Ticket or Change? by Derkx

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Ticket or Change?
by Derkx

Of course I knew that the flashing lights on the state trooper vehicle were for me. I was speeding because I was late. As I pulled to the shoulder of the road, I knew I’d be much later.
"License," the trooper ordered me.
As I fished it out of my wallet he asked, "Are you aware that . . ."
"Yes," I cut him off. "I know I was going too fast. I’m late for an appointment with my hair stylist and I’ll be charged if I don’t show up."
"Uh-huh," he said, then went back to his vehicle to check my car’s license and any record I might have. He can back in about two minutes.
"The last time you were stopped for speeding, you were also late for a haircut," he observed.
That was true. I couldn’t deny it.
"I guess your hair is pretty important for you," he said. There was something about the way he said "pretty" that I took as a dig.
"Well, yes. I have to look my best for work and Janet, my stylist, is the only one I can trust not to cut my hair too short . . ." I immediately regretted by choice of words. "Not to give me a bad cut, I mean," I tried to recover.
The trooper took off his hat, ostensibly to readjust it when he put it back on. But he held it off longer than necessary, just to give me a good look at his haircut, which had left little hair on top and even less on the sides. I had to acknowledge it.
"Short hair looks great on you," I commented. "I guess you’ve got the right head shape. I could never pull it off."
He didn’t respond at first. He just stared at me, sizing me up.
I have to admit that I was checking him out. He was young â€" late twenties maybe or early thirties, about my age. His state police uniform was crisp and smooth. Of course he had piercing eyes â€" hazel. And the glimpse I got of the hair atop his head showed a very light brown color; the color was confirmed by a glance of his hairy arms as his drew out his citation book.
"You’re not going to give me a ticket, are you?" I began to panic. "My insurance rates will go through the roof!"
"I could give you a warning but I see from your record that would be useless."
"No, really . . . This time . . . I won’t do this again."
He weighed various options in his head. Then he looked down at his citation booklet and my license as he handed it back to me. He glanced at his watch.
"Well, this is another option . . ."
I jumped at the chance. "Yes? I’ll take it, whatever it is."
"I see you live in Melton."
What did that have to do with anything? "Yes."

"Okay. I won’t give you a ticket . . . if and only if you follow me and do exactly what I say."
"Follow you? But my appointment . . ." I stopped myself. This figure of authority did not want to hear anything more about my hair appointment.
"You know I’m doing you a favor?" he said sternly.
"Yes, sir. I’m aware of that. I’ll do whatever you say." I meant that. I would. Not just to get out of an expensive ticket and an increase in my insurance premium, but also because I welcomed the opportunity to follow this stunningly handsome man in uniform and spend more time with him. I had to admit I was aroused by the prospect.
He went back to his car, turned off the flashing lights and returned to the highway’s travel lanes. I followed â€" at the precise speed-limit rate he set.
We passed one exit, which was the one I should have taken to get to Janet, my hair stylist. We got off at the second exit, which led back to Melton, where I shouldn’t have been returning until the end of the day. Was there a state police station in Melton, I wondered? Is that where we were going?
But no, we didn’t stop at any sort of police station. The trooper made a few turns then stopped and parked by a mid-rise apartment building â€" only a few blocks away from my own apartment. He got out of his car and signaled for me to park next to him. I did and got out myself.
"Where . . .?"
He looked at his watch. "Follow me."
We went into the building and up three flights of stairs (ignoring the elevator we could have used). I followed him and watched the movements of his glutes under the stretched fabric of his trousers. He unlocked an apartment door and we entered.
"Wait here," he said, leaving me in a living room moderately furnished in masculine decor.
"You better cancel your appointment," he called from what I assumed was the bedroom.
I phoned and got a receptionist, who told me I was in luck. A walk-in customer could take my appointment, so I wouldn’t be charged a cancellation fee. I wondered whether it was fated that I miss that appointment.
When the trooper returned, he was out of his uniform and stripped of all clothing except a pair of skimpy, tight running shorts. His body was muscular and covered with an impressive display of light brown hair. I felt a stirring in my groin.
He took one last look at his wristwatch then removed it and set it on a table.
"Okay. I’m off duty now." He looked at me and smiled. "My name’s Jim."
"Ma . . . Matt," I stuttered. I shook the hand he offered.
"Now, I’ll show you what a real haircut looks like! C’mon!"
He brought me into his bedroom, which contained a king-size bed made up with crisp military corners. At the other end of the room a resistance exercise machine stood in one corner. The other corner had a full-length triple-segment mirror against the wall, with a single-paned free-standing mirror a few feet across from it. A straight-back chair and a utility cart stood nearby
Jim opened a closet and pulled out some sort of small sheet that he spread out on the floor between the mirrors. While his closet door was open, I saw the uniform he’d been wearing shortly before. There didn’t seem to be many clothes hanging alongside it. I guessed he was a clothing minimalist.
"I need a touch-up, so you’ll get an idea of what a real man’s haircut is like."
He picked up clippers from the cart, turned them on and began buzzing the sides of his head. The short covering of hair that was there gave way to skin. Swaths of light brown hair fell onto the half-sheet. I was fascinated as he changed attachments on the clippers and blended the raw sections into the hair above, which he also took down lower. All the time he was evaluating his work in the multiple mirrors that gave him a nearly 360-degree view of himself. It was clear he knew exactly what he was doing.
Jim was aware that I was mesmerized. "You can help on the next part," he said. "Come here."
I entered into his mirrored world. He handed me a large foil shaver.
"What do I do with this?"
He showed me how to use the shaver’s head to skin the sides and back of his head. I was reluctant at first, unsure of what I was doing. Then he put his hand over mine and guided me until I gained confidence. But then I didn’t want him to let go because I liked the feel of his hand on mine. He gave me a pat on the arm and let me finish up.
I was enjoying the experience. I was actually turned on my what I was doing and by the feel of his exposed skin and the stubble and the short hairs.
"Go ahead," he said when the job was finished. "You can rub it."
I did. As I freely ran my fingers over his head, I felt the blood surge into my lower parts and my penis stiffened.
"Now this is a man’s haircut," he said. "Wouldn’t you agree, Matt?"
I nodded yes in every mirrored reflection.
"Now, if you had a haircut like this," he went on, "you wouldn’t have to pay those ridiculous prices for a ‘stylist.’ You wouldn’t have to worry about missing appointments. And you wouldn’t have to break the speed limit to get there." That made me smile. "You’d be able to go to a professional barber â€" a less expensive barber â€" whenever you wanted. You wouldn’t even have to do that. With some practice you could cut your own hair. . . . Or have a friend do it for you."
There was a suggestion there that Jim was willing to be that friend â€" was eager, in fact. He looked up â€" I was slightly taller â€" into my eyes with a earnest gaze. And a wink.
"You’re right," I admitted. "It would be convenient. But . . ."
"You’d look great with a haircut like mine," he almost purred. "With your dark hair, you’d be irresistible. I might be jealous."
"Really?"
"Really." He paused. "Let me do it."
"No ticket?"
He laughed. "No ticket, no. But that’s not a condition. We’re way beyond that. Right now I’m offering you a change â€" a change I think you’re ready for. You want it, don’t you?"
All multiple images of me nodded yes. "I do want it." And I wanted him too.
"First thing: clothes off."
Fair enough, I thought. Except . . . I had my shoes, socks and shirt off and tossed on the bed. I unbuckled my belt and had started to remove my trousers but . . . my tight briefs couldn’t hide the bulge underneath.
"Here." He handed me a pair of running shorts similar to those he was wearing.
I turned my back to him, removed my trousers and put on the shorts. The shorts he was wearing were tight over his beefed-up physique. The ones I had on were thankfully looser on my less-developed body.
"Nice!" he said when I turned around and he got a good look at my body, which was even hairier than his but my hair was much more visually noticeable because it was so dark.
Jim came over to me and ran his fingers through my chest hair. I barely held back a shudder of delight. Then he hugged me, pressing our chest hair together. I could also feel his erection against mine. I couldn’t resist the temptation to nuzzle his clean-shaven neck.
"Easy there, my eager little rabbit," he laughed as he gently backed away. "We need to take care of your hair problem first. But we’ll do it right. No speeding!"
He moved the straight-back chair onto the piece of sheeting and had me sit. I was too tall for him to work on me standing.
He circled around me, looking at my hair from every angle. I looked at my own head briefly. But mostly I was enjoying the view of his body, with his exposed hairy limbs and his crotch at the level of my chest.
"This must be a nuisance," he said, untucking a patch of my hair that was pushed behind my ear.
"Yeah. It grows out too fast and starts to cover my ears. Same problem with my sideburns.. They’re never trimmed right."
"You don’t need them," he said. He turned on his clippers and whoosh! one of the sideburns was gone before I could protest. Then the other. "What do you think?" he asked. "Should I go on?"
I nodded yes. I think that somehow I had agreed to this, maybe even asked for it. There was no going back now.
He stripped the sides and back of my head until there was nothing left but shadow. Then he applied the foil shaver and she shadow faded from the bottom into the stubble above.
"No hair over your ears now!" he quipped.
He stopped his work to consider the top of my head. I was too stunned by what he’d done so far to fear what he might do next. How far would he take down the top?
"Not as short as mine, I don’t think. I’ll leave enough length for you to finger-brush it forward. It will draw people to your eyes." He liked my eyes? "Anyway, you need a softer look than mine, my furry rabbit."
When he was finished, I stood up and studied my look from every angle. I’d never, never, ever had a haircut this short. I hadn’t been in the sun for a while, so at least I didn’t need to be concerned about a white scalp contrasting with tanned skin.
I didn’t look I always looked. I didn’t look like me. . . . But I liked the look of the guy in the mirror. I was hot! I wouldn’t mind being him. But then, I was him!
Jim came from the bathroom with a damp cloth that he used to wipe the hair stubble from his body, then mine. Then he splashed some witch hazel on my shaved skin, which stung a while then felt good and refreshing. Finally he held my stubbly head in his hands and gave me a quick kiss on the lips.
"Look in the closet for some running shoes that’ll fit you," he said. He was picking up the sheet, careful to gather all the fallen hair (mostly mine) into the middle so it didn’t spill out.
"What?"
"We’re going for a jog."
"I don’t have a T-shirt." I figured he’d offer me one but he didn’t.
"We don’t need them. You don’t want to cover up that beautiful chest of yours, do you, Matt?"
"I’m not really a jogger, you know," I protested.
"That’s okay. You’ll enjoy this. And your head will love the cool air. Anyway, we’re not going far â€" just over to your place so you can show me around. Then back here for dinner. We’ll have an appetite by then."
And that is exactly what we did.
I didn’t see Janet the hair stylist again after that day. (Did she wonder what happened to me?) But I did see a lot more of Jim.

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