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Mr. Sig and Carl, the Difficult Dad by Manny




I couldn't believe the change in Dylan, my nineteen-year old son who was having trouble finishing high school. The three-month summer program at the Beecher Ward Military Academy seemed to have worked wonders! I'd dropped him off on the picturesque campus in rural Georgia as a slouching, sullen, slacker with a moptop of unruly chocolate-brown hair perpetually covering his eyes, ears and collar. To my joy, when I arrived to collect him, he bounded up to me -- all smiles and jovial -- sporting a closely clipped crewcut that was complemented by his impeccable posture. The transformation was astounding!

"Before you leave here, Dad, you just have to meet Mr. Siggenthal! He's the coolest guy! I mean, well, he's the chaplain and guidance counselor, and he's also in charge of the discipline...but not some sort of mean guy that's a kill joy. He's so much fun and really knows how to help guys act in a positive way. I think we can catch him in his office now and then we can load up the car. Or, maybe he's in the barbershop," Dylan babbled.

"Barbershop?" I asked. "What do you think he'd be there?"

"Oh, yeah, on top of everything else, he's the campus barber. That's where some of the best rap sessions take place. When he's got you under the cape, he gets you to pour out your heart -- tell him what's bothering you," Dylan replied.

"Really? Sounds like someone I should meet -- and thank! This summer's been great for you, Dylan. And, this Mr. Siggenthaler, he's given you quite a sharp haircut!" I noted. "I hardly recognized you without that mop you were sporting when I dropped you off."

Dylan ran his hand across the dense pelt of velvet-like pile. "Glad you like it. So do I -- a lot! Actually, I almost got off on a bit of a bad foot with Mr. Siggenthal over my hair. All the boys, or most of them, that is, were dreading our registration-day 'scrub' haircut. That's when Mr. Sig strips everything off -- down almost to the scalp. The line snakes through the hallway to the barbershop. It's scary watching the boys come out sheared down to nothing, looking totally goofy....and, at the same time, knowing your 'cool' hair is soon to fall. When I got to the doorway, ten guys were in front, snaking around the wall of the shop, waiting their turn. Mr. Sig looked up at me and cracked, 'there's one pretty boy I bet will be in tears by the time I'm finished with him!' All the boys laughed; I felt so embarrassed, I didn't know what to do. I pawed at my hair nervously, and he continued to razz me, 'don't worry, sweetie, you'll feel light-headed and cool when these clippers find their way through that Beatles look!' Then, he brandished his clippers at me -- they were this huge set of professional strength hair-whackers that the marine bootcamp barbers use. When he finished the guy he was shearing, he pulled me out of line and marched me right to the chair. 'I'm afraid little Nellie here might bolt before I take off about five pounds of hair!' Everyone cheered as he shaved me bald! I sat there motionless, and inwardly was so mad at him.... But once the haircut was over, Mr. Sig placed his hand on my shoulder and told me, 'I'm proud of you, son; you didn't let all my teasing rile you up! Thanks for being a good sport!' And then the guys thought of me as a bit of a hero. Mr. Sig used me as an example several times in his talks about staying cool in the midst of difficulties. Most of the other boys let their hair grown out as much as possible after the scrub baldy induction, but I kept going back to Mr. Sig once a week and he's kept me trim and tidy. I'm going to miss him and his haircuts."

As we walked through the halls of the main building at Beecher Ward, I caught a glimpse of my own thick brown hair in the window reflection. It was not nearly as long as Dylan's had been -- by no means! -- but it was styled into a rather longish business cut, with a floppy, thick forelock and tresses that hung toward the base of my collar. I was proud of my dense, shiny Italian hair and frequently ran my fingers through it. To be honest, I sort of missed Dylan's moptop -- he had sported such thick, shiny hair. To be sure, I did not miss the sullen attitude that went with the girly-boy band looks!

We came to a door labeled "Robert Siggenthal, Chaplain and Guidance Counselor" and found it locked.

Just then, my son's cell phone buzzed. He exclaimed, "Yikes, I have to get my stuff out of the dorm in five minutes or it's getting locked up! Dad, give me the car keys. I'll load it up. The barber shop is right around the corner -- make a left at the next hallway. If Mr. Sig is there, wait for me at the barbershop -- chat him up. He's a great guy! If not, we'll meet at the car." Before I could agree or disagree, my son was off.

I ambled around the corner.....and instantly noticed the glow of neon coming out of the first door. The twirling red and white pole gave me no doubt I was in the right place. My heart raced a bit. Why was I nervous, I wondered? Mr. Siggenthal and his huge bootcamp clippers were in that door! How many moptops had he put an end to in his career, I wondered. Thousands! I imagined myself in the line, inching up to his door, pawing at my treasured hair and watching the new scrubs come out totally shorn bald! I probably loved my own thick, luxuriant dark hair as much as Dylan had loved his. How would I have reacted to the teasing in front of the other boys? I ran my fingers through my thick forelock. Ah, it was like a comfort blanket to me!

I stepped into the doorway -- and there he was, Mr. Sig, reading a paper. The youngish-looking man raised his head and flashed me a big, friendly smiled. "Can I help you, need directions?" he asked.

He had on a professional barber tunic, but the shop was empty.

He didn't look threatening at all, so I stepped in and asked, "Are you the famous Mr. Sig who my son has been raving about? I'm Carl Pasquale, Dylan's father," I said, extending my hand to greet the barber.

Mr. Sig gave me a tight, firm, intimidating shake. "Rob Siggenthal, at your service!" he said. "Dylan is a terrific kid -- you should be proud of him."

"I am. From what I've seen of him today, the summer session has been fantastic for him. I'm thinking about suggesting to his mother that he be enrolled full time for the regular school year," I remarked. "He told me about his first day and the scrub haircut he got in here...."

Mr. Sig's blue eyes twinkled, and he looked at me with a tinge of mischief. Suddenly, he stood and walk boldly up to me. I caught a whiff of his manly cologne. "I'd like to think it was.....'like father, like son'.....if you catch my drift. Here," he said patting the big leather seat of the barber chair. "Have a seat!"

I was totally taken aback!

"What? Me, uh, in the chair?!" I stammered.

Mr. Sig quickly stepped between me and the door, blocking the exit as he swung the barbershop door closed. "Don't tell me! Will the darling daddy will be in tears if his haircut is a bit on the short side?!"

"I didn't come here for a haircut. I just came to say hello," I said in a whiny tone.

"But, you are in need of a haircut! Just like your son was when you dropped him off here. Now, please, take a seat!" Mr. Sig snapped authoritatively, suddenly commandeering me toward the chair.

I was so in shock that I staggered back in awkward compliance. I felt ridiculous as I watched myself in the huge mirror, easing into the chair. I looked up at the barber and felt vulnerable and without options

Rob Siggenthal snapped open the cape and brought it around my neck. "There, sit nice and still for your haircut, like a big boy!" he quipped. Then he began brushing my hair and stroking it gently. "With the students, things are a strictly, STRICTLY professional. But, with the fathers, well, we sometimes take a few liberties. Oh, your hair is so soft and long....."

I felt my cock stir under the cape. "What kind of liberties?" I stammered.

"You'll find out soon enough," he purred as he brushed my hair. "Ahhh, this is quite thick and glossy for a man your age. Have you hit the big 4-0 yet, Mr. Pasquale?"

"Next month," I croaked.

Then he picked up the big machine. "And when was the last time you were taken down to a 'scrub' baldy?!" he asked.

Surely, he was kidding! He wouldn't dare!! "I've never had a clipper cut before....." my voice eeked out in a soft, scratchy confession.

He swiveled the chair away from the mirror. Then, Mr. Sig grabbed the thick forelock with his hand and yanked it up. He smirked as he snapped on the machine brought the chattering clippers to me.

In an instant, he began peeling away my thick, lovely hair. Mounds fell to the cape. I tried to see what was happening, but he yanked my head and made me sit still.

"Go ahead, you can shed a few tears over the end of your pretty-dad look," he taunted. He clipped another swath away and sheaves of my treasured hair fell to the cape. There was no doubt, I was being given a scrub baldy cut!

Like Dylan, I gripped the arms of the chair and steeled my nerves. I would not cry!

Mr. Sig was quick and ruthless with the clippers. His years of shearing down the lads, boot camp-style, made him quite efficient. In less than three minutes, my floppy hairstyle that I'd been quite vain about was on my lap or the floor! How had this happened to me?!

As soon as all the hair had been cut, he snapped off the clippers. Then, he turned the chair back toward the mirror and I let out a gasp! "OMG! What the f***!!!" I yelped. I looked like a prison convict! My scalp was white and contrasted awkwardly with my face tanned from hours on the tennis courts.

Mr. Sig's face clouded over. "We do not accept that sort of language here at Beecher Ward, Mr. Pasquale!" He yanked off the cape and grabbed me by my ear. Mercilessly, he pulled me out of the chair. I struggled to keep up as he dragged me to a back room, behind a curtain that separated it from the barbershop.

"Lean over this table," he instructed.

"What?! You're hurting me!" I stammered.

He continued to bark orders. "Lean over it, I said!"

I complied meekly. Then he wrestled my slacks off, so that they fell down to the floors and draped about my ankles.

My heart pounded wildly as I lay, draped over the table, under Mr. Sig's control. For a quick moment the room was silent and the air thick with suspense.

Then, from out of the blue, without warning, I felt the first THWACK! A paddle came down firmly and furiously on my virgin butt. I had never been spanked before. For a wealthy executive, the demeaning treatment was unimaginable. What really boggled my mind was that I found it....well, enjoyable.

"Absolutely no cussing on campus, Mr. Pasquale!" The paddle smacked me a second and third time. "Do you understand?!"

"Yes, sir!" I replied from my cowed position.

The paddling ceased. Strangely, I felt disappointed.

Then Mr. Sig pinched a cluster of the thick hair that covered my legs and gave it a mighty yank.

"Ouch!" I squealed.

"If we had the time, I'd enjoy the challenge of these hairy legs....." Mr. Sig murmured. Then, his hand began to caress my bald head. "I'm so glad that you'll be putting Dylan in school here. I want you back on campus every time parents are invited. Is that understood?"

"I won't miss a single opportunity, that's a promise," I said imagining what it would be like to return to Mr. Sig's barbershop. Would he let my hair grow out a bit and clip it into a very short crewcut like Dylan's?

Just then, we heard the barbershop door open and Dylan call out, "Mr. Sig? Dad? Are you in here?"

I began to scramble to pull up my pants, but Mr. Sig indicated for me to stop! I was standing there with just my Fruit of the Looms' on, with my trousers around my ankles. I was scared silly that Dylan might see me like that...and understand that I'd been disciplined!

"Yes, Dylan, we're in the back here?" the barber called out.

"Shall I wait out here?" my son asked.

"Yes, it'll be just a minute," he replied.

Then, unexpectedly, Mr. Sig delivered an additional TWHACK with the paddle. The smack rang out loud and clear! My son knew why I was behind the curtain! My face turned a crimson red. "Okay, Mr. Pasquale, you can pull up your trousers now," Mr. Sig ordered in a loud tone. Then, he smirked as he marched me back into the shop.

Dylan was snickering quietly. When he saw my bald head, he roared with laughter! "That is totally awesome, Mr. Sig! My dad with no hair -- just like a scrub! Totally unreal."

I stood in total embarrassment and humiliation.

"Tell your son the good news, Mr. Pasquale," the barber ordered.

"You'll be enrolled full time here this fall, Dylan," I said.

"That's awesome, Dad!" he said beaming.

I smiled too, knowing I'd made my son happy.....and that my first encounter with Mr. Sig would not be my last.

Mr Sig motioned to Dylan, "Now run along. We'll be in touch....and I can't wait to see you again in three weeks, Dylan!" The lad scampered from the room.

Then, Mr. Sig, wrenched me by my ear again and hissed, "When you report back to campus with Dylan, I want you to drop by my shop the evening before at 8 pm sharp. I'll go over the special handbook I've created from Difficult Dads. I heard quite a few stories about your pathetic parenting skills, Mr. Pasquale! If Dylan's report on you isn't satisfactory, I will take prompt action to discipline you again." He pulled open a drawer with a variety of leather belts. "These are just for the dads -- the short ones for the wrists and ankles. Hopefully, you won't need to go through that."

I looked at him and took the liberty of cracking a slight grin. "Hopefully, I will....."

As I walked out the door, I was on the receiving end of one last smack, straight from Mr. Sig's hand! My butt ached mightily, but I welcomed the stinging sensation, knowing it would be with me for hours as we rode home. And, Dylan....well, he would have a whole list of grievances to relate to Mr. Sig in three weeks. And I would pay the price, strapped into Mr. Sig's chair....in just three short week.







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