When Billy's Mom Combed My Hair

by Scott C.

PART 1

The episode of precise, slick hair combing that I’m about to describe occurred in 1965, when I was 11 years old. But to fully understand the sensational effect it had on me, I have to go back to an incident that took place when I was much younger -- probably no more than three. Sometime during 1957 or 1958 I had accompanied my father for what was a regular, biweekly Saturday morning visit to Mickey the barber. Nothing about this visit stands out now, so the details presented here are essentially a reconstruction of what likely took place.

My dad was bald and he kept the remaining horseshoe of hair closely clipped, so his haircuts took very little time. Once Mickey had trimmed my dad’s remaining hair, he lifted me onto the booster seat in the same barber chair for my haircut. After covering me with a striped sheet and pinning the overlapping ends low around my neck, Mickey’s comb began to move my hair here and there. The scissors snipped, the clipper buzzed, wisps of hair fell away, and the very overweight Mickey wheezed as he breathed above my head. Mickey’s damp hand would push my small head this way and that so as to get the right angle on the area he was cutting. The hair on my neck was cut close, the sides short, and little pieces of itchy clipped hair would inevitably work their way down my neck and back. There seemed to be longer hair on the top, and the front hair was combed down toward my eyes then cut at an upward, left-to-right angle. Occasionally, Mickey would brush fallen hairs from my eyelashes. The whole thing probably took ten minutes.

Then, either at the direction of my father or more likely just Mickey’s routine initiative, the session culminated in the shaking of some cool and sweet-smelling yellow liquid from a large bottle Mickey selected from the many on the shelf at the base of the mirror in front of his barber chair. This was simply the normal way men’s and boys’ haircuts were done in the late 1950s, and I don’t recall that this treatment struck me in any extraordinary way. Only in the retrospect of decades of excitement and fascination with this process do the details and impressions come into clearer focus now.

Once my hair was wet with what Mickey called “smelly stuff,” he set the uncapped bottle down on the shelf and began to rub my hair and head vigorously. Some sort of vapor mildly irritated my eyes and nose during the rubbing, but this irritation subsided as Mickey began to comb my tousled hair. Everything went forward first, then the toothed edge of Mickey’s long black comb carved a part at about the 11-o’clock position on my head. The shorter hair on the left side was smoothed down and back, then the diagonal bangs swept up and off to the side opposite the part where they blended into the shorter hair on the right side of my head. Mickey combed the longer top hair off to the right, and that was it. I do not recall having any immediate reaction on this occasion, but I’m sure I glanced at my reflection in the mirror with mild astonishment at the shine and order atop my head.

At some point, I must have been told the fragrant tonic was used to keep my hair in place and “train” it so it would grow in the direction of the combing. I knew it was how many men and older boys wore their hair, and I was told it was how I wanted to look, too. Being the obedient child that I was, I’m sure I made no protest about its use nor would I have presumed to request it. And for the same reason, I’m sure I resisted whatever youthful temptation I may have had to run my small hands through my stiff hair and “muss up” Mickey’s careful combing.

My father was apparently satisfied with the results but was not expressive about such things. I was aware from an early age that my mother considered all aspects of my appearance important, and I later learned that she particularly favored this manner of “grooming” my hair, as she called it. Knowing she would be irritated if I disturbed the neat and shining evidence of my morning haircut, I left my hair pretty much as Mickey had combed it for the rest of that day and into the early evening.

My parents were having dinner guests that night, and after my mother changed my clothes for company she found it necessary to recomb my hair. For whatever reason, my mother’s added attention to my appearance probably annoyed me, which in turn probably annoyed her. A few moments later, though, everything about my awareness of the appearance of my hair intensified to an unimaginable degree.

My parents’ guests the Blanchettes arrived at the appointed hour, doorway greetings were exchanged, and no sooner had Mrs. Blanchette come into our house than she spied me in the hallway behind my parents and exclaimed in a tone of complete adoration, “Doesn’t he look nice!”

Her compliment of my appearance caused me to blush and cringe with an embarrassment that I had never before felt. I can hear her words and her tone to this day, and the self consciousness they inspired is palpable. Something was probably said about a big boy’s haircut or words to that effect, and that brief moment galvanized in my psyche a parallel discomfort and odd excitement about the appearance, aromas, and all the other sensations associated with having my hair cut and meticulously combed that endures to this day.

The immediate effect of Mrs. Blanchette’s remark was a resolve to avoid having my hair ever again be the focus of unwanted attention. Sometime probably very soon after this experience, I persuaded my parents to allow me to wear my hair short enough that there could be no such neat combing and the use of any kind of grooming aid unnecessary. For the next eight-plus years, I prevailed upon my parents to keep my hair cut so that even parting it was impossible. At a quarter-inch in length, my hair dried almost instantaneously after a shampoo, a shower or a swim. It looked the same every day, and therefore never drew an unwelcome comment or glance.

The trips to Mickey the barber continued at regular intervals throughout these years, with the standard instruction for a crew cut. There was never any consideration of a flattop or a “butch” cut that a number of boys my age wore and which obviously would have necessitated the application of some objectionable wax or other holding product. Gradually, I became aware of Mickey’s amusement at my adamant “No!” in response to his question, “Smelly stuff?” at the conclusion of every haircut. And other than on these occasions, I had successfully given myself and everyone else very little reason to even think about the appearance of my hair.

By the early ‘60s, though, that began to change. As I grew older, more boys my age began to wear their hair in one identifiable style or another. Some kids appeared in school with their hair neatly combed every day, and I secretly admired their confidence and un-self consciousness about this style that, for me, bore so much personal significance. I actually liked the way it looked on guys with the same straight hair type as I had, and at some level I recognized that growing my hair longer and having it combed in that “ivy-league” style would still be socially acceptable. I figured that after the initial remarks at the change in my appearance, it would go essentially unnoticed. Yet I knew I lacked the nerve to try it and even for a moment risk another encounter with what was to that point my moment of greatest embarrassment.

Privately, though, I began to think more about having longer hair and regularly practicing the regimen of applying hair tonic and combing it neatly every morning before school and church, and probably before bedtime, too, just to help the training process along. I became more aware of the various liquids and creams used for men’s hair, and looked more attentively at the bottles of these preparations on Mickey’s shelf. But I was also aware that these wet-looking styles were falling out of favor, and particularly worried that the television commercials that poked fun at “greasy kid stuff” and the hairstyles they helped create would add to the unlikelihood that I would ever be able to wear my hair in such a way without acute self consciousness.

So, the crew cuts continued. By the summer of 1965, the Beatles and their followers had been a cultural force in America for better than a year and the influence of their dry, mop-haired style had noticeably accelerated the change in the way some boys and young men looked. At my age, though, I had neither the autonomy nor the will to test my parents’ tolerance with anything so unfamiliar and threatening to their shared sense of order. But they seemed agreeable enough to allow the top and front of my straight hair to extend beyond the uniform length of the customary crew cut. And with more boys wearing their hair in a less controlled fashion, there were only occasional and brief parental suggestions for me to do much with it other than occasionally run my hand through it to give it some casual and temporary direction.

PART II

That, too, changed one Friday evening in the fall of 1965. My parents were going away for the weekend, and I was under orders to visit Mickey for a trim right after school. After my haircut, my friend Billy Bartlet’s mother would pick me up at the barber’s and take me a few miles out of town to spend the weekend at their home. The visit to the barber was uneventful and most likely concluded with my emphatic “No!” in answer to his now rhetorical offer of “smelly stuff” when he had finished cutting my hair. By then, my hair simply fell to just past the middle of my forehead, cut almost straight across now since there was no need to make the sharper diagonal that better lent itself to the precise and slick combing I assiduously avoided. Mickey still cut my hair the way he would for a neatly combed hairstyle; the sides and back were conventionally short and tapered with the top and front still long enough to shove loosely to one side as the mood struck me. But without training or the assistance of comb, water or any sort of grooming product, the effect was minimal.

My friend Billy’s father was an author of Western novels and worked at home, and his mother was a striking, elegant woman who invariably wore her lustrous auburn hair neatly coiled in what I later learned was called a French twist. The style accentuated her long, slender neck and the magpie-like shape of her head, and her smooth coiffure radiated sunlight in a way that seemed inexplicably deeper than the simple reflection of light that came from wet hair. The Bartlets had two teenage daughters whose attractive blonde hairdos seemed to change conspicuously each time

I saw them. They were friendly and uncritical enough, but as uninterested in the affairs of two 11year-old boys as any junior high girls could be.

I arrived at the Bartlets in the crisp hours of a late October afternoon, and there was time for Billy and me to throw the football around on his broad, gently sloping lawn. The maple leaves had been raked into rows along one of the stone walls, and we took turns tucking his smooth, nut-colored football under our slender arms and charging through the brittle piles. As darkness fell on our improvised game, Mrs. Bartlet came out on the porch and called us to come in to get ready for supper. Billy and I raced toward the house, remembering to brush the fragments of colored leaves off of our jeans, sweaters, and out of our windblown hair before heading inside.

Billy’s dad was established in the den, half-full cocktail glass in hand and sitting under an ornate powder horn he had carved himself that hung from a wrought-iron hook in the wall. There was a fierceness about Mr. Bartlet that either mimicked or inspired — I couldn’t tell which — some of the harsh 19th-century characters I had encountered in his books. I had learned from earlier visits to steer clear of him in the evening hours, but as an overnight guest, I saw no way to completely avoid the same rigorous expectations he imposed on his only son.

We had just pulled off our wool sweaters when Mr. Bartlet commanded, “Billy, go on and get cleaned up for dinner.” And although he didn’t address me by name, it was clear from his tone that whatever orders he gave Billy would apply in equal measure to me this weekend.

Then came the order from Mr. Bartlet that induced instant panic: “And I want that hair neatly combed before you come down, too.”

He wasn’t kidding around, and I knew he meant that my hair, which I could see in the hallway mirror was now electrified with static, had better be just as neatly combed as Billy’s would be.

Billy responded with the usual and deferential “Yes, sir,” and made for the stairs a beat ahead of me. I’m sure this second instruction was for Billy as routine as the first one, but Mrs. Bartlet sensed something in my expression or my hesitation toward the stairs and quickly leaned over and said softly, “I’ll be right up and I’ll give you a hand, Scott.”

I climbed the stairs slowly, but my mind raced between the confusion as to what Mrs. Bartlet meant about “giving me a hand” and my worry about how I could comb my hair — or what would happen if I didn’t. I didn’t carry a comb with me nor did I pack one in my duffel bag, and I had never even tried to comb it wet and neat because of the anxiety that I would have to confront if anyone saw me with my hair so obviously tended to. I was certain that my unsuccessful efforts to comb my hair neatly with my hands would meet with a withering remark from Mr. Bartlet. But I also dreaded his angry reaction if I showed up with dry, messy hair pushed off to one side with my hand. I was going to be there for the whole weekend, and I saw no way out.

Nearly frantic, I tried to act calm as I manually smoothed out my dry hair while Billy washed his hands and face at the guest bathroom sink. Mrs. Bartlet had laid out towels for us on the bathroom chair, and I thought I heard her start up the stairs soon after Billy began to run his wet hands through his wavy hair. Billy left the water running for me and started drying his hands as he walked across the hall to his bedroom to comb his hair. I had seldom seen his hair slick, but I assumed he had been combing it for some time because it was basically trained to hold a neat part and stay off of his forehead.

I left the bathroom door open as I washed my hands, my stomach in a tightening knot over my predicament. Billy came out of his room with his wet hair perfectly combed and brushed, and his mom said, “You look very nice, Billy. Tell your dad I’ll be down in a couple of minutes” as they passed in the hallway.

Mrs. Bartlet tapped a nicely polished fingernail on the doorjamb and asked me if I had everything I needed. I lied slightly and told her that I must have forgotten to bring a comb, and asked if it would be okay if I didn’t comb my hair tonight. She smiled and said, “Oh, so that’s why you seemed a little uneasy when Mr. Bartlet told you boys to comb your hair. Well, maybe I can help.” My confusion continued and I really didn’t know what to say. She then told me to put the towel around my neck and “wet your hair down while I go get something you can use.”

Mrs. Bartlet left the bathroom and I tentatively began to distribute water through my hair as she had instructed. I figured Mrs. Bartlet was going to bring me a spare comb to use, and recognized what I was committing to. But there was no turning back; my hair was now unmistakably wet and, whether I liked it or not, very shortly I would have to comb it that way.

In a moment, Mrs. Bartlet returned with the comb, but I quickly noticed that she also had a hairbrush in the same hand and a small ribbed bottle of yellow liquid in the other, and the knot in my stomach grew ten times tighter. She set the items down next to the sink and told me to have a seat in the chair.

“I think young men look so handsome when they have their hair neatly combed, and you’re going to look just great when you use some of this in your hair,” she said reassuringly. Then, sensing that she had only heightened my anxiety, Mrs. Bartlet pointed to the glass bottle and asked, “Would you like me to show you how to put some of this in your hair and comb it for you, Scott?”

My heart was in my throat as I tried to speak and force a nod at the same time. I knew I couldn’t refuse and I was still overwhelmed with outright dread about anyone seeing me and making a fuss over my sleekly combed hair. But my hair was now damp with water and I was expected to be downstairs ready to join the family for supper in a few minutes. And here was someone who obviously took great care with her own hair and who seemed to understood my apprehension about how my hair was going to look. Before I could actually say “I don’t know” or “okay” or anything, Mrs. Bartlet began blotting my hair with the ends of the towel. I’m sure I winced as she unscrewed the cap on the little bottle and raised it above my head.

“Your hair is really dried out and hard to control from the fall air and all the static electricity,” she explained. “But this will make your hair look very lustrous and keep it neatly in place after we comb it. You’ll see.”

Mrs. Bartlet then began to pour large drops out of the bottle while using her free hand to keep rolling rivulets of the tonic in my hair, and I heard a distinctive glugging sound as the cold liquid hit my hair and scalp. Then a sweet, vaporous aroma enveloped my head, and I asked her what she was using. “It’s called Stephan’s Y-3,” she said. “I think most good barber shops probably have it.”

Mrs. Bartlet stopped after probably a dozen deliberate shakes around my entire head, and replaced the cap. The bottle made a clinking sound on the vanity counter as she gently set it down, and she then began to rub my wet hair with both hands. The mixture of the water and the Stephan’s Y-3 tingled and made a kind of effervescent sound as she rubbed it through every hair.

I was beside myself with anxiety now as she matter-of-factly asked, “You part your hair on the left side, don’t you? It looks as though the barber cut it that way.”

I shrugged and said, “I guess so.” Then I added quickly, in the vain hope of somehow avoiding having my hair parted now, “But I don’t really part it. I just sort of push the top hair over with my hand sometimes.”

“Yes, I know,” she said. “But I’m going to show you how to part it correctly now because I think that’ll be the best way for you to wear your hair. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair nicely combed before,” she continued. “It might seem different to you at first, but keeping your hair well groomed is just part of growing up, don’t you think?”

I knew this last question didn’t really require an answer, but before I could respond to anything she had just said Mrs. Bartlet picked up the black comb, stepped around to the front of the chair, and began smoothing out my messy hair. The tonic in my hair was thicker than plain water, and it seemed to make the comb drag and pull slightly as she repeatedly ran it through my hair. A few drops of the water-and-tonic mixture formed beads on the ends of my hair, and she gently caught them with the towel that was still around my shoulders.

She began by combing all the hair on the left side of my head forward, then turned the comb longways to make a precise, straight part through one of the furrows the comb’s large teeth had created. “This looks good right here,” she said as she combed the hair below the part down and slightly back above my left ear, gently smoothing down the combed hair with her other hand. Next, she turned the comb around so the finer teeth moved through the hair to the right of the part and expertly combed that hair up and back, again sliding the palm of her hand over the combed area. She then worked from the part over the top with the fine teeth, repeating the firm motion several times until each strand of hair was where she wanted it.

After quickly smoothing and blending the hair on the back of my head, Mrs. Bartlet set the comb down and picked up the brush, and the stiff bristles were prickly against my head as she pressed and smoothed the sides back and put every hair in place. “I’ll brush your hair a little, too,” she said, “to help hold everything in place,”

Out of the corner of my right eye, I could see a little of what she was doing in the vanity mirror. My whole head seemed smaller and darker, but I didn’t dare turn my head for a full look until she was finished.

“There, that’s better,” she said with a satisfied smile. “Now take a look in the mirror and see what you think.”

Still sitting, I nervously turned to my right to examine my freshly combed hair. My eyes widened as they moved around the glistening reflection of my head, and I’m sure my jaw dropped in astonishment. It was as though I was looking at someone else but with my face. The part was perfectly straight and the white of my scalp contrasted vividly with my now darker brown hair. The toothmarks from the comb looked like shiny fish bones on the little vertical rise at the front. The sides of my head were smooth and the shining hair nearly horizontal, and my right hand rose gently to feel what Mrs. Bartlet had created.

“Careful,” she said, and I quickly pulled the palm of my hand away from the cool surface of my head. “Your hair looks fantastic, Scott, and I think wearing it like this makes you look very grown up. You really should start combing your hair this way every day.” She paused while continuing to admire my hair as she dried her hands on the towel. “You look very handsome now,” she said in a more serious tone.

As I stood up, my nose passed through the scent of the hair tonic that lingered strongest where my head had been. I felt a tremble in my knees but caught myself before she noticed. Images of confident older boys rushed into my mind as I took in every shining line and curve of my hair. “It does look pretty good,” I heard myself say as she put the bottle, brush and comb in the vanity drawer. “I’ll definitely think about it, Mrs. Bartlet.”

Then remembering my manners, I thanked her somewhat awkwardly for combing my hair for me. “Oh, and thanks for helping me feel, you know, a little more comfortable about it, too,” I added with a nervous laugh. “But I still feel a little funny because nobody’s really seen me look like this before,” I confessed. “Including me.”

“It’s my pleasure, Scott,” Mrs. Bartlet said. “I’ll leave everything here in the drawer for you so you can comb it yourself in the morning. You might want to add a little water tomorrow, but what I used should hold everything pretty well overnight. Now let’s get down stairs and have some supper.”

Then the reality hit me that Billy, his father, and Billy’s sisters would be waiting, probably at the table, impatiently wondering what was taking Mrs. Bartlet and me so long to come down stairs. I knew that all eyes would be on my perfectly combed hair. Again, Mrs. Bartlet caught my hesitation and self consciousness, and said gently, “Come on, Scott. Don’t be nervous. You know I think your hair looks terrific, and everyone else will, too.”