"Boy, Cut Your Hair"

A Wrangler shoot, a barbershop, and a prophecy come true.

We were on assignment for Wrangler, in Spencer, North Carolina, working on a catalog. The first set was at the NC Railroad Museum, and now we were across the street, at a barbershop, for the next scene.

The shop smelled like hair tonic and a hundred years of product spilled on the floor. I suspected the walls could tell a thousand stories.

Barbershop. Early 1980s.

As my assistant hefted in the lighting kit and the stylists prepped the model, I eyeballed a few angles. The radio, tucked on top of a homemade shelf, played a scratchy rendition of a Patsy Cline song.

The proprietor’s eyes followed my every move. I thought maybe he didn’t like my ripped jeans, or the way they were tucked into my white high-tops with red shoelaces, or the smudged t-shirt that looked like I’d been lying on the ground.

Conversation wasn’t easy. He looked at me, looked at my hair — long, curly, golden ringlets past my shoulders — looked at the door, and looked back at me.

The author, 45 years later.

Then he said, “Boy, someday you’re not going to realize it, but the truth is going to seep in under that door. It’s going to come in at night.”

The radio kept playing, but the crew went quiet, watching the two of us.

“And the truth is going to grab hold of you,” the barber continued, “and it’s going to say: boy, cut your hair.”

Hair remnants at SuperCuts, Kihei, Maui.

Today was that day. My first haircut in thirteen months. In my case, the voice said “Hey Dad, I’m going to SuperCuts, do you want to come along?”