Ronny Goes to School by longhairboy

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From the back of the room, it looked like a waterfall of gold framed by navy-blue edges. Were it not for the khaki-clad legs spread wide, the Converse-covered feet planted akimbo on the ground on either side of the desk, you never would've known there was a person beneath all the hair. The person happened to be a teenage boy, and the navy-blue border to the massive golden mane was that boy's just-visible shoulders, covered in the school-mandated blazer he disdained to wear. He f***ing hated uniforms. He hated conformity. He hated rules. The boy smirked. Maybe they could manage to coerce him into the lame school attire, but they couldn't get him to conform. Not really. Not with hair likes his.

It spilled from the top of his head, crowning him with a layer of shiny gold that flowed downward, downward, downward, past his diminutive shoulders, past his shoulder blades, down the length of his smooth, soft back, past the point where his spine arched ever so slightly into his pert rear end, past that even, to the seat of his pants and then a few thin inches beyond. When he stood, his extraordinary mane covered his backside and just reached his upper thighs. When he sat, as he was now, the long locks exploded from the plastic and metal confines of the desk, emerging in every direction and hanging over the seat. Towards the very bottom the strands were wispy and faded, but the boy couldn't bear to cut so much as a single inch from the mane. He'd meant to, of course; from time to time he'd look at the uneven ends, convince himself that in just six months' more time he'd muster the courage to get a haircut, but then six months later his hair was three inches longer, and he just couldn't stand the notion of giving anything up. So here he was, just turned eighteen and with a mass of hair so glorious and golden and, above all, so phenomenally LONG, that he became the center of attention in any room he entered. Sometimes his friends would tease that he needed a "trim,” and the cocky swagger of his rebuttals was never convincing enough to stop at least one person from seeing the fear underneath.

It was hard to blame the boy, though. After all, he'd been growing the hair since he was ten. By eleven it was just hanging beneath the tips of his ears; by twelve it graced his shoulders; by thirteen it was between his shoulder blades; by fourteen it was at the middle of his back; by fifteen it was at his lower back; by sixteen it reached his waist; by seventeen it reached his rear; and now, at eighteen, he had the most extraordinary mane of any teen boy he'd ever seen. The skater dudes, the scene kids, the athletes who spent hours preening their celebrated "flows,” could only stare in awe. Most of the time they offered praise. Some of the time they just glared. Every now and again, one of them would spit contemptuously at him to "get a haircut,” and inevitably those boys were the hockey players whose flows were the most grown out, whose curls flared around their shoulders.

"Ronald!”

Ron looked up from his khaki crotch, where he'd been carefully twirling an immense golden strand near any boy's favorite object. His mane hadn't been the only thing growing these past eight years.

"Yes, Mr. Watkins?”

"I was asking you why the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth was so weak in the face of Austrian aggression?”

Ron raised his eyebrows in a gesture of arrogant jest, his pink face flushing with amusement from beneath the immense hood of blonde hair.

"Do you really think I know that, Mr. Watkins?”

A few of the other boys in the glass guffawed, but Mr. Watkins fixed Ron with a piercing stare.

"Ronald, if you spent half as much time opening a textbook as you spent doing your hair, you wouldn't be flunking my class.”

More laughter from the back, but Ron just ran his hand through his flaxen streams and smirked.

"It's a lot of hair to do, Mr. Watkins.”

"Yes, well,” Mr. Watkins harrumphed. "I believe that McDonald's has a haircut policy for employees, and that's where you're going to wind up if you can't pull it together in this class.”

Ron's nostrils flared. Cut his f***ing hair!? Not for anything, but sure as hell not for some burger joint.

"Moving on. The deficiencies within the Commonwealth system had made exploitation by an outside power all too easy…”

In gym class, Ronny wriggled into the blue pants and white t-shirt that comprised Snowden Academy's physical education uniform.

"Dude, wait up!”

Ron turned around, a whirl of three-foot golden air surrounding a meagre frame. Coach Burbank asked any of the boys with longer hair—this being a suburb of Ottawa, there were plenty—to tie it back for class, but Ronny always avoided doing that. When his hair, long and lustrous and thick and extraordinary, was down, all people could see was the amazing mane. When it was tied, they got a real glimpse of the boy underneath, 5'8” and 120 pounds, with the stomach and the narrow shoulders and the face that was too soft and pink to be 18, even though it was. So Ronny let the mane fly.

"What's up, Zach?” Ron called.

Zach was a senior as well, a few inches shorter than Ron but with considerably more muscle on his wiry build. His cute face lit up as his generous brown afro bounced with his steps.

"You've got to start hitting the books for Watkins, man,” Zach chided. "This school was a last-chance deal for you. I know your uncle pulled some strings after you got in trouble back in Stratford…just don't blow it.”

Ronny sneered with the memory.

There'd been the blow-out confrontation with the math teacher, the hysterics over dress code—"That boy shows up here in those skin-tight jeans leaving nothing to the imagination, flaunting that hair!”—and the suspension. His father did what he always did—absolutely nothing—and Ronny reacted by breaking into the school that weekend with some friends and having a party in the math teacher's office. When the cops walked in, they found him shirtless on the teacher's desk, his magnificent hair tumbling to the floor, his hand atop Danny Zerini's long-locked head as the other gay boy used his full lips to take care of Ronny's raging boner. Then the suspension had become permanent. And seeing as he was seventeen, he would have been home free to spend his days partying and growing his locks, but then Uncle Dustin just had to intervene.

Dustin was his father's nerd brother, the one who'd gone to university in Alberta and had some big-wig job for the provincial government out there. He'd sat Ronny down, given him some big speech about "opportunity” and "hard work” and all this other crap. The whole time Ronny had been thinking that he wanted to go comb his hair out and take a selfie to send to Danny Zerini. Maybe they could meet up the next day…Then Uncle Dustin said something about Snowden Academy, this up-tight dork school he'd gone to on scholarship when he and Ronny's father were kids, and a week later the headmaster had called Ronny's house to extend an offer of admission for senior year.

Ronny shot the idea down, but his father spoke up.

"You're doing this, Ron,” he'd pronounced in his deep bass voice. "I wish I'd been more like your Uncle Dustin when I was your age. You're going to take advantage of this opportunity.”

Ron knew better than to object. His father let 90% of the crap he did slide, but on the rare occasions when he gave an order, he meant it. If Ron had complained about having to tie back the mane, then eight years of mane would've been chopped off and lying on the kitchen floor before Ron could say "sorry.”

So Ron went to Snowden. But what his father didn't know couldn't hurt Ron's hair, and so he was doing the old song-and-dance routine, this time just in nicer quarters.

"Whatever, dude,” Ronny grinned at Zach. "Watkins just hates me ‘cause I have awesome hair.”

He broke in to a run around the track, as Coach Burbank had instructed, and pretty soon the weight of his hair flying behind him caused a certain growth that the gym shorts made nice to hide.

"Wow, nice boner, hair boy,” sneered Bryan Letfield, a tall athlete with a buzz cut.

"Why are you looking, dude?” Ronny challenged. "You want to handle it?”

Bryan pursed his lips.

"I'd rather grow my hair as long as yours.”

"Maybe then you'd actually look cool,” Ronny spat.

"Oh, you think you're cool?”

Bryan pressed his chest to Ronny's and Ronny began to wonder if he should've thought this through. Bryan was two years younger but taller and stronger, and Ron knew he couldn't take him. Bryan's hand glanced across the tip of Ron's boner and the younger student smirked.

"You think all this hair makes you cool?” Bryan whispered. "It's just hair, little boy. And hair can be cut. I think you'd look really cool with a haircut like mine, and by cool I mean twelve.”

Ronny squirmed, and Bryan pinged his boner and flashed a mean little smile.

"You like growing things, I get it,” Bryan whispered. "You think I don't know that you get boned up over your own hair?”

Ron pulled back, shocked. He didn't think anyone had figured it out.

"So let's see how cool you are, Stratford,” Bryan continued. "Me and some of the guys can give you a haircut after class and then this little problem will be over.”

"All right, move along, Bryan!” Coach Burbank called. "Ron, can you come here please?”

Ron jogged over, a little shaken but still rock hard, and Coach Burbank pulled him aside.

"Son,” the coach said. "I understand you're at a certain age and you can't help it, but you can't be running around here with that…you know, with that thing sticking up in your gym shorts.”

"Oh,” Ron looked down, causing mountains of hair to fall over his blushing face and down to the boner in question—which, of course, only grew harder. The coach seemed to sense it pulse and averted his eyes.

"And you keep forgetting to tie your hair back,” Coach Burbank admonished. "Listen, get yourself some boxers with an elastic waist band and just try to help that, you know, hold that to your stomach or something. Until then, keep your hair down. If you have all that hair, you might as well put it to good use.”

It took Ron a moment to catch Coach Burbank's drift, but once he did he moved huge sections of his mane over his shoulders so that they sailed down his chest and to his crotch, neatly covering the engorged cock. Of course, this hid Ronny's boner while actually making it bigger and more pronounced, and as he flew through the gym with his hair flowing over his dick he felt a hardness so intense that it was nearly painful. Without providing any notice, he flew from the gym and to the boys' dormitory. He'd meant to head for his own bed, but he didn't get past the common room when he was in a chair, gym pants down and member out, his inflated penis drowning in a golden sea as he used the silken locks to fulfill a need that Danny Zerini wasn't there to meet. The fire from the hearth reflected off his hair and made his cock feel even hotter as he whacked, going so quickly and so furiously that he imagined he'd hit some of the mahogany paneling when he was done.

"RON, WHAT THE F***!?”

Ron turned around with a yelp to find Bryan Letfield and half the gym class standing in the doorway.

"G-guys!” Ronny stammered, swiveling, catching his own hair in a cushion, then falling forward to splay out in the floor in front of the guys, his boner bright red and thumping as his massive mane sprawled in every direction.

"Man, Coach Burbank thought you got sick,” Bryan laughed. "I guess you were throwing up, though.”

"Ron, what the f***?” Zach spat in disgust.

"I—I—”

"Save it for Mr. Richfield,” Bryan said. "Bet he'll love to hear all about it.”

Then Bryan hauled him to the floor by his hair and wound the mane around his fist, bringing it in to a tight grip at the base of Ronny's neck.

"Ow!” Ronny whined. "My hair, man, my hair! Let go!”

"Yeah, dude, your hair,” Bryan responded. "We're going to be talking all about it.”

Mr. Richfield's response was quick and unequivocal.

"Never in all my time as headmaster have I encountered something like this,” he said. His anger was palpable from behind his oak desk. "An act of utterly shameless public indecency. And I will not have it.”

Ron shifted beneath his hair. He was still shirtless, but the waves of blonde obscured his spare torso from Mr. Richfield's critical view.

"I could, and ought, to have you arrested, but out of respect for your uncle I will allow you to remain here. I will not, however, have a repeat of this disgusting conduct. Your hair is entirely too long. You will cut it and not be tempted to such an infraction again. End of discussion.”

Ron's nostrils ballooned in terror.

"A haircut!” he exclaimed. "No, not that!”

Mr. Richfield was unyielding.

"If you want to remain in this school, you will adopt an appropriate hairstyle that does not lead you to lewd acts. That means a haircut. If you find this unsatisfactory, I will be happy to expel you and notify your father what has happened.”

Ron knew then he was sunk. Ronny would have happily taken the expulsion, but his father would never permit such a move to go unpunished. If Ron were kicked out of Snowden, his head would be shaved by sundown.

The boy's face was in his hands, and Mr. Richfield knew the argument was over.

"Find some scissors in the art room,” Mr. Richfield instructed Bryan and Zach. "Take him back to the common room and cut all his hair off. And be quick about it. I want his hair short by next period.”

Ronny wailed.

"SHORT!? BY NEXT CLASS!? Please, Mr. Richfield, PLEASE! IT'S TAKEN TEN YEARS TO GROW!”

Bryan steered him from the room.

"Remember what I said, Ronny?” he asked. "It's just hair. It's easy to cut.”

Ron was still sobbing, still begging, when Zach entered the common room with the tiny scissors who would seal the fate of the greatest boy mane Canada had ever seen. Bryan held the waist-length hair out, surveying with satisfaction the ocean of gold that had been Ronny's adolescence.

"Don't worry, Ronny,” Bryan whispered. "This'll only take a second.”

Ronny wailed loudly and his dick, still hard, started leaking piss.

"Calm that thing down,” Zach said with a roll of his eyes. He seized a lock of hair and casually snipped it off, ignored Ronny's shriek, then used the severed piece to wipe the tip of Ronny's boner, which had come out from the gym shorts. The hair thus soiled, Zach tossed it to the floor.

"Holy his hair back,” Bryan instructed Zach.

Zach complied.

"It's heavy,” he noted.

Bryan grinned. "Not for long.”

He took the hair once more in his fist, applied the scissors to the small distance between his thumb and the back of Ronny's head, and began snipping across. Ronny's cries were drowned out only by Bryan's laughter as the three-foot waves of spun gold gradually separated from the adolescent head from which they'd taken a decade to sprout.

"That's why long hair doesn't make you cool, Ronny,” Zach informed him as the awful crunching continued. "You can grow it for ten years and then someone can just come around and cut it off.”

Ronny was shaking with sobs, his dick quivering with terror as the urine spouted unbidden and began to douse his shaft in lukewarm fear.

"That stinks,” Zach noted as the scissors continued to advance across the base of the mane. SNIP, SNIP, SNIP, SNIP, CRUNCH, SNIP, SNIP, SNIP, CRUNCH. "Almost there…almost…”

The last lock snapped free and Zach held up the mane in triumph.

"We should've timed that, dude!” he high-fived Bryan and waved the hair. "What was it, five seconds?”

Ronny's hands rushed to the back of his head, from whence had grown since he was in fifth grade a mighty current of hair long enough to drape his whole body, and felt instead a jagged page boy cut that stopped just beneath his collar. The mane, massive and legendary, the labor of a whole teenhood, the tool with which he'd whacked and seduced for years, was gone.

"MY HAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIRRRR!”

Bryan seized the severed hair and held it over his back, letting it fall to his thighs.

"Look, I'm a super hero!”

Zach laughed as Ronny simultaneously let loose both a moan and a jet of piss that arched like a fountain through the air.

"Careful, dude, you'll put out the fire!”

Zach did some quick evening, clipping off Ronny's bangs and removing what little excess length remained on the back and sides, then surveyed Ronny, whose delicate facial features were no longer buried in hair, whose sloping shoulders, barely-there chest, slender arms, and tight stomach no longer had a cape of flaxen glory to conceal their lack of substance.

"Holy s**t, he actually does look twelve!”

Ronny was crying and running his hands through his short hair—SHORT HAIR. How could he have short hair!?

"Well, we did our job,” Bryan said, slapping his hands together. "Short hair before English class. I really hope that one whack was worth it, Ronny.”

Ronny got into his uniform, which now made him look like a very young boy, and followed them an hour later. A whole week went by before people stopped asking if he was a new freshman transfer.

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