The Hypnotized Greaser by BarberedStrong

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Nick "Ace" Rizzo wasn’t just another guy with a 1950s obsession—he lived it. From his well-worn leather jacket to his white tank tops, cuffed jeans, and polished Doc Martens, he oozed rockabilly cool. But what really set him apart was his hair: a towering, greased-up black pompadour that could be spotted from a mile away. His sideburns flared out in sharp points, giving his whole look an edge that made people do a double-take.

Wherever Nick went, people noticed.

"That hair’s a damn sculpture," someone said every time he was out. Nick would just smirk, run a hand through the thick, glossy wave of his pompadour, and keep moving. But lately, something had been nagging at him.

The smoking. He was starting to feel it in his lungs. And more than that, something inside him whispered about change.

One night, after he crushed out yet another cigarette, Nick found himself researching ways to quit. He stumbled across a hypnosis program that claimed to curb bad habits. Skeptical but willing to try anything, he ordered it.

For the next week, every night, he sat in his bedroom, lights dimmed, headphones on. The voice on the program spoke softly, guiding him into a meditative state.

"Picture yourself free of old habits," it said. "Imagine letting go... simplifying."

The program didn’t seem to be helping with the smoking, but something else started to happen. Nick began to feel this strange pull—an urge to strip back his signature look, to simplify. First, it was his clothes. He started wearing plaid short-sleeve button-downs and khakis instead of his usual leather and jeans. It didn’t feel quite right, but he couldn’t stop himself. Then came the hair.

He looked at himself in the mirror one morning, fingers tracing the massive wave that had defined him for years.

"Maybe it’s time," he muttered to his reflection. "Time to cut it off."

That afternoon, he wandered into an old-school barbershop he’d never noticed before. The place had a vintage vibe, with black-and-white checkered floors and framed pictures of old movie stars on the walls. A weathered barber with gray hair slicked back in a ducktail glanced up from his chair.

"What can I do for you?" the barber asked, his eyes landing immediately on Nick’s towering pompadour.

Nick hesitated. "I wanna simplify. Still keep it classic, though. Y’know, something from the 50s, but not... this." He motioned to his head.

The barber gave a knowing nod. "I hear ya. You want it tight, clean. I got just the thing."

Nick strode over to the waiting chair, unsure of what was to come.

"Trust me, kid, you’re gonna look sharp."

Nick sat in the old leather chair as the barber tied a cape around his neck. The sound of clippers filled the room, and with the first buzz against his scalp, he felt a shiver run down his spine. Chunk after chunk of his signature black hair fell to the floor. The greasy chunks of thick black hair fell heavy on his lap. It felt like pounds of hair and the barber was just getting started.

"How’s it lookin’?" Nick asked, unable to hide his anxiety.

The barber chuckled. "Relax, it’s coming together. You’ll look like a damn movie star."

Nick watched in the mirror as the barber worked with surgical precision, trimming the sides tight, leaving just enough on top for that signature flat shape. He ran the clippers over the crown, tickling the apex of his head and leveling out what little was left. With each pass, Nick’s heart sank a little further.

The sides were shaved down to a harsh, almost military length, and the top was flat, brutally sharp. His flared sideburns were gone, replaced with high whitewalls. The barber leaned in for the finishing touches, pulling out a straight razor and shaping the edges with the kind of care reserved for artwork.

"There we go. Sharp, clean, and still 50’s," the barber said, stepping back with a satisfied grin. He slapped a bit of pomade on the remaining hair and brushed it up to perfect the flat top.

Nick stared at himself in the mirror. The guy looking back at him didn’t feel like him. The hair was neat, sharp—no doubt about it. But it was too polished. Too rigid. Too… not Nick.

"Looks good, right?" the barber asked, patting him on the back.

Nick swallowed hard, trying to force a smile. "Yeah... yeah, it’s real clean."

He paid the barber and stepped outside, rubbing his hand over the flat, crisp surface of his new cut. The air felt colder without the weight of his old hair. As he walked down the street, something gnawed at him—a creeping sense of dread.

The flattop wasn’t just a haircut. It was a transformation.

A memory of the hypnosis program flashed through his mind. Simplifying, it had said. Letting go.

"That’s what this was," Nick muttered to himself, suddenly understanding. "That damn program wasn’t just about quitting smoking."

He ran his hand through the tight, flat cut again. The old Nick, the guy with the pompadour, was gone, replaced by someone new. Someone he hadn’t agreed to become.

Nick couldn’t shake the feeling as he walked home, the cool October air brushing against his freshly shorn head. His hands kept reaching up to feel the flat, rigid top that now replaced his beloved pompadour. It was all too neat, too precise. It didn’t feel like him. The nagging voice in the back of his head told him the hypnosis program had something to do with it. Simplify, it had whispered. Let go. And like an idiot, he had followed along.

"I should’ve never listened to that damn thing," he muttered under his breath, turning the corner toward his apartment. "Tomorrow, it’s over. I’m done."

By the time he unlocked the door and stepped inside, his mind was racing. He tossed his jacket on the chair, caught a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, and flinched. The guy staring back at him wasn’t Ace, the rebel. He looked like he should be standing in a garage, holding a lawnmower and complaining about grass clippings. He hated it. He needed answers.

Without thinking, he grabbed his phone, scrolled to the hypnosis app, and pressed play. He told himself it was just to figure out how the program had led him here, how it had made him shed his identity, his look, his signature pompadour. Just one more time. He had to understand.

The soothing voice from the program returned, soft and reassuring. Nick sat on the edge of his bed, headphones in, his eyes closed as the voice guided him into a trance-like state.

"You’ve come this far," the voice said. "You’ve already begun the process of transformation. There’s no need to turn back now. Let go, Nick. Let go of the past, of the complications, of the unnecessary. Embrace simplicity."

Nick’s body felt heavy, his mind blank. He wanted to stop, to pull the headphones off, but the words washed over him, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

"You’ve taken the first step," the voice continued. "Your new haircut is just the beginning. Now, it’s time for the final stage. A complete transformation into who you were always meant to be."

In his trance, Nick’s body tensed. His mind screamed at him to wake up, to fight it, but he was trapped. The voice continued, more forceful now.

"Soon, you will embrace your new identity: a sharp, clean, suburban man. Flattop, dockers, polo shirts, and loafers. Comfortable, reliable, responsible. You will no longer crave rebellion. You will no longer cling to the past. There is no going back, Nick. There never was."

Nick’s eyes shot open, but his body felt paralyzed. The words echoed in his ears, sinking deeper into his brain. His heart pounded as he realized what was happening. The program wasn’t just about his smoking habit. It was about reshaping him entirely. He wasn’t just losing his pompadour—he was losing himself.

He yanked the headphones off, breathing hard, his hands trembling. But the damage was done. The pull was stronger now, more overwhelming than ever. He felt it coursing through him, a compulsion he couldn’t shake.

The next morning, Nick stood in front of his mirror again, but this time, there was no hesitation. He found himself reaching for the polo shirt he’d bought on a whim, slipping it on without thought. His once-prized collection of leather jackets and cuffed jeans seemed foreign to him now, relics from a life he could barely remember.

His flattop, now meticulously maintained, was perfect in its symmetry. Nick stared at his reflection, waiting for that pang of regret to hit him. But it didn’t come.

He sighed, straightened his collar, and grabbed his keys. Outside, his neighbor waved at him from across the lawn, a man who Nick barely acknowledged before. Now, he found himself waving back, offering a smile that felt eerily natural.

"Looking sharp, Nick! Nice haircut," his neighbor called out.

Nick nodded, throwing his headphones on as he climbed on his bike. The engine purred to life, and as he pulled out of the driveway, the image of his old self—his leather-clad, pompadour-topped self—faded further from his mind. The program’s final words echoed in his head:

"There is no going back, Nick."

And deep down, he knew it was true. The rebel was gone, and in his place was someone he barely recognized. Someone who was, whether he liked it or not, locked into this new, simple life forever.

His closet, once dominated by leather jackets, cuffed jeans, and white tank tops, began to shift. Nick found himself reaching for the plaid short-sleeve button-downs more often, slipping into Dockers without much thought. The leather jacket he’d worn for years gathered dust in the back of his closet, as if it belonged to someone else. The strange thing was, every time he slipped into the new clothes, he felt... relieved. Lighter.

Then came the motorcycle. His Indian Chief was more than just a ride; it was a statement. The rumble of the engine, the feel of the wind in his face—those were the moments when Nick felt most like himself. But now, when he looked at the bike, he felt... tired. Tired of the upkeep, tired of the noise. Tired of the rebellious edge it represented. One morning, as he stared at the chrome and leather, the thought came to him like a whisper: It’s time to trade it in.

Two days later, he walked into the dealership. The salesman’s eyes widened as Nick asked about something "more practical." Within an hour, Nick was driving away in a sleek, silver Honda sedan. It was quiet, sensible, and entirely unlike him—or at least, unlike the man he used to be. As he pulled into his driveway, the realization hit him. The Indian was gone, and with it, another piece of his old identity had vanished. And yet, the same eerie sense of relief washed over him. The car suited this new life. This new Nick.

Weeks turned into months, and the changes came more rapidly. Every other Saturday at exactly 8 a.m., Nick found himself sitting in the barber’s chair, getting his flattop trimmed to military perfection. It became routine, almost meditative. He never missed an appointment. The rebellious pompadour had once demanded hours of care and attention, but now, the sharp, clean lines of his flattop were low maintenance. Simple. Efficient.

During one of these routine haircuts, as the barber meticulously ran the clippers over his scalp, Nick caught a glimpse of his arms in the mirror. The tattoos—American traditional designs he’d proudly inked over the years—seemed out of place now. The sailor anchor on his forearm, the old-school pin-up girl on his bicep, the eagle spanning his shoulder—all symbols of a rebellious spirit he no longer felt connected to.

It wasn’t long before Nick found himself standing in the waiting room of a laser tattoo removal clinic. The process would be slow and painful, but Nick didn’t flinch. He knew this was what he needed to do. The tattoos had to go, just like the bike, the pompadour, and the leather jacket. With each session, the ink faded a little more, the once bold lines dissolving into a blur, until his skin was smooth and blank again, just like the life he was beginning to accept.

The transformation wasn’t sudden—it crept up on him over time, but it was steady and irreversible. Nick began to embrace the routine. He swapped out his Doc Martens for loafers. His wardrobe now consisted mostly of pressed khakis, polo shirts, and neatly ironed button-downs. He didn’t even think twice about the changes anymore. They felt natural, as if this was who he had been meant to be all along.

One Saturday morning, as he pulled into the barbershop parking lot for his bi-weekly flattop trim, Nick paused for a moment. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. His hair, sharp and crisp as ever, was now an inseparable part of him. The flattop had become a symbol of the new Nick—neat, controlled, suburban. The tattoos were almost gone, just faint traces of their former selves. The Honda sat quietly in the lot, waiting for him to finish his haircut and head to the grocery store, or the hardware store, or whatever weekend errand he had planned.

Nick sighed, but it wasn’t a sigh of regret. There was no going back. The voice from the hypnosis program had been right: this was who he was now. The rebellious spirit of the past had been shaved away, tattoo by tattoo, hair by hair. What remained was something simpler, quieter. A man locked into his new life, his flattop standing tall, a monument to the transformation he never asked for, but could never undo.

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