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Destiny by Jack
I’m nestled up against this wall sitting on this hard chair, sort of pretending to look at some magazine, but my eyes keep sneaking over the top of it. Sunlight is flooding into the room through an oversized window and it’s giving the place an otherworldly air. Like always, the same guy is hovering right above my sight line less than five feet away; he’s so close I can almost touch him, yet we never make eye contact. He’s around my age, fare and has aquamarine eyes that sparkle when the light catches them. As soon as the chair he’s ensconced in is spun around, I see him grimace at his reflection and rub his palms back and forth across his fresh haircut. Without much success I try to mask my erection as I stare into the back of his shiny head. One thing’s for sure, I’m pretty oblivious to what he’s saying. What I am aware of is the way he scratches the top of his head. My ears perk up though when I hear the the clippers roaring back to life and my dick revels in anticipation. The barber adjusts the blade and mows through the already closely buzzed bristle on top of the guy’s head taking it down a significant step closer to the scalp. When he finishes, it’s not as stark as the sidewalls, but it’s super tight. This time when the guy rubs his head he grins then settles up, glances at me and struts out of the shop stroking his sidewalls. The barber’s welcoming eyes meet mine, and he motions to the vacated chair. I’m sweating a little and my heart is pounding as I glance first at him and then at the sign hanging above the mirror clearly stating, Regulation Cuts Only. My determined dick thrusts me forward. Almost like I’ve disassociated from my body, it levitates toward the chair. The barber is quizzically stroking his perfectly executed flattop. His crisp white tunic and horn-rimmed glasses instill confidence and fear at the same time. Without much ceremony he drapes the cutting cape over my shoulders and sweeps the long bangs off my forehead. I hear what I recognize as my voice resonate, “cut it just like that last guy, real high, and real tight, okay, sir.” By now my incarcerated dick is struggling to break out of my tight Levis; discreetly I place my hand on my crotch and reassure it. My pulse is racing like I’m about to go into cardiac arrest. Then there’s this glorious, fleeting sensation that I’m free falling, almost as if I’ve just leapt out of a plane without a parachute. The clippers are poised, front and center, just grazing my forehead, ready to bite off that first, significant chunk of hair. I hear them humming above the steady traffic outside. The sweet lullaby is interrupted by the piercing sound of screeching tires and an unrelenting horn blasting mercilessly. It’s the horn that wakes me up. Just like always.
And, just like always, I’m cradling my throbbing cock and struggling to slide back into the dream. It’s stone silent. No buzzing clippers, no street noises. And it’s dark. The barber has dematerialized and I’m left with the lingering image of the guy with the fresh high and tight stroking his sidewalls. Hard as I try to concentrate, there’s no getting back. I roll over and pull at my hair trying futilely to imagine the sensation of the clippers whipping across my scalp. Buzzing my hair down to the wood.
Later that day I head to the barbershop for my monthly cut. It’s the place I’ve been going to for the past three years, not the barbershop in my dream, but just like in the dream my eyes continuously creep over the top of my magazine and scrutinize every man as he takes his place in the barber chair. Unfortunately, there’s not much real action, no super short cuts, not even a basic ivy league. I start flipping through the dog-eared magazine and stop dead in my tracks when I spot these shots of Jake Gyllenhall before and after the regulation marine high and tight he was given for Jarheads. When the barber calls my name I’m so engrossed with the pictures that he has to actually come over and tap me on the shoulder. Still grasping the magazine I follow him and sink into the chair. I hold the picture up and point at the high and tight. We both laugh. Twenty minutes later I leave the shop with the same taper cut he’s given me for the past three years.
The late afternoon sun is blinding as I drive straight into it with no real destination in mind. I keep glaring in the rear view mirror, berating myself for not having the courage to go through with the high and tight I’ve fantasized about for so long. A traffic light changes from green to yellow to red. My foot bolts toward the break jolting my body forward. A quick glance around cautions me that the neighborhood is unfamiliar. It’s not so much rundown, but it does feels strange, not in a threatening way more like a flash-in-the-past, unnerving kind of way. There are a few people on the street, and there are shops, and nothing is boarded up and it looks surprisingly clean and well maintained. The light changes and the car noses through the intersection and hesitates next to an empty parking spot. Just because, I pull into it. The sun is intense, but I trudge along trying to figure out where I am and who patronizes the shops that don’t appear to have been updated since the Kennedy administration. My feet paddle along and I squint into the sun wondering why I’m not heading back to the car. In spite of the fact that my dog is faithfully waiting at home for me, anticipating our daily walk, I forge on like I have some real need to be here, like I’ll discover this great place that I’ve been looking for my entire life, but didn’t really know I was even looking for. Meanwhile a kid on a two-wheeler speeds toward me. It’s like he’s bent on wiping me out or maybe he doesn’t even see me. It crosses my mind that perhaps I’m invisible and this whole interlude is just some weird, imaginary trip to the Twilight Zone. Irregardless, I scoot out of his path and spin around and watch him plow down the sidewalk heading toward another unsuspecting figment of my imagination.
While standing there, almost as frozen in time and space as the neighborhood, the door in front of me creeks open and some guy shoves his way out onto the sidewalk. He runs his hand across his stubbly head and smiles at me, then holds the door waiting for me to go inside. Reassured that I’m not invisible, I nod and return his smile and just to be polite, step over the threshold. A clamoring bell announces my arrival. I glance around the storefront and my eyes try to focus on the place and the people, and I see this guy sitting in a big chair in the center of the room and a big mirror and it registers that I’m inside a barbershop. It has the same look as everything else on the strip, stubbornly not trying the least bit to change with the times. Like I’ve been hypnotized, I sit down in this chair that’s shoved against the wall and pick through the magazines on the table next to me. I can feel my dick begin to stir as I listen to the purring clippers and watch then ripple across the top of this blonde guy’s head.
As I nestle into the hard chair it occurs to me that I just had my hair cut less than an hour ago, so why am I settling in, waiting my turn, like I’m going to have it cut again. Seeing as there’s just the three of us I feel like I can’t just get up and leave. My eyes roam around the room. It seems vaguely familiar, yet I know I’ve never been anywhere near this place before. And the guy in the chair, it’s like I know him too. I recognize the face and the shape of his head, especially now that the sidewalls have been clipped down to the scalp. My mind is whirling trying to figure out where I might know him from. Work? A friend of a friend? High School? Some old trick? And the barber, he looks familiar as well. The crisp white tunic, the horn-rimmed glasses, the exacting 60’s flattop. There’s this sign above the mirror. I stare at it then back at my magazine and then my eyes sneak back to the man in the chair and the clippers and the barber and his flattop. Sunlight is flooding into the room.
I know what’s going to happen next. . .
The barber finishes, gives his customer a mirror, spins him around. The shiny back of his head faces me. The guy rubs his head, there are a few words exchanged and then the clippers are summoned back into duty and the hair on the top of his head is clipped back another quarter inch. He smiles, gets up, pays, glances at me and struts toward the door.
Not quite. Instead, he lingers and gestures for me to climb up into the chair. I’m mesmerized. Confused. I can’t take my eyes off his haircut. Those glistening sidewalls. His aquamarine eyes beckon me. He grins knowingly at the barber, “cut his the same as mine.” I feel him grab my knee, “nice ‘n tight, right, bud?”
I try to speak but nothing comes out. I guess I jerk out a nod. The clippers start buzzing. My dick is way hard. My breath is heavy. I’m starting to feel light-headed. But, I’m ready this time! I brace myself for the inevitable sound of the screeching brakes followed by the blasting horn. I wait. The clippers are resting on my forehead, just beneath the floppy bangs. Nothing. No brakes, no horn. Silence. Just the euphoric buzz of the clippers. I crane my neck and look directly into the aquamarine eyes as the clippers lurch forward and tug on my bangs then charge full throttle straight across the top of my head and a giant chunk of hair pounces onto my lap. My hands squeeze the arms of the chair as the clippers glide across my head again, and then again, and again, and again. I watch in the mirror as they clear more, and more, and more, and still more hair away. The sensation is liberating and thrilling, even better than the anticipation. Within what seems like a fleeting second all that’s left on the top of my head is barely a five o’clock shadow. Before I have time to get a grip on what’s really happening the balding clippers are unleashed and attack my left temple. They efficiently peel a wide swath of hair off, right down to the bare scalp. I’m having a hard time breathing and an even a harder time controlling my dick. It’s so hard that it aches. My eyes are glued to the mirror intent on not missing a single move the clippers take. The guy with the fresh high and tight remains by my side. I can see him smirking in the mirror; his eyes follow each clump of hair as it sails toward the cutting cape. His stare is so intent that I feel like he can see through the cape and is actually smirking at my erection. More hair comes off. More shiny scalp is exposed. And the guy smirks even more. And my dick aches even more. I want to pull it out and grab it, or better yet, have him grab it. His aquamarine eyes sparkle even brighter. He keeps smirking at me.
The barber lowers my head into my chest. His hand resting on the top of my stubbly head feels strange, like something I’ve never experienced before. When I look down, all I can see are the clumps and clumps of dark hair scattered on the cape. The more I look at them the more my dick surges. I feel like it’s going to explode. Right about then my stomach starts to tighten. What have I just let happen to me? What is everyone at work going to say to me on Monday? The clippers continue to race up the back of my head until they scrape off the very last patch of hair. Now I feel completely naked, like I’m sitting here in this place, in front of this enormous window, with no clothes on. With this giant hard-on.
The barber starts to remore the cape. My hands caress my boner one last time then chase over my bare scalp as I stare in the mirror and try to acquaint myself with the new me. Exactly the same haircut as the guy with the aquamarine eyes. Pretty much bald, with a light dusting of stubble clinging to the very top. My dream haircut. I look like a serial killer, or a Q tip or some Marine recruit. The sidewalls are stark white. Shiny. It’s impossible for me to keep my hands off them. Every time I touch them my dick pounds harder. And every time the guy smirks at me my heart races faster. I glance at his crotch; he’s as hard as me.
When I reach for my billfold, the guy with the same haircut as me shakes his head and gives the barber a couple of twenties. “That’s for today,” he winks, “and the next couple.” He waits for me, holding the door. As I go to pass him his hand drops on the top of my head and he starts stroking the quarter inch that’s left. “Wanna hang out?” I smile then let my hand stroll up the back of his head, totally believing I’m wide-awake. And this is exactly where I’m supposed to be.
My phone starts ringing. And ringing. And ringing, breaking the spell of the moment. By the time I pry it out of my jeans it’s stopped. I shake my head, blink a few times, touch my scalp. The guy with the aquamarine eyes is still there smirking at me, holding an iPhone, pecking out a text message. “What’s your number, dude?”
My phone rings again: SWEET HAIRCUT!!! :)