Coach's Choice
By Juan
I’m not sure why we did what we did, but we wanted to win the district baseball championship. We were desperate to motivate our team and school. As seniors, we wanted to leave our alma mater in a big way. And, we did. Now, after everything was over, after we won the game and the championship, after we confessed our wrongdoing, coach loaded me and my three buddies into the school’s security pickup truck, off to our punishment, the barbershop. And, not just any barbershop, we were on our way, at the edge of town near the military base, to Mr. Cope’s barbershop, a place were only military men and yokels got their haircut.
The year was 1987. Some guys were beginning to cut their hair into flattops and ivy leagues. But, for the most popular and fashionable, long hair covering most of the ear and passing the collar in the back of the head was the still the sign of "cool." And, we were the coolest guys on campus. As star players of a two-time State championship baseball team, we thought we ruled the school. We dated the hottest girls at our school and our rival, Maxwell High. We got away with drinking at the bars around the Army base. And, as the "hoods" got in trouble for smoking in the boy’s room, we sat undisturbed, in the back of the auditorium during assembly and in the dugout during games, putting snuff between our gums and spitting tobacco juice, just like the majors.
As for our hair, mine (David) was the shortest. I had golden blond hair, thick and super-straight. It went passed my ears, just short above the lobes, and just about touching my collar. As for style, I was unimaginative. I combed it flat against my head, parted on the left side, combed to the right with bangs that fell slightly above my brow. Scott’s hair was as thick as mine; it was reddish-brown and just a little longer than mine. He parted it in the middle, combed back at the sides, and the weight of his hair would cause the very back to slightly flip up in all directions. Keith’s hair was as long as Scott’s. His whitish-blond hair was not as thick as ours, but he had sideburns than ran down his face even with the bottom of his ears. Keith parted it down the middle and it never seemed out of place. Alvis was the wild man. He had very thick, dark brown, slightly wavy hair that was almost one length all over. He combed it back off his face in an unruly pompadour. But, it was so long that it would fall over his eyes in a matter of minutes. It was about an inch passed the bottom of his ears and two inched passed his collar.
The team had not performed well in our senior year, maybe it was too many parties or maybe it was because we were too sure of ourselves. Anyhow, we had made it to district finals against Maxwell High, our greatest rival. And, something had to done to motivate the team. Two days before the last game, I got an idea that would piss off the entire school. Half high on beer and snuff, we sneaked into our school baseball field at 3 a.m., poured gasoline into the shape of a big "MHS", and lit a match. We scorched our rival’s initials 20 feet across the field. Too ensure that Maxwell would get blamed for the desecration, Scott and Keith wrote this note, taping it to coach’s office door.
Tasting the blood of defeat.
Maxwell High Rules!
Die Brewer Buffaloes! Die!
When we found out that Coach Merman was going to be fired, we confessed wholeheartedly. We had saved our coach’s job, now we were on trial. We were told to wait in an empty classroom for what seemed like hours. We could hardly look at each other and sat in silence. We were not mad at each other because we all agreed to participate. I found out that Scott and Keith had not confessed, but rather bragged about the crime at Sunday school. What dumb-asses I thought. But, Alvis and I did the same to some military men at Joe’s bar the same night. We knew that we would meet coach’s wrath. Surely, he would let us have it. He would hold nothing back when he would ask us to place our hands on his desk and lean, displaying our asses to be beaten. He would also have to endure extreme physical conditioning, 200 laps, 500 sit-ups, and other drills. We could take the physical punishment. Our parents would ground us for months. But worst of all, if suspended or expelled, we were off the team. If that happened, we would lose everything important to us at the time. Little did we know that we would also lose our hair.
"Boys, if I suspend or expel you than you can’t play at any sporting event for the rest of the year," Principal Martin said.
"No more baseball, you’re the best on the team. Everyone knows. Coach is very disappointed," he continued. "So, we came up with a different punishment, one that will stay with you for a few months. Every time you look in the mirror, you will be reminded of your juvenile delinquency." "Each of you will go with Coach Merman and get a haircut to his specifications. I spoke to your parents and they agreed."
"A haircut, I don’t want a haircut," Keith said.
"Me, neither," I said.
"How short?" Scott said.
"Ok!" Alvis said bluntly.
"WHAT?!" the three of us responded.
"Come on guys. It’s a haircut. It grows back. And, we still get to play ball. We play. Let’s do it and get over with," Alvis pleaded.
Coach never spoke as he drove us to the barbershop. I had hope that the barbershop was closed. I hated barbershops. When I was a little kid, my dad would order the barber to buzz my hair. By the time I was 12, my hair was long and I got it cut at a salon where my mother got her hair done. I knew that Keith, Scott, and Alvis got their haircut at the same salon. Also, I knew that coach rarely visited the barber. Coach Merman was 38. He wore a small goatee, wire frame eyeglasses, and a shaved head. He had serious MPB and shaved the rest of his hair off himself. It looked good on him. I wondered if we would all be shaved completed bald like him. It was a distinct possibility.
We stopped at a small wooden shack of a building with gravel in the small parking lot. The barber pole turned as a neon sign lit the word, open. Damn it, I thought.
"Ok, you "girls" behave yourselves. I don’t want any trouble. I’m so pissed off at the lot of you. You sit in the chair and take it like a man," he said. We all timidly agreed.
When we walked in, Mr. Cope greeted us. "Welcome neighbors, I’ll be right with you," he said. The barber was about 60, thin, with ugly black frame eyeglasses, and a short buzz.
As we sat in folding waiting chairs, an Army officer in his mid-20s hopped in the barber chair. His hair was light brown and no more than an inch long and maybe an inch and a half long on top standing straight up.
The barber put a towel over the officer’s collar, a strip of tissue around his neck, and snapped a black pin-stripped cape around him. Without saying a word, the barber picked up the biggest pair of clippers I had ever seen. When he turned them on, the buzzing sound stopped our collective breath. We were in trouble.
Mr. Cope took the clippers and cut a two-inch line from temple to temple, exposing his scalp, on the military man. It looked strange, hair above the line and hair below the line. The barber, than, maniacally, took all the hair below the line completely off. I started feeling sick to my stomach. I did not want to sit in that chair, not with this "butcher" of hair. I looked at coach who was reading the sports page. Scott only stared at the floor, not able to watch our executioner’s work. Keith was obviously nervous because he kept fidgeting in the folding chair, running his hands through his hair. Alvis showed no emotion.
"What’s up with you?" I said. "Do you enjoy this?"
"Hell, no, I want my hair longer. But, even if we end up looking like coach. Our hair still grows back. And, we get to play baseball. I could not think what humiliation it would be to be kicked off the team. I can sacrifice my hair, temporarily, remember it grows back, but no one can take way our high school glory days. They can take our hair, not our glory. I may never accomplish anything again. Scott and I aren’t like Keith and you. We aren’t going to college. His family has no money. And, my grades suck. Scholarship or not, I won’t get in. I’ll go to Harvard-on-the-hill, maybe…hey, look Playboys!" Alvis said.
"But, everyone will make fun of us with stupid haircuts," I responded.
"Who cares?" Avis answered.
I was moved by this glimmer of maturity that I had never seen before in Alvis, only for a moment, for he was consumed by the pornography. Harvard-on-the-hill was the derogatory name for the local community college, and it was mediocre at best. I just assumed that we all had applied to the best colleges in the state- UT-Austin, Texas A& M and Texas Tech, like me.
By now, Mr. Cope had given the Army officer a perfect high-n-tight flattop with a wide landing strip. The barber now had a small pair of clippers, and with a comb spent minutes blending the haircut at the crown from skin to what little was left on top. Scott, Keith, and Alvis were totally occupied with the Playboys, but I could get my eyes off the barber’s work. Damn, it was short. The hell with Alvis’ mature attitude, I did not want to get a haircut.
Sitting in an empty barber chair was a policeman. In his early 30s, he, too, wore a flattop like the military man enduring Mr. Cope’s handiwork. "That boy, can’t get his eyes off your haircut," he said talking to the Army officer.
"You want a haircut like mind?" the officer asked me, smiling and chucking.
"How about it? It’s good to see your dad bring you and your brothers into visit Clyde. He’ll make you look like real men," the policeman said.
Why were they talking, it only made me sicker to my stomach.
"We’re not brothers. He’s our coach," I answered.
"I brought them in here as punishment. They don’t want short hair. But, you’ll right. They’ll leave here looking and feeling like real men," coach responded.
"Good! Great! Discipline!" the policeman and Army officer, said together.
The barber was finishing the Army officer’s haircut by shaving with a straight razor around the ears and base of the neck. "Next!" Mr. Cope stated loudly. His words got all of our attention. The policeman was next in the chair.
Talking to coach, the policeman said that he wanted us to go before him. He invited the Army officer to stay and watch. Mr. Cope told them that he had beer in a back of the shop. It was closing time for him, 3 p.m. They sat down with their beer and lit their cigarettes, waiting in anticipation. Coach didn’t drink or smoke or use snuff. Boy, could I use a stimulant.
We looked at him with fear in our eyes. Who would be first?
"Alvis, your hair is the longest. Let’s go son." coach said.
Alvis drew a big breath to gain courage. As he sat in the chair, he shook his mane wildly, in defiance.
"What will it be?" Mr. Cope said.
"A short buzz cut," coach said coldly. The barber, the policeman, and the Army officer smiled with approval. I turned my head down, I couldn’t watch. But, at least we would not be shaved bald. Or, so I thought.
"We’ll use a No. 1 guard," the barber said. "But, his hair is so long, it might damage my clippers. I’ll have to whack the length off first."
Alvis smirked at coach, as if to say, ‘go ahead asshole, I can take it.’ Sensing this, the barber uncharacteristically yanked the back of Alvis’ hair, causing Alvis to frown. Mr. Cope turn on the big clippers, and with his comb pulled about four inches straight above his head. Next, he sheared the hair above the comb, sending it to fall down Alvis’ face to his lap. Scott and Keith laughed out of nervousness. Alvis laughed in response and than closed his eyes tightly. The barber repeated the process over the top of Alvis’ head, then the sides, and finally the back, cutting his hair in a variety of lengths over his head. It looked like a cow chewed at his head. The barber got carried away in the back, cutting it to about a half-inch. The mullet that Alvis was attempting to grow was now on the barbershop floor. Mr. Cope changed blades on the clippers and placed them in the middle of Alvis’ head. The barber buzzed a white strip down the middle from the front to the back of the head, reducing it to stubble. Like a lawn mower, the clippers passed over the top of my friend’s head, next from the right sideburn all the way up to the crown, around the back of the head, all the way to the left sideburn and temple, leaving stubble in its wake. But, the haircut was not finished. Mr. Cope took smaller clippers and cleaned the line around Alvis’ ears, high and defined. Lastly, the barber took a pair of clippers that hummed as opposed to a buzz, and, unmercifully, shaved the bottom of the back of Alvis’ head. It seemed to pull at Alvis’ hair and I heard him whisper curse words. It will take a year or more to grow out his mullet. With shaving cream and a straight razor, Mr. Cope finished the haircut with an outline shave. Alvis looked weird. Maybe a flattop would have looked better. He was the most muscular of the foursome. But, I never noticed until now that his face had soft, round features, almost feminine.
"That looks great," coach said.
"Do you like it?" Mr. Cope asked.
"I feel bald," Alvis said solemnly.
As Alvis stepped from the chair, Scott got up and rushed into the restroom. He was so quick that coach didn’t have time to react. Alvis rubbed the back of his head, pulled his head away from me as I tried to feel the stubble, placed on his ball cap, and promptly went back to the Playboys.
"Keith, you’re next. Give him a high-and-tight. No. 2 buzz on top," coached said.
"No sideburns?" Mr. Cope asked.
"Yeah, no sideburns," coach responded.
After the cape was placed around Keith. Mr. Cope took the small clippers in his large hands. With one motion, he took the sideburns to the skin. He lathered both sides of his face, sharpened the razor on a leather strap, than with gusto tilted Keith’s head to the right and than the left, shaving off Keith’s pride and joy. Keith was famous on campus for his sideburns and for stealing bases on the field. Now, he had tears in his eyes, trying hard not to cry. Mr. Cope placed the big clippers to Keith’s forehead, starting the buzzing. Keith pulled his head back. Mr. Cope firmly grabbed the back of Keith’s head like a vice. "Don’t move," the barber said strongly.
"I told you, boy, no trouble," coach said as he stepped toward Keith in the chair. Coach grabbed Keith by his chin. "I’m sorry," Keith said. "Shut up and sit still," coach barked. Throughout, the haircut, coach held Keith’s chin and head perfectly still.
"Where’s the tall kid?" the Army officer said.
"You think he ran off?" the policeman said.
"I don’t let anyone but Clyde cut my hair but I usually give the guys in my unit high-n-tights," the military officer said.
"Really, I did the same when I served in the Marines," the policeman said. "Coach, Clyde, mind if we take care of the tall kid."
Since, they had their hands full with Keith. They both hastily agreed.
Scott walked out the restroom as the men escorted him to the second barber chair. They prepped Scott for the shearing. He looked scared, not aware of what was happening. They turned on a pair of clippers, each taking turns, passing the clippers between them, and buzzing Scott’s hair.
It was an absurd scene, the haircut circus in front of us. The policeman and Army officer rushed to keep up with Mr. Cope as coach held Keith’s chin. It was a matter of minutes before both had buzz cuts, a little longer than Alvis’ new hairstyle. Next, Mr. Cope took the smaller, humming clippers, and ran them up the back of Keith’s head all the way up to the crown, exposing nothing but skin. The barber continued around the right and left sides. It was way too short. Mr. Cope paused and walked toward Scott. He handed the amateur barbers his clippers. "Try these," he told them.
I felt sorry for Scott. Of the four of us, he was the most popular with the girls. He was voted Most Handsome, Homecoming King, Baseball Beau, Best Eyes, Best Smile, and, even, Best Hair. To my sisters, he was a Greek god. But, his haircut looked awful. Never let two over-zealous hair enthusiasts cut your hair after drinking a six-pack; it won’t look right.
Scott’s hair was uneven around the crown. Mr. Cope told the policeman and Army officer that he would finish the blending when he was done with Keith. Keith and Scott just stared in space throughout the ordeal, in shock. Alvis continued to read the Playboy magazines; he was up to April’s edition. My stomach got sicker.
The barber finished blending Keith’s high-n-tight and topped it off with an outline shave. He walked toward Scott sitting in the second chair. With clippers in hand, Mr. Cope spent another 10 minutes fixing Scott’s high-and-tight. Coach slapped the back of Keith’s head, as he stepped out of the chair. "There you go, that wasn’t so bad, crybaby," he said to Keith. Turning to Scott, he said, "Looks good, pretty boy." I never heard coach talk that way to us. My stomach got even sicker. I was next.
Mr. Cope was frustrated fixing Scott’s high-and-tight. He grabbed the small clippers and shaved the hair, he had been blending, all off, leaving a small patch of hair right on the top of Scott’s head. Then, he changed clippers and buzzed the top of Scott’s hair even shorter. Finally, he took shaving cream and his straight razor, and shaved Scott bald from below the crown, all the way down the sides and back of his head.
"I gave him a recon, Ok?" the barber told coach.
"Fine, with me… David, in the chair, young man. You’re the ringleader. Mr. Cope…I want him like me…bald," coach said.
My heart stopped. Alvis looked at me with sorrow in his eyes. I looked at Scott and Keith. Strangely, they actually looked good in their new short haircuts. They appeared more brawny. They promptly placed their ball caps on and sat back down waiting for my scalping.
Mr. Cope put the tissue strip around my neck, a towel into my collar, and snapped the cape on me. When he turned around, I quickly attempted to get out of the chair. The barber grabbed me by my hair and pulled me back. His hold was weak and I attempted to get out of the chair again. This time coach pushed me back from the chest. Again, I jumped out of the chair six inches or so, but the Army officer and policeman pulled me back by my arms. I tried to leap out of the chair several more times and it took three adults to keep me in the chair. It was mayhem. Coach and the military and police officers kept yelling at me. My friends joined my side, encouraging me to fight and run.
"Sit down!"
"I told you, no trouble, boy!"
"Relax, take it like a man!"
"Let me cuff him to the chair!"
"Go, David!"
"Don’t take it, David!"
"Sit Down!"
"Go, David!"
"Go, David!"
"Sit Down!"
Finally, Mr. Cope screamed at the top of his lungs. "Let, him go! Let him go! He doesn’t want a haircut. Let, him go!"
The adults released me. The entire shop became deafeningly quiet. I sat in the chair, catching my breath. I look at the adults and than glanced at my friends. When I realized that no one was going to hold me back down. I anchored my hands to the barber chair, bracing my weight against my strong arms, and jump out of the chair, landing inches from the shop’s front door. With the cape still around my neck, I opened the door. I was going to run as fast and as hard as I could, getting far from the scene. But, I stopped dead in my tracks.
He stood in front of me, 6’3’’ and 260 lbs., blocking me from safety. He was dressed in a designer suit, wearing expensive Ostrich-skin cowboy boots, and smoking a strong but sweet cigar. His red hair was cropped close to the head, not buzzed, but just long enough to lay flat against the head, tapered high on the sides and back, combed forward with short bangs hiding a receding hairline. Surely, the haircut was Mr. Cope’s handiwork. He was my dad.
"David, what trouble are you causing now?" my dad said with his deep voice in a stern but calming way.
"I’m ashamed of you, son." he added.
That was it. I could not keep my composure. All I wanted to do was to win a baseball game. I had made all the wrong choices. I began to cry. I thought I was a 17-year-old God… a man of means… a big shot… a superstar. But, I was only a boy who disappointed his father, his coach, and his friends.
My, how the high and mighty have fallen. Tasting the blood of defeat.
"I don’t want to be bald, dad. Don’t make me do it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I do anything else. But, not bald," I sobbed.
"It’s only a haircut, son. Coach, does it have to be bald?" my dad said as he put his hand on my shoulder and turned me back toward the barber chair.
"He doesn’t want a haircut. I’m not going to do it," Mr. Cope said.
"Fine, we’ll deal with it on Monday. But, he’s off the team, and maybe the school will file vandalism charges," coach said.
"Jail? Dad? You’re a lawyer." I questioned.
"David, you need to learn that there are consequences to your actions. But, let’s not jump ahead of our selves. I’m asking you, will you take the haircut?" dad said.
I shook my head and dropped it in shame.
"Ok, let’s go home. Coach, can I take my son home?" dad said shaking hands with coach and the barber. "Wow, I think I’m ready. Clyde, you got time for one more haircut?" the policeman said.
Laughing and shaking his head, Mr. Cope pointed the policeman to the chair.
"Sure, another high-and-tight flattop on the way." he said.
Everyone went home. "It’s going to be okay, dude. Don’t worry, we’ll stand behind you," my friends said to me as they drove off with coach.
It’s been years since that day. We won the State title that year. Alvis never went to college, but he now owes a construction company. He’s very successful. With my dad’s help, Scott earned a law degree. He works in Houston, where his good looks get him a lot of media attention. Keith never grew back his sideburns. He became a Aggie cadet at Texas A&M. He died a hero in the Gulf War. I miss him very much. Every time I see a young man with long sideburns I can’t help but think the Keith’s sideburns were so much more "cool."
I teach at a large high school. I, also, coach baseball. I’ve been married for 7 years to Scott’s youngest sister, Liz. And, we have two daughters.
The day after coach took us to Mr. Cope’s barbershop, I asked dad to drive me back to the shop. When I walked into the shop, the barber simply asked, "You ready?"
"Yes, sir. Sorry about yesterday. This is my choice. I’m ready to take it like a man," I said.
I sat in the chair, my legs becoming weak and wobbly. My stomach became sick again. But, I resisted the temptation to jump out of the chair. I sat as still and straight as I could.
"Relax,’’ my dad said.
Mr. Cope faced me in front of the mirror behind the chair. And, he turned on the big clippers. This time he started on the right side, removing my hair from the sideburn to the temple. My hair fell to my shoulder. He continued around my right ear as more hair fell. It felt strange not to have hair touching my ear. I could not watch the shearing in the mirror, I focused my eyes on my lap as I saw more and more hair falling in front of me. Mr. Cope directed my head down, my chin touching my chest. I felt three or four passes up the back of my head, the cool air from the vent above me tickling my skin. The barber continued the clipping to skin the left side of my head. Next, he ran the clippers over the top of my head. Four more passes and my head was skinned bald. I looked in the mirror. My heart sank. I hated it.
Mr. Cope lathered my head with shaving cream. He sharpened a razor across a leather strap. He told me to sit very still. He maneuvered the razor with deft precision across my head. In less than 30 minutes, all my hair was on barbershop floor. I was completely bald. Mr. Cope placed a hot towel on my head, next a cool towel, and , lastly, aftershave lotion that stung a little.
When Mr. Cope finished, I paid him $4. "Oh, my God, I’m bald! I have no hair!" I said to myself. The more I touched my naked head, the more I began to like it. We made a sensation at school, with our short haircuts. No one believed it was a punishment; everyone thought we did it for school spirit. We were still the coolest guys on campus.