Haircuts For Dummies

by John Christmann

There are some important facts concerning electric hair clippers that I think everyone should know. For example, were you aware that clippers come with detachable guides to control the length of the haircut? Or that without these guides clippers are only surpassed by a razor in the amount of hair they shave off the head in a single pass? And were you aware that professional hair clippers are available to anyone, regardless of experience?

These are a few of the dirty little secrets of hair styling that the electric clipper industry doesn’t want you to know.

But I am getting ahead of myself. You see, every year at this time I take my two boys to the barber to shear their shaggy winter hair. It is one of the first rituals of summer vacation, and they love to feel the fresh air across their heads when the hot days set in. Every year the hair dresser brandishes an electric clipper, runs it across their heads, and charges me thirty-two dollars for ten minutes work. And every year I complain about it.
“Thirty-two dollars for two haircuts? It’s highway robbery! I’ll cut their hair next time!”
My wife looks at me like I am a halfwit, and says “do you have any idea how much I spend on my hair?”

Save for the obvious concern that I am, in fact, a halfwit, I don’t think this is such a farfetched idea. When I was a boy my father cut my hair. He sat me high on the kitchen counter, fastened a sheet around my neck and shoulders, and turned on his electric shears. I felt like I was going into surgery. My whole cranium vibrated as the clippers ran over my scalp. When they crossed my temples the insides of my ears buzzed and my teeth hummed. Big hunks of hair plopped down to the floor and I could feel the hot metal clippers glide across my hairless head. Years later, when I first heard the term full frontal lobotomy, I envisioned the familiar drone of loosely harnessed electricity driving tiny blades over my skull. But as a boy, I just remember how much it tickled, and how itchy my neck became under my shirt collar.

I had no idea what I looked like until my Dad turned off the clippers and gave me a hand mirror. Even with the clippers shut off, I could still hear the buzzing in my ears. I was always surprised at the shape of my head without hair. It looked like a squashed peach, and when I ran my hand across the freshly mowed stubble, it felt like one too. But on hot summer days I was glad to have it short. Sometimes my Dad would shut off the clippers after a single pass and say he was done. In the mirror I could see a runway carved into my head. It always made me laugh. Then he would turn on the clippers and finish. But it didn’t really matter, because frankly, I didn’t care what I looked like—a particularly bad hair grooming habit which I still have today. Early on I had come to understand the intransigence of hair: as my parents reminded me after a few overly ambitious haircutting sessions, “don’t worry, it will grow back.”

So this year, when June started with unusual heat, I made a pronouncement: “This summer I am going to save some money and cut their hair myself!” My wife looked at me with the deep seated glare of an argument she was tired of having, but I stubbornly continued.
“What do clippers cost? Fifteen dollars? I’m going to buy a set and do it myself.”
“What do you know about cutting hair?” she asked, trying to reason with me.
“What did my Dad know? He did it! ” I replied. At which point my wife grabbed an old photo album and turned to an aged photo of me on my first day of Kindergarten. I was 5 years old, missing two teeth, and sporting a white patch of skin at the front of my scalp.
“Indians did this I suppose?” she said.
“Clippers are more advanced now,” I mumbled unconvincingly. “I think they have computers in them.”

I let it drop and had all but forgotten the discussion until my wife informed me that we were celebrating Father’s Day with some close friends, and that I should get the boys’ hair trimmed before the weekend. Taking my responsibility as a conscientious father and husband seriously, I procrastinated all week, but continually assured my wife I would get them in to the barber.

And I would have, had it not been for the bold claims of the ProCut Hair Clippers that I unexpectedly spied stacked high at the end of the toothpaste aisle at Target.

“What the Pro’s Use!” the box said in sharp, clean-cut text. The ProCut Hair Clippers came with thirteen attachments and its own sturdy carrying case with belt clip, I guess so that I could moonlight as a hair stylist. A boy with freckles and a trim crew cut smiled at me from the box, right next to his ruggedly handsome Dad, who was proudly holding up the $19.95 ProCut Hair Clippers in his hand. With a better haircut, I thought, that could be me!

So an hour later, with a brand new set of ProCut electric clippers in hand, I perched my younger son on the kitchen counter and prepped him for his haircut. I made my older son watch my handiwork so that he might remember the moment and one day be inspired to cut the hair of his own son.
“What will it be, young man?” I asked, draping a sheet over his shoulders.
“Not too short, Dad.” he said nervously.
“OK, a little off the top and just above the ears. The Pebble Beach Fairway Cut. No problem.”
I picked out the “long cut” attachment and fastened it with a click over the cutting edge of my new shears. I slid the button forward to high and immediately felt the warm, familiar vibration of 120-volt clippers travel up through my hand and into my eye sockets. I looked at my son’s head trying to decide where to begin. Just then the phone rang. I set the clippers down to answer it. It was my wife. She wanted to know if I had made an appointment for the boys.
“Everything is under control.” I assured her. I thought it best not to boast of my accomplishment until after she came home; when she would no doubt be pleasantly surprised by their great haircuts.

I returned to the clippers, depressed the button, and then charting my son’s round, ripe head as if it was a globe, set a course zero degrees North; dead center. Big tufts of hair wafted to the floor. Too much hair, I thought.
“Dad!”, yelled my older son, “don’t you need this?” He was holding the special “long cut” attachment. “This popped off when you put the clippers down.”
I looked at my young son sitting in the chair. He was sporting a very convincing Reverse Mohawk cut across his head, his pale white skin showing through the fuzz that used to be his hair.
“Oops!” I said, trying not to sound startled.
“Dad . . . ?” probed my son from his chair, his voice filled with panic.
“It’s nothing!” I reassured him. Then I turned around to his older brother and whispered, “It won’t be as noticeable when I cut the rest of his hair.” The clippers buzzed ominously in my hand and he looked at me in horror, as if I was Dr. Frankenstein.

I quickly re-fastened the attachment and glided the ProCut Hair Clippers effortlessly over my young son’s head making a nice, even cut just as the instructions promised. Except for the freckles and the long patch of hair missing from the top of his head, he looked just like the kid on the ProCut box.
“Here, put this on.” I said handing him a baseball cap to cover his scalp. Then I handed him a mirror. “Just like Derek Jeter.” He was smiling now.
“OK, chief.” I said facing my older son. “You’re next.”
He ran away screaming and locked himself in his room threatening to call child protective services.

I never did get to cut his hair, because just at that moment my wife arrived home and asked my younger son to remove his hat.

Here is another important fact concerning electric hair clippers that I think everyone should know. Were you aware that improper use can result in a sleepless night alone on the couch?