This is pretty harsh, beyond tough love to imagining an almost sadistic parental voice. At six the kid's case is closed forever, hopeless? Gee.
Perhaps most sinister is the electric storm of the vibrator. This seems to be mechanically distinct from the close clippers in the next stanza, so what kind of vibrator exactly are we talking about here? Not one that belongs in a barbershop? And note that the we, here, is an adult. The confounding of anxieties that would fit into a Norman Rockwell painting (the kid's haircut) with the abject terror of a child being locked in a store alone over a weekend and possibly an adult victim of serious abuse make this seem both surreal and artistically sneaky. It's unsatisfying, but successfully disorienting and provocative. 1968 indeed.
Andy
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