Chapter One

Snarled in the traffic, the bus pushed its way painfully along the road. It slowly dawned on Brenton that to have his head shaved wasn't going to be all that easy to carry out. He had to be kidding himself. There was no way he could walk around completely bald. That might be alright for Yul Brynner and Kojak and Midnight Oil and Angry Anderson, but they were stars. He had to face a new group at University, and wouldn't they give him 'what for'! Anyone a bit different in the new intake was in for big trouble ... an automatic target to be rubbished. "Better just settle for a straight forward haircut like I had when I was a kid," he thought to himself. "Anything to get the Old Man off my back. Maybe parted in the middle. Yeah! That'll show him. I can have a bit of independence too." His father was a crew-cut man; left over from the sixties. Brenton realised his own hair was a hell of a lot longer than the Old Man could cope with. Even parted on the right side was for women, and parted in the middle was for ponces, according to his father. "Damn! This hold up will make me late. TimTrim will just about be closed by the time I get there. If I miss out getting a haircut today there'll be another screaming match with Pop. What if he keeps his promise to attack my hair with the scissors?" The thought somehow made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "Yeah! That's funny," mused Brenton as he touched his neck through his long hair, "That's what Pop wants me to get rid of." "I should'a' gone to the local Barber. But he's a butcher. I'd look like the Old Man." Brenton was becoming tense. "Get this heap moving," he almost shouted aloud. The bus cleared the traffic jam while Brenton was still considering his weighty problems. Through the open window the breeze blew his hair flapping across his face. In truth, Brenton was sick of his long hair. Not only was it a pain at athletics, but Cindy had a go at him at the beach a couple of days before. After they had been a hour in the surf together, Cindy had sat for ages combing the tangles out of his over-long salt matted locks. "I love your hair Brenton, but don't you think it's time to have it cut off. Long's not trendoid any more," she counselled, grooming him. 'Cut off' had not really meant much to Brenton at the time. Well, he and Cindy had just rolled over in the sand, kissing and raising each other's sap, as much as they dared on a public beach. After his shower that evening, at Cindy's place, he toweled his hair and was about to follow with Cindy's hair-dryer. At least he could do that at Cindy's. There was no way he could have a hair-dryer at home, not with the Old Man about, which was a good reason his long hair was so scrappy, so often. He seemed to be always drying it, after track, after the beach, after the sauna, after the shower. There was no pleasure in the chore anymore; and then came the combing and brushing to make it look half way decent. Not everybody had hair like Brenton, and he was proud of it in a way, light browny-auburn-to-fair in color, very slightly wavy, strong and very thick. With the fringe hanging way down past his mouth, it was impossible for him to run and train without a head band. Almost tempted, he took Cindy's nail scissors from the bathroom cabinet to slice off his fringe; considered again and started to nibble at the very tip as an experiment. There was no hope that these tiny blades could do the job so he rattled around in the cabinet till he found an old rusting pair of barber's scissors he knew were there. In frustration, he again attacked the fringe without much success. Because the scissors were very blunt, he only succeeded in mutilating the fringe, somewhat around the height of his eyebrows; not a successful trim! With the fringe combed straight forward, severely severed in a thick straight line now, just above his eyes, he walked back into the lounge room section of Cindy's bed-sitter to show his new style. "Hell Brenton, that looks terrible. Why don't you go and see TimTrim. Get it cut off," Cindy repeated. They both laughed at the sight in the mirror, Brenton still dripping wet, long, shaggy, saturated hair falling down below his ears and neck, with a fringe like a Japanese doll. "At least go and dry it properly" Back in the bathroom with the dryer and brush Brenton was able to get the part straight for once, low on the left side; and to flatten out that damn cow's-lick. Looking in the mirror the words 'cut off' came back to him. "What a hot idea, I'll have it cut off." He knew of course that Cindy had meant to have it cut shorter. But maybe that wasn't enough. Maybe he would have it cut off, knowing he really meant shorn off. Bald! Without mentioning it to Cindy, the idea had grown on him. Sure it was a jolt to make up his mind to shave his hair off, but he had to have a haircut, Cindy, the Old Man, and even himself, insisted. Tomorrow he would have to go to see TimTrim anyway. He couldn't face a home-made haircut from his father. And he had just discovered that without the right gear he would only make a mess himself. Better to have it cut off. Could he do that himself? Sure. But he would still go to TimTrim for the perfect job, all cut off! or not. But for the moment he kept it to himself and put the idea out of his mind. After a good spaghetti bolognaise and several glasses of cask red, the hair problem was forgotten. Later at home, as he brushed his teeth before bed, Brenton surveyed his hair once again, and was not impressed at the sight. With good hair like he had, he was ashamed it had got so far out of hand.   On his way to TimTrim's The BARBERY the following afternoon in the traffic delayed bus he fantasised about the eventual haircut he would have, knowing full well that he would never be game enough to have it cut off. Just a fantasy he realised. His hair had to stay. "What'll keep Pop happy, anyway? What's he want from me?; medium trim?; crew-cut?; short-back-and-sides?; Elvis Presley?; under-cut; marine-cut?;..... what?" Then it struck Brenton. "How about what I want..... me? Jesus, it's too hard!" The trouble was he'd never really made a drastic decision about his hair before. He just sort of went along with everyone else. It was true he had been going to TimTrim's salon for a couple of years, but that was only because the rest of the mob seemed to, and eventually TimTrim had become a friend. Brenton ran his fingers through his over-long hair trying to imagine himself in several different haircuts. "Like a drowning man," he thought. "They say he sees his life flash before his eyes." Only this time as far as Brenton was concerned, it was haircuts flashing in his imagination. Funny thing was, he seemed to have forgotten in such a short time all about the bald look, having his head shaved ... clean as a billiard ball. "Hey that's what this is all about. Bald. That's what I wanted in the first place," continued Brenton in his silent conversation to himself. "Nah! Who'm I kidding? Chicken! That's what you are Brenton. You haven't got the guts to let the sun shine through ..... right onto your naked scalp." He fanned his fingers up and over his forehead pushing his long hair back as his unmatched short fringe sprung down his brow, and tried an almost impossible new vision of himself without any hair at all. "What about Cindy?" He took his wallet from his jeans pocket to look at the picture of his girlfriend, tall, blond, tanned - Brenton's ideal woman. They were on the verge of moving in together. Meantime, he had to keep the Old Man off his back. With a part-time job he could just afford to leave home, start university, and live with his chick. Her father paid the rent on her flat while she was studying, and strangely he had no overt objection to Brenton. Cindy's father knew it was better to let his daughter do her own thing within reason, than to lose her. Last night he had not mentioned to Cindy that he might have his hair all cut off. The moment had not seemed right when he had phoned her during the day. What would she think? Probably get a kick out of it! On several occasions when he ran at track meets, she had braided his hair into plaits to keep it out of his eyes during the race. But it was just temporary. Cindy certainly wasn't radical, but she did like things that were individual. Would a shaven skull come under that heading? He thought it just might. Anyway, he could say he did it at her suggestion to have it cut off'. Could he take the risk though? A couple of times she had given him a blond rinse to match her own natural crowning glory, which the pair admired, both for the look and for the adventure. But, discretion being the better part of valour, he had washed it out before he went home to face the Old Man, though it would have pleased his girl and him to keep the blonding.   The bus slammed to a halt and shot Brenton back into the real world. Out the window was TimTrim's BarberShop. Like a shock of suddenly being awakened from a dream, Brenton, hair flopping all over the place, jumped toward the exit, and getting a furious glare from the driver. "Get ya' hair outta' ya' eyes kid ... you'll see where ya're goin'," growled the driver as he snatched at the handle to open the door a second time. Gusts of wind blowing down the street lashed Brenton's long locks about as though trying to rip them off his head. This was no good for a serious athlete, he realised, and he was a serious athlete, an Olympic winner of the future, he dreamed. Brenton was left standing on the footpath directly in front of the BarberShop. It looked like an old fashioned place, but that was deliberate, a reaction against the steel and glass of modern urban development. Across the window in large Victorian gold lettering edged in red and white was the title The BARBERY. Beside the door there was even a rotating candy-stripe barber's pole.   The red and white spiral seemed to draw him toward it, and the door of the shop, still open after closing time according to Brenton's watch. Something held him back, putting off the decision. He flicked his fingers through the hair over his ears and down to his shoulders - an acquired habit it dawned on him. Brenton hated habits. "Well, a haircut will fix that." He stood in the doorway for a moment. Yeah! Just a haircut." He wasn't ready to lose it all. "Next time. Yeah! Next time." Two stunners, cheer leaders from the track cheer squad, sidled past him as he made his way to the entrance. Snapping out of his reverie the young man eyed them, up from their sensual legs framed in short skirts, to their tight, low-cut blouses. "Will you look at those knockers?" he whispered under his breath. Talking to himself seemed to becoming a habit too, it suddenly occurred to him. "I'm becoming a mess," but he continued to eyeball the girls. Appreciating Brenton's complimentary attention, the maidens looked back and smiled.   "Don't do it spunky," one of them joked as he moved into The BARBERY, "Stay sweet as you are." "Keep your hair on," from the other. He grinned back, sheepishly, ogling them as long as he could; his eyes glued on their swaying derrieres, waggling away from him down the street. Caught in hot gusts of wind, the short skirts billowed up to their waists. "Oh! boy," Brenton softly whistled, getting control of himself. Purposefully he now walked into the shop as another customer was walking out, a guy in a mega-trendy style, long back, cropped sides, an image slick and successful. "See you in a couple of weeks TimTrim," the customer called back into the shop, now empty. "Yeah! Richie, keep up that conditioner, you hear?" a voice came from behind a screen, concealing the private salon and office. Brenton walked in quietly and sat on a massive chesterfield, reluctant to let the voice behind the screen know he was there. Maybe it would be too late to be served. Usually the shop had four Barbers, three now apparently gone for the day, their hairdressing equipment tidied, their cloaks neatly folded over the chairs. Highlighting the shop were those old fashioned cast- metal, leather-covered, pump-up, reclining-kind barbers' chairs. TimTrim had spent a lot of money furnishing the salon in original decor. Running the entire length of the work area was the barbers' bench, resembling an enormous walnut side-board set with patterned porcelain basins and fine polished taps. There was an ancient, tall, brass towel-steamer, aspidistras in jardinieres on cast iron plinths, and framed posters hanging on the walls advertising hairdressing needs, razors and pomades from the olden days. Adding to the atmosphere, harmonies sung by a BarberShop-quartet wafted from speakers hidden by The BARBERY bric-a-brac. It could have been a high class BarberShop from the turn of the century. All Brenton's contemporaries came here, like being members of some kind of exclusive club. Customer's names were always remembered and each was treated more as a friend than a client. A big bound book held descriptions of all the regular's styles, likes and dislikes. No other place in town was like The BARBERY. Besides, TimTrim and his team were top hairdressers; no style was beyond them; no trend escaped them. Noise from behind the screen told Brenton that the boss Barber was still there, worse luck. How about that screen? It was TimTrim pride and joy. He picked it up in a brothel in Cairo a couple of years ago. What he was doing in the brothel, he would never tell. The screen, eight feet square, framed in Arabic inlay and filigreed cedar, featured a lead-light panel illustration in the style of the ancient Egyptians. It depicted a Pharaoh seated on a low throne with several hand-maidens washing and anointing his feet and manicuring his nails. Behind the throne, a servant with a small strangely curved blade was shaving the Pharaoh's head. Brenton flinched. Every occasion he had his haircut over the past few years he had seen that screen, but this time it meant something more than an interesting piece of decoration. Lit from behind, the Pharaoh having his head shaved stood out to Brenton. This had to be an omen. Picking up a hairstyle magazine from beside him on the leather seat, Brenton flipped through it. Maybe there would be some ideas in it he could use. All the hairdos he saw looked like they take an hour of solid work each morning. That was no good to him. There were boring cuts and weird cuts in the glossy pages, some gelled into peculiar spikes, geometric shapes with pieces shaved out, sculptured looks for male models, long or short, even a multi-colored Mohawk. Wasn't anything simple any more ..... not even an haircut? In frustration the magazine was cast aside. "What's new around here?" the lad asked himself, again. Trying to spot any new-old pieces TimTrim and his team had added to the decor collection in The BARBERY was a kind of a game played with customers. A concentrated look around the shop was essential. No way was TimTrim going to catch him out. There it was! Something he hadn't seen before was a framed ad for a baldness cure. "That'd be right," he said aloud with a grin. "Oops, omen number two." "Won't be long, you out there. I'm just closing up," the voice from behind the screen spoke. "That mean I'm too late?" asked Brenton hopefully. "Depends on who you are, man," the voice said as his head appeared from behind the screen. "Hi! Brenton." "Hiiiii..... " Brenton's voice trailed off at the sight of the hairdresser. In his late-thirties TimTrim was a tall handsome Negro with an Afro hairdo. But now his head reflected the lights of the salon. His Afro had gone. His skull gleamed like the well-polished knob of the mahogany walking-cane in the elephant's foot umbrella stand by the door. "Christ TimTrim, what happened to your Afro?" was Brenton's automatic startled greeting. "Hair today and gone tomorrow," was the stock answer TimTrim had been inflicting on his customers, and Brenton got the same tired gag line. "What do you think?" continued the grinning Barber as he stroked the top of his head with the palm of his hand. Brenton's reaction was stifled. In fact he just did not know how to react. It had to be omen number three! "It sure is different," was the only reply Brenton could muster. "Here ya' go Brenton." TimTrim waved him toward the barbering seat. No waiting; your turn in the chair." "You certain it's not too late?" asked Brenton, half wanting TimTrim to shut the salon there and then. "Not too late for you man. Be glad you got a friend," TimTrim assured him. "Besides man, you need work on that mop real quick. There's no time to lose. Where you been my man, in a hair growing contest?" Brenton said nothing. He could hardly stop himself bolting right out of The BARBERY. But he climbed into the chair feeling as he thought a zombie would feel. "Look Brent, you got good hair. It's a shame to see you neglect it ..... outta' shape, scraggy, dried out ends. Not like you to let yourself go," counselled the hairdresser. "Takes bucks, Tim. Cindy wanted to have a go, and well, I had a bit of a snip myself. You can see that wasn't too successful." "Seen worse home handy-man haircuts I can tell you. But now you're in the hands of a ministering angel like you shoulda' been months ago, money or not. You just ask me to add it to your tab till you start work. You're a friend Brenton. I don't like to see you going to wrack and ruin." "Sorry TimTrim. I should have known." "What's the matter friend? You pre-occupied or something? Not your usual bubbling self today?" asked TimTrim flapping the cloak over Brenton and adjusting it firmly around the neck. Brenton's shoulder length mane gathered under the cloak; TimTrim eased the hair out letting it fall down the back of the chair. Embarrassment flashed over Brenton at the length of hair he now saw hanging over the cape. Still he had not answered the Barber's question, but gazed fixedly at TimTrim's hairless head, where there had once been an Afro. "What's it to be today feller?" enquired the hairdresser as he pumped up the old fashioned chair to working height. The action confused Brenton even more, though he'd had the same experience in the same seat dozens of times before. "You gotta' do something positive with this mop kid. Something trendy?; like Richie you ran into leaving, close sides, full back; or no part; brushed straight back; razor cut on top; layer cut at the neck; just to the top of the ears ... not too much ... you know ... just shape it up? Any or all of the above, if you'll pardon the expression. Whatever ... you'll still be the smartest dude on the campus." TimTrim continued as he moved the comb through Brenton's hair, demonstrating his suggestions. "Speak up boy." "I just dunno'," mumbled Brenton, shrugging his shoulders under the cape. In his mind the phrase cut off was bouncing around, but it would not come out of his mouth. "Want to try some streaks?' questioned TimTrim trying to get some kind of reaction from his customer. "Yeah! I know. Bleached Hot-Head like a surfer". "Look at the time TimTrim. What if I come back another day?" Brenton pleaded. "I just can't make up my mind." "Not while I've got you in the chair, with the state you're hair's in Brenton my boy. Time's not a problem for a friend in need. You game for it Brent? Blond or streaks?" TimTrim encouraged. "If you say so Tim. Cindy would go for that," Brenton replied with just a spark of enthusiasm. Yet he was more confused than ever. Why should a simple haircut be such a pain? But that was the trouble. It wasn't going to be just a simple haircut. "Hey, I could use some input man, You gotta' give me some idea. What's wrong? Trouble at home?" "Yeah! Tim. Sorry. The Old Man's giving me agro. He ordered me..... ordered me, to get a haircut..... among other orders," apologized Brenton. "Can't be all bad, your father. He's got the right idea. Keep the country beautiful - visit your Barber today! And today's your day," joked TimTrim again trying to lighten the tension. "You don't know the half of it man," replied Brenton, though he did relax a little, looking at his image in the mirror. "OK Brenton. The time's come. What's it to be? How do you want your haircut? Leave it to me?" pleaded the patient Barber. This agro Brenton could do without. It was just his own making, He sat up straight and shook his long hair about. "Agreed! Streaks TimTrim. Big blond streaks. That'd be something wouldn't it? Parted right down the middle. Just cut it shorter to keep the Old Man happy. I'll leave it to you." TimTrim grabbed at the flying hair and began to comb the centre parting. But it was only half a decision and Brenton knew it. Staring at himself in the mirror, watching TimTrim work the comb into his hair and trying to imagine this new image of himself as he had been doing all day, Brenton's throat was dry. "Oh! well," he thought, "at least it'll look better than it does now." Somehow his eyes were drawn to the 'baldness cure' poster again. He looked at it for a moment, then back to the Barber's shining hairless head, creating its own halo from the vintage green-shaded billiard-table lights hanging low from the ceiling. Suddenly, he twisted around to look at the Barber face to face, and at the shorn scalp. "What's it like ..... having your hair ..... completely cut off TimTrim?" he almost gulped. "It works for me," replied the Barber, stopping his work with the comb. "Ar ..... ar ..... What about me?" Brenton stammered out the question at last. "Are you thinking you might want me to shave your head Brenton?" TimTrim asked in amazement. The comb went into the breast pocket of his satin waistcoat that made up the old-fashioned barber's costume, together with a striped shirt, bow tie and diamontee studded arm bands ... and spats. For a moment Brenton could not believe he had asked the question. Confusion kept him quiet. "That's kind of going from the sublime to the ridiculous," TimTrim commented with mirth, flicking Brenton's long hair every which way. "Hey! I take that back ... not ridiculous," massaging his own bald scalp with the tips of his fingers like Stan Laurel. All Brenton could manage from TimTrim's clowning was a grin. Comedy did not seem to make his decision any easier. As if to confuse the young athlete even more, TimTrim took from a purple velvet lined leather case containing a set of seven instruments, one for each day of the week, a pearl handled cut throat razor, and opened it up in front of Brenton. "You want it all shorn off? That what you're saying friend?" "Yeah! ..... Well ..... " "Say it to me Brenton, so I don't make a mistake. Tell me what you want. Come on! Out with it!" "I dunno'. I'm ar ... I'm thinking I might have all my hair cut off ..... totally," announced Brenton after a good swallow of air. "Correct me if I'm wrong. You are saying you want me to shave your head  - ?" "Yours is pretty good ..... it's like far out." Brenton almost mumbled. "I dig how you look ..... " "Hey man," interrupted TimTrim, "don't let what I do lead you on. That's somethin' ya' gotta' make up your own mind about." "No, it's not that. I've seriously been considering it before I came here. It would sure get up the Old Man's nose," Brenton told the Barber with all the confidence he could muster. "That's some reason to shave our head, I don't think," advised TimTrim. "Look, I'm sick to death of washing this lot every day after training ... it's hot and sweaty. I gotta' get some kind of haircut ..... I just thought ..... while I was about it ....." "Think about it Brenton. You got the intestinal fortitude?" "What's it like TimTrim? Is it much different being bald ... form having hair I mean?" wondered Brenton. holding up a handful of his hair. "Nothing like it man," TimTrim patted his own scalp. "Should I do it? I'm still not too sure." "Since you asked me Brenton, that's my advise. Go for it. Get rid of all that hair. It's the ultimate scalp treatment, and not a hair in sight." The razor waved at the customer's potentially bald head. Transfixed, Brenton flinched back from the razor. "Or we can just shear it down to the wood -" "Like the marines you mean? That'd be alright ... I suppose." "Better still, if you really want my advise - " "Yeah! I do." "What about? - razor your scalp clean as a whistle, completely bald. Smoooooth. You been thinking about it? Then do it! 'Get it off. Get it all off" as they used to say Burleque. Get it shaved." TimTrim waved the razor even closer to Brenton's thatch. "Hey. Not yet. What if I only have it cut right down short?" "You dig mine, right?" asked TimTrim. "You want to look total? Then I gotta' use this," as he made shaving motions even closer to Brenton's head. "Yes. I do like it on you. That's the truth," answered Brenton with candor. "So I'd have to get my head all shaved, really shaved I mean, with a razor, to look like that?" "Right on man. Or right off," TimTrim grinned, pulling Brenton's long hair tightly back from the forehead and flattening the shorter fringe as much as he could. "There ya' go! Take a look at that in the mirror. That'll give you some idea." It did look interesting, Brenton thought. "Not bad. Will it look much like that?"   "Better, much better." TimTrim gathered up the long parts over the ears and pulled them back too. "I'll tell you one thing. You've got a good shaped head. It'd look real cool shaved ... If you know what I mean?" There was another broad grin from the Barber.