The Greaser Challenge - Chapter 9 by HairF***er

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Chapter 8 - And the Winner Is?


The Stylist was pleased with how the evening was progressing. Executing Tyler's laughable pink 'Unicorn' and now Ryan's shameful 'Reverse Mohawk' had both been highly pleasurable experiences, although theoretically Ryan had inflicted the 'Reverse Mohawk' on himself.

After all, the Stylist had done nothing except hold the clippers against Ryan's forehead and waited. Young Ryan had been handed the opportunity of trashing his own hair and he'd taken it, as the Stylist knew he would.

Poor Tyler had clearly hated every moment of his transformation, and the Stylist knew that either of the two remaining handsome greasers would bitterly lament the loss of their own oily long locks too. That would just make the carnage even sweeter, he thought.

The Stylist had guessed that Ryan's addiction to adrenaline would send him over the edge and that the inexplicable thrill of destroying something he loved so much would prove impossible to resist. And so Ryan had humiliated himself via his hair as the television cameras recorded every astonishing moment.

Ryan's very obvious excitement as he'd defaced himself had been a little more surprising though. The Stylist knew that there were some men who were profoundly aroused by the act of having their hair ruined, and the more beautiful their hair, and the more they prized it, the more intense the reaction as it was decimated in front of their eyes.

He'd met up with plenty of them during his time in Los Angeles. There was a greasers' bar near Venice Beach where he'd had some luck fishing. He remembered one memorably attractive greaser he'd caught - oh boy, the things he'd done to that man's exquisite haircut as he stripped it off his head [and elsewhere...].
So yes, these men existed, but he hadn't expected buttoned-down Ryan to be one of them.

Maybe it was just a physiological response to the situation: the vibration of the clippers through his skull, the increase in blood flow, the flood of chemicals stimulating the brain. 

Still, the Stylist thought, the most visible sign of Ryan's excitement had been unmistakable as he'd sat in the chair and butchered his own hair. Interesting...
Like all the losing contestants, Ryan would be leaving the studio with his botched haircut intact. This was something the Stylist had insisted upon after he'd been offered the job as the show's 'Senior Makeover Artist'.

It would've been a matter of mere minutes to shave all the losers' heads bald backstage after the episode had recorded, thus saving their blushes, at least to some extent.

But where was the fun in dishing out a humiliating haircut if the new owner didn't get to enjoy it for a few hours?

No, as with the others, it would be up to Ryan to scuttle home under the cover of darkness and either hack away the remnant of his glorious executive contour himself or don a hat and visit his regular barber the following day.

He could only imagine how Ryan would feel, going into his barber's, his hair wrecked; and how he'd be forced to explain himself, to explain what he'd done to himself, and how he'd have to sit and watch as his bald dome emerged in all its naked glory.

And then to walk out of the shop and into the street, his pale hairless head brilliantly reflective in the autumn sunshine...

Either way, utter baldness awaited. That reverse mohawk had left his hair completely beyond salvation. There were no half measures. It was all going to have to come off. Every single strand.

The producers had wanted to keep the makeovers more... conventional - ivy leagues, brushcuts, crewcuts, even flat-tops, but the Stylist had persuaded them otherwise. He'd demanded creative free rein and he'd been given it.

Ryan Monroe. It was a name he'd remember. It was certainly a face he'd remember.

Perhaps he'd try to arrange a follow-up appointment at a later date, in private, when Ryan's pretty executive contour had finally grown back...



While the Stylist had been thinking about Ryan Monroe, two stage hands had started to prepare the front of the studio for the final challenge: an arm-wrestling competition between Luca and Tommy that would decide both the identity of the winner and the tragic fate of the loser.

Both of the contestants had left the stage temporarily as the front of the studio was redressed for the climax of the show.

A wooden table and two chairs had been set up about 30 feet from the Forfeit Station in full view of the audience. On the table were two padded cushions, and sticking up from the tabletop were two fat wooden knobs, about six inches tall.

The premise was simple: the two contestants would sit facing each other across the table, both grasping one of the knobs in their left hand while gripping each other's right hand, fingers interlocked, their right elbows resting on the pads for comfort.

They would then attempt to wrestle the right arm from a vertical to a horizontal position using nothing but their brute strength and the knob in their left hand as leverage.

The announcer's voice rang out.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to our muscle-flexing, arm-wrestling final showdown!

"Grab your popcorn and hold onto your seats, because this isn't just any arm-wrestling match - it's a battle between a hair-raising makeover and greaser glory!

"Who will emerge victorious, and $10,000 richer! And who will face the shocking shears, the cruel clippers or even the ravaging razor!"

Luca and Tommy were welcomed back into the studio with rapturous applause.

The two men were now stripped to the waist, wearing just their jeans and leather boots, their torsos lightly oiled, glowing in the studio lights.

If both men were beautiful before then they were doubly so now.

The Stylist looked across appreciatively at the two attractive men with their even more attractive haircuts. Whoever lost, he thought, he could hardly wait to get them in that last barber's chair. He licked his lips in anticipation. Just the mere thought of desecrating such glorious hair was enough to make him salivate with anticipation.

The two contestants walked over and stood next to the arm-wrestling table, Luca's jet-black pompadour contrasting with Tommy's light-brown jelly roll, both hairstyles looking spectacular in their greased and oiled glory.

"The contest will be the best of three rounds!", said the announcer.

"Normally the makeovers are performed at the discretion of our Stylist," he continued. The eyes of the audience focused once again on Tyler and Ryan who were still sat in their chairs with their ruined hair perched on their heads.

"But in a dramatic twist, the winner of the $10,000 also gets the chance to influence the loser's final look, in whatever way they want, for better or worse! No holds-barred!

"Will they show mercy? Or will they enforce the maximum penalty!".

Tommy grinned and flexed his biceps, revealing a thick thatch of brown curling hair in his armpits. The crowd jeered, annoyed by the blatant display of cocky masculinity.

A referee in a striped shirt appeared from the side of the set. He invited the two men to take a seat and clasp their right hands together, with their fingers intertwined. They each grasped one of the wooden knobs in their left hand, their elbows resting on the pads.

The klaxon sounded in the studio and the challenge began!

The first round proved to be a decisive win for Tommy. He was slightly older and more muscular, and he'd arm-wrestled before so he had an advantage.

But the second round easily went to Luca. He was a fast learner and he quickly realized how he could adjust his technique to maximize his chances.

It all came down to the final round. As the audience starting yelling in support, the two men gripped hands for the last time and the klaxon sounded. 

Tommy tried going for an immediate win, throwing his strength into dragging the back of Luca's hand down towards the tabletop. It seemed to work too. Inch by inch Luca was losing ground!

He could feel the strength leaving his arm as Tommy increased the downward pressure. Luca resisted with all his remaining strength, both men covered in a sheen of sweat and oil, biceps bulging as they battled for supremacy.

"Prepare to say goodbye to your precious pomp," snarled Tommy as Luca's hand drew closer and closer to the table.

Luca gritted his teeth, his grip tightening on the wooden knob as he tried to lift his arm in the opposite direction.

"Maybe Lisa won't be so interested once you've been plucked like a little chicken," added Tommy, breathing heavily.

Luca gritted his teeth, eyes closed tight, and let out a deep, long grunt, pouring all his last reserves of energy into saving his hair, his greaser reputation and his male pride.

His arm started to rise back up in response as he fed off Tommy's baiting. The thought of getting humiliated on television by his rival, in front of his girl, his greaser pals... 

Slowly, Luca's arm came back to its original position, and then it was Tommy's turn to frown in concern as his own arm started to tip down towards the tabletop.

Tommy put his head down, his greased jelly roll bouncing on his forehead, as he tried meeting Luca's powerful response with his own.

The audience roared in delight, ecstatic with the prospect of Tommy losing. Throughout the entire show, his strutting arrogance had contrasted poorly with Luca's natural, open charm and the crowd now sensed that Tommy might be about to get deplumed and plucked in the most embarrassing way. And they wanted to see it.

As he grunted and moaned with sheer effort, images came unbidden into Tommy's mind of his hair being chewed off as Luca watched, as the crowd watched. As Lisa watched! 

He imagined Luca wielding the scissors, his fingers slick with Tommy's pomade, as he pulled the precious jelly roll up by its roots and hacked it off at the scalp...holding it up in his hand, triumphant, as some sort of sick trophy, literally rubbing his face in it!

Tommy had baited Luca into appearing on 'The Greaser Challenge' and it seemed to have backfired in the most devastating way possible.

Tommy glanced over at the ref who was totally focused on the back of his hand, now just an inch away from the tabletop and almost certain defeat.

He shifted his weight slightly and then, almost instinctively, he firmly planted the heel of his biker boot in the general vicinity of Luca's toes.
He got lucky and made contact!

It wasn't hard but it was enough and Luca momentarily lost focus. Tommy felt the slight reduction in pressure on his hand and then he summoned every last scrap of energy into overthrowing Luca's arm. 

Luca barely even had time to register what had happened before the back of his right hand slammed down into the tabletop.

There was an almost stunned silence.

Luca stared at his hand in disbelief, his fingers still entwined with Tommy's as the audience started to boo and jeer. The ref might not have seen Tommy's sleight-of-foot but the spectators certainly had.

But it was too late now. The referee had already called the match in Tommy's favour.

Luca had lost. Luca had lost and Tommy had won, and the last of the Forfeit Station's three red leather barber chairs was about to receive its occupant.


[Author's note - believe it or not, I spent a long time deliberating over who was going to get their prized hair destroyed: Luca or Tommy. In the end I thought that the reader would be expecting that it would be Tommy, as punishment for his cockiness, and so selecting poor, beautiful Luca seemed like the surprise option. And so Luca has lost. And his gorgeous, oiled pompadour is now in the hands of his most bitter rival. I apologize in advance for chapters 10 & 11 as Luca... well, you'll see when I upload them... but Tommy chooses to inflict the most extreme forfeit.]

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