THE HAIRCUT

I was raised on a Welsh hill farm surrounded by sheep and the wilds of life that populated an area that was mostly devoid of people. Limited access to the so called civilized world isolated the sparse human population. No modern conveniences, such as electricity and indoor plumbing, were available and transportation was intermittent at best. Neighbors and friends would visit occasionally, usually on horseback, dropping by after visiting the local pub or returning from a shepherding foray into the wild uplands. It was on one of these occasions when Gibb Lewis dropped by on his way to his own isolated hill farm.

Gibb Lewis was not only a hill farmer, he was a talented craftsman. He was renowned for making sturdy baskets including beautifully made whisket baskets, shepherd crooks, and walking sticks.

He would ask young men, when the opportunity arose, “When is the right time to cut a stick, boy?” There would be an assortment of seasonal answers and then he would smile, “When you see it.”

As well as baskets and sticks, he made besoms, those wonderful sweeping devices often referred to as witch’s brooms. His workmanship would make any flighty witch proud of her transport. His were the Cadillac of sweepers. He was also noted hedger and a master of many other rural crafts. There was always one thing that he wanted people to know, and that was the fact that he was the same age as the year.

I was nine years old at the time of his visit. He was a friendly man who had a distinctive glint in his eye, but even more distinctive was the way he pushed up his lower lip over his upper lip when he was about to speak. This action was a forewarning of a possible exposing of rural wisdom, with words that you could not back away from hanging on to.

After buying one of his exquisitely made baskets my mother asked if he knew anything about cutting hair. The bottom lip pushed up. She was ready for his answer. “Well, Mrs. Dingley, I have learned that skill, because I have done the lords bidding and came forth and multiplied. I have sons and I crop their heads before they are blinded by their hair.”

My mother was pleased. “Good, then I wonder if you could cut John’s hair before he becomes blind.”

The lip pushed up again. “Indeed, Mrs. Dingley, the boy should be cropped. Do you have a comb, a scissors and a hair clippers? Of course, I could use a sheep shears, if you have one, and don’t have the proper tools.”

I hoped he was joking.

Mother soon supplied a comb and scissors and then spent ten minutes scrambling through drawers to find a set of clippers. The clippers she found, to say the least, had clipped in better times. As she handed them to Gibb she said. “They are old, and haven’t been used for some time.”

“Well, we can hope, Mrs. Dingley, that as we get old we will be used less. The important thing, of course, is can we keep our edge.”

I didn’t realize, at the time, how prophetic his statement was.

He looked the clippers over. “I will do what I can with them,” was his comment as he squeezed the handles in anticipation of the task ahead.

I was seated backwards on a chair and a towel was thrown around my neck and tucked into my shirt collar.

Gibb went to work and at first the hair was combed and snipped with the scissors. So far so good, and then my head was ready for the clippers. Gibb’s left hand was clamped to the top of my head eliminating all potential movement. The clippers were clicking slowly up the back of my neck until they pulled and failed to cut two or three of the hairs it was aimed at. It hurt, I squealed. He backed up the clippers pulling out the two or three hairs. I wasn’t really counting. I squealed again. Mother admonished me and told me to sit still.

I could feel this, part time, country barber, smiling at my mother. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Dingley, we can tie him down, if we have too.” He chuckled, “you might want to have a cord handy.”

Mother believed him; however she did not go in search of a cord. Instead, I received another admonition. “You will sit still, if you know what is good for you, John David Dingley.”

I did the best I could under the excruciating circumstances.

Every attempt that Gibb made would result in a hair or two pulled, and a squeal. Although, mother was continuing to admonish me for my painful outbursts and futile attempts to get away, Gibb in all fairness came to my defense and explained to her that it was the fault of the clippers, and not the tortured boy, with his tear stained cheeks.

The task was completed. My squealing out had, somewhat unnerved Gibb, and I think he was as glad as I was that it was over.

He addressed my mother once more. “Well, I can tell you now, Mrs. Dingley that after all that noise you should have him quiet for quite for some time.”

For years following this ordeal whenever I ran into Gibb he would remind me of that stressful day. The lower lip would move up and he would give me an intense look. “Do you remember when I cut your hair, boy?”

“I do Gibb, I do, I remember it well. How could I forget?”

He would continue. “A stuck pig could not have squealed more, but fair play to you, you stuck it out even though those clippers were in need of a good sharpening. I told your mother that it would be very few who could have stuck it out like you did.”

I would smile. “I had to stick it out, Gibb, because you had me in a grip that I couldn’t get away from.”

I still wonder to how many people he told of the story of my torturous ordeal.