For most of my life, I have worn short hair. When I was younger, my dad was my primary barber, and having a perfect haircut was not really the point. His standard method was a butch cut down to a quarter inch or less, which meant we only needed a haircut every couple of months.
As I got older and started caring more about my looks, I was not always as enthused about a “dad haircut.”
My Uncle AC Stadtmueller had been a barber at one point in his career and had a barber chair and his equipment in his house in Etna, Wyoming. About once per year, Mom would ask Aunt Geneal if Uncle AC would cut our hair, usually me, Cade, and Cory, and sometimes Dad as well.
But by high school, most of my haircuts came from Doug Johnson, who ran a barbershop in Afton, Wyoming, on what we called Main Street, even though it was actually Washington Street.
It was the biggest town in the valley, but still small by most standards. The north-south streets were named after U.S. presidents: Lincoln, Washington, Adams, Jackson, Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe.
My dad liked Doug. Sometimes when we were in town, he would stop by the barbershop just to talk, not even to get a haircut.
Doug’s shop had a cool chair with iron legs that curved underneath the seat, making it bounce. Cade and I often sat there waiting for Dad to finish shooting the breeze. We loved that chair.
Dad was quite strict about our haircuts. He emphasized short hair off the ears, which was fine because I liked that style too.
While I have memories of many haircuts from Doug, a couple of moments stand out.
We had an open campus in high school. I did not even have to check out. I could just leave. I remember walking downtown several times to get my haircut from Doug. Sometimes Mom or Dad would suggest I needed one. Other times, I went on my own.
Most times, I could get there and back during lunch. But sometimes I would be a little late for Fifth Period. I would just tell my teacher I had been getting a haircut from Doug and that he had been a bit busy.
No note was needed. I was never marked tardy. A man’s word was his bond, even if that “man” was just a high school kid.
One day, we were in town, and Dad said we needed haircuts. He sent Cade and me to Doug’s shop and said he would be along in a bit. I was probably 12 or 13.
Doug was not busy, so Cade and I got in right away. After he finished, Dad had still not arrived.
Doug said, “That will be $4.”
Neither Cade nor I had any money.
I remember feeling nervous. I told him we did not have any money, but Dad was coming. I did not know Doug that well yet, and I was not sure how this would go.
We sat there waiting. It felt like a long time.
Eventually, Dad came in, got his haircut, and paid for ours.
The summer before my junior year, Dad sent Cade and me to get a haircut while he finished some errands. This time, he gave us money.
We got our haircuts and then went to find him. I do not remember exactly where he was, but he was talking with someone.
He looked at us for a moment and then said, “Go back to Doug and tell him he needs to finish the job. Your hair is too long over your ears.”
Mind you, not a single hair was touching my ears. By any reasonable standard, the job was done.
But not by Dad’s standard.
I was embarrassed, but Cade and I went back.
When we walked back in, Doug greeted us as if nothing were unusual. We explained that Dad sent us back and he needed to finish the job.
Doug just nodded, put us back in the chair one at a time, and trimmed a little more around the ears.
Can you say ... whitewall!
That was the standard.
In a small town, people trusted each other. A man’s word meant something. And if your dad said your hair was too long, it was too long.
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