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Mr. Morrison's MPB by Manny
As Ian stormed out of Mr. Furlong's classroom, he spouted under his breath, "Fine, the principal's office will be less hellish than your god-awful lecture...."
Mr. Furlong enjoyed the authority he commandeered in his classroom. Putting that troublemaker in his place by publicly humiliating him in front of the other students gave Mr. Furlong a sense of satisfaction. One more pampered and entitled teen put in his place! Mr. Furlong didn't skip a beat as he went on with his lecture, pontificating about the merits of a diversified economy over a monocultural one.
Ian was still fuming as he headed towards the principal's office. Someone needed to teach that self-important, stuck-up Fred Furlong a lesson! Ian fantasized about grabbing Fred by his fussy, every-hair-in-place businesscut, wrenching him over the teacher's desk, pulling down his trousers and taking a paddle to the teacher's tight, shapely ass -- in front of everyone! THWACK! THWACK! Loud cheers would go up with each smack....
Instead, Ian was the one heading to discipline -- administered by the enigmatic principal, Mr. Morrison. It would be Ian's first encounter with him. Ian's only experience with Mr. Morrison had been in large, public assemblies where the principal would say a few corny, aspirational things about the true value of an education. Mr. Morrison seemed like a rather distant, non-descript person....bland, possibly nice. The only thing that gave him some presence and panache was a huge mustache -- thick and wide with ostentatious handlebar tips.
The door to Mr. Morrison's office swung open slowly. He looked up from the papers on his desk. "Ah, yes, Ian Jones. You've been sent by Mr. Furlong -- he called to let me know I should be expecting you. And, now that you're here, what can I do for you? Have a seat there and tell me about your troubles."
"Mr. Furlong is a prick!" Ian exclaimed spontaneously. Immediately, the chastened student sensed that was the wrong thing to say....so inappropriate.
But Mr. Morrison did not visibly react (apart from semi-successfully concealing a grin). "Go on, Ian," the mild principal said.
"He drones on and on, prancing about the front of the class. Super self-important. Purposely talking in a way that's hard for anyone to follow. Instead of teaching us, he wants us to feel like idiots!" Ian stated, surprised by his own honesty.
The principal smiled, "He was like that in high school....we were in the same class back when we were your age."
"You were?" Ian sputtered, looking at Mr. Morrison's severe MPB. He looked old enough to be Mr. Furlong's father -- not his peer. "I had no idea you were mates in high school...."
Mr. Morrison blushed a bit with embarrassment, "I know, I know," he commented wistfully, stroking a bit of the hair left above his nape. "It's my male pattern baldness that makes me look so old."
"No, sir, not at all!" Ian struggled, trying to somehow make-up for his gaff. "It's just that you're in a much more important position than him. I mean a principal, not some teacher. Your the big boss on this campus!"
Mr. Morrison smiled broadly at the explanation.
Ian continued, "Anyways, I've always thought the MPB look was manly. Virile. Stud-like. I'd ten times rather sport an MPB than that fussy businesscut of Mr. Furlong's. So geeky!"
Mr. Morrison chuckled and drank in the praise, all the while doubting its sincerity. He'd never heard of anyone compliment an MPB -- especially not from a lad with a huge mop of gleaming blond hair that hung in shag style down to his shoulders!
"It looks like you haven't visited a barbershop in a while, Ian," the principal commented.
Ian stammered awkwardly. He looked down, to avert the principal's gaze. As he did, a lush golden forelock dangled down past his face. "No, sir, it's been a while." Ian fiddled with his forelock nervously.
The principal suddenly changed the subject. "Help yourself to a soft drink back here." He pointed to a small refrigerator behind his desk.
The atmosphere relaxed quickly and Ian smiled. "This is a thousand times better than being in Mr. Furlong's class! So, he was a pain as a high school student too?"
"A real prick! Just like you described him," Mr. Morrison said. "I suppose that's not very professional of me, but there you have it...."
After getting his Coke, Ian was in a perfect place to survey Mr. Morrison's MPB up close. His scalp on top looked like a smooth gumdrop. It had quite a nice shape and the skin was without a single blemish and creamy looking. Also, the wrap-around fringe of remaining hair was actually quite thick and glossy. Just not much of it. Suddenly, Ian felt an urge to stroke the bald part...even to plant a kiss on it! He felt like he was developing a crush on Mr. Morrison....of all people! Fortunately, Ian was able to resist the sudden urge and return to his chair.
"So, what do you want to do? Take out your phone and play some games? Text your friends about how awful things are in the principal's office? I'm not sure what Fred thought I should do with you down here," Mr. Morrison commented. "I think he just likes to put on a show in front of the students. Throw his weight around. Some pathetic power trip, I'd say, lording it over teenagers."
"Perhaps you should scold me. Tell me I was out of line mouthing off like I did?" Ian suggested.
"I'm sure he deserved whatever lip you gave him!" Mr. Morrison laughed. "You seem like a very nice, respectful fellow."
Ian blushed. He mopped his hair away from his crystal blue eyes. "But, one in need of a decent haircut!" Ian remarked cheerfully.
"At least you have hair that needs to be cut. Look at me. You can't really think this severe MPB looks good!" the principal protested playfully.
"I do, I certainly do! I wish you would just embrace it -- feel comfortable with it. The only change I would make....if I might suggest something...is the mustache. Cut it off! It seems like you grew that to somehow compensate for your bare head. Is that true?" Ian asked.
Mr. Morrison blushed and stammered a bit. Finally, he answered. "I guess so...." he admitted, averting his gaze.
Ian spotted a pair of scissors on the desk. He fantasized picking them up, and snipping the handlebars off.
"Fred Furlong used to mock me in high school. You see, my hair started falling out when I was your age. Fred sported a fantastic mane of thick chestnut-colored hair with fiery auburn highlights that was styled with a center part and feathered on the side. He looked just like Sean Cassidy, every school girl's heart-throb (and some school boys too, I might add)," the principal said.
"Were you one of those boys, Mr. Morrison?" Ian asked pointedly.
"Yes..." he murmured, admitting his orientation in a shockingly candid reply.
Ian felt his groin swell. He was now definitely in love with Mr. Morrison!
"You mentioned my hair, sir. And, I was wondering....how do you think I should have the barber cut it?" Ian asked. "I plan to get a haircut after school today."
Mr. Morrison's eyes sparkled. "My dream haircut....one that I could not ever possibly have with my thinning, receding hairline...is a flattop. A plush, deep pile flat! Talk about looking virile and manly! Men with flattops are super macho! Whenever I see a man with a well-cut flattop, it's hard to stop staring." Then he tacked on nervously, "But, that's not what I'm suggesting for you. Just have it trimmed. Except that bothersome forelock -- you have such nice, blue eyes. It needs a vigorous thinning and pruning back, if you ask me."
Ian ran his fingers through his silken locks, "Yes, I rather agree. My mom tells me it's too long and that I'm starting to look like a girl."
Ian continued to sip his Coke while the pair sat in a bit of awkward silence. Then Mr. Morrison re-focused his attention on the papers he was studying when Ian first entered.
A few minutes later, Mr. Morrison cleared his throat. "I've been thinking about what you said, about my mustache. You know...." he paused and shifted nervously. "Do you mind if I tell you something personal, Ian?"
"Of course I don't mind, sir!" Ian remarked.
"The job I had before getting his one here as principal. I was dating someone, a fellow. A teacher, like me. He hated my mustache. Said it tickled him and that I spent too much time pampering it. He told me to cut it off or he would cut off our relationship. I hated the pressure, especially the ultimatum and ended the relationship myself. Shortly thereafter, I moved away to take this job. But, I still miss Mike a lot. Sometime I wish I had done what he asked and shaved this off." Mr. Morrison fingered the 'stache carefully. "Maybe I wouldn't be alone now if I had...."
Ian reached over and picked up the shears. "Let's do it now! I can start with the handlebars." Ian snapped the scissors open and shut a few times.
Mr. Morrison looked started at the suggestion. Like a dear in the headlines. His eyes locks on the gleaming silver blades of the scissors. "Okay," Mr. Morrison whispered softly. "Do it, then. I think I'm ready, at least for the handlebars."
Ian took advantage and secured Mr. Morrison's head firmly in place by clamping one hand down on his creamy scalp. The soft skin felt divine. Ian lingered a bit with a subtle caress of the bare MPB. Then quickly, with the shears. SNIP. SNIP. The two curled tips of Mr. Morrison's ostentatious mustache landed on his desk.
"Shall I cut off more? Snip off all the bulk?" Ian asked, nearing closely to Mr. Morrison's quivering lip. "So that your next lover won't complain about the tickling?"
"Oh, I'm afraid of how I'll look without it," Mr. Morrison protested.
"Trust me," Ian replied with determination. Mr. Morrison meekly gave him the nod to go forward.
Ian grasped the thick mustache between his fingers and pulled it forcefully. He unleashed the scissors again. CRUNCH. Ian pulled off a huge clump of the stache and dropped it to the desk. Again, CRUNCH. More mustache came off. Over and over Ian snipped so that all that was left was an uneven covering of closely clipped pelt where the huge, glorious mustache had once presided.
Mr. Morrison sat submissively while Ian finished the job as best he could.
Ian smiled broadly as he surveyed his work. He enjoyed the principal's submissive posture. Then he took the liberty of Mr. Morrison's submission to stroke his head. This time his fingers lingered in the soft fringe of hair that wrapped around the sides and back. Mr. Morrison sat still and seemed to enjoy the caresses.
"This hair that remains is so soft and feels wonderful," Ian murmured while his fingers lingered near Mr. Morrison's nape.
Then, Ian suddenly announced. "Come, we're going to the barber shop, you and me. They will finish off the mustache professionally with lather and a straight razor. Your upper lip will be as smooth as this wonderful bald head." Ian caressed the dome tenderly and Mr. Morrison drank in the attention. "And, you, sir, will tell them just how you want my first flattop cut!"
Mr. Morrison's face lit up. "Really?" Then, it clouded over. "This is so inappropriate of me...."
"Stop shaming yourself. Of course it's not! You've given me an options of punishments for mouthing off to Mr. Furlong and I've agreed to the short haircut. A tidy flattop will help me remember to behave properly in class, I think! And, besides, I'm 19. I was held back in ninth grade, the year my father passed unexpectedly. So, no need to worry on that account."
Mr. Morrison looked at Ian's mane of shimmering gold hair. He imagined it tumbling down gloriously to the barber's cape. The forelock, falling with one quick run of the clippers over the comb.
He stood and took Ian by the hand. "You're on, Ian. We have a date -- with the barber, that is!" The principal pawed momentarily at Ian's long, golden hair. "So thick, so beautiful! Are you sure you want it cut short?"
"Sure! So that every time I see myself in the mirror, I'll remember this afternoon." Then, Ian seized Mr. Morrison's face and planted a kiss directly on his lips.
Mr. Morrison froze and pulled away quickly. "No, Ian. Stop! I am the principal and you are the student. It's not right."
Ian felt hurt by the rejection, but apologized, "I'm so sorry, sir. I just never dreamed I would feel the way I do. Being sent to the principal's office by that dreadful Fred Furlong as punishment, but it has turned out to be quite the opposite!"
"Do you know that he used to taunt me with his long, beautiful hair in high school? He'd make an awful crack about me going bald and then toss his gleaming locks about, right in front of my face," the principal said, reminiscing about those days gone by. "I have enough hair for both of us, Morry....he'd laugh. That's what he called me back then, Morry. Now, I'm his boss and it's 'Mr. Morrison'!"
The two quickly walked out of the Administrative Suite. "I won't be back this afternoon, Mary," Mr. Morrison informed his secretary. "Ian Jones here needs to develop some discipline and has opted for an off-campus lesson."
Ian felt very excited as Mr. Morrison drove him to the barbershop. He desperately wanted to lean over and kiss the man he'd unexpectedly developed a crush on, but instead he respected Mr. Morrison's desire for a proper relationship between them.
At the stop light, Mr. Morrison couldn't stop admiring Ian's beautiful long blond hair. "Do you mind if....I, uh....stroke it, Ian? Your hair? It was what I wanted most in life, to have thick long hair that I could flaunt and run my fingers through, like Fred Furlong did....glorious hair like yours."
"Sure, Mr. Morrison. But, I see you're still not accepting your virile MPB look, as you should," Ian replied.
"Are you sure you'll be okay with a flattop, Ian?" Mr. Morrison muttered, deep in thought as he fingered the silken hair.
"It's a bit scary, but it's what I want. Each day when I wake up and see a totally different me, I'm going to think of this afternoon. I'm going to think how the principal I was dreading to speak with is now the one I'm dreading to be separated from...." Ian purred.
Mr. Morrison quickly withdrew his hand from Ian's silken mane. The light changed and the car lurched forward towards the barber shop.
Before opening the car door to get out, Mr. Morrison looked in the mirror and fingered the remnant of his once-luxurious mustache. "I'll feel naked with it's totally gone," he mused. "How will I explain it at school?"
"Don't explain anything. Just brush off any remarks with a terse, 'it was time for a change' and that will be an end to it," Ian advised. "Every time I see your naked lip, I'll also think of today."
"And now, let's put an end to your long hair, Ian! I'd like to have a little fun in there...pretend I'm on a power trip just like Fred Furlong...hauling your ass in to give you a proper haircut to teach you a lesson!" Mr. Morrison laughed.
"And I'll play the weepy, contrite, fearful, penitent part!" Ian replied.
Mr. Morrison marched Ian to the shop and threw open the door. "Get in there!" he ordered. "I'm tired of your petulant lip and prissy hair! I'll have the barber take care of one and you damn well better take care of the other. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," Ian said submissively, slipping Mr. Morrison a sly wink. They were both enjoying their roles.
The old geezer barber smiled broadly, approving of the developing situation. He dusted off the upholstery with the cape and pointed to the chair. "Take a seat, son. I'll have you looking like a man soon enough."
Ian slipped into the throne-line barber chair. "You're not going to have him cut it too short, are you?" he pleaded with the father-figure who hovered nearby.
Mr. Morrison asked the barber, "What would you recommend for a lad who needs to learn a lesson in respecting his elders?"
After fastening on the large white cape, the barber yanked a brush through Ian's silken mane.
"Ouch, that hurts," Ian whined.
"How about a short back 'n sides? If he looks respectful, he'll act respectful. That's what I believe. A tidy taper around the ears and up the back?" the barber suggested.
"That's too short," Ian protested.
Mr. Morrison grasped a shank of the golden locks. "No, that's not short enough! I was thinking something more like those boys get who end up at the military-type behavior modification camps. Perhaps a bit of bootcamp here will help him learn...."
"Oh! An induction cut, then?" the barber asked gleefully, reaching for the clippers. "Shall I give him a zero all over?"
"I'll never mouth off again!" Ian promised, hamming things up so much that Mr. Morrison almost burst out laughing.
"Hmmmm. Let me check out this chart over here. Something quite short, but not totally bald. At least, not this time. But, Ian, I am warning you....if cueball is what it takes, I'm sure the barber has a very efficient set of balding clippers at his disposal. Ah! Here's something perfect. A flattop!" Mr. Morrison announced.
"Excellent!" pronounced the barber as he spun the chair away from the mirror. "It will be a good reminder for him to be respectful. And, the lad has perfect hair for it. Any specific length? A landing strip perhaps? Give him a taste of bald on top?"
The instructions rolled off Mr. Morrison's tongue as if he'd practiced them his who life, "Skinned sides and back, but leave a deep pile on top with beveled edges."
The barber smiled broadly and nodded his approval. Then he noted, "Where you have hair, the lad will have none. And where you have none, he will sport and immaculately groomed top!"
The machine roared to life and came up through Ian's sideburn, then tightly through the temple. A first cascade of golden silk fell off in sheaves, gracefully to the cape.
Mr. Morrison beamed as he watched the transformation begin. But, Ian's lip quivered as he watched the collection grow in his lap. Of course, Mr. Morrison thought Ian was hamming things up again, but in truth, the lad's stomach was churning for real. The kidding he would get from his buddies...the razzing about his flattop! He'd have to use his own advice to Mr. M. Tell his buddies "it was time for a change."
The barber forced Ian to bow his head and began to tackle the back. Shanks of the glorious blond hair began collecting in piles at the barber's feet. It was amazing at how quickly the long shag gave way to stubble.
As he stripped off the overgrowth, the barber began to pontificate about his view of discipline. "Glad to see men haven't abdicated completely their responsibility to train up the boys. Of course, you should have brought him in here long ago. But, better late than never. Oh, this forelock! All in his face and covering his eyes. No! This mess is next...."
The barber gathered up the massive lock with his comb and quickly ran the clippers over the top, sending most of it to the cape with one quick move.
"I know, I know. But the flattop should send a strong message," Mr. Morrison mused.
"A shoe would send a stronger one," the barber suggested.
"Shall I have the barber shoe you, Ian?!" Mr. Morrison chortled.
"No, please! I already am going to look like a dork," he mumbled submissively.
Mr. Morrison stood and walked over to be very near the action. "Nice, very nice. It's shaping up quite well." He gathered up a shorn lock from the cape and examined it in the neon light. In a way, he felt a bit sad that the gorgeous mane was being butchered.
"They won't recognize you, son, without all that girly hair," the barber taunted. "Blond boys especially have to be carefully about appearing prissy. Oh, and the ginger lads too! That lot is usually queerer than a fish with three eyes," the barber laughed.
Mr. Morrison and Ian both squirmed at the remark. They both thought back to that private moment in the office when Ian seized Mr. Morrison by the face and planted a kiss squarely on his lips. The principal began to wish he hadn't pulled away, or that he was being such a prude at maintaining a professional relationship with Ian. But then, if news leaked out, it would cost him his job and career. He would wait until Ian graduated....
"Time to start chopping off this growth on top," the barber announced, seizing a massive clump of hair with the comb and buzzing off the bulk of it. He was careful, but quick, as he dispatched the overgrowth to the cape. "Want to give me a hand, sir? You're looking very interested in this stage, hovering close the way you are. Perhaps there's a frustrated barber lurking underneath that nice business attire of yours. Where do you work? In an office? Perhaps a bank?"
"There is someone I would like to barber myself. Shave him bald. Lather him up and scrape him clean!" Mr. Morrison mused, imaging himself triumphing over a weeping Fred Furlong. He was eager to avoid disclosing his profession. "One of my employees. A real arrogant, conceited bastard who needs to be forcefully taught a lesson in humility."
"Bring him by," the barber remarked, as he began the final stage of taking the top down flat. "I lather shave heads. Mainly men like you, though. That MPB fringe is frightful. Shall we scrape it all off after I finish with the lad?"
"No!" commanded Ian, suddenly shedding his submissive, compliant persona. "The wrap around fringe stays."
The barber was shocked at the outburst. "Well, what got into you, missy? Perhaps you need a special lesson from your barber. You need to leave here with a decent haircut and a decent attitude. Contradicting your elders! Really!" And with that, the geezer plowed the clippers through the plush top and carved a very wide landing strip into the golden pelt.
Ian was jolted by the vibration on the sensitive scalp. He'd never experienced such a feeling! He felt his groin surge.
Mr. Morrison watched the quick disciplinary response, also in shock. He could not believe that the barber gave Ian a landing strip! The lush deep pile ruined!
But the barber was unrepentant. "Another outburst like that, and you'll leave here with the slightest hint of a shoe, son! Am I understood?!"
"Yes, sir," Ian replied meekly, realizing how vulnerable he was with the balding clippers so near his head.
Mr. Morrison returned to the chairs in the waiting area, and the rest of Ian's haircut proceeded in silence. Shorter and shorter Ian's flat was cut until it could pass for a high and tight. Then the lather was applied and the scraping began -- including the wide landing strip. Ian endured in silence, secretly turned on by the severity of the haircut.
Finally, the witch hazel was applied and the cape was withdrawn cautiously. The floor of the barbershop was carpeted with the most amazing array of strewn blond hair.
Ian stood and turned around slowly to see himself for the first time. No long hair. Completely transformed! He gasped at the sight. Then he fondled the bristles and sensitive scalp. His legs felt like jelly and his knees went wobbly.
"Next!" the barber bellowed out, staring right at Mr. Morrison.
The principal complied submissively and approached the chair cautiously.
"Sit," the barber ordered.
Mr. Morrison complied.
"So, we're going for the egghead look?" the barber asked in a mocking tone. He fondled the plush wrap-around fringe of hair. "All shaved off today?"
"No," Mr. Morrison answered firmly. "Just the mustache. Take it off. That's all I want. Am I understood? I'm keeping what's left here," he said, gently stroking his hair, remembering Ian's tender caress earlier in the afternoon.
"Yes, sir," the barber murmured, realizing he'd better be more careful about the instructions with the nicely dressed professional man then with the surly kid.
It only took a few minutes for the mustache to be scraped off. Mr. Morrison felt so naked without it. The sting of witch hazel on his exposed lip stung! It also looked a tad white -- the 'stache had been so dense it was more effective than sun block.
As he received payment for the haircut and the shave, the barber remarked. "That employee of yours, the one who needs to learn a lesson. Bring him by. I quite enjoy dealing with stuck-up, cocky types. Right, son?" He stared at the high 'n tight. "Don't worry, in a few weeks, you'll get used to it."
As the two walked to the car, Ian commented, "Shoot! What I wouldn't give to watch Fred Furlong being taught a lesson from our firm barber friend. An egghead would suit him, I think."
"Agreed, and how fun it would be to watch Mr. Fred Furlong's fussy little business cut get dispatched to the floor," Mr. Morrison replied with tone of animation. "But, I was rather sad to see all your hair on the floor of the barbershop."
"It was actually exciting, beyond belief. When that clippers carved out the landing strip....man, I though I'd explode!" Ian remarked.
After they got in the car, Mr. Morrison let out a mean chuckle. "Here's an idea....a student, you, Ian, petition the school administration to do a fundraiser. Brave for the Shave or something like that. You'll need a faculty sponsor, and I'll assign it to Fred Furlong! And, at our next all school assembly, I'll announce in front of everyone that the faculty sponsor will be first in the chair and that the student sponsor will have the honors of shaving him....BALD!"
"I love it!" Ian exclaimed. And, then, unable to control himself, Ian leaned over and kissed Mr. Morrison on the lips. After a bit of hesitation and some tepid resistance, Mr. Morrison gave into his passion. For several minutes the two were lost in their own world. Without his mustache, the experience felt quite different.
Their nirvana was suddenly shattered by a firm knock on the fogged-up car window. It was the barber! Both Mr. Morrison and Ian froze.
"Did you leave this cap in the shop?" the barber asked with a knowing grin on his face.
Mr. Morrison stammered nervously, "Oh, uh, no sir. That's not mine."
"Strange. Usually men with MPBs like you wear a cap. Thought it must be yours. Perhaps it was one of those ginger lads...." he said, with a hint of disapproval in his tone as he strode away from the car.