My father was my first and longest-serving barber. On haircut day, he transplanted a swivel barstool from the kitchen to the back patio. Haircuts back then fell under the heading of things my father was good at that were not his main job but were more of a side gig. He was a lawyer. But like changing a light bulb, carving a turkey or replacing a sink gasket, cutting hair was a task he was called on to perform on particular occasions. I had the feeling his fingers liked playing out these different tunes, diversifying their skill set.
Step one was submerging my head under the utility room faucet. The utility room had a caustic odor. A fingernail scrub brush and a bar of Lava soap rested on the sink’s ledge. Paint speckled the sink’s deep walls. The carpenter’s glue stored in an overhead cabinet was not for children’s trifling hands but for reattaching St. Francis’ head to his torso: The wooden figurine was decapitated every few months while diving from his windowsill perch.
Besides the kitchen sink, the utility room sink was the only one large enough to fit a head beneath its faucet. Dad rotated my head under the spigot before coddling it in a beach towel. Then he would keep stride with me like a servant, supporting my unwieldy turban as I stepped into the hall and down two steps to the patio.
Once I was situated on the stool with the cape clipped around my neck, Dad would ask, “What do you want?” Although his question was open-ended, my father was like a waiter in a restaurant with a two-item menu. My brothers and I knew the thought bubble above his head contained only one image: a buzz cut. Though he appeared to receive alternative requests thoughtfully, we sensed he wasn’t sure if the kitchen could accommodate them. Buzz cut was the house special; if that’s not what the customer ordered, our father couldn’t guarantee satisfaction.
Buzzes were referenced in jest to me, the sole daughter, but never manifested. My hairstyle was usually a bob, plus or minus a few inches. I could tell Dad was less practiced at managing long hair because he would start the comb on top of my head, and it inevitably snagged on the way down, tugging my head off-center. My neck, typically cast in a silent supportive role, was then called into action, stabilizing my head in neutral. Each time he recalibrated to shorter strokes, as if reexplaining a concept in simpler terms.
Dad’s technique included combing my hair in front of my face, then snipping across. He drew a curtain over my eyes, the final act a mystery. Sometimes he stabilized the sheet of wet hair between his index and middle finger. Sometimes he snipped across without anchor. This seemed somewhat risky, like a kindergartner holding paper to cut it rather than pinning it to the table.
I felt like a tree in autumn watching pieces of myself fall onto the patio as an oak sheds its leaves and acorns. Afterward, Dad swept the clippings into the grass. I cannot remember if it was the case or my imagination that my brother Emmett’s fluffy hair was once found in a backyard bird nest. In any event, I liked picturing extraneous parts of myself becoming useful, weaved into a new habitat.
To Dad’s credit, once I reached the teenage years he encouraged me to seek professional services. “You really should go somewhere to have your hair cut,” he’d tell me. Yet the ease of stepping out onto the patio always appealed to me over the errand of making an appointment. Summer breaks when I was home from college, the vacant stool and flapping cape still beckoned me.
Was there something other than convenience that enticed me about those backyard cuts? For 20 minutes, I was the object of my father’s undivided attention. Draped in a white cloth from the neck down, it was as if my features were being carved out of a block of marble. Birds chirped overhead. A lawnmower whirred two backyards away. Otherwise, silence prevailed. I kept my jaw still to avoid creating any perturbance. My father, the sculptor, leaned close to make adjustments, then stepped away, cocking his head to gain perspective. My nose would itch, but I’d suppress the urge to scratch it. I kept my shoulders back and my head high. Within his gaze, I was an emerging work of art.
Erin Buckley is an occupational therapist and writer who lives in Richmond, Virginia.