Ollie: The Model Municipal Employee by Manny

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Creston Township's small municipal office was a place I seldom visited. Periodically, I took an interest in local propositions in elections and went there to vote. There was also my annual pilgrimage at the beginning of December to pay property taxes in person. It saved a postage stamp!

As I pushed the glass door open, I was confronted with the same dusty holiday decor inside. The pathetic little tree whose brightness was diminished each year by unreplaced, spent bulbs. The never-lit snowball candles surrounded by plastic holly. A pair of wooden nutcrackers that hearkened back to Germany, the ancestral homeland of Creston's founding fathers. There was also the awful musak of holiday ditties to endure. Fortunately, no one else was at the clerk's window. My visit would be brief -- turn over the check, wait for Mattie to fill out a receipt and be on my way.

Except, there was no Mattie sitting in the small bullpen behind the counter.

As I approached, a young fellow looked up from his work and flashed a smile that revealed a perfect set of straight, pearly whites.

"What can I do for you today?" he asked as he casually flicked back the thick blond forelock that had been hanging in a sexy way across his eye. Not a hairstyle normally seen in our farming community.

"Where's Mattie?" I asked.

"Hopefully in the maternity ward at the county hospital. I'm Olaf, or Ollie. How can I help you?" he asked.

As Ollie stood to approach the counter, his thick hair shimmered in the bright, winter sunlight streaming through the window. Every bit of him seemed absolutely perfect -- the blue/green eyes, the dark brow that contrasted with his blond hair, the shapely ears and full lips. And, his body did not disappoint either! I had never seen him before in our small town, a place where everyone knew everyone.

"I'm here to pay my property taxes," I said, reaching for the check I'd written out.

Ollie hesitated. "Let's see. I think Mattie left instructions for that somewhere over here...."

He shuffled around the counter a bit and then added, "She's my cousin. I'll be covering here until May when she returns. That is, if she returns. She's got a bit of a fantasy to be a stay-at-home mom. Ah, here it is -- the receipt pad," he announced as he held up the booklet triumphantly.

"They may want to keep you on -- beyond your stint as a temp worker -- if Mattie doesn't return," I remarked.

I thought I wouldn't mind visiting the municipal office more often if that eye candy would be performing the services I needed....

"All I've had since college are temp jobs. Comes with the territory in my usual paid work, I guess," Ollie remarked casually.

"Well, what do you normally do?" I asked.

"I'm a model," he replied without any fanfare.

Well, that was no surprise.

"Like, what do you model?" I asked, trying to find out more about him.

"Oh, it varies. Some catalog work. Some random ads. My brief flash of fame came when I was the poster child for a large dental practice in Des Moines. This big smile was plastered all over city busses." Ollie looked up from filling out the receipt and flashed me a big grin.

"Nice teeth," I remarked.

"The only regular gig I've had is as a live model for a university art class. I strip down twice a week when classes are in session. Seems the professor likes to watch his students sketch me in my natural estate," he quipped mischievously.

"Naked?!" I stammered.

"It's not sexy, or anything. I just sit there in whatever position the professor wants -- occasionally it's a slightly erotic pose, but usually not -- and the students sketch away in silence," Ollie explained.

My mind was whirling.

"Do you like the university work better than the photo shoots for the catalogs? Any brands I might be familiar with like Macy's or Cabela's?" I asked, imaging myself trolling online to spot Ollie modeling suits or polo shirts or hunting jackets.

"Well, sitting still isn't my favorite thing. And, as to big name catalogs, those pay too well for my sparse resume!" he laughed. "My catalog work is more along the line of erotica and related merchandise."

Whoa!

"Sexy underwear?" I asked, sheepishly.

"Done that. Toys too! One gig was modeling male chastity devices," he laughed.

"What?! You're pulling my leg," I giggled nervously.

"No, not at all! My little friend is very photogenic," he said, tapping his groin lightly. "Especially when he's locked up in a sturdy metal cage with a padlock. You can't believe how many men are in chastity belts," Ollie remarked casually.

He handed me the receipt. It seemed our business had come to an end, but I was still thinking about Ollie posing with a cock cage on -- not property taxes!

"Look it over to make sure I did it exactly right," he said.

I glanced down furtively. Ollie's trousers were very tailored. He had a bulge of sorts, but more like a natural endowment.

"Perfect job!" I exclaimed. "They will want you to stay on here permanently." I knew that I certainly did!

"Leave a comment on our webpage, Andrew. Or is it Andy?" he asked, examining the name on my check.

"I go by Drew, actually," I replied. "It was nice chatting with you, and I'm sure I'll bump into you around town. Welcome to Creston!"

"If you're not in a hurry, there's some coffee in back. And Mrs. Hutchins brought over a fantastic strudel for the staff. Or are you rushing off some place?" he asked.

"Mrs. Hutchins' strudel is famous! I couldn't pass that up. I'd love to chat -- pick your brains, a bit. Hear your recommendations on male chastity devices," I laughed.

"KIDDING!!" I quickly added.

"Believe it or not, I've got a modeling gig right here in Creston while I fill in for Mattie," Ollie said as he got me a cup of coffee.

"Here?" I remarked, surprised. Nothing happened in Creston!

"Yep, the county has commissioned a statue of the township's most famous son," he explained, "and the artist wants a live model to work with."

"You mean you're going to be a stand-in for Astronaut Walter Cunningham?" I asked.

"The very man!" Ollie replied, as he ran his fingers through his thick blond hair. With his hair pushed back from his face, his eyes seemed even more brilliant and intense.

"I even agreed to have this all cut off for the sessions. In fact, I'm getting a flattop after work today, like in half an hour!" he exclaimed.

I could not imagine him with a 1960s-era flattop!

Ollie seemed fairly upbeat about cutting his trendy mane and morphing into Walter Cunningham -- he conveyed a mixture of adventure, curiosity, excitement and nerves all rolled together. The more we talked, the more he intrigued me. Ollie was such a unique guy, so unlike the typical small-town bloke who could only blab about sports or fishing.

"One minute you're being photographed in a kinky cage and the next you're as apple pie as an Apollo 7 astronaut, sporting a flattop! A talented, multi-faceted man!" I remarked.

"Can you believe I'm more nervous about entering that barber shop today than I've ever felt disrobing in front of a camera?" Ollie confessed.

He fingered his hair again, manipulating it nervously.

Then, he continued, "I mean, at the end of a photo shoot, say, the cage comes off and the clothes go back on. But, with this gig, once the clippers start mowing off the mane attraction, that's it. I'll be a very different-looking person for a very long time."

"Can't the plastic artist just use a photo to create the statue?" I asked.

"Nope, the best sculptors always work with a 3-D model. I mean, even the way Cunningham's iconic flattop is portrayed on the statue will be enhanced and appear more realistic with a live model. That's why the county wrote the haircut into the contract," Ollie explained.

"Sheeesh!" I exclaimed. "That's quite a sacrifice... But, you might end up liking it. Are you into short hair?"

"No! Or, I should say, I don't really know. Actually, this is the shortest I've worn my hair since I was 12 years old," Ollie said. "I had a lot chopped off to clinch this job. Till last week, it hung past my shoulders. Mattie said long hair on guys was fine in Chicago, maybe, but short was the norm in rural Iowa. If I wanted to blend in a bit with the local scene, I should cut it before I left Chicago. I was pretty apprehensive when I was at the salon, waiting for the big chop. My stylist whined about cutting so much off. But, when I saw the ten-inch locks on the floor and felt the cool air on my exposed neck, I was somehow glad to be rid of the flow. That's what made it easier for me to sign the contract after I got here. I may leave Creston a flattop aficionado!"

"So, you're hoping the same thing happens shortly? Thrilled to see all the lovely blond hair that survived the salon visit in clumps on the barber's cape?" I asked skeptically.

Ollie grasped the bit of showy length that remained, his forelock, and held it up. "Yep! And it'll be good riddance to have this swept into the trash!"

He paused, and commented, "Do you suppose I'm trying to psych myself into liking the flattop?" There was still a good bit of anxiety churning about inside of cool-cat Ollie.

"You know how short a flattop is?" I asked dryly.

"I've studied Cunningham's portrait intently. I'd say the front of his deck is an inch, max. Probably less," Ollie replied.

We were enjoying Mrs. Hutchins' strudel and some casual banter when Ollie suddenly suggested, "Why don't you come with me to the barber shop?"

"What for? Moral support?" I asked, open to the idea.

"I'd appreciate the company AND the support. We're hitting it off, I think. Plus, you're a bit shaggy with this floppy hair," he commented as he tousled my droopy business cut.

"Sure, why not? I could use a haircut. Did you have a place in mind?" I asked.

"Is there a choice in a town this size?" Ollie replied, wide-eyed.

"Yep, Great Clips or the Westside Barber Shop. Come to think of it, for a flattop you really don't have a choice!" I joked.

"The Westside Barber Shop it will be!" Ollie exclaimed. "You know what? I'm starting to get excited about this haircut. I absolutely love new experiences. Oh, and on the way over I'll answer all those burning questions you have about cock cages! I enjoy researching the gigs I take on. Funny, this Walter Cunningham didn't spend much time here in Creston as a boy, yet they sure are proud he was born here!"

"You may not have a choice of haircut venues, but there are three talented barbers who work at Westside. Technically, you can wait for a particular barber, but it's considered bad manners here. Whoever calls you, that's him! Just amble over to the big chair he's standing behind. I'm always hoping I get Anthony, but Gus and Tom are fine barbers too," I explained.

The Westside Barber Shop was situated in a halfway vacant strip mall. Plate glass windows across the front of the shop framed the view of a classic American barbershop. Four hulking chairs faced away from the wall of mirrors and were manned by three middle-aged barbers. The far-left chair had a stack of newspapers on it, facing the three occupied chairs.

The barber next to the vacant chair had dark hair, cropped into a bristled brush cut. Not quite a flattop, more rounded, and very short. His white smock strained to contain his well-built arms which were covered in old fashioned tattoos. His snug black trousers hugged his muscular thighs and teased at a shapely ass, half hidden by the crisp white tunic. The name "Anthony" was stitched on his chest pocket in a clean navy cursive.

The other two barbers had at least ten years on this handsome Anthony. Tom was sadly MPB and sported a sparse wrap-around fringe beneath a shiny dome. Gus sported, a crisp taper, slicked to the side with Brylcreme. Around each of the three barber chairs lay a ring of shorn locks, a sign of a very busy day at Westside Barber Shop.

The conversations petered out as the bell above the door announced our presence. All eyes fell on Ollie and his golden mane of pretty-boy, stylized hair.

The three caped men, all farmer-types, struggled to free themselves from the iron grips of their barbers so they could get a better look of the moptop stranger. The only sound in the barbershop was the clattering of well-oiled Model 10 Oster clippers. The white cotton capes were littered with varying lengths of shorn hair. Two men were halfway through a fairly light trim of their already short hair. The third caped customer showed signs of being a less frequent shop patron. Three-inch locks lay strewn about his shoulders and lap, but his eyes were still covered by the final remnants of his former shag. Anthony was certainly giving him his money's worth!

I looked down the row of waiting chairs. Half a dozen manly faces looked back at me. Only one chair in the waiting area was unclaimed.

I motioned for Ollie to take the vacant chair.

Anthony broke the silence, "Over here, Drew."

He pointed to the vacant chair beside his.

I wasn't sure what to do since it was piled with papers. Anthony snapped his clippers off, stepped through the shorn clumps of hair, scooped up the newspapers, and placed them on the counter.

"A comfy chair for you while you wait. If you weren't a good tipper, Drew, I'd just have you stand under the TV," Anthony joked.

I climbed into the worn barber chair. Suddenly, I felt nervous. A mental image formed of Anthony caping me up extra tight. What if....? Ollie's flattop...if he was game for one, perhaps...just perhaps...perhaps I should get one too!

I glanced at myself in the big mirror and then at the patron beside me who was having the last remnant of his shag snipped off quite high on his forehead. SNIP, SNIP...and it was on the cape. He was in the final stages of a classic crewcut. I imagined that was how much hair would be on my cape if I gave into my sudden urge to go flat.

I ran my fingers through my hair nervously and peered into the mirror again. The lovely glow of chestnut with fiery auburn highlights...it would certainly be diminished with a flattop.

"One of us will be taking care of your overgrowth soon enough, Drew," Anthony said, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

Then, he addressed his colleague. "Hey, Gus, how bout turning off that Open Sign in the window? Full house tonight!"

Gus was happy to comply as he was tired of standing after a busy day shearing the shaggy heads of Creston's farming community.

"That guy’s gonna be last up," Anthony said as he pointed to Ollie.

Then, he asked, "Who's your friend, Drew?"

Ollie tried to appear casual, though his leg was trembling nervously, as all eyes again locked on him and his fancy hairstyle. Restless leg syndrome or cold feet about getting a flattop?

"His name is Ollie. He's filling in for Mattie Hemmer at the municipal office while she's on maternity," I said.

Then, I blurted out, "And, we're both here for flattops."

I gulped. My fate had been sealed. Ollie flashed a big smile at my surprise news and his leg stopped jumping about so nervously.

Anthony turned his clippers back on and suppressed a small smile. His glance returned to Ollie repeatedly. I knew he simply couldn't wait to take the clippers to Ollie's striking blond mane. The thought of giving this longhair stranger a flattop certainly made Anthony pick up the tempo of his work.

I felt trapped in the barbershop, waiting for my transformation from a respectable, longish businesscut to a Walter Cunningham flattop. My stomach churned more as my anticipation of the radical change grew in intensity. As each man was uncaped and another took his place, I knew my time to feel the Osters tight up the back was drawing nigh. Meanwhile, Ollie too was watching all activity in the shop with great interest and concentration. No scrolling on cell phones for either of us!

While I hoped Anthony would do the honors, I was quite certain he was timing the haircuts being given by the trio so that he could point to Ollie and bellow out, "Next!"

Finally, it was Gus who motioned me to his chair.

I shuffled over nervously, studying my overly long business cut in the mirror as I got closer and closer to my destination.

I eased into the upholstery and shifted uncomfortably.

Gus was quick with the cape. "I don't think you've ever asked for a flattop before, Drew. What's up?" he asked.

I swallowed as he fastened the cape snuggly in place with a large metal clip. Usually, the white cotton cape had no effect on me. Today, it was like a straightjacket. I felt trapped and anxious.

"My friend, Ollie," I started.... It occurred to me it was weird to call someone 'my friend' who I'd known for less than a couple of hours. "My friend, he's getting a flattop just like our hometown hero, Walter Cunningham. They're making a statue of the astronaut to display at the county courthouse."

Gus combed through my thick, shiny hair. "So, you two just thought it would be fun to get flattops? I think I have a signed photo of Cunningham somewhere in back. My father actually cut his hair in the 1960s, in this very chair, before he flew into space," Gus said.

"I'd like to see that photo," Ollie piped up from the waiting area.

Gus rustled around the back and finally produced the photo. An official astronaut portrait with a clear signature in the corner. "It was right before the mission. I think my father cut that flattop in the picture. Oh, look, on the back....'to the best barber in the county'....or is that 'country'?"

Ollie jumped up from his chair in the waiting area. "Look at that top! It's immaculate," he exclaimed. "I hope you can cut my hair just like this."

"I'll be cutting your hair, fellow," Anthony said in a definitive tone from down the row of barber chairs. "And you will leave here looking exactly like that. Butch wax and all!"

"We're not doing it for fun," Ollie explained as Gus fired up the Osters.

My head was pushed down firmly, and Gus drove them straight up the back, peeling away a first lush padding of hair.

Ollie whistled in amazement as he watched the first swath of my hair fall away. "Timber!" he laughed.

I felt an electric jolt pulsating through every limb. I was getting my very first flattop!!

"I'm going to be the live model the artist uses when he sculpts the statue. And, I guess Drew is here to support me by getting a flattop too. I'm not used to very short hair," Ollie explained.

"I can see that," Tom cracked. "City slicker, eh?"

"Well, you're in farming country now. Flattops are fine. Butch and crewcuts too," Tom pontificated.

"Glad that you're having a positive influence on Drew here, losing this shag he's usually so fussy about," Gus said as he continued mowing off much of my hair. The chestnut-colored locks lay helplessly in clumps on the white cape.

"Dear Drew," Anthony called out in a bit of a mocking tone. "Just a trim, Anthony. Not too short," he said, mimicking my speech, albeit it with an effeminate twist.

"Those uppity white-collar workers with jobs in banks and law firms paying for slight trims every other week," Tom sniggered. "Fine with me! If they tip well!"

The three barbers laughed.

I had no idea that had been their opinion of me.

I stayed silent as I watched clumps of my hair fall to the cape. I felt a bit rebuked and uneasy by the half-joking taunts.

Gus snagged my forelock and mowed it off, almost to the hairline. The mass of cut hair fell onto my lap.

"No trim for Drew tonight," Ollie announced, to the barbers' delight.

I sat still and silent, wondering what I had gotten myself into.

"We're just teasing you, Drew," Gus said, realizing that they may have hit a raw nerve.

"Shoot, if I knew you were so anxious to scalp me, I would've asked for a flattop years ago," I retorted, recovering somewhat.

"Okay, Pretty Boy! Over here!" Anthony announced. He pointed at Ollie, "You're next and you're last for tonight!"

"I'm ready!" Ollie whooped. "To the moon and beyond. Take me down flat as a board. And, if you want to taunt my pretty-boy-city-slicker-salon-locks, I'm super okay with that. It will make the transformation a whole lot more fun."

Ollie was so confident and sure of himself. No wonder he had no problem snapping on a male chastity belt and be photographed in it for every Tom, Dick and Harry to leer at. I liked him more and more.

"Pretty Boy, get ready for the fastest clippers in the county," Anthony said as he Snapped open the cape, scattering the snippets of cut hair from his previous client in an aggressive, almost threatening manner. "Next thing you know, I'll be sweeping your fancy tresses into that trash can there!"

I desperately wanted to watch Ollie's haircut, but Gus kept my head steady, staring straight forward.

"What are they going to say when you stroll into the bank tomorrow with a flattop, Mr. Manager?" Gus taunted.

I watched more and more of my hair fall to the cape. Gus was whacking off all the length on top with a scissors. Momentarily he would start flattening the deck and taking it down.

The chatter subsided. Just the hum of two Osters was heard, as well as the rustles of Tom beginning to sweep all the cut hair that had covered a good portion of the checked linoleum floor.

I flicked the cape from beneath and watched a large pile of my cut hair fall into the path of Tom's broom. My former staid haircut was quickly swept away.

I smiled as I watched my chestnut hair being swept up into a dustpan will a lot of other shaggy remnants. I sensed a warm glow, a premonition I was going to become a flattop convert. I'd become a barbershop junkie and enjoy the camaraderie of Anthony, Gus and Tom regularly.

"Do you want a landing strip?" Gus asked.

"No! Like the astronaut's flattop," I answered quickly.

I thought a bit and added, "Maybe next time, a landing strip!"

I was locking myself in tighter without the slightest idea of how a flattop would look on me.

I heard Ollie let out a whoop. I imagined his forelock had just hit the cape. Oh, to see that blond mass of glory lay lifeless in his lap!

"Can you turn the chair so that I can watch Ollie's haircut?" I asked Gus.

"Sure," he obliged.

And it was just as I had imagined. Ollie already stripped on the sides and back, the cape shimmering like a gold lame cape at a Hollywood premiere.

Artistically draped down the front like a flowing cascade lay the severed forelock!

"How is it looking?" Ollie asked.

"Out of this world!" I laughed.

"You don't have to Apollo-gize for your corny humor, Drew," Ollie joked back. "I've gotten used to it."

"Let me see that photo again, Gus. I want to make sure this fellow leaves here looking like Cunningham's twin," Anthony said.

"It's a bit rounded to match the natural contour of the head. Not the way I cut flattops," Gus noted.

"Not beveled either nor any sharp edge," Anthony agreed.

More finishing touches were done to my new look.

"Ready for the new you?" Gus asked.

I swallowed hard and nodded.

I gripped the arms of the chair beneath the cape and braced myself for...

I was left practically speechless as I took in my new look. I made myself smile and nod.

"Yes, it looks good," I said, knowing that was the expected response.

"Next time, a landing strip," Gus promised.

Again, I found myself saying what the barber wanted to hear. "Yes, I think so, Gus."

He held up the mirror to show off the rest of his work.

The back was extremely short. I mean, basically all that could be seen was scalp and stubble. I already missed the soft padding of my business cut.

"Ready?" I heard Anthony ask Ollie. "One astronaut hero coming up!"

"Hot diggety dog!" Ollie yelped. "That is one flat-tastic haircut. I look just like him! Just like the astronaut!"

I turned to see the rest of Ollie's reaction and to take in his new look.

He looked at me too and laughed.

I couldn't tell if he was laughing at the way I looked or just generally giddy and excited.

"It's a keeper!" Ollie exclaimed.

Again, I couldn't tell who he was referring to -- himself or me.

"Wait, I've got to get the butch wax in for the final step," Anthony said.

The gooey paste darkened Ollie's hair a shade or two and made it absolutely glisten.

"You want butch wax?" Gus asked me. "Your hair is thick enough so that it doesn't really need it. But I can put some product in if you want."

"Yep, give me the full experience, Gus," I replied.

As he worked the substance into my hair and was stroking my scalp on top, I blurted out, "A landing strip, for sure, next time!"

It was actually convincing! My heart beat wildly....

As Gus displayed my final new look again with the mirror, I knew that from that day forward it would be a flattop for me. I felt so excited over the impromptu, surprise decision! And, I knew it was more than a passing fancy. I would be fully integrated into the farming community, haircut and all, for good.

We both emerged from the barber chairs in time to watch Tom sweep up the last vestiges of our old looks.

As we stepped out of the shop, Ollie got a message on his phone. "She had it! Girl - 8 pounds, 3 ounces. Will be called Elaine Adele."

A second text came in.

"And Mattie will not be returning to work!" Ollie exclaimed.

"I know the mayor very well. Do you want her job on a permanent basis? I'll be happy to put in a word on your behalf," I offered, hopefully.

"It would be my first real job! A salary and benefits! And Creston....my new hometown," Ollie said with a tone of excitement.

"No more Mr. Male Model?" I asked.

"No! No more college kids gawking at me. No more embarrassing photo shoots," Ollie laughed, adjusting his groin comically.

"And the flattops, our new go-to haircuts?" I asked, hopefully.

"You're damn right!" Ollie said, fondling his erect bristles.

"Let's go down to the saloon and get some beers," I suggested. "First five rounds are on me!"

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