Hitler's Hairy

My Dearly Beloved has of late suggested that she cut my hair.

Her motives for doing so are entirely honourable, deriving as they do from the sweetness of her heart. She is concerned about my impoverished financial condition, and does not see why I should fork over ten bucks so some bloke can run his clippers through what’s left of my hair. The fact that my hairdresser, George, has been applying his No.2 blade to my cranium for well over a decade is irrelevant. My Dearly Beloved wishes to spare me the unnecessary expense.

To date, I have resisted all of her well-intended suggestions on this point. Not from ingratitude, you understand; but because of a secret pain, a suffering so acute that it spurs me to reject her kindly offer of a free, home-style hairdo.

When I was a child, my mother used to cut my hair. I can still clearly recall the scene in the kitchen: the home hairdressing kit, the scissors, the hair clippers with their odd, cod-liver oil smell. And it was on one such occasion that I was scarred for life.

My mother’s haircuts were always workmanlike if unspectacular; enough, at any rate, to meet the needs of a ten-year-old boy. I had no complaints. I was never particularly demanding in this department; perhaps I sensed even then that I was never destined to have enough hair to ever make a fashion statement. Perhaps I was just dull.

In any event, on the occasion in question, I sat in the chair in the kitchen, and Mum went to work. And, boy, did she do a number on Yours Truly.

When I looked at the results in the bathroom mirror, I nearly screamed. Fainted. Both. My fringe, which had once been the usual unruly childhood tangle, now sloped across my forehead at a steeper gradient than a ski-ramp! Just like Adolf Hitler’s! Being a history buff, I had plenty of books on World War Two – and the photos confirmed the comparison. My mother had turned me into the author of Mein Kampf.

I realized immediately what had happened. Mum had accidentally taken too much off one side of my hairline, and had tried to make amends by turning the scalloped monstrosity into something resembling a fringe. I appreciated her attempt to rescue my dignity; but in the schoolyard, there’s just nowhere to hide. The “cool” kids made fun of me. The bullies made fun of me (while they beat me up). The teachers made fun of me (while they gave me detention). My friends made fun of me (and they wonder why I don’t talk to them anymore). For weeks and weeks, my life was a waking hell as children and adults alike invented ever more smart-arsed ways to make cutting references to my mangled mane.

It took me years to get over it. I always hated school photo day after this event. The only consolation from my subsequent hair loss is that I now have less about which to be self-conscious.

So, my Dearly Beloved will just have to accept that I cannot go near a set of hair clippers held by anyone except the trusty George. I know it pains her to think that I am spending my limited financial resources for no good cause; but I can assure her, the pain of doing otherwise is much greater!

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Time heals what reason cannot. (Seneca)