Last Saturday morning was my youngest son’s haircut day. Usually, he goes to the barbershop, but sometimes, when he refuses to go, we set up a temporary barbershop in the bathroom. Armed with scissors, a comb, and various haircutting tools, I wrestle with him in the cramped space.

He didn’t care much about how his hair would look. He seemed happier playing with his toys while sitting in front of me, letting me work. He wrapped a large nylon cape around his neck like Superman, and every time the scissors moved, he would pretend they were cutting his ears off, making a big fuss. Still, he sweetly said he liked my haircuts better than the barber’s.

He wanted a mushroom-shaped haircut. But I firmly refused.

“Hey! That won’t do! It looks like you’ve got a bowl stuck on your head—it’s not stylish! I’ll make it look cool for you instead!”

I carefully moved the clippers, but the hairstyle became a mess, like a road full of potholes after a rainy season. Sweat ran down my face. He scratched at his itchy neck and fidgeted in the chair. Our voices grew louder in the tiny bathroom. Hair flew everywhere—on our clothes, on the floor, in the sink. The result was far worse than I had imagined, completely uneven. Despite all my “years of practice,” I still couldn’t graduate from being an amateur.

“For heaven’s sake, please let’s go to the barbershop next time!”

Unhappy with the result, I made a clumsy excuse, watching his reaction. But he only glanced at the mirror, smiled in satisfaction, and brushed off the hair sticking to his body without hesitation.

As I swept the hair from the floor—dry like fallen pine needles—suddenly a memory of an autumn day in the countryside came to me. I remembered how, sometimes, a passing barber would call out, “Haircuts! Haircuts!” My father, busy threshing beans in the yard, would wave him over with a warm smile.

In no time, our eaves would turn into a barbershop. My father would sit with a white cloth draped over his shoulders, balanced on a washboard laid over a bucket. The barber, with thin, sharp scissors, would snip away, and my father’s hair would scatter into the autumn wind, mingling with tumbling leaves. Then came the long razor blade, freshly sharpened on leather, flashing across my father’s foam-covered face. I would hold my breath, worried he might get cut. But my father and the barber would talk and laugh nonstop.

Soon, the haircut would be done, and my father would check the front and back with a hand mirror. In it, the high, clear autumn sky would be perfectly reflected. He would turn to me with a big smile, then shyly call for my mother. She would come from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, and on seeing my father so neatly groomed, give a bright smile before slipping quickly back inside.

In my father’s hand was a freshly picked red apple from the front yard. It would soon end up in the barber’s hand. The barber, packing up his tools in an instant, would walk away through the swaying, yellow cornfields, forgetting to call out “Haircuts!” again. He would take a big bite of the sweet apple, savoring the taste of autumn, while a small flock of dragonflies followed, their wings glinting above his pomaded hair.

Autumn—the season when memories ripen like the colorful leaves and fruits in an orchard. On my youngest son’s haircut day, a moment buried in the forgetfulness of forty years suddenly came alive again. Perhaps that’s the quiet magic of autumn.

© WanHee Yoon, 2001