An unexpected job by Manny

---

"Sorry, we are out of visors," the attendant at the golf resort store said. "Maybe next week?"

That meant I was doomed to struggle in keeping my hair out of my face for the week-long golf vacation. With the wind, heat and humidity, I was bound to be a sweaty mess before I got to the third hole!

I glanced in a mirrored column nearby. My hair was certainly overgrown, even by my standards which favored an executive coif on the longish side. Perhaps I could find some heavy-duty hair gel to plaster back the bulky forelock, or even some ladies’ hair spray at the drug store.

"Can you let me know if the visors get in earlier? I’m in room 721," I told the friendly young attendant as I observed his closely clipped hair.

"7-2-1," he repeated slowly, writing the room number down.

"I’ll be off my game, I suppose, without one," I said.

"The forecast for the week is overcast, you know," the fellow replied cheerfully. "A visor won’t be needed to keep the sun out of your eyes."

"Oh, I need one to keep this hair back," I explained, feeling a bit awkward as I pushed the massive veil of hair back with my fingers. "I ran out of time before heading down here to get a haircut."

"Well, get it cut here. There’s a barber shop in town — just one, so you won’t even have to look up reviews. No appointments. And, the resort’s shuttle into town is leaving in a few minutes. Got cash? It’s a fairly simple shop. No credit cards," the fellow explained.

"Yeah, I’ve got some cash, but…." I stammered.

"Gene!" the attendant whistled. "Please take this gentleman to the shuttle. He needs to get his hair cut before the barber shop closes."

Everything transpired so quickly….before I could catch my breath or even think twice, I was being driven into town to get a haircut!

The shuttle driver said he would make a special stop at the barber shop, just for me.

"He’s really skilled," the driver explained. "With short haircuts, that is."

Then, it occurred to me that everyone at the resort had their hair cut very short. Clipped close at the sides and back with the top marginally longer leading into a hint of fringe at the top of the forehead.

I studied the shuttle driver’s hair, which was cut to the same length. It was so VERY SHORT!

"But, the barber does longer styles too?" I asked the driver.

"Hmmmm. Not sure. Possibly, but I doubt it. Most people in town work for the golf resort and there's a strict grooming policy. Mr. Hill is quite the stickler and won't hesitate to send someone home for the day and dock your pay," the driver replied, rubbing his hand up the back of his head. "That’s fine with me. Hair is a bother, especially girly hair, I say."

I hoped the driver wasn’t referring to my hair as girly hair!

I googled the barber shop, but there were no reviews and no photos either.

I had a momentary vision of myself, caped in the chair, head pushed down with a forceful barber driving the clippers up the back of my head. My groin surged! I would end up with a crewcut like everyone else! My fussy hairstyle, sent to the floor of the barber shop! I imagined emerging from the chair shorn down close! The thought of a clipped head sent a shiver down my spine.

As we bumped along, I reasoned to myself that I didn’t have to get any haircut whatsoever. Visiting the barber could solve one problem and create another — how my colleagues would snigger if I came back to work sporting a classic crewcut!

I ran my fingers through my silken mane. Oh, the hair was so pampered! So full in back and on the sides. And the forelock, a full eight inches — so in need of a good shearing! Combing the lock straight down over the eyes and then taking the scissors high on the forehead. SNIP, SNIP, SNIP!

I hadn’t been in a traditional barber shop since I was a boy and even as a lad I don’t think I’d ever gotten a clipper cut. My mother had loved the big droopy bowlcut. My only brush with the clippers was when she decided my bowlcut should morph into a mushroom cap haircut — "honey, your hair is so nice, and the bi-level mushroom cut is perfect, I think." Of course, MaMa’s boy complied and kept the mushroom cap longer than was fashionable.

The shuttle bus eased to a slowing roll as we came up on a little stand-alone shop on the corner of the main drag through town and a side street.

"Here you go," the driver announced. The door swung open. I felt like I was a school boy being dropped off!

"And to return?" I asked.

"I can pick you up here again in half hour. The shop looks rather empty. Oh, and there’s the barber, on the side, taking a smoke break. Will that work?" the driver asked.

"Sure will," I replied, realizing now I was further locked into the barber shop instead of just sauntering around the town.

To make matters worse, the driver called out to the man sitting on a bench, smoking a cigarette.

"Bill, a client for you. Very much needing a haircut!" he called out.

The last comment made me feel very vulnerable as I descended the steps. Just at the moment I stepped off the bus, a gust of wind played havoc with my hair. It was in my face and everywhere.

"I can see that," the barber laughed. "Come on in, sir. Let’s fire up the clippers and get you looking like a new man!"

CLIPPERS! Agh! He seemed totally serious.

He ushered me in, and, in a flash, the cape was being fastened in place.

I was in a daze. To think that it had been less than 15 minutes when I first asked about a visor....

Now, I was seated in a traditional barbershop watching the barber reach for the electric hair clippers!

As he shoved my head down with no consultation, I protested, "I’m here for…."

But an ambulance siren screamed to life, drowning out my plea.

The vibrating teeth of the clippers hit my nape and I felt the machine pressed tight on my scalp and driven up through my pampered locks. AGH!

"Not too short," I said to the barber, after the siren faded, while being forced to look down.

The barber clipped off the whole back before he let me sit up.

"Listen, you’re mighty fortunate to have a job at the resort. Short hair is a requirement. You’ll get used to it," the barber stated.

OMG - I was getting an employee haircut. A basic crewcut!

Then he took a comb to my voluminous forelock and held it up so that the hairline was visible.

"My, my, so much hair up here," the barber chided.

"I’m not a new…." I tried to explain just as the ambulance siren resumed.

Then I watched the clippers plunge into the base of my forelock and be driven straight down the top of my head! I saw a mass of hair be pushed off the back and fall in sheaves to the floor. A swath of pelt, no more than half inch in length, went down the middle atop my head.

With a few more bootcamp type swipes with the clippers the barber clipped off all the growth. Mounds of cut hair fell to the cape, resting on my shoulders and falling into my lap.

As I began taking in the new me — boyish with a clipped crewcut — I started feeling a bit vulnerable. No more fancy hairstyle!

"To keep your crewcut tidy," the barber explained, "you need to come once every two weeks. Understand? More than that and you’ll start looking seedy and sloppy."

He continued clipping off all my hair until there was a uniform pelt of about half inch. He rubbed the clipped scalp playfully with one hand, pleased with his work.

"Doesn't that look and feel a whole lot better?" the barber asked rhetorically.

"Yes," I mouthed in a throaty, dry voice.

I sat submissively and watched him continue to transform my look from mid-level executive to golf resort worker bee.

"Now to shaped this up a bit," he noted, swapping to a shorter blade.

Once again, his hand clamped down on my head and he gripped it sideways. He started tapering the side down to zero. Off came my trendy sideburn. The taper was tight to the crown.

"Bet you’re feeling a lot better without all that hair," the barber said, fishing for a bit of a compliment.

I decided to humor him. "Sure do. It was so aggravating, in my eyes constantly," I confessed to the barber's delight

"Not any more!" the barber chortled. He tugged at the truncated forelock playfully.

"How’s that length on top. I left it at a #4, a half inch, but I can take it down another notch or two if you want something tighter all over," he said.

"No, no, I like it like that. It’s perfect," I found myself saying.

I examined my boyish looking face and haircut in the mirror. Then my eyes focused on the hair-laden cape. Clumps of cut hair were all over.

Next thing I knew, I was staring into my lap again while the clippers whittled off the pelt in back — shorter and shorter and shorter.

When I was finally able to sit up straight again, the barber gave me an intense stare. He fiddled with his clipper blades again.

"Does your hair grow fast? You know what? I’m going to take it down shorter on top." It wasn’t a question!

"It’s fine," I whined.

"But, it’ll be better, shorter still," the barber said with finality.

And the clippers went back to work taking the top down even shorter! Wow, was it tight! I felt my groin surge as the unsolicited clipping took the pelt down to an extremely tidy length.

"See?" the barber exulted. "You have to admit that this length is even better."

I smiled sheepishly. "Yes, I have to agree," I admitted, hoping the response didn't trigger another round of clipping to an even shorter length.

The barber enjoyed taking the whisk to my head and face and neck. He dusted me thoroughly, into my ears and down into my shirt. Then his fingers pawed momentarily at my tight bristles at the nape.

"Love to feel a freshly clipped head," he said.

Finally, the cape came off and I was free to leave the chair.

The floor was covered with my cut hair. Wow! What a pile! I could not stop feeling my head.

"This feels amazing," I said to the barber as I handed him a twenty dollar bill.

"Glad you like it," he replied. "What sort of job do you have at the golf resort?"

I felt a bit embarrassed to say that I wasn’t going to be an employee, so I answered, "Oh, just a bit of a gopher. Odd tasks, whatever I’m told."

"A gopher! Not a golfer!! Ha, ha!" the barber laughed. "Well, if you work hard and save up, perhaps one day you’ll be able to afford a few rounds on the links yourself, young man."

Just then, I saw the shuttle heading toward the shop.

When I climbed aboard, the driver was flustered.

"You need to help me!" he stammered. "The resort owner saw me dropping you off here. Unauthorized stops for guests are strictly forbidden. So, when he asked me who I let off here I said that it was a new employee who will be working on the cleaning crew — that’s not under his direct purview."

"The cleaning crew?!" I gasped.

"And he wants to meet you as soon as you get back to the resort. Please play along with me. I don't want to get fired. I have a mortgage to pay," the driver pleaded.

"Sure, I’ll go along with it. What do I have to lose?" I asked rhetorically.

I’ll get you one of the cleaning smocks. It’ll just be a minute or two with the big boss," the driver explained.

The driver had fun outfitting me in a cleaning smock.

"With that haircut and that uniform, you really could be cleaning toilets and mopping floors," he giggled.

Next thing I knew, I was being pushed in the door of Mr. Hill’s big office.

"You wanted to see me?" I asked, blinking.

I was surprised to see an incredibly handsome man my age in a form-fitting shirt that completely showcased his perfectly sculpted body. His green eyes were piercing, and his Roman nose authoritative. I felt so intimidated in his presence.

Mr. Hill gave me the once over and smiled in a sort of leering way.

"So, you're new on the cleaning crew," he said haughtily.

"Yes, sir," I answered demurely.

"My private toilet, in that door there, needs to be cleaned," he stated, pointing to a semi-hidden door that blended in with the walnut paneling.

I shuffled on my feet nervously.

"Now! Not tomorrow, not next week. Get to it!" he ordered.

As I was on my knees with a toilet bowl brush in hand, I sense him towering above me.

His hand reached down and rubbed my bristles on top.

"You lost a lot of hair in the barber shop. It looks good like this. I saw you getting off the shuttle with that mop flopping all over the place. I want all my boys clipped short. Just like this, very short and practical," Mr. Hill said. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir," I said submissively.

"You seem like the type who is eager to please," Mr. Hill noted. "Pleasing the boss is the best way to get ahead at this place. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," I intoned, wondering where the conversation was going.

"You’re smart, as well as handsome," Mr. Hill said.

I heard him unbuckling his belt. Strangely, I felt ready, even eager, to please Mr. Hill.

I turned and helped pull down his pants.

"You’re going to go far here, young man," Mr. Hill said as I indulged him. "It’s been ages since I’ve had such an eager, talented boytoy on staff. Say you come home with me this evening...."

---