Well, football time is here and with it comes all sorts of happenings.

Many of us have to adjust our schedules so we leave Friday evenings and Saturdays open to attend our favorite sport.

Football is sort of like a contagious disease. Once you’re exposed, you never quite get over it. It becomes part of your life.

It’s always interesting too, how the spectators get more caught up in all the hype than the players. You see more football jerseys in the bleachers than on the playing field.

One thing not too many fans do, however, is shave their heads to go along with some of their heroes out on the field. Now that’s a sign of real dedication (and also down right chilling on a brisk autumn evening.)

That brings back memories of some of the strange things I did back in the olden days.

I started school shortly after World War II ended. That was in a time when nearly every male — especially young boys — wore their hair long enough to comb over, yet not long enough to hang down. It was not only the style, it was just the way things were.

But the boys coming back from the war looked different. Their heads were nearly shaved. It was a radical haircut they call a “butch.”

Mothers didn’t think much of their sons looking like that, but they were glad to see them safely home, so they didn’t say much about their lack of hair.

But the haircuts continued as local barbers were instructed to “shave it off” by their young clients. Even though they were being called “onion heads” behind their backs, the style lived on.

Being an observant young man of six, I couldn’t help but noticing — and envying — the men and their hairdos. I figured it sure would beat combing my hair once or twice a day.

My old buddy Slick noticed them too. And, being just about as style conscious as I, he longed for the new look as well.

Both of us had begged our mothers for permission to tell Bert or Roy to “shave it off,” but had been turned down — flat.

But Slick and I weren’t about to be left out of any new trend. Even if it meant taking things into our own hands.

One fateful afternoon we did it. We set up our own barber shop in the corner of our basement. After watching Bert cut a few dozen butches, we figured we could do it too.

So I cut Slick’s and he cut mine. I don’t know who got the worst of the deal, but we certainly came out with a lot less hair then we went in with.

I can still remember my mom’s reaction when she first saw me. It was a combination of disbelief and disappointment. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

They say it doesn’t take long for a kid to grow hair. One thing’s for sure — my hair couldn’t grow fast enough to make my mom happy. I guess she just wasn’t ready for the new look.

Ed Rood is the former publisher of the Tri-County Times.