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Locks & Stocks - Chapters 5 & 6 by HairF***er

Chapter 5 - Handlebar

While Devin went to order some more drinks, I headed across to the men's room. When I got there I noticed Hux's girl waiting outside.

Pushing through the doors, I found Hux himself standing at one of the sinks, his hands resting on the sides of the basin, his broad shoulders hunched around his newly-exposed ears as he stared at his devastated appearance in the mirror.

In the harsh lights of the men's room, his handsome good looks seemed even more crudely demolished than they had in the auditorium; and as I looked at him, I was acutely conscious of the fact that I still had some of his beautiful long hair still stuck to my head and resting on my shoulders.

I'd seen enough men without their eyebrows to know that it rarely improved their appearance. It usually made even the hottest guy look strange and freakish, but even so, the effect their absence had on Hux's face was striking, especially when combined with the stubbly remains of his once-gorgeous hair.

He really did look terrible. I thought about the merciless roasting he was going to get from his friends and colleagues when they saw his new look the next day. 

'Oh well,' I thought. It would all grow back, eventually.

After doing the necessary, I washed my hands in the neighboring sink and serruptiously picked the traces of Hux's mane off my own oil-soaked hair and brushed it off my shoulders. I then left Hux standing there, contemplating his disastrous transformation, and headed back to the auditorium.

I was surprised to discover that most of the audience, including Ethan, had returned to their seats and not fled the Blue Dragon in disgust. The spectators seemed even rowdier than before and I wondered exactly how much alcohol had been imbibed during the interval.

As I sipped my drink and chatted with Devin, I noticed that the mildewed flagstones around the pillory were still littered with the remnants of Ethan and Hux's hair.

Neither Hux or his girlfriend were anywhere to be seen. I guessed that they'd slunk away under the cover of darkness, and who could blame them. An innocent night-out had ended in Hux's total humiliation and the premature demise of his handsome, hairy looks.

I wondered how his girl would feel, running her fingers over that stubbled scalp, feeling the prickly remnants of her boyfriend's former glory.

There was a round of applause as the lights dimmed and the Monk and the Gaoler made their entrance back onto the stage.

The second half of the show was uneventful, initially anyway. Three guys volunteered in quick succession. None of them had particularly spectacular hair to sacrifice but they all passed the Monk's riddle-based challenge anyway and returned to their seats a thousand dollars richer.

Getting the fourth volunteer into the pillory provided to be difficult however. The Monk waved his wad of five-dollar bills in the air but there were no takers. He then increased it by another thousand.

"Two thousand dollars!" he declared. "Two thousand dollars in new five-dollar bills!"

I didn't think this was going to spark any interest either until a round of applause and some cheering alerted me to a guy standing up in the back row.

"Yo!" he bellowed, gesturing towards the Gaoler. "Hey, yeah. You! Yeah. Baldy! Over here!". The audience laughed.

Baldy?? 'Wow,' I thought. Way to make an impression...

The Gaoler lumbered up between the rows and quickly hooked the new volunteer out of his seat. When they arrived back on stage I could see the Gaoler was actually holding the guy by the collar of his red-checked shirt.

I prayed for his sake that he got two of the Monk's riddles right or that 'Baldy' comment might come back to bite his ass hard.

I put the man's age at about 30. He was attractive, obviously. His red shirt and blue jeans, with leather boots, gave him a sort of outdoors-y look that made an odd contrast to the medieval dungeon setting.

He must've been around 6ft tall, his wide shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist around which was buckled a worn leather belt.

He had gorgeous thick, straight brown hair, parted on the right, and swept across the top of his head, pushed behind his ears on the sides and extending a couple of inches past his collar at the back. The long bangs were casually pushed to one side so they didn't obscure his vision.

It looked like he used some sort of product in it too, to tame it a little, like a light wax or a clay. It looked sleek anyway.

Two well-groomed, wide sideburns emerged from his hairline by his ears and arched down either side of his face before ending at his jawline. But the icing on the proverbial cake was the magnificent handlebar mustache that sprouted in all its glory across the entirety of the guy's thick upper lip.

It was hard to imagine a more impressive symbol of unabashed masculinity. Prominently sited in the center of his face, it announced his virility, fertility and vanity to the entire world!

The mustache was obviously an object of enormous pride that he'd cultivated and trained, like a grapevine, over a long period of time. Whether it was the source of his bravado or merely a symptom of it, the handlebar mustache seemed to encapsulate his entire identity.

It was undeniably spectacular, the follicles growing so close together, and in such abundance, that the mustache seemed to be one solid mass rather than an object made up of hundreds of individual hairs.

Like the hair on his head, it was the most beautiful color too: a rich, honey brown, like the seed of a horse chestnut tree in autumn. The entire mustache was coated in pomade, the tips waxed up into sharp points that extended well over an inch beyond the corners of his slightly cocky mouth.

Whether it was the hair on his head, his luxuriant musttache, his brows or those thick sideburns, the dude was really leaning into the whole man-fur vibe. It worked on him too. The way the mustache moved, as if alive, with every flex of his mouth, was indescribably alluring and intensely masculine.

I guessed the guy had a lot of other hair in all the right places. His tanned forearms were covered in it, and there was more than a hint of dark fur bubbling up at the open neck of his shirt.

And there he stood, held in the Gaoler's vice-like grip, like a kitten being carried by a cat.

He was obviously a little drunk, the alcohol having reduced his natural inhibitions and amplified his natural cockiness. I wondered whether he would've even volunteered at all had he not spent the interval propping up the bar. Looking at him now, in all his hirsute glory, he really did have an awful lot to lose.

I could hear his friends laughing and jeering from the back of theater as their buddy was hauled around the back and locked down into the pillory.

"Name!" demanded the Monk as the padlock clicked shut.

"Nathan, or Nate. All my frien-" said Nate.

"Nate," interrupted the Monk. "I am full of holes, but strong as steel. What am I?"

"Full of holes...?" repeated Nate, laughing.

"Time's running out, Nate," the Monk reminded him.

Nate stopped grinning and tried to focus his slightly befuddled thoughts.

"Uh...hard old cheese," he offered up as the bell rang out.

The audience laughed derisively.

"The answer was 'a chain'," said the Monk.

"Uh... Ok-ay... I was actua-", began Nate.

"Turn me on my side and I am everything. Cut me in half and I am nothing. What am I?" recited the Monk.

"Turn me... Uh...," Nate glanced up and aimed a slightly nervous, lop-sided grin at the Gaoler who was standing over him.

I wondered how far Nate's obvious good looks and charismatic swagger had carried him in life, and the extent to which he'd come to use them as a sort of social currency. Maybe he'd be paying up with a different currency by the end of the evening...

He obviously derived a lot of his confidence from his handsome hairy attributes. I tried to imagine how he'd manage without them. I had a strong feeling that all the bravado in the world wasn't going to save him if he didn't answer this riddle correctly.

'Baldy...,' I reflected. What on earth had he been thinking??

The Gaoler suddenly reached down and firmly tugged one of the thick waxed spikes of hair at the end of Nate's mustache. Nate grimaced in discomfort as the mustache pulled the fleshy side of his lip up, exposing some of his white teeth.

A sheen of sweat had broken out across Nate's forehead as the seconds ticked by.

"C'mon, help me out, guys!" he shouted towards his group of buddies in the back row.

The Gaoler lifted up some of the silky brown locks that cascaded over the front of Nate's forehead. He then ran a giant finger up and down one of the soft wide sideburns and stroked the thick eyebrows with the ball of his thumb.

'He's teasing him,' I thought. He's playing with him! Toying with him! I guessed Nate had around thirty seconds left to avoid the punishment haircut of a lifetime and the Gaoler wanted to remind the man exactly what was at stake.

As we all watched, Nate started to try and squirm his way out of the pillory, attempting to wriggle his hands and head back through the holes that were holding him fast. The pillory rocked a little, the oak creaking, but as strong as Nate was, the oak construction was much stronger.

Nate was laughing even as he was struggling to be released. I still don't think the seriousness of his current predicament had quite filtered through to his alcohol-clouded mind.

I couldn't help but wonder if his obvious confidence in his good looks hadn't led him to overestimate his riddle-solving abilities. And Nate was certainly a beautiful man. I doubted he could even imagine what receiving a humiliating makeover would be like, especially one that deliberately targeted some of the physical attributes he valued the most.

Maybe he was accustomed to receiving favorable treatment based on his looks and charm. Boy, he might be in for a shock.

"I don't know the damn answer!" he said, directing his comment back towards the Monk. "You can let me out! I don't want to play anymore!"

As the bell tolled, the audience burst into spontaneous applause and hoots of laughter, led by Nate's own group of friends.

Whether it was the alcohol consumed at the interval or Nate's naturally cocky demeanor, or a combination of the two, there seemed to be a real appetite in the auditorium to see poor Nate get taken down a peg or two. 

Who knows. Maybe the sight of that waxed handlebar mustache, encapsulating as it did a particular sort of cocky manhood, just really riled people up.

Maybe if he'd had a pretty blond girl to stand up and beg for 'mercy' they would've gotten on his side, but he didn't. He just had some buddies who seemed more than happy to be witnesses to his up-coming humiliation.

As the sound of the bell faded away it was clear that Nate had lost, and was about to lose a lot more.

"The correct answer was 'eight'," the Monk announced, solemnly.

"Ate??" squawked Nate in disbelief. "I don't even get it!"

The audience laughed raucously and started a slow handclap as the Gaoler took his shears out of the utility belt and held them aloft, opening and closing the blades for dramatic effect.

Chapter 6 - The Show Must Go On?

Nate's attempts to free himself from the pillory became ever more frantic as he stared up at the blades snapping open and shut above him.

You know, looking back, I'm not sure Nate really expected to lose his hair, even then, even as he squirmed and wriggled in the pillory like a worm on a hook. He simply had too much confidence in his appearance and a belief that his own good looks would carry him through. It had worked before, many times. Why wouldn't it work now?

Throughout the whole riddle challenge, I doubt he considered for a moment that his hairy masculinity was in any actual jeopardy. It was too much a part of himself, or so he might've thought.

Maybe he didn't even consider it as the Gaoler reached down and scooped up every single one of the thick brown locks that hung over his forehead. And he might not have considered it as the Gaoler pulled the fistful of hair taut, so that Nate could feel the roots of his own beloved hair tugging at his head.

By now the audience was clapping as one, louder and louder, faster and faster. And I think maybe that's when Nate realized he'd made a very serious blunder, as the Gaoler brought the shears down to rest against Nate's skull and buried the blades into the thick mass of hair that was clutched in his huge hand.

And then, for the first time that evening, the Gaoler actually spoke. 

Just one word, victoriously bellowed out across the auditorium for everyone to hear.

And the word was "BALDY!"

And as the word echoed off the walls, the Gaoler closed the shears and severed a huge wad of Nate's hair off at the scalp.

God, it was so theatrical that the entire audience spontaneously stood up and applauded.

The Gaoler dumped the handful of hair down at Nate's feet and laughed while grabbing another fistful.

"BALDY!" he shouted again, as the shears detached a huge wad of long locks from the top of Nate's head.


And this time the audience joined in.

With each cry more and more hair cascaded to the floor to pool at Nate's feet.


Everyone, me, Devin, Ethan, all of Nate's buddies. Everyone. The entire auditorium was shouting out a single word:


as fistfuls of Nate's dark hair were mercilessly severed and dumped in front of his disbelieving eyes. There was no-one to stop it, and no-one who wanted to stop it. The flyer had promised a 'live haircut spectacle' and that's exactly what we were getting, and we loved every second of it.

The Gaoler set about the top of Nathan's handsome head like a thing posessed, the blades snipping the hair off down to the smallest stubble as Nate groaned, a deep animalistic moaning that combined an overwhelming sense of disbelief with the purest feeling of humiliation.


Once the entirety of Nate's lush crown had been denuded, the Gaoler roughly hacked off all the long hair that hung around the sides and back of Nate's head, leaving it almost level with the bottom of his ears. He then got the hair clippers out of his utility belt and flicked them on.

"BALDY! BALDY! BALDY!" roared the audience as the Goaler drove the bare clippers through the decimated remnant of Nate's thick hairline and over the top of his head. 

Working with surprising delicacy and efficiency, the Gaoler mowed the top of Nate's head down with the clippers, leaving a pretty good imitation of very advanced bald-pattern baldness: a clipper-shaved dome with a hideously butchered fringe of longer hair around the sides.

It truly was a punishment haircut for the ages.

Nate's newly-exposed scalp looked white against his tanned face in the bright overhead lights. His head remained bowed throughout, his eyes squeezed tight, his jaw clenched in a grimace of shock and shame. 

The Gaoler put the clippers at the base of one of Nate's handsome sideburns and then, as the audience clapped and cheered, he pushed the chattering teeth up through the thick, wiry column of dark hair and eradicated it.

The second sideburn followed swiftly afterward, leaving the sides of Nate's face free of hair for the first time since he was a teenager.

"BALDY!" shouted the Gaoler in exultation.

And then finally the denouement, the climax of Nate's makeover, the moment everyone in the audience had been expecting, anticipating, even hoping for: that marvelous handlebar mustache, the fruit of countless months of laborious growth and hours of dedicated grooming.

Even more than his once-lush hair and sideburns, Nate's mustache was emblematic of his entire sense of self, both as a man and as an individual.

The Gaoler swapped the hair clippers for the shears and pinched one waxed end of Nate's glorious mustache between his thumb and index finger. He then placed the waxed tip carefully between the open blades of the shears.

Nate looked out into the audience. Shorn of his sideburns, his hair reduced to the most ridiculous imitation of male-pattern baldness, he already looked like a totally different person. 'Baldy,' I thought to myself.

Nate could feel the hair of his mustache being pulled away from his face, could feel the cold steel of the shears pressing against his cheek. He was on the verge of begging to keep his own facial hair, the words literally forming on his lips, when the Gaoler squeezed the shears shut and snipped off over an inch of Nate's handlebar mustache.

The Gaoler held up the fragment of wax-hardened hair. It looked tiny in his huge fingers, but to Nate it meant everything. 

Throwing the waxed tip onto the floor, the Gaoler forced Nate's face up by holding his chin and then proceeded brutally to hack the rest of the precious mustache to pieces.

Clumps of waxed facial fur tumbled past Nate's mouth and joined his hair and sideburns, and his dignity, in a huge pile at his feet. He'd cultivated and nurtured the mustache for many months, and within seconds it was a ruin, replaced with uneven stubble.

"Baldy," said the Gaoler for the last time as he slapped Nate's clipper-shaved head, released the padlock and let the subdued and sober man out of the pillory.

I guess at least Nate got to keep his eyebrows but as far as makeovers went, it was spectacularly bad. All Nate's cocky bravado seemed to have vanished with his hair.
Nate walked back to his group of friends, one hand ruefully rubbing his stubbly, pale dome, as the audience gave him an appreciative round of applause.

"Thank you, Nate, for your sacrifice," said the Monk.

"His mane, like a lion's, once flowed with grace.
His mustache, a marvel, adorned his face.
But fate must also play its part,
Taking away what was close to poor Nate's heart."

And with that, the show was over.

The Monk and the Gaoler bowed once and left the stage. The lights came up and me and Devin filed out with the rest of the spectators.

As we emerged through the mouth of the blue dragon, into the fresh night air and onto Bamboo Lane, we eagerly discussed getting tickets for next week's show.

Postscript -

A few days later Devin came back to the apartment, disappointed and empty-handed. He'd been downtown to buy tickets for the next performance of 'Locks & Stocks' only to discover that the show had been canceled with immediate effect.

The good things never last, do they.

[Author's note - thanks for reading until the end. I originally submitted this story to a well-known 'adult' story site. Despite it being free of all NSFW content, I thought the fetish aspects of the tale were obvious enough to make it a candidate. After a few days I received a rejection email with the following explanation:

"L******a is dedicated to healthy fantasy exploration in fiction. While we do accept submissions with graphic violence, we don't accept "snuff" or "vore" - i.e. death & extreme torture with the aim of titillation and gratification, sexual or otherwise. We generally do not accept submissions of nonconsensual sex in which the "victim" gets absolutely no sort of thrill or enjoyment from the acts, or is seriously and /or permanently physically harmed/abused/maimed/killed and the death is eroticized."

Bizarre, especially given other story content on that site. Anyway I was less than impressed, as you can imagine. It just seemed such a dumb excuse.

Should you wish to read any future stories then they'll either be here on my DeviantArt account, although that's not really ideal for submitting fiction. There aren't really that many options though - HF]

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