I ask for a crew cut? A paper neck strip was roughly stuffed down my collar, followed by the slightly grimy red cape. I noticed stray hairs from previous clients clinging to the shiny fabric. The barber grabbed the clippers, tilting my head forward and raising the chair simultaneously – a master of efficiency. But would he ask what I wanted? I had to speak up. But what came out wasn’t quite what I intended. It just… slipped out.
“Can you just give it a good trim, please?”
Instant regret. I’d bottled it. Damn.
“A good trim?”
“Yes, take plenty off.”
“Plenty off?”
“Yes, please.”
“Not been here before, have you?”
He’d pegged me immediately – an outsider, not Romano’s usual demographic. He probably wondered what a “posh kid” like me was doing here.
“Err, no.”
“Didn’t think so.”
Take plenty off? What did that even mean? Bewilderment washed over me as I waited for the unknown to unfold.
“Keep your head down,” the barber instructed, gripping my head and plunging the humming clippers into the long hair at my nape. The clippers’ pitch deepened as they battled through my thick, blond hair, making repeated passes up the back of my head.
Initial panic gave way to a surprising wave of relaxation. I began to enjoy it. The sides were next. My head was tilted brutally left, then right, ears folded down as the clippers devoured everything in their path. Sides and back reduced to a mere fuzz, sideburns vanished – tonsorial stripping, 1980s style.
Heaps of my hair cascaded onto the cape. How much hair could one person lose? The clippers were replaced by scissors, the crisp snip-snip replaced by the crunch of thinning shears, more hair raining down, accumulating in my lap. The cape was a welcome shield, protecting my clothes and concealing my… reaction.
Too soon, the barber was dusting my neck with powder, brushing me down, loosening the cape. The haircut was nearing its end.
What had he done? Not a crew cut, no. But he’d certainly taken plenty off. My head felt strangely light. The hand mirror revealed a shock: no more than half an inch remained, severely tapered at the neck and sides, just enough to comb on top, maybe an inch and a half. Shocking, yes, but also thrilling. I liked it. Running my hand up my neck, the feeling of millions of tiny bristles sent a jolt of electricity through me. The only disappointment was the speed. In and out of the chair in under fifteen minutes. I could have stayed all day.
“Thank you, that’s fine.”
The cape was whisked off, a mound of my hair joining the morning’s debris. The chair lowered, a tissue thrust into my hand. Coat grabbed, payment made, I stepped out into the street, lightheaded, contemplating the aftermath, my parents’ inevitable reaction.
It didn’t take a genius to foresee their response. My mother, in particular, was apoplectic.
“What on earth have you done to your hair? Why would you get it all cut off? You used to complain about just a trim! Now this! You look like a convict! What will the family say?”
“Well, I like it,” I retorted. “And I’m keeping it like this. I’m eighteen soon; you can’t stop me.”
Defying expectations, I did keep it. Romano’s became my regular barbershop until university beckoned.
In the years that followed, I occasionally let my hair grow, just to recapture the Romano’s experience, to have plenty taken off again. But short hair became my norm, and remains so to this day.
