Before I ever entered school, I had this habit of twisting my hair into knots. A peculiar habit, yes, but it could've been worse. As I grew older and more aware of the world that I was living in, I began to see how strange and unusual my little habit was, prompting a potent desire to kick my childish behavior. Dad and I talked about it and he suggested a few things that might just curb it a little. One suggestion he had was for me to get a burr haircut. His speech on the merits of a burr was most eloquent. His logic prevailed (as an adult's usually does when persuading a 4 year-old) and I agreed to submit my hair to the steady hand of Dale, our barber. This was not the most well-conceived decision I ever made because I had absolutely no idea what a burr haircut was. All I knew was that if Dad recommended it, it must be good.
     Now there was once a barber in the Westcliff Shopping Center by TCU that had cut (and decimated) the hair of three generations of Coxes :Grandad, Dad and myself. The shop had, of course, been around a while under the friendly eye of Dale, the owner.
     Dale is a real nice guy, and I count him a good friend. He's die-hard Dallas Cowboy's fan (fanatic) and is quite fond of the cheerleaders as well. The second week of January never approached before he had the new annual Dallas Cowboy's Cheerleader Calendar tacked up to the wall by the register. One year, he even managed to get it autographed. He has white hair and a black moustache which gives him a very good-natured and friendly appearance. After every haircut he allowed me to pick a piece of candy out the drawer under the register that he stocks for just that reason. No kid can not like a guy who gives out candy.
     Dale's barbershop was straight out of 1962.  It had three chairs, but only two were ever in steady use.  It had a white imitation-marble tile floor, the old leather chairs with brass buttons, a ceramic natural gas heater in the corner, a Coke bottle machine, and an antique cash register with high, arching keys.  Change may happen all around us, but we were always secure in the knowledge that change would not invade Dale's shop.  The chosen brand of hair products hadn't changed in 20 years.  Neither did the cut style.
     One day not long after Dad's evil trickery, he and I drove to Dale's Barbershop.  We walked in, exchanging warm greetings with Dale  (Dale was one of only two men who regularly shook my hand when I was 4, Grandad was the other) and everyone else in the shop before sinking into the deep leather chairs to wait our turn at the clippers.  The clink of Dad's quarters at the Coke bottle machine soon brought out two long-necked bottles of carbonated goodness.  I think he felt guilty in advance. We sat and waited.  I marveled at the steadfast trust the patron had in Dale as he let him shave his neck with a shimmering razor.
 Soon I found myself sitting on a board resting on the chair's arms, an adaptation Dale had created exclusively for the three-foot and under crowd.  Dale asked me in his friendly voice, "Well Sam, what'll it be this time?"
     Dad, suddenly gaining the name Sam, replied for me, "Give him a burr."
     Dale, always eager to shear off gross quantities of hair, quickly grabbed his special buzz razor. His eyes almost seemed to light up a little as the razors teeth jimmied back and forth with a hum like a distant chainsaw.
     My head jerked a little and the razor's buzz suddenly went flat as the clippers plowed into the thick  forest of blonde hair on my head. Ever so slowly, Dale glided the multi-toothed contraption up the back of my head and forward to my face. I remember looking down at the orange sheet over my scrawny legs and seeing the avalanche of hair violently pelt my lap and cascade on down to the floor. I watched with horror the image of me in the mirror, losing the hair I had come to know and love. Dale finished leveling one strip of hair on my head and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Yes, the clippers were quite sharp. The buzz of the razor again went flat and my head again jerked as Dale repeated the gruesome procedure on the hair to one side of the strip he had just harvested with his hand-held thresher. Within two minutes, two years of hair growth had been equalized.
     I stared with complete horror at the alien in the mirror with only an eighth of an inch of hair on his head.  The razor's grim hum of despair ceased, and shock enveloped me. I sat in the chair, petrified. Dale, seeing my displeasure and always aware of  a joke opportunity, asked me if we were still friends.  Being only four, I can't remember what my response was, but the memory of Dale claims my response was, "Yes, but I'm not too fond of  Dad."
      I soon grew my hair out and while I despised the shortness of it in the interim, it did indeed break my habit for good. I have never gotten a burr since. Nor do I wish to.
     I am reminded of this incident virtually every time I see Dale.  Apparently he has related that story to quite a few of his clients over the years, and it's become somewhat of a folk legend.  Dale would introduce me to a complete stranger by telling him: "This is that boy I gave a burr to and he got sore at his daddy." He would often reference the incident with comments like, "We got a special on burrs this week." or "You'd feel a lot cooler with a burr cut, ya know." Hardly a visit went by without him asking me, "How about a burr?"

     Well, times change and the world moves on. After years of cutting my hair from elementary school through high school graduation, Dale finally gave into change and retired in 1997. I had already moved away from my hometown by then, so it didn't make much practical difference. But I still see him now and again whenever I visit my hometown, once he even visited me in Colorado. And even then, he still chuckled when he talked about the burr haircut.