The photograph in the local newspaper showed a picture of a wooly-haired child perched upon a booster seat on a chair. Surrounded by family members and friends, this boy was about to experience a Jewish ritual, which would nearly rival that of his subsequent transition to manhood at age thirteen. He was going to get his hair cut for the very first time in his young life.

The first haircut, called an, "upshairin" in Yiddish, is held on or around the boy's third birthday to connote the child's readiness to begin the study of Judaism. The ceremony is reserved for Jewish boys alone because it signals the Orthodox belief that the study of the Torah - the first five books of the Hebrew Bible - is a male-only obligation.

However, despite the significance of the occasion, this particular male seemed more preoccupied with the pomp than with the circumstance. He had that look of wide-eyed amazement that so befits a three-year old boy. Then again, on closer inspection, rather than wonderment, perhaps that was actually a look of fear in his eyes.

With a chuckle, I had set down the newspaper and climbed the stairs from our family room to the master bedroom on the second floor of our house. There, after a bit of searching, sequestered in a box in the dark recesses of my closet I found what I was seeking.

It was the mid-1970's. I had graduated high school and had set off to see the many marvels of our country. On this trip I was meandering about with a couple friends and we were en route across the western states.

Long about Helena, Montana, however, the more mundane aspects of worldly life had caught up with the working parts of the well-used Volkswagen van in which we were traveling. Resigned to a makeshift camping spot in the spacious city park while the automotive garage ordered the necessary supplies for repairing the van, we three vagabonds had some unexpected time on our hands.

I took the time to catch up on some correspondence to newfound flames, do a bit of sightseeing by foot, and after much procrastination decided it was time to tend to my personal hygiene. I washed up as best as I could muster with cold water, a bar of soap and a wash cloth.

I combed my fair, brushed my teeth and then took a daring look the rear view mirror of the now-stationary van. More needs to be done if I want to be presentable to the opposite sex, I thought to myself.

So, with a few bucks in my pocket and a shaggy look about my head, I strode off to locate a barbershop for a shave and a haircut. Later that same day, now clean-shaven and smelling of Old Spice, I found a comfortable spot on the ground against the trunk of an old elm tree in the park. Lounging there in the cool air of Autumn, I set aside my letter-writing for a bit and penned the following story:

 

Though I have tried my best, I believe that I shall never forget on of the most shocking childhood experiences known to mankind: my first haircut. I was at the tender age of four years before my mother noticed that something drastic had to be done about the rat's nest atop my head.

Of course I balked at the very suggestion, proclaiming my inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of beatnik-dom, but to no avail. It was ultimately decided by a vote of 2-to-1 (that is to say, by my mother's 2 hands against my 1 bare behind) that the hair trimming would occur that very day.

Upon her final edict, a flood of thoughts ran through my brain like a fire loose on an open field, as I had no clear idea whatsoever of what was to happen. I honestly feared that when cut, hair was not unlike a finger, in that it would bleed freely and of course, cause me an eternity of undue pain. This belief stemmed from the fact that as a young child I never missed the chance to watch one of those Western shows on television.

And in each program the good guy, while involved in his showdown with the bad guy, would get his white hat shot off in the gun battle, grazing the side of his head in the process.

Blood would naturally flow from the wound (which looked just like someone had shaved off a bit of the hero's hair). Thus did I deduce that hair, when cut, bleeds if severed. Such was the innocence of my youth.

High noon rolled around on that fateful day in my family home and my mother dragged me kicking and screaming from the safe hiding spot under the bed in my room.

A moment later, the palms of my small hands were sweating bullets as she marched me the entire length of the hallway - each step a foot closer to the Death Row area of the back of our kitchen.

As the chair's restraining straps were fastened tightly around my wrists and ankles, I felt a cold chill run up the length of my spine. I declined the blindfold and cigarette offered by the firing squad. I was determined to face this like a little man, although the fear in my heart shown in my Arnold palmer golf ball-sized eyes.

My fear of the unknown was compounded by the fact that my mother herself was relatively new at this family haircutting business. Being a most creative and resourceful woman, however, she was game for almost anything when it came to developing new parenting skills.

Suddenly, there came the moment of truth - the Indians were on the warpath and my precious jet-black hair was the prize scalp of the day.

Placing an old, wooden salad bowl on my head, she proceeded to make several swift, forceful strokes with her poultry shears, cropping off lock after lock of my hair with the utmost inefficiency.

As the deadly bullets sped toward me, I peered into the steely eyes of the 12 black-clothed men who made up the firing squad. I closed my eyes and by reflex winced in anticipation of the pain.

An eternity passed.

Slowly, through squinted eyes and gritted teeth I stole a glance downward toward the floor to estimate how much blood I was losing, for I had calculated in my mind that I must have lost a couple gallons by then.

To my surprise, I instead was treated to the spectacle only of a three-inch deep pile of clipped hair. The snapping of the scissors had ceased and my mother was facing me with a self-congratulatory look on her face.

The mission had been accomplished and I had survived with nary a flesh wound. A great sigh of relief came over me as I realized that I had received a last-minute unconditional release - a full pardon!

While my mother called in the heavy equipment to clean up the mess, I worked up enough nerve to gingerly move my fingertips over my victimized skull. It felt different, all right. Just as I had expected. But, it felt especially unusual in certain spots of my head.

I jumped off the chair, departed from the scene and dared myself a peek in the bathroom mirror. Yipes!! What a hair-raising experience that was!

When I protested the sight to my mother, she lovingly assured me that I was not the first kid to have to endure childhood with a round mohawk hairdo - adding that it would all grow in again … someday. And, although it did indeed eventually grow back, I spent that entire Summer with a baseball cap pulled down over my cranium.

Now, here it is many moons later and I'm seated at my local barbershop, awaiting my turn in the chair, and pondering if I'll ever have to relive such an episode in my life as that first haircut. The barber finishes up with his customer and catches my attention.

"What will it be today, pal?", my barber asks of me.

"John, how much for a salad bowl mohawk special?" I inquire.

"Ignominy, my boy. Just the price of shame."