A Man Demanded His Son in Law Cut His Long Hair like a Real Man But When the Young Man Pulled His Hair Back What He Revealed Made His Father in Law Drop the Scissors

My father had criticized my husband Adam's long hair for years. That Sunday, he handed him scissors at dinner and demanded he cut it "like a real man." But Adam had his reasons for keeping it long — and something he'd said that morning had left me afraid to ask what they were.

The scissors hit the floor beside Dad's shoe.

He stared at Adam, who stood with his hair gathered in one hand.

"Does my daughter know about this?"

I pushed my chair back.

THE SCISSORS HIT THE FLOOR.

*

Earlier that morning, my husband was stealing my conditioner.

"That's the expensive one," I said around my toothbrush.

Adam inspected the bottle. "Explains why I feel expensive."

He stood beside me in a towel, his dark hair wet against his shoulders. I nudged him with my hip so I could reach the sink.

EARLIER THAT MORNING.

"You have your own."

"Mine doesn't say 'intensive restoration.' I work hard. I need restoring."

I bent to rinse my mouth. Beside me, Adam worked the comb beneath his hair, then stopped.

"Tangle?" I asked.

"Something like that."

"TANGLE?"

When I straightened, he was setting the comb down.

"Does it still bother you?"

"Don't."

I turned off the faucet.

He rubbed his thumb along the comb's handle. "Sorry. I didn't mean that like it sounded."

"DOES IT STILL BOTHER YOU?"

"I was only asking."

He looked at me in the mirror. "I don't live like that anymore."

I waited.

He'd told me almost nothing about that part of his life, and I couldn't tell whether he meant to start now.

"I DON'T LIVE LIKE THAT ANYMORE."

"Like what?"

He put the comb in the drawer.

"Can we leave it alone today?"

"Okay."

He kissed my forehead and went into the bedroom.

"LIKE WHAT?"

Until then, I'd thought he simply disliked talking about his past.

Now I wondered what he was afraid I'd think of it.

*

We'd been married four years.

I knew how Adam took his coffee and which shoulder bothered him after a long day at the shop.

HE DISLIKED TALKING ABOUT HIS PAST.

He would fix a neighbor's brakes for the cost of the parts and pretend it was no trouble.

But there was a stretch of Adam's life I knew almost nothing about.

Names came up sometimes of men he'd worked with, and the woman he'd lived with then, Sue.

He'd once described them as a rough crowd.

But whenever a story reached those years, he tended to skip ahead.

I KNEW ALMOST NOTHING ABOUT.

I'd always assumed there wasn't much he wanted to remember.

Standing by the sink that morning, I wondered what he meant by not living like that anymore.

"Necklace?" he called from the bedroom.

I found him holding the clasp open. I turned, and he fastened it, his fingers warm against my neck.

"There."

I WONDERED WHAT HE MEANT.

He rested his hands on my shoulders. In the dresser mirror, we looked like ourselves again.

I reached up and squeezed his hand.

"You don't have to fix anything at their house today," I said.

"Your mom's cabinet door still hanging crooked?"

"Yes. Dad can tighten a hinge."

I SQUEEZED HIS HAND.

"It takes two minutes."

That was Adam.

He'd spend those two minutes helping Mom, then come to the table and listen to Dad complain that his shirt had a faded collar.

"Come eat with us afterward," I said. "Don't let him send you straight into the garage."

THAT WAS ADAM.

Adam met my eyes in the mirror.

"I came to eat with you last time."

I remembered calling him in twice while Dad kept finding things he wanted Adam to look at. Then Dad had complained about waiting to carve the roast.

"I know," I said. "I should've come and got you."

DAD HAD COMPLAINED.

He squeezed my shoulders, and I leaned back against him for a moment.

*

Mom opened the front door holding a dish towel.

"Come in. Your father's been watching for you."

I handed her the pie while Adam hung up our coats.

MOM OPENED THE DOOR.

Dad was already at the table.

"Sit down before it gets cold," Mom said.

I took the chair beside Adam.

Adam pushed his hair behind his shoulders before reaching for his napkin.

"Adam, are you ever getting a haircut?" Dad asked.

"SIT DOWN."

"Good to see you too, Frank."

"Your hair's longer than my daughter's."

"And he still looks better than I do in the morning," I said.

Adam laughed.

Dad didn't.

"ARE YOU EVER GETTING A HAIRCUT?"

"Frank, pass the potatoes," Mom said.

"I'm just saying he could make an effort."

"He came to dinner, Dad. Isn't that an effort?"

I'd said versions of that before.

Usually, Dad grumbled, Mom introduced another subject, and we got through the meal.

"HE COULD MAKE AN EFFORT."

Later, I'd tell Adam I thought it had gone fairly well.

Sometimes he agreed.

Sometimes he just asked whether I wanted the radio on for the drive home.

This time, Dad pushed his chair back.

I thought he was getting the bread we'd left on the counter.

SOMETIMES HE AGREED.

He returned with the kitchen scissors.

"Here. Cut it. Maybe you'll finally look like a real man."

He held them out to Adam.

"Dad, that's enough."

He kept his arm extended. "I'm talking to Adam."

"HERE. CUT IT."

"And I'm asking you to stop."

Dad glanced at Mom, as though she might explain why I was making a fuss.

"Can't say anything in this house anymore."

I waited for her to take the scissors.

She set the potato dish down instead.

"I'M ASKING YOU TO STOP."

"Frank, just let him eat."

"He's got a voice. He can answer for himself."

I looked at Adam.

His smile was gone, and he seemed to have shrunk in on himself. I'd meant to spare him another argument; now Dad was waiting for him to prove he could have one.

"HE'S GOT A VOICE."

Adam looked at the scissors.

"You're serious?"

"What's the problem? It's just hair."

"Then why are you so bothered by it?"

"Because my daughter deserves a husband who looks respectable."

"YOU'RE SERIOUS?"

Heat climbed into my face.

Mom had stopped serving the potatoes, the spoon still in her hand.

I reached for Adam beneath the table.

"We can go home," I whispered.

He shook his head.

"WE CAN GO HOME."

"No. I've let him say this for too long."

He stood.

His chair scraped the floor, and Dad drew the scissors back.

"You really want to know why I keep it long, Frank?"

"I've been asking for years."

HE STOOD.

Adam turned and slowly gathered his hair away from the back of his head.

From my chair, I could only see Dad's face.

I watched his eyes widen.

He went pale.

Then the scissors hit the floor.

"YOU REALLY WANT TO KNOW?"

Mom stood.

"Frank? What's wrong?"

Dad kept staring.

"Does my daughter know about this?"

I got up and stepped beside Adam.

MOM STOOD.

The scars ran beneath his hair, several pale, uneven lines crossing the back of his scalp.

One extended toward his ear.

I had first noticed them early in our marriage.

When I'd asked, he'd said he'd been hurt a long time ago. Later, when I'd asked about his hair, he'd told me there was a reason he kept it long.

I HAD FIRST NOTICED.

I'd understood that he wanted them covered.

I'd never understood what had caused them.

"I've seen them, Dad."

"What the hell were you involved in?" he asked Adam.

"Frank—" Mom began.

HE WANTED THEM COVERED.

"I'm asking him. Was it some kind of gang?"

"Dad, stop."

Adam let his hair fall.

He looked at me, and I realized my hand was still hovering beside his arm instead of touching him.

I took his hand.

"WAS IT SOME KIND OF GANG?"

But he had seen my hesitation.

"Is that what you think, too?" he asked softly.

"This morning," I said quietly, "you said you don't live like that anymore. I don't know what that means."

His fingers shifted in mine.

"IS THAT WHAT YOU THINK?"

I wanted to take the question back.

I also wanted him to answer it.

Adam looked down at our hands, then at me.

"Someone I lived with did it."

I'd been picturing a fight with one of those rough men he'd been friends with.

I WANTED HIM TO ANSWER.

Dad set both palms on the table.

"And you brought that kind of trouble into my daughter's life?"

"Let him finish."

My voice was loud enough that Mom lowered the serving spoon.

I turned to Adam.

"YOU BROUGHT TROUBLE INTO MY DAUGHTER'S LIFE?"

"Who?"

Adam swallowed.

"My ex-girlfriend. Sue."

I stared at him.

"Sue? That's why you never talk about her?"

"WHO?"

He nodded once.

I'd put Sue in the background of those years, somewhere among the people he'd stopped seeing.

It hadn't occurred to me that she might be the reason he wouldn't talk.

"She threw things when she was angry. At first, she'd throw them against a wall. Then she started throwing them at me."

HE NODDED ONCE.

Mom sat down slowly.

"The last time, I turned to leave the room. She hit me with a heavy ceramic bowl. I needed stitches."

I tightened my grip on his hand.

He was watching me carefully. I hated that he had to.

"I kept thinking if I didn't argue, or if I got home when she expected, it wouldn't happen again," he said. "That's what I meant this morning. I don't live like that anymore."

HE WAS WATCHING ME CAREFULLY.

"Adam."

"I know I should've told you."

"I'm sorry she did that to you."

Dad looked down at the scissors beside his shoe.

For a second, I thought he was ashamed.

"I SHOULD'VE TOLD YOU."

Then he looked up.

"You're telling me you couldn't stop her? Big guy like you?"

Adam went still.

I looked at Dad, waiting for him to hear himself. He knew Adam could carry a toolbox, wrestle a stubborn tire loose, help him move a refrigerator.

"BIG GUY LIKE YOU?"

Apparently, that meant he should have been impossible to hurt.

"You wanted me to hurt her?"

"Don't put words in my mouth."

"Then what are you asking?"

"You should've made sure she never did it again."

"YOU WANTED ME TO HURT HER?"

"I did. I left. And I stayed gone," Adam said. "Even when she called and said she was sorry. Even when she said nobody else would put up with me."

He looked at me as he said the last part.

I wanted to get him out of that room, somewhere he could tell me things without having to defend them a breath later.

"I DID."

Dad shook his head.

"So you ran away."

"Enough," I said.

Dad turned toward me. "Excuse me?"

"You asked what happened. He told you. Then you blamed him."

"ENOUGH."

"I'm allowed to ask questions about the man my daughter married."

"I asked why he couldn't handle himself."

Mom pushed her chair back. "Let's all sit down. The food's getting cold."

I looked at Adam's plate. He hadn't taken a bite.

"We're leaving."

"LET'S ALL SIT DOWN."

"Honey, please," Mom said. "We can drop it."

"You can, but my husband still has to sit here after hearing THAT." I turned to Adam. "Ready?"

He nodded.

Dad gave another short laugh.

"Now you're hiding behind my daughter?"

"WE CAN DROP IT."

Adam lifted his head.

I spoke before he had to defend himself again.

"I'm standing beside my husband. You don't get to make that another insult."

Dad's face reddened.

"You're walking out on your own father over a question?"

I SPOKE.

"Over what you did with the answer."

I went to the hall closet.

My hands shook as I pulled our coats off their hangers.

Dad followed us to the doorway.

"If he wants to go, let him," he said. "You haven't eaten."

"OVER WHAT YOU DID."

"Neither has Adam."

"You don't have to leave every time he gets upset."

I pulled my coat from its hanger.

"Mom made dinner," he said. "Sit down. He can pick you up later."

For years, staying had seemed easier than making a scene.

Not anymore.

"SIT DOWN."

"My husband just admitted something painful. He chose to be vulnerable to answer your question, and you mocked him for it." I shook my head. "I can't sit at the same table as you after that."

I handed Adam his coat.

Mom appeared behind Dad, holding the dish towel. She looked at me, then at him.

Dad's face had turned red.

"YOU MOCKED HIM."

"Don't expect me to call and beg you to come back," Dad said.

"I'm not asking you to beg. I'm asking you to treat him decently."

"This is ridiculous."

I opened the door.

Adam walked out with me.

"I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO BEG."

In the car, he put the key in the ignition but didn't turn it.

"I thought if he saw, he'd stop."

I watched his thumb press against the key. His eyes were wet.

"You shouldn't have had to show him."

"I wanted to. At the time." He looked toward the windshield. "I didn't think I'd have to stand there and explain why I didn't hit her."

"I THOUGHT HE'D STOP."

"I kept hoping he'd come around," I said. "You kept having to sit there while I waited."

He didn't rush to tell me it was okay.

I was glad he didn't.

*

At home, we sat on the couch.

"You looked scared this morning," Adam said.

"I KEPT HOPING HE'D COME AROUND."

"You stopped combing your hair, and I thought it was hurting you. Then you said you didn't live like that anymore. I started wondering what had happened back then."

"I saw you wondering at dinner."

"I was."

He nodded, looking at his hands.

"I WAS."

"I hated how long I stayed," he said. "I didn't want you wondering why."

I moved my hand onto his knee.

"I'm glad you got out."

He covered my hand with his.

"You don't have to tell me the rest tonight," I said.

"I DIDN'T WANT YOU WONDERING WHY."

"There isn't some worse thing you're going to find out about me."

"That's not what I meant."

He searched my face.

"I wondered whether you'd been involved in something," I said. "You saw that. I'm sorry."

"That's what I thought you'd wonder."

"THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEANT."

"But you were trying to tell me someone hurt you."

He looked down at our hands.

"I liked how you looked at me," he said. "Before you knew."

I wanted to say nothing had changed, but something had. I understood now why he'd asked to leave the subject alone. He hadn't known what telling me would cost him.

"BEFORE YOU KNEW."

"I still want you beside me," I said. "When you need to talk, and when you don't."

He rubbed his palm over his knee.

"I don't know how to talk about all of it."

"We don't have to do it all at once."

He leaned back against the couch. I stayed close enough that our shoulders touched.

"I STILL WANT YOU BESIDE ME."

Mom called Tuesday.

She asked whether we'd come on Sunday, then said Dad thought everyone had said things they regretted.

"I don't regret leaving," I said.

"He's embarrassed."

"I DON'T REGRET LEAVING."

"Then he can talk to me about what he said. We won't be there Sunday."

Afterward, I told Adam about the call.

I didn't ask him when he might be willing to try again.

*

That Sunday, we ate takeout on the couch. He unpacked two orders of the potatoes I always stole from his plate.

"WE WON'T BE THERE SUNDAY."

"You ordered two?"

"I've learned a few things in four years."

He passed me a carton, and I tucked my feet beneath his leg.

This time, we both ate while our dinner was hot.

"I'VE LEARNED A FEW THINGS IN FOUR YEARS."