The Beatles had long hair.

The Rolling Stones had long hair.

Samson had long hair.

I wanted long hair.

I grew it a little longer. It didn’t go unnoticed.

My father thought it should be severely shortened. He told me to get a good clipping.

I whined to my mother.

She advised me to get a slight trim and that would make my father happy.

I went to my uncle Bill’s barbershop.

I loved my uncle. He was big and could appear gruff, but he wasn’t that, “Hey, you kids, get off my lawn” kind of a guy. He was more of a “Hey, you kids, let me show you how to throw a curveball” kind of a guy.

I loved his barbershop, too. There were stories told there. Some of them were true. Each day, someone in the tonsorial parlor threw out the first lie. The rest improved on it. Each lie was allowed to reach its potential.

No one was allowed to get a big head. Even humblebrag was kept to a minimum. One man had sung at church and made the mistake of mentioning it. It was a quick consensus that his singing ability was actually an inability and that he was unable to carry tune in a five-gallon pail.

There was smoking in the shop, of course. Enough to create its own atmosphere. There was probably chewing and spitting, too, but I’ve blocked those memories.

Uncle Bill enjoyed a cigar. He lit one up the minute I took the chair. I gave Bill precise instructions on how I wanted my hair trimmed. It was to be barely touched by a scissors.

Bill told me not to worry. He knew what he was doing, after all he’d been cutting hair forever. He said that he’d still give me the family discount even though I had an oversized melon. A guilty bystander mumbled, “Buckethead,” and chuckled cruelly.

I sat in the chair as my uncle cut my hair. He began telling a story. It was a long story, like summer roadwork — neverending. The longer his story became, the shorter my hair became.

Clumps of hair fell to the ground as my protests fell upon deaf ears.

Bill quit telling the story only when there was no more hair to cut. My Beatle haircut looked more like a beetle haircut.

Uncle Bill was a rare individual. He’d done far more work than he’d been asked to do.

I didn’t find sitting in that barber chair relaxing.

That ancient experience (Where has everybody in it gone?) reminded me of a recent episode in the reality show called my life that involved a parent yelling at his daughter during an AAU basketball game.

The game was exciting. Maybe too exciting for some of the parents who were hypercritical of both players and referees. The refs welcome boring games, knowing that the most rabid of fans would have difficulty booing and yawning at the same time. The referees would breathe a sigh of relief if parents were banned from attending games.

I watched a young lady about to shoot a free throw. Her father, someone I didn’t know other than as a fellow visitor to a gym, sat next to me and screamed, “Relax!” I’m sure the girl didn’t find that relaxing.

I’m certain the young woman put enough pressure on herself. The game could easily have been decided by her free throw. Her father’s bellowing made it impossible for any of us to relax.

If you tell someone to relax, does that ever work?

It’s akin to telling someone to sneeze each time you see a sneeze guard.

Warren Zevon, singer and songwriter, advised, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

Enjoy the game.

Enjoy the haircut.

This day will never come again.

 

Hartland resident Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Sunday.