The Barber of the Kill

With summer fast approaching, and Hick providing my warm-weather coiffure, I harken back to yesteryear, when Hick gave summer haircuts to the boys. Whether they wanted them or not. Somewhere Hick came to possess a set of hair clippers. He had often mentioned that he might set up his own little barbershop out here, if he could find time to go to "barber school."

The older boys took it well. They were 4-6 years old when I first met Hick when we lived in the same apartment complex. HOS and The (Little Future) Veteran were rough-and-tumble boys. They liked shooting BB guns and looking for snakes and lizards and arrowheads. A summer buzzcut as soon as school was out was not something they looked forward to, but was readily accepted.

Our two later boys were not so accepting. The command to "Go get a towel" was met with heavy sighs, resignation, a ducked head, and slow feet. Genius and The Pony were not exactly prissy, but cared more about appearances. Genius begged to wear a vest and bowtie for kindergarten picture day. The Pony refused jeans for his entire school career, only wanting khakis or cargo pants/shorts.

Hick would take them out on the back porch, so the fallen hair dropped through the cracks. The towel was to drape around their shirtless shoulders, and prevent itching and squirming. Actually, there was not much squirming, because the boys were AFRAID of Hick and his clippers. He was not the most gentle or conscientious amateur barber. One year, he nicked The 4-year-old Pony's ear. Blood and tears flowed with equal speed. In true Hick fashion, he said, "If I hurt you, I'm sorry." What in the Not-Heaven? I think drawing blood certainly counts as hurting! So that apology did not need conditions!

Anyhoo... the next summer when Hick told The Pony to "Go get a towel," The Pony reluctantly returned with it draped across his forearms, carrying it to the back porch to his imagined doom.

"This is to catch the blooood," solemnly declared a subdued little Pony.