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Tory -- from Rapunzel to Recruit by Manny

Matt's eyes riveted on the long, ginger braid that hung down the new boathand's back. It was as thick as one of the heavy hemp cords that kept the yachts firmly docked to the marina port. His glossy hair was secured with a scrunchie at the nape and then plaited into a 36-inch tail that ended in a tuft of fiery orange right past the fellow's tight ass.

As the lad turned around, his face was very much as Matt imagined it would be -- tanned, full of freckles, bright green eyes and handsomely Celtic. "Welcome to the team," Matt said, extending his hand.

Tory was a congenial, albeit somewhat cocky, fellow who quickly let it be known that he had a lot of experience at exclusive marinas and expected to deal with the most expensive craft. "That's what I let the boss know when I was recruited from the Santa Monica Marina up the coast."

Within days, Tory had demonstrate a full range of skills that vouched for his relatively long experience working with yachts. He quickly became the boss' favorite and the fellows on staff all learned to defer to him.

I was the one that resented his addition to the team most, since his presence dropped me in the pecking order from #1 to #2. To his credit, Tory did try to soften the blow a bit, and ask me questions that he probably knew the answers to. Of course, he left me "in charge" when he wasn't there. The other dynamic softening the blow was near continuous observation of the thick, long ginger braid. I daydreamed at length about griping him by his braid, cutting off his ginger tresses right at the nape and watching the mass of hair fall to the floor of the crew house. An amateur hack job has what Tory needed! Shorn of his glory, he might be more humble....

About a month after his arrival, the stage was set for Tory to be knocked down a few notches from his pedestal quite literally by means of a slip up. One of the huge yachts had discharged an oily substance and Tory was leaning over the edge of the water trying to find the source of the leak when his foot slipped and he fell into the water. It was covered with an gooey film that quickly coated him from head to toe.

I wasn't far away when the splash alerted us to Tory's mishap and was quickly on hand with the big hook to help scoop him out of the polluted water. His lovely orange hair was covered with an oily mess! "Quick, we need to get this oil off you skin and your eyes," I said as I helped Tory get over to a shower in the crew house.

"What about my hair?" he asked nervously.

"It's caked in slimy oil," I replied, concealing my glee with a patina of concern.

Tory pulled the braid around and saw how bad it really was.

"I'm more concerned about your eyes and ears. We can always cut off the hair!" I said, testing the waters.

Tory didn't respond. Within a few minutes, I had him in the shower -- stripped of his clothes and working hard to get the oil off his skin. "Why don't you work on my hair? I think I can handle most of the face, arms and legs," Tory suggested.

"Sure, let me get a pair of scissors," I said.

"I didn't mean to have it cut off!" Tory squealed. "I just want you to wash it!!"

"Calm down, you little Nervous Nellie. All I meant was the the scissors can help get the oil soaked scrunchies off. Otherwise, I'll never get this braid undone," I replied.

"Oh, sorry. I guess I'm a little protective of my hair....," he muttered.

"With oil like this, normal shampoo won't do. I hope this Dawn dish soap isn't too harsh on it," I said. "Your braid always looks so healthy and shiny," I said as I brought the shears up to the nape to snip off the scrunchy.

"Careful back there," Tory instructed nervously.

"Have you ever considered chopping this off?" I asked innocently. "Sure would make your life more simple."

"I know it would," he admitted.

"So, when was the last time you had a decent haircut?" I continued as I began unbraiding the oily mess.

"Oh, probably when I was 13. Grew it out in a rebellious phase and got a lot of attention. The longer it grew the more comments I'd get," he explained. "Someone offered me $300 for the braid once. That was the closest I came to the big chop. I thought he wanted it for a wig and was going to agree to it, but then it turned out he wanted to film the haircut and post it on some website. Sounded too strange, so I backed out.

I looked at the tangled, oily mess hanging down to his mid thighs. "Well, I don't have $300 to offer you, but I will offer to cut this off for free. It's an hot, slick mess. I can't even get the Dawn to produce any suds."

"Here, let me try," said Tory, as he reached for the Dawn. He applied a generous amount and tried to lather up, but grew very frustrated.

"Maybe I should get some turpentine or gasoline to see if that helps," I commented. "Then again, there's always the barbershop option," I said, reaching for the shears.

Then, surprisingly, Tory made a counter offer. "Matt, what about a compromise? You cut off half and we'll concentrate on cleaning the remaining smaller amount?" Tory suggested.

"Sure!" I chirped. "Turn off that water and take a seat out here. I can do a quick, blunt cut and we can get you back in the shower in a flash."

Tory took a seat sopping wet and I let the unbraided hair, which was actually cleaner than I thought, dangle down -- just a foot from the floor. The gleaming red color showed plainly with almost all the oil gone now. I was certain that one more round with Dawn or a strong shampoo would get the remaining oil out. But, I had my chance to harvest the ginger hair....so, I snapped the shears open and shut a few times. "The barber is ready!" I laughed.

Then I got an idea, I said as I took the shears to Tory's nape. "I think we need to take this mess off here, above the collar." I planted the outer blade of the shears right at his nape, and he shivered

To my amazement, Tory's cock stirred. He was silent, while he tried to hide his unplanned response to my suggestion.

"A short haircut excites you, I see," I noted as I laughed. "After I chop it off here at the nape, how about a follow-up session at my place with the clippers? I'd like to take you down to a tight butch -- quarter inch all over! When I play barber, I become very aggressive."

Tory struggled to get up, but I held him down by the hair. "You'll look so hot with a baldy cut!"

By this time, he was fit to explode, and so I plunged the shears directly into the mass of hair. "Shall I do it now?" I pressed him, as I held the shears, primed to clamp down and sever the first long lock.

"Yes," he groaned as another gooey substance exploded onto the scene.

Even though I wanted to deliver a big CRUNCH! to put an end to his Rapunzel-like hair, I stopped myself. This could get a whole lot more interesting if I practiced a little strategic self-restraint. Of course, the gamble could also mean I ended up with nothing! But, I already had something big -- the knowledge that Tory was excitable at the thought of losing his precious braid. He may have chickened out before, but that would not happen a second time if I played my cards right!

While Tory was recovering from his exertion, I stripped off my clothes and hustled him back into the shower and pulled the curtain closed. "I think one more vigorous session with shampoo will get your hair back into pristine shape. And then, you and I are going to the barbershop! Your thick, beautiful, red hair falling in sheaves to the floor at the feet of a no-nonsense barber. It will delight two genuine haircut enthusiasts -- you and me both! -- and thousands of youtube viewers, perhaps."

"Yes," he muttered, "that would be a show worth watching."

The flowing mane lathered up nicely, just as I suspected; Tory was submissive and compliant as I washed his locks. It was such a change, dealing with him, from his generally cocky, bossy attitude as self appointed "team lead" among the boat hands. While we were still in the shower with the water running, I used a wide-toothed comb to get the long hair detangled. Unbraided, it reached down to his just above his knees! "I can't wait to brush through this when it's all nice and dry and fluffy," I told him. "Then, I will lead you into a very traditional barber shop, where the old men are crotchy. Their looks of disapproval will be withering as you walk in with you hair flowing freely, lapping your thighs. We'll get you all caped up in a big, traditional chair, with your locks tumbling behind the back of the seat, waiting to fall..... You will sit quietly and obediently, while I instruct the barber what needs to happen."

Tory suddenly whirled around and faced me in the tight confines of the shower stall. "I want that, but I'm afraid! Why not play barber at home like you said at first? It'll be easier to receive a baldy cut in private than anything at the hands of a grumpy old barber!"

"Because you need to be publicly humiliated and mocked by disapproving geezers for wearing such girlish hair," I stated flatly.

"I have a fear of both haircuts and barbershops, Matt!" Tory argued.

"Yes, dear, I know that. This is why I'm taking you to the most traditional places around to get one of the shortest haircuts on the charts," I said calmly. "But first, back to the chair here so that we can dry this beautiful, long red hair one last time!" Tory submitted nervously as I led him back to the chair. We both knew it would be a marathon drying session. His hair was so dense, just combing through it was a labor of love. No wonder he kept it braided all the time. As the damp locks turned dry their dull-brownish tint morphed into a neon-like carrot color! It glowed with the ferocity of a brand new penny, and the feel of it was like the finest silk. I grasped the long mane in my hands and put my fingers around a makeshift tail at the nape. The abundance of hair filled the whole circle of my finger span. Then I pulled the majestic long chord through, letting the shank of hair fall into a muffled thud-like sound as it hit the back of the chair.

"Next on our agenda -- the barbershop!" I clucked gleefully.

As we walked to my car, the breeze caught Tory's hair and it billowed into a fulsome splendor with the sun shining through its bronzish splendor. The hair glistened with the magnificence of the best groomed Irish Settler at the Westminster Show. Tory tried to pull it into place, but the long hair flew in multiple directions, evading his grip. Once he'd been caped up in the barbershop, it would not have the same luck! It's last trip would be to fall in enormous shanks to the floor!

I was surprised at how eager Tory seemed to get into the car and move towards the barbershop. I had rather expected him to drag his feet and beg for a reprieve.

He fidgeted nervously with his hair as I drove to Chet's Barber Shop -- a small stand-alone building that looked like a converted miniature Dairy Queen with a fake shingled roof clapped to the side of the cinderblock consturction. The traditional pole whirled to let us know Chet was in and ready for business!

"The last time I was in a barbershop, I was 13," recalled Tory nervously. "I was six months into my 'I'm not going to cut my hair' rebellion. There was a huge collection of wild curls that bounced all over the place. They were constantly in my face too. Even my mother had begged me to get a decent haircut. But, in my house, my father ruled the roost. One Saturday, I sat down to lunch with my parents with my curls and ringlets hanging down in front of both eyes. My father didn't say a word. He stood up, grabbed me by my hair and dragged me to the car. I knew where we were headed. He pushed me into the barbershop and announced to everyone in there -- barbers and clients alike -- 'seems like my boy's been angling for a part as Little Orphan Annie in the school play, but a part in the Jarhead movie would be more to my liking.' The man that was just settling into the chair to get his haircut got up and said I should cut to the front of the line. The barber and my father discussed the fate of my hair for a few minutes, and then I saw the barber hold up a huge set of clippers. 'The best solution for curls on boys!' he said with a chuckle. In seconds, the mop was gone and I was left with a burr cut -- clipped down to the scull! I was totally humiliated by my father and the barber in front of everyone in the shop."

"And what was the name of that shop," I asked.

"Chet's Barber Shop," Tory replied with a shiver of fear in his voice.

"You mean that shop there?" I asked, as we rounded the corner.

"Oh, Matt!" Tory exclaimed. "Not Chet's! Please, I beg you....."

"Oh yes, Chet's!" I replied in triumph. I stopped the car outside the front door and snapped a reminder to Tory to be compliant and submissive. This long ginger hair looked amazing as he got out of the car.

I pushed open the door of the shop and walked in, "Don't go wandering off, Tory," I snapped as I called behind to him.

He gingerly entered the shop, and all eyes focused on the lad with the long, ginger hair.

"Seems like my boy here's been angling for a part in the community production of Rapunzel!" I announced. "But he didn't make the cut for the lead role, so now it's time for a decent haircut."

"Over here, Missy!" old Chet called out, pointing to the chair in front of him.

Tory looked at me, hoping for a last minute reprieve. I pointed to the chair. "Let's not linger...."

Tory sat nervously and fidgeted as old Chet wrestled with the cape and long hair. Finally he got the pin-striped cloth fastened and the red locks hung luxuriously down past the seat of the chair toward the floor. "So what'll it be?" the barber asked the caped lad.

"He knows," Tory muttered, as he pointed to me.

I advanced to the chair and grabbed a huge shank of hair. "Something very manly and practical."

"What about a 'shoe?" the barber suggested.

"Perfect! Shoe him!" I ordered.

In a flash, Chet was chopping away at the abundant mane. Each whack with the scissors caused a clump or lovely red hair to fall to the floor of the barbershop.

"I hear we're in for a rainstorm tonight," old Chet commented nonchalantly as he hacked away at Tory's hair.

Not making a big deal or fussing over the loss of the prissy boy's hair almost seemed insulting the the caped lad who doted on his hair so much. The crotchety barber was chopping it off while making mundane talk about the weather!!

After leaving Tory with a blunt, chin-length cut, the barber looked down at the floor strewn with scattered 36 inch locks. "I suppose that should have been saved for a wig for a kid with cancer..."

"No, I'm against that!" I snapped. "Gives men a horrible excuse to grow out their hair.

By this time, Chet had Tory's head in the grip of defeat and he brought the balding clippers right up through the dangling, truncated tresses. Clumps of hair soiled the cape. "One shoe, coming up! You'll be able to call me a cobbler when I'm finished turning Rapunzel into a Recruit!"

Chet was merciless when it came to stripping Tory of his long hair. I circled closing, snapping shots of each phase of the makeover. What impressed me most was the alabaster nature of the scalp that had been protected under the dense mane for over a decade. The white skin contrasted enormously with the tanned face. Tory was going to look semi-freakish.

When old Chet took the clipper to the top of Tory's head to carve out the shoe, the poor lad dodged the fury of the screaming teeth. "Sit up straight!" the barber exclaimed. "Or you might end up with a cue ball.

"That does it, Chet! Scrap the shoe and scrape him clean. I'm tired of the passive aggressive behavior. Cueball!"

Tory looked at me in horror as the barber finished buzzing his head and reaching for the warm lather to rub in.

Once the once-cocky boy had been scraped clean, Chet whirled him around toward the mirror. "Now that's what I call a change for the better!" the old man pronounced.

"I just wish his father could be here to see me," Tory said sheepishly. "The last time I was in this car was 11 years ago, and he ordered my shoulder-length curls shaved off."

"I think I remember that day....heavy rain showers were predicted for the evening. Yes, a lot of hair and a lot of rain fell that day.

Just then a bolt of lightening flashed and the rain began to fall. "Come on, Tory, we need to get back to the marina to show off your new look!"

"Yes, sir, boss!" he replied obediently.

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