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The clipper was special. It was a trip to the barber. In 1975 or so, when I'd taken my first trip to the barber, I'd been amazed by the close bristly feeling on the back of my neck following a cut. And haircuts were so fast with clippers, much faster than when my father gave me haircuts, which were only with the scissors. This would change, however, within a few years after my first trip to the barber.
He bought the clippers at Fedco, which was a discount department store in California, membership to which was available for free to people who were on welfare or social security or who worked for nonprofit organizations. My father counted as the latter, and so our family were regular visitors to this place when I was a child (not so much later, the reasons a mystery to me). Fedco was always busy in those days. I remember watching the slide show projectors that were set up near the checkout counters while we waited in line. These were projectors that didn't shoot across the room at a screen but rather played the slide show from within a box, as if you were watching your slides on television. This was probably new technology in those days.
The store had everything: electronics, clothing, food, even a pizza joint. And there was also, within that store, a hair and shaving section. This wasn't just some section where you plucked stuff off a rack, though. No, this was a section like you might find in some chichi department store, complete with its own expert staff member there to help you select the best haircut or shaving equipment. This was the 1970s after all, when there were still full-service options at most gas stations.
The clippers my father bought came in a plastic blue box, about eight by ten by two. Inside were clippers, scissors, and a comb. I'm sure there was more, but I don't remember much more about it now. There were also instructions about how to cut hair. Dad experimented on all of us, even on himself. I don't think he was happy with the cut that he gave himself, though, and I don't blame him. I know from experience how difficult that can be, especially if you're not doing a buzz cut. There were many hours spent in the mirror, recalibrating the back of his head.
Mom and I--we both got haircuts at Dad's hands. I don't remember my sister getting haircuts at his hands, but I'm sure they happened. The reason I don't recall that is largely because her hair was long for most of our childhood, long and never cut except for a trim at the bottom. The story of why the hair came off is for some other time.
My dad cut my hair all the way from childhood until I was twenty, and the only reason it stopped was that my parents moved away. Had inertia carried me forward, I'd probably still have haircuts at his hands. Much as I learned to dislike plane flights, once they were no longer a novelty because I had to do them regularly on business, I learned to dislike the barber once it became the only option.
When my parents moved back a few years later, although I'd have much liked to have returned to my father's cuts, it seemed to me an inconvenience to him. My father also no longer had the facilities--the large garage where our haircuts always took place. A bathroom, a party deck--these areas were not conducive as hair would be everywhere for days afterward. And then there was this: I was older. I was an adult. All of twenty-two or so. I wasn't keen on running back home as soon as my parents returned to California. I'd managed just fine without them, although I'd certainly used their help with paying for my housing while they'd been gone. As cheap as I was, even free haircuts didn't seem worth being accused of being a kid again.
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