"You're only as good as your last haircut"--Fran Lebowitz.
The switch from civilian to military life can be enough of a jolt to implant scenes that last in the memory for years. These are some of my scenes.
In Chicago's downtown recruiting office, I enlisted in the air force on a morning in August 1951 along with a bunch of other guys. We sat around the recruiting office until we were herded into a bus and driven to Midway Airport. In mid-afternoon we climbed aboard a civilian DC-3, a workhorse of WWII. At some time in the night the plane landed at an airfield near San Antonio, Texas. Again we sat around, this time until daylight when a sergeant showed up and began barking at us to get in line, keep eyes front, stand up straight, and a lot more.
During the course of that day we were driven to Lackland Air Force Base and marched to the chowhall for breakfast, then to a building where we were issued uniforms, to another building where we were given a partial payment of our first month's pay, to the Base Exchange where we spent a good chunk of that partial pay on toilet articles and other necessities, and then to tent city. The tent city came into being because the barracks were overcrowded due to the Korean War buildup. And the tents were a blessing, because we could roll up the walls at night and let cool breezes flow through, a welcome relief from the daily blast of hot air in that part of Texas.
Tent city had a building with showers in it. Showers! I was used to tub baths at home, but here on the Texas prairie was a modern touch. And after a day of marching and drilling in the hot sun, there was nothing more refreshing than a shower.
Now I come to the part I like best. On that first day we were marched to the base barber shop to be sheared. Like everyone else I was given a crewcut, or a GI haircut, whatever you want to call it. Gone was all that hair--it was now on the floor--that I'd grown to despise.
When I was a boy it was curly. As I grew into adolescence the curls morphed into waves, a marcel. Whenever I was introduced to an aunt or a girl cousin or just about any woman, I would hear the remark, "I wish I had hair like that." I cringed: I disliked my hair.
It had to be washed frequently, brushed, tended, like a field crop. As the adolescent wave became more pronounced, more dominant, I bought a comb. When I ran the comb through my field crop, the comb's teeth trapped a layer of gray slime. Greasy kid stuff, ads accused me of having.
I feared a row with my mother if I had a barber cut it short. Like any other boy whose parents don't measure up to his standards, I endured.
But now, on that first day in the air force, the military had solved the problem for me. Gone was the comb. No more slime. No more greasy kid stuff. My instructions to the barber became very simple: "Number 3 blade all over."
And from August 1951 until just a few weeks ago my hair was short. Blessedly short. Man, did I like it.
But you know what happened. Large chunks of the world shut down. The local barbershop closed.
My field crop returned, and flourished, for weeks, and weeks, and weeks. My mood grew dark.
But then, the clouds vanished as if in a dream. Bugles sounded, the Red Sea parted, help appeared. Mark, our youngest son, volunteered to cut my hair.
Date, time, and place remain unnanounced. No photographs, please. I wish for nothing to spoil the event.
In Chicago's downtown recruiting office, I enlisted in the air force on a morning in August 1951 along with a bunch of other guys. We sat around the recruiting office until we were herded into a bus and driven to Midway Airport. In mid-afternoon we climbed aboard a civilian DC-3, a workhorse of WWII. At some time in the night the plane landed at an airfield near San Antonio, Texas. Again we sat around, this time until daylight when a sergeant showed up and began barking at us to get in line, keep eyes front, stand up straight, and a lot more.
During the course of that day we were driven to Lackland Air Force Base and marched to the chowhall for breakfast, then to a building where we were issued uniforms, to another building where we were given a partial payment of our first month's pay, to the Base Exchange where we spent a good chunk of that partial pay on toilet articles and other necessities, and then to tent city. The tent city came into being because the barracks were overcrowded due to the Korean War buildup. And the tents were a blessing, because we could roll up the walls at night and let cool breezes flow through, a welcome relief from the daily blast of hot air in that part of Texas.
Tent city had a building with showers in it. Showers! I was used to tub baths at home, but here on the Texas prairie was a modern touch. And after a day of marching and drilling in the hot sun, there was nothing more refreshing than a shower.
Now I come to the part I like best. On that first day we were marched to the base barber shop to be sheared. Like everyone else I was given a crewcut, or a GI haircut, whatever you want to call it. Gone was all that hair--it was now on the floor--that I'd grown to despise.
When I was a boy it was curly. As I grew into adolescence the curls morphed into waves, a marcel. Whenever I was introduced to an aunt or a girl cousin or just about any woman, I would hear the remark, "I wish I had hair like that." I cringed: I disliked my hair.
It had to be washed frequently, brushed, tended, like a field crop. As the adolescent wave became more pronounced, more dominant, I bought a comb. When I ran the comb through my field crop, the comb's teeth trapped a layer of gray slime. Greasy kid stuff, ads accused me of having.
I feared a row with my mother if I had a barber cut it short. Like any other boy whose parents don't measure up to his standards, I endured.
But now, on that first day in the air force, the military had solved the problem for me. Gone was the comb. No more slime. No more greasy kid stuff. My instructions to the barber became very simple: "Number 3 blade all over."
And from August 1951 until just a few weeks ago my hair was short. Blessedly short. Man, did I like it.
But you know what happened. Large chunks of the world shut down. The local barbershop closed.
My field crop returned, and flourished, for weeks, and weeks, and weeks. My mood grew dark.
But then, the clouds vanished as if in a dream. Bugles sounded, the Red Sea parted, help appeared. Mark, our youngest son, volunteered to cut my hair.
Date, time, and place remain unnanounced. No photographs, please. I wish for nothing to spoil the event.
***
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