It’s almost been a year since the devastation wreaked by Hurricane Helene, and this fall will mark the 26th anniversary of Hurricane Hugo, which also resulted in extensive flooding and power outages. That day, September 22, 1989, was also the day I chose to get a haircut. 

Don’t ask me why. There was no rhyme or reason to that decision, and I have no sensible answer. It was a Friday, and I was out of work for obvious reasons, so maybe since I had some free time on my hands, it seemed like a good choice.

The problem with that choice is that, due to the power being out, the middle-aged, spectacled individual who cut my hair that day in her home had to forego the use of any electric devices. Rather, the assignment would be accomplished entirely with scissors…and in semi-darkness. It was the perfect storm.

When I returned home, my empathetic mother saw me exiting my car in what might be referred to as “the aftermath.” She would tell me later how sorry she felt for me as she witnessed the effects of my near scalping, interrupted by uneven patches of hair, like a bad case of mange. This would become known as the day that Hurricane Hugo cut a path across my head.

Throughout my childhood, my hair had been kept short. My mother recalls my paternal grandfather using electric clippers on my brother and me, practically shaving our heads. There was no need to fool with those various numbered guards – just whichever one gave that overall slickened-up, nearly bald effect.

Later, my mom took control of the clippers and allowed us a little more length, although my double crown and “cow-licked” bangs proved to be challenging. 

For a brief, and I mean BRIEF period of time, we tried out the “Hair Trimmer Comb” (see accompanying photo). With dual comb and blade action, it claimed to “Save Barber & Beauty Shop Costs for the Entire Family!” It was a bust. The gimmick failed to deliver.

Eventually, my brother and I accompanied our dad to the local barbershop, which was a big deal, because this was where real men got their hair did. I continued going there well into adulthood until my very own, personal Floyd Lawson went to glory. In all those years of coiffeured bliss, there were but few occasions I forsook our sacred barber/barbee relationship, and I admit these indiscretions never ended well for me. 

At intervals, I returned to my mother, but those electric clippers had not aged well. They snagged and pulled, and if the haircut was not accomplished within a reasonable period of time, the metal casing heated to the equivalent of a branding iron. I’m fairly certain the back of my head bears a mark identifying me with Ben Cartwright’s herd at the Ponderosa.

Then there was the Hurricane Hugo debacle. ‘Nuff said. 

But perhaps the worst incident – the one that drove me back into the arms of my barber’s chair – occurred a few years later. 

Some of you may recall me previously writing about my longish, straight-as-a-stick hair that was combed somewhat low on my forehead in a sweep-around motion and shellacked in place with hairspray – the hairdo that Art Garfunkel commented on, saying he had never seen one like that. Yeah, that one.

Anyhoo, I was tired of that look. Maybe Garfunkel’s critique had gotten to my subconscious. I wished my hair had body and curl and, well, with perms being all the rage, I decided to go that route. I should have taken it to the Lord in prayer. It was a day I would rue.

Since no self-respecting, old-fashioned barbershop gave perms, I turned to the salon frequented and recommended by my sister. I had been letting my hair grow longer in anticipation of the length needed for said procedure. When it was finished, it looked something akin to a curly pompadour. My heart sank as I contemplated the possibility of having to surrender my man card.

I made no protest to the hairdresser but paid my bill and began the trek of shame home. Living in a small town and afraid of being recognized, I sank down as low as possible behind the steering wheel. I looked like the old lady with the tall hairdo driving the car that Ferris Bueller’s father got stuck behind. Not familiar? Google “Ferris Bueller old lady driver.” You’ll see what I mean. I’ll be glad to wait. It’s worth the visual.

Upon my arrival home, I lamented to my sister. The only solution we could think of – a la “Legally Blonde” – was to try to wash out some of the curl. After all, in the words of Elle Woods, “The first cardinal rule of perm maintenance is that you're forbidden to wet your hair for at least 24 hours after getting a perm at the risk of deactivating the ammonium thioglycolate.” It seemed the best way forward. Bent over the side of the bathtub, I place my head underneath the running faucet and attempted redemption. IT.DID.NOT.WORK.

Pride in check, I made the drive back to the salon and had the stylist begin grooming the poodle resting atop my head. She cut out some of the curl; it was a vast improvement, and I even kept it for a time. In fact, I have a photo buried somewhere that proves it. It’s a shot of my sister and me, both with perms and wearing fanny packs (oh, the 90s!) standing by a guard at Buckingham Palace. I only regret we weren’t wearing wind suits.

Well, I ultimately came full circle – back to short, straight hair, and back to my ever-faithful barber. He was very forgiving of my dalliances with other hair professionals, never questioning my periods of absence, and welcoming me back, cape and clippers in hand. We remained together until his passing, and believing I would never find another like him, I bit the bullet and bought my own pair of electric clippers. 

Yes, for the past several years, I have cut my own hair, and it may very well look like it, but I am firm in my belief that my skill level at least produces results far superior to hurricanes, pompadours, and poodles.