He's in the Army now...
Created | Updated Mar 13, 2012
Denn ich bin Bundeswehrsoldat ein toller Typ
Und ich hab' mein Vaterland so furchtbar lieb.
Wollte nie in meinem Leben was and'res sein
Und außerdem fiel mir auch gar nichts bess'res ein.
(Cause I'm a soldier in the armed forces, an awesome bloke
and I love my home country terribly.
I never wanted to be anything else in my life
And anyway, I had no better idea.
Mum, can you cut my hair? If I come back to the barracks with uncut hair, I'll be deep in trouble, and no barber is open today.
My eldest son is back for the weekend after his first two days of conscription. It's a national holiday here, German Unification Day, so everything is closed, and tomorrow is Sunday, then everything is closed anyway.
Now I don't want to cut my son's hair. I just know I'll ruin it. I once bought one of those electric hair clippers, where you choose the blade with comb attachment according to the length you want your hair to have. I chose the one with the shortest comb, started from the front of my youngest son's head, then went right through the centre to the back. Cut a veritable swathe through his long hair, I did. I was so shocked with the result that I immediately stopped the procedure. That didn't improve his looks, though. Fortunately, he was only three years old at the time and didn't mind looking like the village idiot. A friend later cut the rest of his hair, so it didn't look that bad any more. Still, I never touched that machine again. I kept the scissors, I often cut my own hair, but that's a completely different kettle of fish.
Go and ask your dad, it's his job. After all, he's always done it when you were smaller, and with good results.
I've already asked him, mum. He refuses to do it. He says he doesn't dare.
I storm into the room where my husband is and demand to know why he won't cut our son's hair. He says it's been too long since he did it, and that he doesn't want to take any risk. I feel that it is not negotiable. I ask my son why he didn't go to the army barber. He says that all that would have happened, was that the barber would have taken an electric hair clipper, and it would have cost him € 7.
It's cheaper if you do it, mum.
Hmmm, it looks as if I have no choice here.
OK, but let's take a photo first. I want to have something to remind me of how you look. We'll take one afterwards, too, so we can compare.
I get the camera out and take the 'before' photo.
Off to the bathroom we go and I get the scissors out. There is no way I'll use that machine!
My son is completely relaxed until I cut him for the first time. He thinks I cut his ear, but in fact I managed to cut the skin next to his ear, where the sideburns are. His orders (or rather, the army's orders) are: ears and neck have to be free of hair, which is tricky.
I try to remember how the barbers do it. It's been ages since I've watched a barber cut somebody else's hair. I can't see anything when they cut mine because I have to take my glasses off, which leaves me sitting there as blind as a bat.
I decide to just 'ruffle' his hair and cut everything off which protrudes between my fingers. It should all have the same length afterwards, if all works out. While I go about my job, he tells me a bit about his first impressions of his 'new' life.
It looks as if he's lucky: he's with the radio operators, which means he'll probably spend a quiet time once the first three months are over. It is basic training now, which should be the same for all recruits, no matter which company they're in. I ask him about the shouting I had heard in the background when he called on his first evening there. He tells me it's the training supervisor shouting for no apparent reason. Seems he's shouting all the time. My son says, he only understands about 25% of what he shouts. That is to do with unknown terminology as well as with a strong dialect. The barracks are in deepest Bavaria, which is like foreign territory for everybody in Germany - except the Bavarians, of course.
Another problem is the lack of privacy. Sharing a room with a few others isn't too bad, my son shared a room with his brother at home, so he's used to that. Sharing showers with everybody else is what he did at school after his sports classes, so that's not really new, either, although he doesn't like it. But sharing the toilets with everybody else, with no walls between them is something he's never experienced before.
What do you mean, there are no walls between the toilets? It reminds me of a conversation about toilet-related nightmares we had here on h2g2 a few months ago. I am so shocked, I cut my knuckle.
I don't know whether it is meant to be like that. They're renovating the barracks, but nobody has been here for long enough to know how it was before. There are toilets in the other unit downstairs, and then there are some in the canteen building. We have 15 minutes to eat, so I finished in ten minutes which left me with five minutes to go to the toilet.
My knuckle is bleeding (it's only a slight cut, but that's not to see under the blood), so I go to search for a plaster. It isn't in the place where it should be, however, I find my son's certificate of vaccination which he'll have to take with him, and which we had searched for in vain earlier. I find plaster in my handbag.
I have to admit that I quite enjoy the intimacy of the bathroom which is just large enough for my son on his chair and me with the scissors. There is a lot of hair on the floor by now, so I go and fetch the broom to sweep it all in one corner for the moment. After about 30 minutes, I think it's finished. My son takes a critical look at himself in the mirror.
There's still hair covering my ear he points at some thin tips of hair which just reach his ear. That's an absolute no go.
I ruffle through his hair again, taking here a few millimetres off and there a few. I search for the electric razor to save his neck. I can find three – one work. OK, wet shave it is then. Finally something I am familiar with. My son doesn't want me to shave his sideburns, he wants to do that himself. I have no idea why, I've only cut him with the scissors twice.
Finally, it's all done. I suggest we should call his dad to sweep the floor (he always called me to do that after he had cut the boys' hair). My son and I exchange a look in agreement of how silly that behaviour was. I tell him not to move and sweep the floor. There's more than a shovel full of hair. It's amazing! I take broom, shovel, hand broom and chair and my son goes for a much needed shower after this literally hairy job.
I'm quite happy with my work, there are no obvious holes showing his scalp or anything, but he thinks his hair is still too long, and that he'll be in trouble on getting back to the barracks. I tell him to ask his dad, hoping he will know what is acceptable. His dad says it is fine, so we can take the 'after' photo.
It was an afternoon well spent in a variety of ways. I'm looking forward to next weekend.
