Sacrificing the Shag for a Scoop by Manny

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A different story with the same characters from "Rookie Reporters Sacrifice Everything"...continued inspiration from Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford's hair in All the President's Men.

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"I'm going to support publishing this story despite my better judgment," Ben concluded after wading through the remarkable piece of investigative reporting. "But, don't get your hopes up just yet. This has to get past the big boss upstairs, and with your lack of on-the-record sources, I doubt he'll approve."

"Let us pitch it to Mr. Rosenfeld ourselves," Bob said eagerly as he mopped his thick mane of lustrous blond hair back from his face.

"We got your support, and we can get his too!" Carl chimed in optimistically.

"I wouldn't be so sure. Mr. Rosenfeld is a stickler about things â€" like sources! He has other old-fashioned ideas, as well â€" like how fellows should behave and dress in the workplace. Only one of you is going to pitch the story to him. Do I have a volunteer?"

Both Bob and Carl were desperate to get some facetime in with the big boss, but were careful not to assert themselves too hard since they both had made significant contributions in developing the piece.

"It doesn't make a difference to me," Bob said demurely.

"Bob can do it," Carl conceded quickly. "He has a better grasp on which of our sources might go on-the-record, if it comes to that."

Ben smiled broadly as he eyed Carl's glossy brown locks that were constantly flopping over his twinkling hazel eyes. The reporter's hair was quite trendy â€" parted in the center and feathered at the sides, covering his ears and falling into beautiful layers as it streamed past the base of his collar.

"You saved yourself a trip to the barbershop, kid," Ben laughed as he batted at Carl's trendy feathered hairstyle.

Bob's face clouded over.

"Barbershop? What's that about?" the blond rookie reporter asked with an inkling that he already knew the answer.

Bob ran his fingers through his blond hair nervously, sensing it would soon be on the chopping block.

"That's right. Haircut time for you, Bob! And make it short!" Ben snapped. "If you walk into Mr. Rosenfeld's office looking like a hippy, he probably won't even hear your first argument. You’ll get a lecture about your shaggy locks instead! If you really want this story published, take your mop out of the equation. Here, some cash for the barber."

Ben handed him $15.

Bob swallowed hard. He'd made many sacrifices in his professional career, but cutting his hair short had never been one of them. He had a modern, edgy look â€" a bit sloppy, with longer hair like a reporter on the beat in the early 1970s often sported.

"What time can I see him?" Bob asked. "Or, Carl, you could do the honors...."

Carl burst into laughter!

"No, thank you. I'm not eager to emerge from the barber's chair with a short-back-and-sides just because our piece is thin when it comes to on-the-record sources!" Carl exclaimed.

He tossed his hair about to twist the knife a bit.

Carl often got compliments about his hair - the body, the thickness, the gloss.

"Well, I'm ready to submit my locks to the barber scissors if that's what it takes," Bob declared, taking the high ground over pretty-boy Carl.

"Clippers, you mean! Electric hair clippers, wielded by a professionally trained barber!" Ben pressed. "Tapered short around the ears and clipped close up the back. No hair hanging over your eyes either!"

Bob gulped. He really couldn't go back on his "anything for journalistic freedom" declaration he'd made.

"Sure," Bob said, swallowing his pride and doubling-down on his detached reaction to the imposed haircut. "What's a haircut anyway? This article is going to be big news! I'm sure the President himself will be reading it tomorrow morning if Mr. Rosenfeld approves it going to press."

"This can be such a bother, at times," Bob said as he ran his fingers through his mane, trying to convey the idea that a short haircut might, in fact, be a welcomed change.

Ben made a call to the editor-in-chief's office and secured a slot at 6 pm.

"That's perfect. There’s enough time for Bob to run down to the barbershop in the building arcade, and also time for us to run with the story tomorrow if we get the green light tonight," Ben said, beginning to feel excited about possibly publishing a bombshell, investigative news article on the front page.

"Can I come watch?" Carl sniggered as he simulated a set of clippers with his fingers. "Buzzzzzzzz!"

"I'm sure you have better things to do with your time, Carl!" Ben snapped, overhearing the friendly taunt.

"No, I'd like him to come," Bob interjected. "I have some things to discuss, and perhaps he might get inspired to shed this girly look he's been cultivating. Carl should show off his 'come-hither' eyes that this overgrown fringe conceals!"

As the duo rode down the elevator, they were alone for a few minutes.

Bob eyed Carl's magnificent mane, already feeling jealous that Carl would keep his locks intact.

Simultaneously, Carl peeked at Bob and saw he was being surveyed closely.

In the dim light of the elevator, Bob grasped the silken locks and pulled Carl close.

They stood, pressed together, hearts beating rapidly.

"Let's both get haircuts," he suggested, revealing a crack in his 'I don't care' posture. "I'll feel so geeky if it's just me looking like a dork."

Carl's knees felt weak. He desperately wanted to bond with his buddy, and their lips were so close...was this the time to act on his secret crush for Bob?

He wanted to say yes, to surrender his treasured hair to his secret heartthrob, but his mouth was dry and his lips unmoving, unwilling to agree.

Suddenly, the elevator came to a stop. They were at the lobby â€" haircut time for Bob!

The two moptops were soon heading down the corridor that led to the The Gentlemen's Quarters Barbershop.

"Well, here it is. The place my cool-look will meet its fate and end up on the floor," Bob said awkwardly. "Or should I be speaking in the plural?"

Carl fidgeted. As much as he would like to please his buddy, he couldn't sacrifice his hair.

"You first. Maybe, I'll feel inspired, but I doubt it," Carl whimpered.

"Sissy!" Bob hissed under his breath as the two walked into the shop.

The middle aged barber was idle, thumbing through a magazine. He stood and adjusted his professional white tunic with the name Al embroidered on the chest pocket.

"Gentlemen?" the barber asked, vaguely offering the chair to either of them.

Bob stared at Carl.

"You're the one who volunteered to make the sales pitch upstairs," Carl mumbled.

"Fine," Bob snapped.

He got a grip on his emotions and mounted the large metal footrest of the big barber chair that faced away from the mirror.

Bob plopped down and ran his fingers through the shaggy (and oh so sexy!) hair.

"I need this cut short," Bob said matter-of-fact with no fuss or drama.

The barber smoothed the cape in place.

"How short?" he asked, beginning to brush the thick mane. The massive forelock kept slipping down under its weight, veiling Bob's crystal-clear, blue eyes.

"Tapered short around the ears and tight up the back," Bob said, suddenly feeling free to condemn his locks to the barbershop floor.

He squirmed in the chair. It had felt curiously exhilarating to instruct the barber to put an end to his shag.

"Oh, and these bangs â€" short! Halfway up the forehead, at least," Bob stressed, with his finger slammed horizontally across his forehead, displaying how much would not survive the haircut.

"I don't think it has to be that drastic," Carl offered from the waiting area.

"I'm not going to risk this article getting canned, Carl," Bob said, again feeling superior to his wimpy friend.

The barber reached for the large set of Osters that were hanging from the counter and snapped them on.

A silence hung in the shop, despite the humming clippers.

Then, without ceremony, the tapering of Bob's hair began. One quick swipe up through the nape and a huge wad of gold fell to the floor.

Carl winced at the amount that came off. Better Bob than himself in the chair!

More clumps fell in rapid succession.

Bob kept his head bowed low so that the barber had an easy time clipping off the shag.

"Tapered all the way up the back?" the barber asked, just to make sure. "All the way to the crown?"

"Yes, and make it close, very short," Bob said, as if to inflict pain on Carl who sat there watching the butchering of his pal's hair.

"What's the occasion?" the barber asked curiously.

"I need a more professional look for a special job I volunteered to undertake," Bob explained.

"Your buddy next under the cape?" the barber asked, with a hopeful tone.

"Uh, no. Uh, just here for moral support," Carl said, feeling like a prissy little princess. Bob was so manly, ordering the shearing of his own locks!

"He needs a thorough shearing, don't you think?" Bob asked the barber.

"Well, he has very nice hair. Perfect for the long styles men are wearing these days," the barber noted. "But, personally, I think he would look good with a short taper like you're getting."

"Ha! He'd be crying all the way home to mommy's apron strings if he got a proper haircut," Bob scoffed.

The barber began combing the long fringe straight down over Bob's eyes.

Then, with quick snips, he took the length off to mid-forehead.

In his mind, Bob followed the path of the shears as they put a brutal end to his floppy forelock. He sensed a sort of exciting, numbing horror as his sexy fringe was butchered. It was so straight across and short â€" such a geek!

The barber worked his magic with some thinning shears and removed the bulk, making the short bangs seem very tidy. Then, with quite snips, he angled the bangs severely, up to one corner of hte forehead.

The thinning proceeded over the whole top. Blond strands and clumps rained down everywhere. The barber's hands moved faster than the energizer bunny.

Bob's cool cat shag soon became a distant memory. In its place, Carl stared at a very barbered look on his buddy.

"Shall I apply some pomade and slick it to the side?" the barber asked.

"Yes, slicked to the side, please," Bob replied.

The scattered clumps of cut hair that covered the cape and floor were like badges of honor, a testament to Bob’s courage and manliness.

Once the cape was off, he felt the clipped nape and the brittle strands plastered to the side on top.

"Well, now that you see the new me, do you want the barber give you the same haircut?" Bob asked rhetorically, sneering at that little wuss, Carl.

Carl was considerably shorter than Bob, but he felt like a pygmy next to him in the elevator.

"I'm sorry," he murmured when the two were alone.

Bob's heart melted a bit, and he caressed the silken flow down the back of Carl's head.

"You do have very nice hair," Bob said, his voice quavering a bit as he remember how perfect his plush locks had looked when he first climbed into the barber’s chair.

"If you really want me to cut it," Carl offered, "I can go straight back to the barber shop right now, before it closes and have it done. I feel terrible to have dodged the clippers like that."

Bob pushed the long hair out of Carl's face.

"Nah, one of us can still look cool," Bob replied, as he kissed Carl for the first time and stroked his lovely hair.

Carl drank in the affection and made himself submissive in the elevator. He sort of wished Bob had insisted that he get the same barbered look. They could commiserate (or celebrate?) together.

When the duo burst back into the office, the dynamic had totally changed.

With his new short crop, Bob was the go-to guy.

Ben beamed as he surveyed his new pet reporter. "You look transformed!"

Bob did a full spin around so that Ben could take in the short taper to the crown.

"Princess here didn't get inspired?" Ben asked derisively as he glared at Carl.

The whole office burst into laughter. Carl felt humiliated.

"Hey, I have an extra tie in my office and a spare suit jacket that might fit. Put them on before you head upstairs. And, let's do a mock drill, as well," Ben said.

Carl started following them into the boss' office, but Ben told him to "go find something else to do." OUCH!

"Thank you so much for being a good sport about the haircut," Ben told Bob. "I'm not guaranteeing it will do the trick, but at least the article has a fighting chance with a fair hearing."

"Aw, it was nothing. Happy to be rid of the shag actually. I've noticed none of the managers sport mops," Bob reasoned.

"And you're the type who wants to move up. How about becoming Carl's boss?! That would send him into a depression," Ben laughed. "Should I pull him off the story? Teach that little sissy boy and his pretty hair a lesson?"

Bob laughed and thought about how horrible Carl would feel if he were made senior. But then he thought about his own feelings in the elevator on the way back up...the soft spot that he had for Carl.

"I might try to give him a haircut myself," Bob laughed, imaging himself in Carl's kitchen, chopping off the long dark hair.

"Well, let's get your reporter credentials squared away first with Mr. Rosenfeld before you try barbering," Ben chuckled.

He eyed the blond, plastered hair.

"That is one terrific taper, Bob," he commented. "Let me see the back again."

Bob beamed with pride as he showed off his exposed nape. He brushed the tight taper at the nape for the umpteenth time. He liked being the boss’ golden boy.

"You know what? This hair length is going to be a keeper," Bob declared. "Good thing the barber shop is in the building. It’ll be easy to maintain the trim, tidy look."

"Stick to suits and ties, too," Ben suggested. "People respect you more when they see you in business clothing."

"About Carl…." Bob began.

"Forget Carl! I’m going to assign him a piece on ladies hair fashions!" Ben scoffed.

Both men laughed at the thought of Carl having to interview women in local beauty shops.

"Perhaps he can do an investigative piece on whether hair permanents are safe," Bob suggested. "Of course, he’ll have to get a perm himself. And you can publish a big photo of Carl in curlers to accompany the piece!"

"I like it!" Ben said as bellowed with laughter and gave his new golden boy a pat on the shoulder as he again admired the stiff, plastered strands atop his head.

Carl tried to approach Bob as he was preparing for his pitch to the big boss.

"Not now, Carl! Can’t you see I’m busy?" Bob hissed, dismissively.

"Remember, we both worked on that piece," Carl whined.

"Ben’s thinking about pulling you off of it completely. He says I can handle it by myself," Bob snapped.

Then his expression lightened up and his eyes danced with mirth as he added, "Oh, and he said he’s going to have you researching women’s beauty shops. You may ended getting a perm for the story!"

Carl was aghast. He slunk away in disgrace.

After wandering about aimlessly for a while, Carl ended up in the men’s room staring at his amazing hair in the mirror. It had been an unwitting cause for his quick fall from favor. He imagined having a beautician rolling it tightly in rods and then having an awful-smelling chemical solution dumped on. Instead of the shimmering silken feel and look his hair would be dry, dull and curly!

He pulled the brush out of his back pocket. But, even before he delivered the first stroke to his thick mane, he knew what he had to do.

The barber shop in the building arcade…it would be his next destination.

While Bob was upstairs delivering his pitch to Mr. Rosenfeld, Carl would be sitting in the big barber’s chair, watching his silken mahogany locks fall to the big white cape!

Carl emerged from the men’s room into the hallway just in time to see Bob in suit and tie with his short, slicked hair walking toward the elevator and bantering with Ben, on their way up to Mr. Rosenfeld’s executive suite.

Carl was going in the opposite direction.

He hit the elevator down button. The many floors it took for the elevator to reach the lobby were like agony. Carl’s only consolation was remembering the secret kiss he and Bob had shared in that private space.

Then, he panicked! There was undoubtedly a camera in the elevator for security purposes. Perhaps, someone in the reception area had monitored their private interlude.

Then, Carl spotted the camera in a corner, above the control panel. Someone definitely could have seen that kiss!

Carl exited the elevator and glanced down toward the lobby arcade. He could see the red and white barber pole glowing at the very end. He forced himself to walk toward it. A few hours ago he’d almost felt giddy accompanying Bob, knowing that he’d witness a brutal makeover. Now, it was his own hair that would be on the chopping block.

He smoothed the treasured flow with his hand.

Manipulating his hair usually had a bit of relaxing, therapeutic value. But, at the present, it only served to heighten his anxiety.

There was still time to weasel out of this thing. No one knew of his decision to get the big chop.

But, that was a quick, fleeting thought. Carl kept walking methodically forward, like doomed troops straight into the line of fire.

The middle-aged barber was leaning against the wall, outside his shop. He quickly snuffed out a cigarette as Carl approached.

"Lover boy is back," the barber quipped with a not-so-silent snicker. "Did you forget something? Perhaps hoping to retrieve a lock of your dear friend’s hair?"

He knew about the kiss in the elevator!

Carl was flush with embarrassment.

"No, I’m here for a haircut myself," he said flatly with his lips pursed and tight.

The barber gave him the once over.

He was somewhat older than Carl and dressed in a white tunic, black dress slacks and comfortable loafers. His hair was shorn into an old-fashioned crewcut. Everything clipped close, except for a bit of fringe, less than an inch in length, pushed a bit to the side.

"Come on in," the barber said in a tone of measured excitement.

Carl paused in front of the large chair that was facing away from the mirror. It was upholstered in a mustard yellow vinyl that matched the line of chairs against the wall in the waiting area.

He glanced in the mirror. His beautiful hair, the mane he was so proud of….parted in the middle and feathered on the sides, covering his ears and collar in well-crafted layers.

He noticed how the chair was positioned facing away from the mirror and was glad. He would not have to watch his transformation from cool dude to geeky nerd.

"Go on, take a seat," the barber said in a curt tone of irritation.

Carl couldn’t make himself do it, not at that moment. He jockeyed for a bit of time.

"Uh, that haircut my friend got, uh," he stammered.

"Yes, what of it?" the barber asked. "I thought he looked mighty sharp without that mange."

"Is it, uh, something, you think, that might work for me? Or perhaps a longer style," Carl suggested.

"Style?! This is not a salon. This is a barber shop! I give haircuts! There’s a chart, pick one," he said, pointing to the wall.

Of course, the longest options were the "executive" and the "professional" cuts. It might seem a bit presumptuous for him, so low on the pecking order, to sport an executive cut.

"If you don't hop up into that chair, I’m going back outside to finish my cigarette," the barber huffed.

There was no more putting it off. Carl quickly mounted the footrest.

"Sorry, I was just trying to decide," he muttered.

"There will be plenty of time for that once you’re seated and caped tight," the barber snapped.

Carl felt so out of place in a barber’s chair. He hadn’t been to this sort of shop since he was in lower elementary school.

The sound of the cape being snapped open was more like that of a whip cracking! The white cotton cloth sailed through the air. Carl felt it being fastened very snuggly - too snuggly, in fact - around his neck. He struggled to breathe. With the cape on tight, he was at the point of no return. His groovy locks were doomed.

The barber began to yank a comb through the Carl’s hair.

The caped client wanted to let out a yelp, but he was determined not to let the barber have that satisfaction. His anguished face was enough!

"All this hair," the barber muttered. "How about a flattop, young man? Something your father or grandfather might be pleased to see you sporting."

Carl jolted at the thought of a flattop.

"Uh, no thanks," he gasped quickly. "Just take it off the ears, collar and brows."

The barber did not reply.

Instead he shoved Carl’s head down so that he was forced to stare into his lap as the sound of the electric clippers filled the room.

Carl’s heart beat quickly. He was on the verge of requesting ‘just scissors’ when he felt the teeth of the clippers at his nape pushing tightly against the scalp.

As the clippers plunged into the dangling locks, a muffled shriek filled the small shop. The purring machine traveled rapidly up the back of his head!

Carl imagined his prized shag style falling in the wake of the clippers - glorious sheaves of shiny brown hair piling up around the barber’s loafers.

After a few drives up the back, the telephone rang.

The barber paused the haircut to answer.

"No, got some hippy kid in the chair now getting a proper haircut. How about in 20 minutes?" the barber said.

Carl took the opportunity to lean over and examine the floor.

His fears were confirmed. The locks on the floor were six or seven inches in length! The barber had clipped it almost down to the wood in back!

"That was one of the big wigs on the top floor making an appointment to get his executive cut trimmed," the barber said with a tone of pride.

As the haircut resumed, the barber cocked Carl’s head to the side, firmly. It felt so uncomfortable.

The vibrating teeth went up through the dense sideburn and stripped the feathered locks off right at the scalp.

Loads of brown hair fell to the cape.

"Two shaggy lads returning to the straight and narrow today," the barber commented as he cut. "Gives me hope that the traditional barber shop isn’t totally doomed. They are closing left and right in the burbs. Thankfully, there are enough serious businessmen downtown to keep some of us in business."

"Is that so?" said Carl, developing an interest in the topic. "So, what are traditional barbers doing to address the decline in demand for their services?"

The barber combed the massive forelock down, straight over Carl’s hazel eyes.

He paused the haircut to offer up his opinion on the matter.

"Many are trying to morph their shops into barber-stylist places with trendy colors and themes. Sports themes, mainly. But, that also means learning how to style hair instead of just offering the traditional cuts on the chart there. Some are folding up shop and retiring. And, some, like me, are sticking firm to the old ways," he said.

The scissors began crafting angled bangs.

SNIP, SNIP, SNIP.

Large clumps of hair fell into Carl’s lap. He could only imagine the damage the barber had just inflicted.

"Your hair is thicker than your lover boy’s," the barber smirked. "Perhaps I ought to clipper-over-comb you down to a short crewcut."

"We are colleagues! He’s not my lo….." Carl stammered.

"That’s not what’s being said in the building!" the barber exclaimed making a kissing sound.

Then, he added, "Yes, a crewcut will be better for this thick hair."

He quickly snipped the bangs of shorter near the top of Carl’s forehead.

Then he began taking the top down shorter and shorter using both a comb and clippers.

The amount of cut hair on the cape was staggering.

Carl was afraid to say anything. The barber’s knowledge of his secret kiss was explosive blackmail bombshell.

"Let’s finish this off right, seeing that you’re going to be a regular client in this shop - you and your blond sweetheart," the barber said, whisking away the snippets of cut hair with a duster.

He applied lather around the ears and on the neck.

Carl felt the barber carving out exaggerated arches around his ears!

Then came a quick wipe with a warm, moist towel followed by a splash of witch hazel that stung like hell.

"Yes, yes," the barber murmured studying his handiwork. "Much better without that shag dangling down all over."

Silently, he swiveled the chair around for the big reveal.

Carl was stunned into silence. He looked like a soldier! Almost no hair was left!

He turned his head to get a better look at the arches. ARCHES!! Around his ears.

The barber held a mirror up so that he good see the brutally short back. The hairline at the nape was raised significantly. Everything below the earlobes in back was shaved clean.

"I did leave enough hair here in front so that this crewcut can easily be converted into a flattop. If you change your mind, come back within 48 hours and I’ll flatten you out. Understood?" the barber said.

Carl became animated. "Actually, being here has given me an idea. Since you don’t have any clients waiting, would you mind letting me sit here for a few minutes before taking off the cape? I’d like to call upstairs and have a photographer come down. What you said about traditional barber shops disappearing? I’d like to do an article on that for the Post. Maybe interview you."

"And, you’d be Exhibit A about men longing to return to the days when men looked like men?" the barber asked.

"Exactly!" Carl exclaimed. "Some before, during and after photos of my haircut in the article. I have a great picture of me with longhair and a trendy shirt I could use for the before shot."

The barber handed him the phone and Carl put in a request for a photographer to come to The Gentlemen’s Quarters Barbershop asap.

Within minutes, someone was there taking scores of photos with a professional camera.

"Especially the piles of hair at the barber’s feet," Carl instructed.

"Should we pose some ‘during’ shots?" the barber asked, upbeat about getting some publicity in the newspaper.

"That would be great," replied Carl.

Both the barber and Carl hammed it up for the shots. The idea of an article somehow changed their dynamic from confrontational to cooperative.

When the photo shoot was over and the barber had been paid, Carl asked, "So what did you hear about, uh, you know, uh, the elevator ride."

"Heard?! I saw the film clip. You two looked really sweet all cozied up. Made me, uh, a bit, uh, feeling left out of the fun," the barber said bashfully.

Carl gave the barber another once over. He’d always felt a soft spot for more mature men. He could tell the man had been quite handsome in his younger days with a prominent chin and forehead.

"Perhaps, I can address that," Carl cooed. "You don’t have a private area, do you?"

The barber led him behind the curtain into a very cozy den-like space. He fondled Carl’s little fringe and toyed with his clipped head.

"If you let me lather shave your sides and carve out a landing strip up on top, I’ll make sure that elevator recording is destroyed. I want to give you the most manly of flattops," the barber said.

Carl blinked nervously, "What about I give you a blowjob instead?"

The barber began unbuckling his belt.

"Oh, yes! Deal!" he exclaimed.

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