HairSnip.com

I have often wondered if my mom has a bit of a hair and haircutting fetish. It always seemed to me that she there was more then a passing interest here. It also was a lot more then just a desire to keep her kids neat and tiddy. She seemed to despise long hair period--on men and women.

My sister was taken every couple of months down to Raymonds--an old fashioned, no nonsense salon that my mom had been going to since college. Raymond cut hair--that was all. He always hired someone else to take care of perms and related things, but that work was all done in a back room away from his world. His world was the front room by the main entrance to the shop. That room set up was very simple--a waiting area with several simple chairs and one old style salon chair near the front window with a mirror and small counter against the back wall. No sinks, or any other fancy things. Raymond did one thing and one thing only--he cut hair, He was efficient with his work too, and could really make hair fly with the quick, rather flambeuent barber style scissors over comb method he used. I was always fascinated watching him work. He moved like a sprite around his customers keeping up a polite coversation all the while. Hair literally flew and I was always fascinated as I watched the dancing feathers of my sister's blond hair as they fluttered to the floor and piled up on the soft pink and blue cloth capes Raymond used. In her younger years, my sister didn't mind the short pixie cuts that were always requested by my mother. However, in her early teens, like me, she began to ask to keep more and more hair. Requests were denied at first, but at some point mom reluctantly gave in. Even with frequent trims at Raymond's hands, her hair soon grew to just below her shoulders. I always thought mom  requested that my sisters bangs be cut way to short, but my sister never said anything about that. I think she was only to happy to keep some hair.

The long hair phase for my sister did not last long though. Mom began badgering her about her "long stringy" hair pretty much from the start. She had a million reasons why it was so impractical,  etc. etc. However, when my sister was not moved by logic, mom employed other methods.  

Now my sister was a little more pliable then I was. I resisted haircuts. My sister did what she was told and so...when mom said it was the end for the long hair...it was the end. I don't remember much fighting or discussion. Mom just said it was time for a change and that was that. So...one day, we all were picked up from school and headed off to do errands. We were informed that the first stop was...Raymonds and I had already heard the discussion between my sister and mom a few days ago so I knew what was coming. I felt nervous for her...I can imagine what she felt and pretty much figured that it was not what she wanted, but she was not one to resist. The door tinkled as we entered the salon and without much hesitation, my sister was ordered to go first. I could see on her face that she did not want this, but she sat as instructed. Raymond caped her with a big fanfare (as usual) and then as he combed out my sisters thick blond hair he turned to my mom for instructions. "I think we are done with the long hair...she would look so much better with a nice pixie cut again." "Mom!" was the one response from the chair, but when Raymond asked for clarification, mom just nodded to go ahead. The chair was pumped up and, the scissors snapped a couple of times in preparation and in moments my sister's blond hair literally flew into her lap and onto the floor. The floating feathers wafted across her shoulders and soon ears and neck were exposed. It ended up short and that is how it remained, even when my sister had a choice in the matter.

Things were a bit different for my brother and I. The haircut ritual happened every month in our kitchen. There were sounds that I can still hear in my mind to this day--newspaper being spread on the floor, the stool that stood in the corner being moved to the center of the floor and my mom heading to the hall closet to get the box of haircutting supplies. We were called into the kitchen, ordered into the chair, a large white sheet was pinned around our necks and mom would start to cut and clip. The old clattering clippers she used were usually not powerful enough to cut through my thick hair so mom reduced everything as far as she could with scissors and then mowed the rest off with the clippers. As I neared my teens, this ritual was something I looked forward to less and less. I started to realize that the cool kids I knew did not have crew cuts and that every time I was sheared, the taunts like "oh look, he's got slivers!" became more frequent. It wasn't the kind of attention I wanted, so I started asking to keep more hair. Like my sister, at about age 13 I was allowed to keep a little bit. Mom kept the top and front longer, but usually no more then an inch to an inch and a half at the most. In the beginning I figured it chould be worse and was happy to have what I had, however as time went on it proved never to be enough and, since I knew going in what the inevitable outcomes of any haircut tended to be, the struggles, fights and tears became more frequent. In fact, one memorable night, I was dragged to the car for a trip to the barbershop for (in my mom's words) "a barbershop crewcut." The last one of those I had had was at age 7 or 8 and I KNEW what that outcome usually was, it was the last thing I wanted (which seems ironic looking back). My mom's crewcuts were short, but I remember the barbershop cut was shorter still. The thought horrified me, so finally and with great reluctance, tears and pleading, I submitted to my mom's shears. Now as you can guess, the outcome here was predictable as well. I watched in horror as even the inch or so I had been allowed to keep on top ended up on the floor. I was humiliated and angry, but it was early summer and my hair was easily covered most of the time by a ball cap until it grew to a respectable length just in time for school.  

As I got bigger and stronger (and also busier), it was a bit easier for me to avoid or get out of haircuts. Something always came up, and since it was true that I was busier, the fact was that I really played the game and worked hard at avoiding the stool. Like with my sister, Mom tried the logic and at one point laid down the law about what needed to happen, but for at least another two months I always seemed to find some way out. Now I knew that eventually I would not be able to escape, however I was not prepared at all for how it happened...or what the results were.

This very memorable (and at the time horrific) event happened one spring when I was about 16. As mentioned, I had been able to get out of the ritual haircut for several months and my hair had gotten pretty long. It was well over my ears on the sides, down over the collar in back and past the eyebrows in front. Mom did not spare her dislike of my shaggy appearance and said so on many occasions. I liked it though and was very proud of my thick, wavy brown mane. That spring I had signed up for a school trip that I very much wanted to attend. In fact this was something I wanted to do more then anything I could remember for a long time. Mom was only to happy to take me around to various outdoor gear shops to help me get what I needed. However, the last important piece of equipment was a sleeping bag and as we got ready to make the purchase mom turned to me and laid down the deal. "I will buy this under one condition...you need to let me cut your hair." I really mulled this over looking for some out...but there really was none. In the end, I reluctantly agreed and the purchase was made, but I still had the idea that maybe, just maybe I could avoid what turned out to be the inevitable.

We arrived home and I headed to my room to get my gear together. For awhile, it appeared that I might have gotten out of the deal, as mom seemed to be in the kitchen busily getting an early start on supper. However, soon I heard the telltale sounds of newspaper and moving kitchen chairs. My heart sank. The jig was definetely up. As she came into the hall to get "the box," she yelled for me to come into the kitchen.

There was a real knot in the pit of my stomach as I walked into the kitchen. I really, really did not want a haircut...especially from my mom and especially now...Partly I liked it the way it was and partly...I had a feeling that mom was angry to some extent and that maybe she would try to prove a point. That had happened before, but I had reasoned that it was a long time ago and surely she wouldn't try to repeat that again? OR at least that's what I hoped. At any rate, I truly felt like I was walking to the gallows. But...pride in hand, and especially because I really had no choice, I walked in.  

When I entered the kitchen things were set up in the usual way--newspapers spread across most of the floor, stool from the corner in the center of the papers and box of haircutting supplies open. I did note that the clippers were already plugged in (a bad sign) to an extension cord and mom had the large sheet she used as a cape in hand. "Sit!" was all my mom said and I did so without resistance. She looked me over, clucked in the way she usually did to express disapproval and tossed the big old sheet she used to cover us for these haircuts around me. She pulled it up tightly around my neck, and pinned it. The sheet made my neck itch from the small clippings still adhering to it from many previous uses and I shifted uncomfortably on the stool and I attempted to arranged it a bit to relieve some of the itching. Mostly though...I as nervous, not completely sure what was coming. Mom picked up a comb from her box of tools and moved to the back to survey the situation. As she combed out my hair she clucked again and said, "what a mess...You really need this cut." I didn't say anything for awhile as she continued around me combing and shaking her head, clucking and occasionally commenting on "this mess." It was all fairly routine, however, was not prepared though for what came next.

After combing for awhile she she stopped, stood back for a moment and looked me over. "Hmmm," she said in a rather cheery voice..."You know...how about a crew cut? It would be so much cooler in the hot weather and you wouldn't need a haircut for awhile." My reaction was strong and immediate. "NOOOO!" I screamed and as I did so, I started to stand up out of the stool, sheet still in place. Mom's reaction was equally strong..."SIT...NOW OR SO HELP ME ALL THE CAMPING GEAR GOES BACK TO THE STORE TODAY!" Reluctantly...I sat... and began to plead my case a bit in as calm a voice as I could muster,"Mom you  know I like it longer, please don't cut it too short." She didn't respond. She just shook her head again, clucked and combed around my head again with several swift, rapid motions. I continued my protests, but was careful. I knew from past experience how protests were always greeted, even mild ones. What scared me though was the lack of reaction. She never said one way or the other what she was doing or not doing, didn't give another option, offer her usual logical arguments...nothing. She just went to the box, fished out the hair scissors and as she moved up behind me, comb and scissors in hand said, as if just adding to her last question, "You are just such a nice looking young man without all this shaggy hair." That was NOT reassuring, in fact it just seemed like she hadn't heard me. I tried one more small plead just to get some discussion...or something. "Mom please...not a crewcut...please. You know I like it longer...please mom." She just shook her head and just said, "I'm not going to have this...I'm just not as long as you live in my house." I was not reassured. In fact my gut tightened and a tear or two may have started to flow. I thought that she couldn't really cut all my hair off, but then I really didn't know. 

Now as mentioned, just because she wasn't using clippers really didn't mean much. Every haircut she had ever given me had started with scissors and comb and this was mostly due to the fact that her old clippers just wouldn't cut through all but the shortest hair. Her hair cutting technique was a method similar to a method a barber might use--essentially, she lifted with the comb and snipped off everything the comb held. Without fanfare, more information or other comment, she pushed my head forward and began to go to work, lifting and shearing fairly rapidly and, it seemed to me, without a lot of real care. The long, loud and rapid sounds of scissors shearing large chunks of hair and the loud "plops" of hair hitting the newspaper were the first signs that lots of hair was coming off. Very quickly I could feel a cool breeze on the back of my neck, but I had no idea how short things were being cut. She worked her way up the back to the crown and then returned to the bottom again, lifting and snipping, lifting and snipping. I could hear more and more hair falling. She stopped at one point, brushed off the back, surveyed things, clucked (never a good sign) and started the same process up the right side. As she started, the comb was right against my ear and the "Shhhhick, Shhhhick" as she cut through the mass was very loud. A huge pile of hair slid down over my shoulder and rolled down my front. "Mom," I said, "you're cutting it too short." It was obvious she was cutting off as much hair as she could as rapidly as she could. She gave no indication that she had heard me, she just continued cutting away, up the side the right side, repeating the work to even things out and then pulled my ear down to snip everything off around my ear. I pleaded softly again that it was too short, but her only response was, "hold still so I don't cut you," to brush away some stray hairs, snip again here and there and move to the other side to repeat the some process. Again, large mounds of hair came sliding over my cheeks and over my nose and down onto my shoulders and lap. It seemed that she was just lifting and cutting off as much as she could and I was starting to really get concerned. By the time she folded that ear down and started snipping around it, my whole front and lap was covered with my precious hair. There was a ton of it laying in large and small clumps, draped liberally across shoulders, front and lap. At this point I wanted to begin politely pleading for a bit of mercy. However, it always seemed this induced more cutting and shorter hair then anything else...so I bit my lip. Soon she stopped her work, clucked again, combed and snipped here and there, rechecked, snipped gain and then, looking a bit more statisfied, combed through the top which to this point had remained uncut. The fact that she was surveying this, combing it, looking it over, etc. gave me some hope. Her haircuts were always shorter on the sides anyway and besides, it was the bangs and longer hair on top I prized most anyway.

She looked the situation over though for just a brief moment then started in again using much the same process as the sides. This time it did seem she was going a bit slower, however as she slowly working the comb up through my hair to lift it, the scrunching scissors released what I thought were much larger then usual masses of hair that slid down over my cheeks and nose. She would stop only occasionally to brush stray hairs off my face and nose, look things over and go back to work, clucking occasionally and returning to spots, no doubt continually evening out mistakes. Now...I had no mirror and no real way of knowing what was really going on. What was true though was that something seemed different then the usual. I had a lot of hair on top of my head, but what she was doing seemed different--the comb seemed closer to my head, the sound as the scissors cut through my hair was longer and more methodical in some way and, worse, the mounds of hair that rolled down across my face and cheeks seemed large. She was cutting off a lot of hair...that was for certain. At a certain point, as I surveyed the carnage and felt what she combed through as she checked and began to even things out, it did dawn on me that she was pretty much cutting off most of my hair--things just just seemed and felt really, really short as she combed through what as left.

I think at this point I started to cry a little even, but there was nothing I could do. I remember gripping the stool tightly and closing my eyes as the hair rolled down over my nose. When she arrived at the front, I remember her combing up my bangs and holding them for a few seconds, looking the rest of my head over and possibly trying to decide how far to take this. She of course knew that my bangs were probably the most important part of my "glorious mane.". I trained them carefully and always complained when they were cut to short. However...clucked, shook her head and then "Shhhick, Shhhick" off they came...everything! They rolled down over my nose and I am pretty sure I must have gasped. I could feel no hair on my forehead or over my ears. and if there was any doubt about what was happening before, things were much clearer now. I know I started to cry, but there was nothing else I could do. All of the thick brown waves I prized and that everyone always claimed most women would die to have, now lay across my shoulders and lap. I was horrified...but the damage was done. I gripped the stool and I know the tears were rolling down my cheeks now. I was sick.  

Now came the part of the process that often turned moderately short haircuts to very short haircuts, even when mom was trying to be careful and keep things a bit stylish and longer on top. She could easily have used clippers I suppose, but she always chose to lift and snip, lift and snip until everything was even to her satisfaction. This sometimes took a long time and it was always the time when I was younger when I would start to squirm. Particularly because now the shorter clippings would start to worm their way down between the old sheet and my neck. At one point as she returned to the back to work, she pushed my head forward and I can still feel that odd, prickly feeling on my chin as it was forced against the sheet. It also seemed like, even thought the bulk had been removed, the clippings that were dancing down my shoulders seemed much longer then they should have been. She also seemed to take a lot of time and seemed to repeat several places, over and over. This was never good.Especially because she sighed and clucked a couple of times.

Finally, the checking, clipping and rechecking seemed to come to an end. Mom declared that "Well...at least that is much better...but still...hmmm," set down the scissors and comb and picked up the clippers--fishing around in her box for an attachment. I was used to this part, it wasn't entirely unusual, but I didn't like that last statement much...I just had no idea what was going to happen. She always used the clippers to clean up the edges on most haircuts. Sometimes she even used a longer comb attachment to clean around the bottom and the ears. I was tempted to reach out from under the sheet and feel the damage, but just as I was ready to take the risk, she came up behind me armed and ready, clippers in hand. They made a horrible clattering sound as they were switched on. She pushed my head forward and started mowing around the bottom and then around my ears, dumped a much larger pile of clippings then I expected over my shoulder and then continued on around, inching ever farther up the back! I remember resisting a bit now as it seemed she was cutting way higher then reasonable. "Mom!" I said, "It's to short!" She just gave me a stern, "hold still!" order again, grabbed my head hard and ran the clippers all the way up the back to the crown. She then held my head pressed forward and mowed several more times up the back and then around the side in the same way, all around my ears and then all the way to the crown. I know I screamed a bit but didn't dare resist again for fear she would go over the top as well. I just let her continue her work and soon she stopped, popped on another guide, pushed my head forward again and then worked around the bottom in back and then up and around my ears on the side. Now THIS hadn't happened for years and I know I started crying again. Mom was not deterred. I remember just looking down in total schock at the mass of hair that literally covered most of the sheet. I was horrified, to say the least and completely powerless. At last, mercifully, the guard came off, my nape was cleaned up and the clippers switched off. At LEAST I figured, she didn't mow the top too just like the sides. However...as she picked up the comb and scissors, checked everything all over again and started back evening things out on top,  I started to wonder what she could be doing. The last few snips in front told me the complete story--I had very, very little hair left. I really was in a sort of shock and disbelief. I couldn't really believe that she had cut it as short as a real crewcut, but honestly I didn't know for sure and worse, it felt...well...like a crewcut. I felt no hair at all on my ears, or worse, my forhead, as she lifted and snipped it just felt like she was evening out pretty much nothing--as if it was almost a brush being evened out (or at least that's what it felt like). I started squirm now, protesting again. "HOLD STILL!" she ordered again, "OR I have to use the clippers to even this out too!" That was all it took. I sat still.

The snipping, snipping, checking, clucking and snipping again seemed to go on for ever. Finally, At last, the final check was over and I was declared done. "That's so much neater and better...you won't need another haircut for awhile!" she declared as she brushed off my shoulders and around my neck with her hands, pushing a huge mound of hair forward into my lap. Finally, she unpinned the sheet and folded it forward. My hands flew out and to my head and I screamed, "MOM I'M BALD!" She ordered me to stay in the chair as she lifted the sheet from my lap, wrapped the mound of hair in it and ordered me to follow outside to get "cleaned up." I remember walking outside still feeling my head. It was REALLY short. Mom brushed me off outside, dumped my hair unceremoniously into the garbage and declared, "Now you look so nice. This will be so much cooler and easier for your trip too." I ran back inside and to the bathroom mirror to survey the damage. With shock I realized that, while mom had given me very short haircuts before, this we pretty much the shortest it had been since the barbershop haircut I had been given by my dad when I was about 8. I had maybe a 1/2 inch left on top and the sides were no more then a quarter of an inch the bottom and around my ears, now almost devoid of hair was prickly and I knew how much I was going to be teased for this at school. Worse was the front...it was all gone. Just a bristly half inch just like the rest of the top was left. My lovely hair was ALL gone. I was mad and humiliated. When I returned to the kitchen, tears streaming down my face, I said, "This is horrible! I hate it!" she simply said matter of factly, "Well...you wouldn't let me cut it before...so I did what I needed to do so I wouldn't have to go through this again...you look better with a crewcut again anyway."

That was the last haircut my mom ever gave me. I let it grow and kept a version of a hairstyle I returned to many times over the years--well over my ears on the sides and usually a lot longer in back. It was many years before I got another crew cut, but I did do just that--this time by my choice (but that is another story). In the end, after years of struggle, I did come to a realization that mom did know something about hair and haircuts. AT any rate, the stage was set for an interest that I have carried to this day. I am convinced that it all started here.  

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