Michael D. Davis

You can call it loyalty or insanity, or a combination of the two, but I’ve only ever had two people cut my hair.

My first barber was Pat, a tall man who was ironically bald. As far back as I can remember, the man never had a scrap of hair on top of his head, just some that clung to the sides and back. Pat was also a smoker. Every time I went to get my hair cut, It started with him taking a smoke break. As he sat and smoked, he started the main part of what made the haircuts with him great; he started talking. The man always had a story, or a tidbit, or something that happened to him that made the conversation roll. My Ma, my sister, and I would all be sittin’ there talkin’ with him about this, or that for God knows how long before he’d kind of groan and say, “Alright” and the actual hair cutting would start.

When ya made an appointment with Pat, ya had to know what you were in for. It wasn’t snip, snip, then you’re on your way; you had to clear your schedule. The initial chat alone usually took about 45 minutes. It was an event.

For the first 18 or so years of my sister’s life, she didn’t cut her hair. She only had it trimmed. Back in those days, her hair was down past her knees. My god, she could swing it and knock a person out, take it from me, one of her victims. Anyway, my sister’s high school graduation comes around, and she decides to chop off 90 feet of hair. Friends showed up for support, reporters showed up to take pictures, and Pat grabbed the scissors. For him, that was a three cigarette haircut, nearly a record. He chopped off 38 inches of my sister’s hair and donated it that day.

For me, my hair never grew more than an inch or two long until I was about 14. In middle school, I ran into some unsavory students who, for some reason, thought I should get a haircut. As an act of rebellion, I didn’t touch my hair for four years.

At the end of the four years, we were back at Pat’s with family and the local reporter. I didn’t get 38 inches lopped off or cause a three cigarette haircut, but I did alright. He only took 18 inches from me that day and donated it.

After that, I kept my hair off my shoulders, not goin’ crazy, until Pat retired some years back. Then there was no one to cut my hair. At that time, I truly believed I wasn’t gonna get my hair cut again.

Pat’s the only one who’d ever touched my head. I didn’t get my hair cut again for another year or two. We finally found Erica, thank God, and I didn’t turn into Cousin Itt.

The stories, the talking, the chatting, that is a quality you need in someone who’s cutting your hair, in my opinion. They can’t just be silent back there as you stare off into space, tryin’ to remember the words to that song ya heard earlier. I mean, that’s ridiculous. Ya need a back and forth.

I just went and got my hair cut again the other day, and it had been a while. Two years exactly. How do I know two years exactly? Well, because I haven’t gotten it chopped since Meat Loaf died.

And that great singer died by a dashboard light back in January of 2022. And yeah, I know, that’s a weird way to keep track of when I got my last haircut, but it worked didn’t it?

Eh, I got one more little story for ya here. Back when I was maybe five or six, my Ma took me to the Clothes Closet the morning I was due to get my haircut. At the Closet, I found a full kids Hawkeye football costume, helmet and everything. How this appealed to me, I don’t know; because if you know me, you’d know the last thing I’m into is sports of any kind.

Anyway, we get the outfit, and I wear the outfit the rest of the day, including to Pat’s, to get my hair cut. On the wall, in our living room, there is a picture of me taking a knee on the sidewalk in full Hawkeye uniform. By just looking at the picture, you would assume that I played sports as a child, but no, that was just me going to get a haircut.