Every Summer started....

With a haircut. No matter how I got there, Rain or Shine, Day or Night, the first order of business was a trip to the chair. Haircuts were always admisitered in the garage, which was much more like an office. It was never dirty, nothing was out of place. It was swept and orderly, and stocked with coffee cans and little jars with all manner of screws, bolts, tacks, nails and such. Smack in the middle of the garage, center stage for the haircut, Grandpa would place a big green wooden chair with arms on it. A box placed on the seat would raise me up to the perfect height. Then out would come the sheet. I remember the hair standing up on the back of my neck as Grandpa secured the sheet with a safety pin.

Grandpa knew one cut and one cut only. It was easy to maintain, and incredibly short. The clatter and buzz of the clippers would set to the task of creating the worlds shortest crewcuts. Grandpa was a perfectionist, and no hair was longer than another. The haircut didn't take anytime at all. My hair would fall silently, slipping down the sheet to the concrete floor below. As quick as it began it would be over. Grandpa would use one of those long-bristle brushes to knock away the clippings off my neck, just like a real Barber. Off would come the sheet, and Grandpa would lift me out of the chair and clear of the hair on the floor. The hair was swept up, the sheet shaken out in the drive, and the chair, box and sheet were returned to their proper locations.

This ritual occured each and every time I visited until I was nearly a teenager. Oh that I could sit in that chair again, hear the clatter and feel the buzz of those clippers against my scalp, as my hair fell to the ground, at the hands of my Grandpa.