George's Ginger Braid by Manny

---

He looked so out of place in the middle of the town's central plaza. Obviously a tourist! The only person wearing shorts, a tee-shirt and sandals. And....the only man with a thick, ginger braid running down his spine whose tuft at the end nestled smack in the middle of a cute, tight ass. The mass of hair at the nape was thicker than my forearm. There was so much fiery red, wiry hair feeding into the chord-like braid! It would certainly take a pair of heavy-duty wire snips to whack that thing off.


I decided to approach him as was my custom when I spotted a thick ginger braid on any sort of man or lad.


As I neared him, he took the initiative to engage me in conversation. His face and tone were panicked. "Are you an American?"


Obviously, with my shock of wavy blond hair nicely thinned and cut into a tidy business cut, I was not a native. Apart from my fair features, though, I tried not to stick out like an ugly American tourist. I wore a dress shirt and slacks like the local men.


"Yes, and I presume you are too," I answered.


"I've just been robbed! For the third time in two days. This time, they took everything that remained. I turned around for an instant, and my backpack and day-bag were swiped. Everything. Money, clothes, camera...and yesterday I had my phone, passport and credit cards taken. I don't have a thing left! Last night I had to sleep in this park because I couldn't pay for a hotel room. I'm desperate to get out of this country. Could you help me?"


I felt sorry for the lad and decided to be his guardian angel. Of course, not everything had been taken. That ginger braid was still there, gently swinging like a pendulum on a grandfather clock as he gesticulated! My taking it from him would be more than enough of a recompense for my troubles in helping him.


"Listen, calm down. I'm going to help you," I said with a sweet smile on my face. "We need to get you back to the capital city. That's where we can take care of the business part like the credit cards and even get your American passport replaced."


"But how will I get there? I don't have a penny!" he stammered.


"I said I would help you. I was going to go to the capital next week, but, we can leave on the bus this evening," I said.


"Oh, that's so kind of you!" he gushed. "I'll repay you for all your efforts, trust me. I'm George, by the way."


"Will is my name. Let's go back to my place so I can pack my stuff," I replied.


As we walked together, we got to know each other better. George seemed nice enough. A bit flaky, a free-spirit, but a harmless sort.


"Do you mind very much if I have you change your clothes? We wear a similar size. When people stand out and look like tourists, they become magnets for pickpockets. I don't want us getting robbed in the bus terminal or on the bus tonight," I explained.


"I'd be happy to change. And I get what you mean about trying to blend in better. I've felt like a sitting target during my whole time here," George replied.


Back at my place, I suggested that perhaps George would like to shower since he'd slept in the park.


"Oh, thank you, Will. You are such a God-send. I'd actually like to wash my hair too. It's been a week, and it could really use a good lathering," he stated.


"That's quite a length you have going on there. Need help undoing the braid?" I asked, grasping the plait without waiting for a response.


It felt wonderful to handle that mass of hair. I squeezed it and imagined holding the severed mass up like a hunting trophy. All my attentions to George would be repaid in full with a divestiture of his prized possession -- the thick, ginger braid harvested from his nape! I began unraveling the plait. The copper strands shimmered in the light.


"I can do that myself," George suggested.


"Just relax. You've had a stressful few days. I'm going to care for you now. This hair is quite a bit of work, I bet," I noted.


George chuckled. "Yes, a labor of love, I tell myself. I get a lot of comments about my hair. Always have. Mostly positive....I mean discounting the silly 'carrot top' type taunts."


I began brushing out the locks, which when the braid was undone, fell way below his waist, covering the cute, tight ass fully. The mane was glorious! It was like a curtain of hair covering his back that rippled with texture all the way down.


Referring to his locks, I said, "I'm sure this long hair attracts a lot of attention. Unfortunately, on this holiday trip, it's attracted some very unwelcome attention -- from the many thieves, I mean, who have robbed you of almost everything."


"I just can't wait to leave this place. I hope I can get a new passport. Otherwise, I'll never get out of here!" he wailed.


George was forever in the shower tending to his locks. I imagined how much work it was to lather up those waist-length locks periodically.


Finally, I popped my head into the bathroom. George was in the process of rinsing the lather out of his hair. Hanging straight down, sopping wet, the mane looked longer than ever. It hung all the way to his mid thigh and shone like burnt copper.


"Hey, we're going to have to hurry. The bus leaves in an hour and we still have to get to the station and buy tickets. We'll have to change buses in the provincial capital. The first leg will only be an hour or so. Then, it's the grueling overnight ride," I said.


"Sorry, I didn't realize we were pressed for time. It's that without my special conditioner, my hair can be hard to comb through and untangle. When I get out of the shower, do you think you could help, to speed things along? I mean, you were quite good at unbraiding it earlier," George replied apologetically.


I entered the bathroom, and George quickly wrapped himself in a towel. With the other towel, I began removing the excess moisture from his long locks. Having his hair in my hands, heightened my yearning to chop it all off. I wanted sheaves of copper hair to fall, at my command, to my feet. George would be shorn of his cherished locks! The question was when, where and how.


After a few moments towel drying the mass of hair, I decided to broach the topic of cutting it off. My heart beat quickly, formulating my approach and finally voicing my intention to him.


"George, I know you're very attached to your long hair. But....this is quite a liability," I said to introduce the topic of a haircut.


"Oh, I know. It can be a real pain some time. But, once it's in the braid, it's hardly an issue," George explained. "I'm used to it."


"Remember what I said about not attracting attention with the way you look? The overnight trip on the bus is notorious for petty criminals. All your stuff is gone, but I don't want my wallet, phone and passport stolen."


"Of course not! We'll be very vigilant. Maybe we can take turns staying awake," George suggested.


I began plaiting the damp locks into a tight, magnificent braid. The clean, moist hair glowed with a darker, richer hue of copper. "What I had in mind was having your hair cut short. There's a barbershop in the bus terminal of the provincial capital, open day and night. We have time during the transfer for a visit. I will have one of the barbers cut this off."


An uncomfortable silence followed. Finally, George eked out, "Why? Just because...."


I finished braiding the mass of hair and securing with a scrunchy at the end. With a thud it slapped George on his cute ass. "Hey, it's late. We need to go now!" I said, changing the subject abruptly.


George seemed glum, even after the topic of a haircut had been dropped. On our walk to the bus station, he seemed very subdued.


"Still worried about not getting the passport back? Or are you afraid of identity theft with your stuff gone?" I asked.


"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," George gasped. "Identity theft...." he muttered. "Something else I don't need or want." Of course, I knew what he was referring to.


After a few minutes, he continued, "What's bothering me is....uh, well, it's about you wanting me to get a haircut."


"Don't worry, I'll pay for it! My gift to you, George. No need to repay me. The bus ticket either. You've gone through enough already," I said.


I preempted what he really wanted to say. He just continued walking silently. He never verbalized the obvious -- he did not want his hair cut! And who could blame him? The thick ginger braid was magnificent!


When we were finally seated on the bus and it pulled out of the station, George cleared his throat. He fidgeted.


Finally, he spoke. "Will, I don't want to sound ungrateful, but....I, uh, I don't want a haircut. I like my hair long. It's sort of like a part of my identity."


I tapped my leg nervously. This challenge must be squelched once and for all.


"Listen, George. You asked me for help. I have gone out of my way to do just that. I even changed my plans to travel to the capital tonight. I am footing the bill for everything. Fine! You are so in love with your precious braid. You don't give a rip about me or my concerns. Find someone else to help you. When we arrive at the provincial capital, I'm getting the next bus straight back home. You'll be on your own. You can figure things out for yourself and your idiot braid!" Then I snapped open a magazine I'd brought along....and left George to squirm and stew silently.


I had no doubt the dynamic would eventually change. Georgie-boy would be caped up within the hour, and I would watch the mass of red locks fall. And, because he'd been uncooperative, well, there would be consequences. The barbers at the bus station were maniacs with their manual hand-pumped hair clippers!


We rode in silence. As we were entering the outer suburbs of the provincial capital, George finally spoke.


"Uh, Will, I've been thinking..." He pulled out the massive ginger braid and fondled it nervously. "Uh, this. You're right; it needs to be cut. I was being selfish.... Please, will you forgive me?"


"Oh, Georgie, you sweet thing!" I said, slipping my arm around him and pulling him into a tight hug. "Of course, I forgive you." Then I grasped the tale and ran it through my greedy hand. "It's such beautiful hair. No wonder you don't want to part with it. But it needs to come off....."


We rode for a bit, enjoying the restored peace, getting to know each other better. We talked about hobbies and our interests in travel.


Once in the bus terminal and headed toward the barber shop, George tensed up again.


I gleefully piled on to his inner turmoil. "Ah, there are the barbers up ahead. Good, one of the chairs is empty. Now, I don't want any last minute appeals or pouting in there. You sit quietly in the chair. I will tell the barber how to cut it."


"Yes, I understand," he replied submissively.


Just then, I spotted two young boys who appeared to be around eight years old, sporting traditional, school-boy haircuts. Everything clipped off to near the scalp, but a small tuft in front one could refer to as a bit of fringe.


"Those boys there, George, you'd look quite swell with a traditional schoolboy haircut," I mentioned.


"Are you kidding?!" he exclaimed. "I thought just the braid was coming off. That I'd keep my hair shoulder-length...."


"Oh, my! And have that flaming carrot top still attracting unwanted attention? No siree!" I said emphatically. "It all needs to come off....not just the braid. Is that understood? All of your long hair. I'm going to have the barber shave it all off."


Instantly, George's body froze into a stiff board-like estate.


"You're going to have my head shaved?!" he gasped, pulling away from me.


"That's right, down to the wood. It's time you learned a lesson or two!" I snapped. "Just when I think you've understood, it's the old push back. Quite annoying."


"Please, Will...." George began to whine.


But I would listen to him and cut off the protest instantly. "Let me be clear! Every bit of your ginger mane will be shaved off. Think of it as a bit of penance, a way to show your contrition for your reaction to my request. How did you phrase it? 'I was being selfish....' I think is what you said. Your bald head will remind you each time you see it that you need to put other first. The barbers at the shop love to employ their manual hair clippers -- especially on free-spirits and hippies. See them at work now, pumping their hands at incredible sped. They are real antiques and take the hair right off at the scalp. We'll be safer with no vestiges of your ginger locks left to attract attention, George. That's the other reason you need a head shave."


He stood, very glum, staring at me in disbelief. He was totally helpless and dependent on me. He was powerless to contest the cost of my assistance, and he knew it! I gloated inwardly at his situation and my triumph.


Finally, he said, "Yes, Will, whatever you say...." His voice trailed as he stared at the barbershop. "Let's get this over with as quickly as possible." Then he led the way to the shop.


George caused quite a stir entering the traditional barbershop with a long red braid dangling to his butt. His ass looked so cute in the tight jeans I lent him.


The elderly barber dusted the upholstery off with the whisk and then motioned for George to sit.


I quickly established that I would be the one giving instructions about the haircut. I grasped the tail that was dangling down the back to the barber chair and held it up. In Spanish, I announced to the whole shop, "Ya basta con la cola! Da-le una rapada...al cero!"


The barber smiled and bowed, assuring me, "Si, Senor!" He would be happy to put an end to the tail and clipper shave George's head.


After the barber had secured the white cape snugly around George's neck and undid the braid, I snapped a few photos of the streaming locks, cascading down past the seat of the chair -- all the way down to the chrome pedestal. There was over three feet of beautiful red hair hanging there, awaiting the shears and clippers like a convict awaiting the hangman.


I said to the barber, "Me gustaria mucho darle el primer corte con las tijeras."


The barber handed me the shears, "Por supuesto, Senor." Everyone want to watch the show of the red locks falling to the floor. Everyone, that is, except George!


George's face looked as pale as the cape as I brought the shears up to the nape. I briefly fondled the gorgeous ginger locks and whispered to him, "You look so sweet sitting there waiting for your haircut to begin...."


Then, without warning, it started.


SNIP!


I watched the first chunk fall. It clung a bit to the uncut part, but eventually was pulled to the floor of the shop by the weight of gravity.


On the second assault, the shears targeted a much more generous portion hanging from the nape.


CRUNCH! CRUNCH!!


I pulled off a wad of red hair.


The patrons in the store clapped. I dropped it onto George's lap.


Then, I snipped off his hair around the left ear.


Snip, snip, snip, snip.


Hair was falling in sheaves.


The barber humored me by praising my ability.


George averted his eyes from the horror of the divestiture.


One of the barbers hustled into the back and emerged with a spare tunic. "Aqui! Viste-te. Eres uno de nosotros!"


I absolutely loved the way I looked in the tunic. So professional and authoritative. Then, I asked the barber to teach me how to use the manual hair clippers.


He was delighted to do so.


With a quick and agile motion, the machine traveled straight down the top of George's head, from forehead to to cowlick. A swath of white scalp shimmered amid the auburn glow. George's head was being shorn of his prized mane in the most brutal of manners! His face did not hide the total agony he felt. Agony mixed with humiliation.


Then the barber handed the machine to me and motioned for me to continue to massacre.


I crunched away at the wiry copper hair. They looked like copper, but fell away with little resistance. Masses of the mane were cleared off with the antique hand clippers. "I'm taking quite easily to my new role as barber, George. Isn't that amazing?"


"You'd fit right in at the marine boot camp barbershop," he croaked.


I thought I saw his eyes tear-up a bit, so I decided to hand the machine back to the barber and have him finish off the clipper shave. I felt a little bit bad about how far I had taken things. Poor guy, first to be robbed of everything and feel helpless. And then to fall into my clutches and have his beautiful braid decimated. And, now, I was taking all his hair from him.


I took lots of photos of the process, particularly of the hair on the cape and at the barber's feet.


When the clipping was finally done, and George's head looked like a naked lightbulb, the barber asked me whether that was the way I had wanted it or whether I would prefer the whole thing be lather shaved with foam and a straight razor.


It was tempting....and I longed to see and feel a shiny smooth white surface. But, I feared it could push poor George over the brink.


I stood up and examined the head. Then I felt the bristles. I told the barber that length was fine, that the haircut was over.


"A big change, eh, George?" I asked.


"I still see some bits of ginger," he replied with a mischievous tone.


George pointed to the lather machine and motioned for the barber to put it on his head. "Since I've come this far I might as well go all the way," he chirped cheerfully. "I always wondered what a chromedome would look and feel like!"


I was dumbfounded by George's unexpected enthusiasm....and the way he was taking control of his time in the barber chair. That was not part of my plan for him!


Then, unexpectedly, I got a pit feeling in my stomach. I myself had always wondered what a chromedome would look and feel like on me! While I watched the lather being removed, the gnawing in my stomach intensified.


The barber took a lot of pride and care in scraping George's noggin clean. Finally it looked like white silk. I ran my hand across the naked scalp -- it felt like silk too!


I found myself desperately envying George's clean head.


As he emerged from the chair, my legs felt wobbly. I couldn't believe what I was feeling, what I was considering.....! I slipped off the barber tunic. It was time for me to assume a new role -- it was time for ME to be on the receiving end.


As George examined his new look with a big smile, I slipped into the chair and stared intently at my fussy business cut in the mirror.



My mouth and lips felt dry. I opened my mouth to speak. Finally the word rolled off my lips, "Igual!"



Give me the equal haircut to his!



The barber smiled wildly and brought the hand clippers to the bulky forelock that was swept back in a nice executive style. The divestiture had begun! And George assumed his role of photographer with my camera.....


The feel of the manual clippers was amazing....but it was just an appetizer to the real treat....the scraping of the razor over my whole scalp.


In the darkness of the bus throughout the night, George and I could not stop exploring each other's newly-uncovered, super-sensitive scalps. The stroking and stirring went on throughout the ride unabated. We had both been transformed by the razor.

---