Back in the 1970s, long, shaggy hair was all the rage – or so I believed. My misconception was quickly corrected the summer I left my liberal Southern California home to spend my vacation at my Aunt Julia’s dude ranch in West Virginia.
Aunt Julia, a plain, respectable Christian lady from West Virginia, thoroughly disapproved of my mother’s liberal ways. Though still relatively young, her worn face made her appear much older. The cultural gap between us was vast, a chasm of differing values and lifestyles.
“I’m not having a hippie boy staying under my roof,” she declared, eyeing my hair with distaste. “I’m getting the dog clippers and then I’m taking you into the bathroom for a crew cut. Now.”
My eyes widened in shock at Aunt Julia’s stern welcome. Crew cuts were the epitome of uncool, and panic surged through me. “No way!” I shouted back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance.
Swearing was common in my house, but Aunt Julia’s swift slap across my face was a rude awakening. Too stunned to react, I found myself being dragged to a forbidding-looking armless wooden chair in the corner. The room seemed to close in on me, the walls echoing with the sternness of her discipline.
Aunt Julia wasted no time settling into the chair, and in a move that seemed to happen in slow motion, she pulled me over her lap. The smell of the old wood and the faint scent of lavender from her apron filled my senses.
I had never been spanked before, so it took me a good 30 seconds to realize what was happening. Aunt Julia scolded me the entire time, but I was crying so hard I couldn’t hear a word. The sting of each slap was a harsh reminder of the cultural divide between us.
The spanking lasted about five minutes, and by the time she finally let me up and stationed me in the corner, I was nearly hysterical. She then fetched the clippers, their metallic hum a prelude to my impending transformation.
Still crying, I was marched into the bathroom. By the time I calmed down, I was lying on the fold-out sofa that served as my bed that summer, my head barely covered with short stubble. The cool air against my scalp was a constant reminder of my new reality.
Aunt Julia spanked me three more times that summer. The second time, she used a slipper, which stung even more than her hand. I learned quickly to avoid her wrath, but sometimes my rebellious nature got the better of me. Each spanking was a lesson in humility and obedience, a stark contrast to the freedom I was used to.
The third spanking was with a belt. I had never felt anything so painful in my life. Aunt Julia made sure I understood the consequences of my actions, and I was left sobbing uncontrollably. The belt left marks that lingered for days, a physical manifestation of the cultural clash between us.
One day, Aunt Julia showed me her thick leather razor strap and threatened to use it on me if I swore or misbehaved. I quickly learned it was her house and her rules. The strap hung ominously in the kitchen, a constant reminder of the discipline that awaited any transgression.
“In this house, we respect our elders and follow the rules,” she lectured. “If you can’t do that, you’ll face the consequences.” Her words were a stark contrast to the leniency I was accustomed to back home.
I learned to sit quietly as she gave me my weekly buzzing every Saturday morning. Each time, the memory of the belt kept me in line. The ritual became a symbol of my submission to her authority, a weekly reminder of the cultural norms I was expected to adhere to.
I’ve never told anyone this story before, and Aunt Julia never spanked me again after that summer. However, it always puzzled my mother that just before Julia’s infrequent visits, I’d ask to be taken to the barber shop for a crew cut. The experience left an indelible mark on me, a testament to the powerful influence of cultural and generational differences.
