July 16, 2012
You”d stay silent in the chair, angry and embarrassed. The barber would talk down to you. “Lancashire lad, eh? Yeah, we get a lot of them. Not many make it through the training, you know? Soft, you see?” You”d smile inside, wanting to ask him, “How long did you last?” Once he”d finished, he”d show you the back with a mirror while laughing and slapping his fat hands on your shoulders, asking if you liked it. You”d leave kicking through hair, knowing that under different circumstances you”d have smacked him in his fat mouth.
You”d smile and shrug like you didn”t care, but you did. And he knew he”d win that day against you no matter how fat he was or how useless a soldier he would have made. Off came your style, your precious hair”your individuality. The barber would take off the middle first and you”d get a glimpse into the future, of how you would look when you were an old soldier and losing your hair to nature, but here today you”d leave looking like a newborn as you lost it to the bastard barber.
“Next!” the barber would shout as another one left shuffling off to the barracks to look in the mirror at his new self. Different head shapes would be revealed: circles, squares, and oblongs. Old scars from fights would finally see the light of day. Untanned skin with a short strong burr was scrutinized in mirrors.
It was a shock but one we got over as the other lads came back to the barracks. The lads would rub each other’s heads until it didn”t matter anymore. Everybody was in the same uniform again.
