We were anticipating another fun Sunday at Dad’s. The routine for our weekly visits—carefully established and overseen by my father—never varied. On the way to his house, my wife Donna and I always had to stop at the best bakery and pick up the freshest bread made from the finest ingredients. If we were to alter that practice by picking up something from a supermarket (even a loaf disguised in appearance in an unmarked white bag), Dad’s sixth sense would instantly detect our crafty maneuver. And he’d look at us in disgust, certain we were sneaking “inferior goods” to his dinner table.
We had to be at his house by 12:30 pm—no later, or we would be yelled at. Before we sat down to dinner, we had to fill shot glasses with a precise quarter inch of liquor—no more, or we would be yelled at (Dad believed alcohol had certain medicinal properties, but he allocated booze much the same way a doctor dispensed a prescription: in miniscule doses that amounted to less than a tablespoon). When helping Dad dish out his homemade meal, we had to make sure the soup and/or gravy were boiling hot, almost burning the bottom of the pan, or we would be yelled at. Over dinner, we were to keep conversations minimal and ingest the nutrients in our food before it got cold or else—you guessed it—we would be yelled at.
But this week, Dad greeted us with something unexpected. Just prior to the ceremonial pouring of the booze, he announced he needed a haircut. Before I could imagine what he was talking about, he excitedly took out a well-worn cardboard box from the towel drawer.
I hadn’t seen this particular box since the 1960s. It was red, frayed and torn, with sides that were mended with dried-out adhesive tape. The inside cover had a note scrawled in my third-grade handwriting: “Beware: Bald maker!” And there, just recently lubricated with Dad’s motor oil, sat an ancient motorized hair clipper. The power cord was as thick a vacuum cleaner’s—and when you turned it on, it roared with such a vibration that it immediately numbed your fingers. My mom had used it to give us haircuts in our childhoods, back when crew cuts were the norm.
Today, Dad apparently wanted me to use the clippers to give him “a trim.” Yes, I think he believed I could style his hair as nicely as the cut-rate barber he goes to for $2.00, but he knew I was cheaper.
But to protect his hair and peace of mind…before he let me have the clippers, Dad handed me a neatly constructed diagram of the back of his head. He happily explained that he’d outlined the pictures days earlier. This diagram had two sketches: One was the bottom half of a square, with the word “NO” boldly written right in the middle of it; to its right was the bottom half of a circle, labeled “YES”. It reminded me of the “NO/YES” sign on the back of a rusty eighteen-wheeler truck, letting you know which side is safe to pass on. But Dad explained that his precise illustration indicated he wanted a “round back” rather than a “square back” haircut.
I did my best to meet Dad’s grooming directives, fearful that I would cut his ear off with this ancient vibrating tool. Luckily, I was working on the back of his head, so he’d be less likely to notice any flaws in my craftsmanship. I knew that he was preparing for the upcoming Podiatry Convention. I was preparing for a three-inch fill of the booze.
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