Shaved In by BarberedStrong

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Jake had always been adrift. Nights in his small town were usually dull, spent wandering through the empty streets or nursing a beer alone in some dark corner. It wasn’t that he didn’t have people around, a couple of his high school mates still lingered around town; it was that none of them really saw him. His dad, perpetually on the couch and unemployed, hadn’t cared where Jake was or what he did since middle school. The emptiness at home ate away at him.

One night, though, something changed. At The Crown Pub, he noticed a group of lads who stood out. Their boots were polished, heads shaved, wearing bomber jackets that screamed a certain defiance. Among them was a young man, maybe Jake’s age, but there was something magnetic about him. The way he carried himself, the confidence in his stance. His name was Ricky, and when their eyes met across the room, Jake felt something stir in him.

He didn’t know why he approached them—maybe it was the half dozen beers talking, maybe it was something deeper. Either way, Jake found himself drawn into a conversation with Ricky and his mates while waiting to order another round. The skinhead laughed at his jokes, gave him a friendly slap on the back. Jake felt seen in a way he hadn't in years. They spent hours talking about music, life, and how Ricky and his crew didn’t take any s**t from anyone. When the night ended, Ricky handed Jake a cigarette and said, "You’re alright, mate. See you around, yeah?"

Jake walked home that night with a strange sense of excitement, of belonging. He hadn’t felt this way in forever.

All week long, Jake couldn’t stop thinking about Ricky and the skin crew. What he wouldn’t give to have that familial connection they all seemed to have. He decided he would go back and see if by chance the lads would be there. As luck would have it, as soon as he rounded the corner, there they were right outside the entrance smoking and laughing. They recognized Jake straight off and welcomed him with open arms. They enjoyed a few pints before hitting up a gig, and for the first time in Jake’s life, he felt like part of something bigger than himself.

But as the night wound down, Ricky pulled Jake aside. His expression was serious.

"Look, Jake, you’re a good lad, yeah? But we got rules, y’know? We only hang with our own. Skins. You understand what I’m saying?"

Jake nodded slowly, the meaning sinking in. He looked down at his scruffy hair, the plain clothes he was wearing. He wasn’t one of them.

"The lads and me had a chat. We like ya, Jake. You can hang with us, but you’ve got to be one of us," Ricky continued, his voice low but firm. "It’s your choice, mate. But if you do, there’s no going back. This isn’t some fun dress up."

Jake felt a tight knot in his chest. He knew what Ricky meant. He’d have to change—drastically. He looked up at Ricky, who was staring at him with a kind of intensity that made Jake’s pulse quicken.

"I see. I guess I’ve got some thinking to do," Jake said.

Ricky grinned, clapping him on the back. "That you do."

Ricky looked him deep in the eyes once more, "you know we’re all gay, right Jake? You’re a fag too, yeah?"

Jake had never been asked nor even thought about it himself much. "I….think I might be. I’m not sure."

Ricky just laughed. "If ya think you might be, you’re definitely a fag, mate."
With a final slap on the back before the crew parted, Ricky told him, "Well, you know where our flat is. If you’re in. Show up at 10 tomorrow night."

Jake went home to his humble flat and non descript room. Taking it all in, he took inventory of what his life amounted to. No real family to speak of, no solid friends, and no exciting prospects. Maybe this exciting new friendship was worth exploring. Plus, every time he saw the crew with their shiny scalps, leather and boots, he felt strange butterflies he never felt before. What would it be like to look like that? To have that confidence? He could only imagine. But now, here it was, being offered to him.

The next evening, Jake found himself at Ricky’s doorstep. He couldn’t bring himself to knock. If he did, he knew what it would mean. It was probably only a couple minutes but it felt like en eternity. Just as he was about to turn to walk away, the door swung open and Ricky exalted that his new pal was there. Everyone greeted Jake excitedly and passed around a cheap bottle of whisky, taking huge swigs. Finally, it came to Jake and he took a small sip. "Oh no, mate, for what we have planned, you’ll wanna finish that!" Ricky said as he tipped the bottle up so that Jake had to keep drinking. Ceremoniously, they ripped off his plain old t-shirt and sat him down in a chair in the center of the room. Ricky stood behind him, a pair of clippers in his hand.

"You ready?" Ricky asked, his voice low and steady. There was something about his tone that was almost... commanding.

Jake swallowed hard, nodding. "F***! Just do it."

The buzzing of the clippers filled the room, and soon enough, Ricky shoved the bare blade down the center of Jake’s head. The sensation was strange, almost electric, as the clippers ran over his scalp. Thick tufts of hair fell away in clumps, landing on the floor like pieces of a past life being shed. With each pass, more of his mop fell away until his head was nearly smooth, just the faintest bit of stubble left.

Jake thought the haircut might be over as he didn’t really realize the difference between a buzz and a shave. But when Ricky grabbed a fresh razor, he readied himself for a more intense experience. Ricky applied shaving cream to Jake’s scalp, smoothing it with firm hands. Jake’s heart raced as Ricky dragged the razor across his skin, the sound of it scraping against his skull strangely intimate. When he finished, Ricky wiped away the last bits of cream, revealing Jake’s shiny smooth, freshly shaved head.

"There you go, mate," Ricky said, admiring his work. "You’re one of us now."

Jake ran a hand over his scalp. It felt alien, like someone else’s head. But there was no time to dwell on it.

Suddenly, one of the crew stepped forward—a burly guy named Ox with tattoos covering his arms. "Time for the ink, yeah?"

Jake’s stomach dropped. He hadn’t expected this part. Tattoos? Right now?

"I... I don’t know if—" Jake started, but Ricky was already guiding him toward a chair.

"It’s alright, Jakey boy," Ricky said softly, but his grip was firm. "We all went through this. But you’re with us now and we know what’s best for ya."

Jake could feel his heart pounding in his chest. But Ricky’s presence, his calm authority, had a way of settling him. He nodded, his throat tight. "Okay."

Ricky directed Ox to start with his knuckles. Ox grabbed Jake’s right hand and held it down tightly so that even if he wanted to protest, he stood little chance. Ox started the tattoo gun. He felt the first sharp sting as the needle pierced his skin. It hurt more than he expected, but he gritted his teeth and focused on Ricky, who stood by his side the whole time, occasionally pouring a cheap lager down his throat for him. The first tattoo crudely went across his knuckles—SKIN on one hand, HEAD on the other. The letters stood out in stark black ink, a permanent mark of belonging.

Jake thought that might be it but it became obvious that Ox was preparing for more work. "Alright mate, lie face down on the bed." Ox worked quickly, and soon enough, Jake had a large skinhead cross inked into his back of his freshly shaved scalp. It was bold, impossible to miss. Next, two large sparrows were etched into the sides of his neck, their wings outstretched as if in flight.

By the time they finished, Jake had six new tattoos, each more visible than the last. He was no longer just Jake—he was something else now. One of them.

Finally, Ricky handed him a septum ring. Jake hesitated for a moment, but Ricky’s steady gaze told him there was no turning back. Ox readied a large gauge needle and then snapped the ring in place. Jake winced, but it was done.

The crew handed him a proper skinhead outfit: a Fred Perry polo, suspenders, nearly skin tight bleached denim, and a pair of Docs. When he looked in the mirror, he hardly recognized himself. The transformation was complete.

"Holy s**t!" Jake exclaimed. "What have I done?"

Ricky came up from behind, meeting his eyes in the mirror, "you just became a man, Jakey boy!"




The next morning, Jake went home to collect his things. His dad was slumped on the couch, as usual, watching TV. He barely looked up when Jake walked in.

"Where’ve you been?" his dad muttered, but then his eyes caught sight of Jake’s shaved head, his tattoos, and his new look. "What the hell have you done to yourself?"

Jake didn’t flinch. "I’m moving out," he said simply. "I’m done with this place. Done with you."

His dad’s face twisted in confusion and anger. "You’re not going anywhere, you little s**t. You think you can just—"

"I’m not asking!" Jake interrupted, his voice hard. "You’ve never been there for me, and I’m done with it. I’ve found something better. Something real."

His dad stood up, rage boiling over. "Whatever thugs got their mitts on you ain’t your family! You’re throwing your life away, Jake!"

Jake turned toward the door not bothering to respond. There was no going back now. As he stepped outside into the morning sun, the weight of his decision settled over him. But for the first time in his life, he felt free.

He was irrevocably one of them now.




Two years later, Jake—now known exclusively as "Axel" to his crew—was unrecognizable from the boy who had once wandered aimlessly through town. The name "Jake" was long dead, buried with the last scraps of his former life. He hadn't responded to it in so long, it felt more like the name of someone he used to know, a ghost he had finally laid to rest. Now, he was Axel, and he lived and breathed the skinhead life with every inch of his body.

His transformation was complete. Gone was the shaggy hair, the soft look of an unsure young man. Axel’s head was now perpetually smooth, freshly shaved each morning with precision. The skinhead cross on the back of his scalp was now surrounded by a network of thick, black tattoos that crawled down his neck, chest, and arms, painting a clear story to anyone who saw him—he belonged. The two sparrows on his neck had been joined by a pair of brass knuckles on his collarbone and large daggers down the length of his sideburns. Every inch of his arms were filled with traditional tattoos and his knuckles still bore the iconic "SKIN" and "HEAD" tattoos, but now they were weathered and worn in, proof of his time spent in the scene, of nights defending his brothers and standing tall.

Axel’s wardrobe was as sharply defined as his identity. He no longer owned anything that wasn’t skinhead-approved. Bomber jackets, Doc Martens, perfectly pressed Fred Perry polos, suspenders, and tight jeans rolled up just enough to show his boots. His image was as much a part of him as the tattoos that covered his body. To anyone looking from the outside, he was intimidating, even unapproachable. But to his crew, and especially to Ricky, Axel was solid, dependable, the kind of brother who’d take a punch or deliver one if need be.

Ricky was never far from Axel’s side. What had started as a powerful friendship had turned into something deeper, something neither of them had planned but couldn’t deny. Ricky was still the same confident, magnetic force he had been the night they met, but now their bond was more than camaraderie. They were partners, in every sense of the word, and the crew treated them as such. They didn’t make a big deal out of it; it wasn’t necessary. In their world, loyalty and strength were all that mattered, and Ricky and Axel had both in spades.

On any given night, Axel and Ricky could be found leading the crew, boots pounding the pavement as they made their way to pubs, gigs, or gatherings. The crew had expanded over the years, and Axel was no longer just a new recruit. He was respected, trusted. They called him "Axel" for his unwavering strength, for the way he held the group together like the central part of a machine. He was Ricky’s right hand, but also his equal in every way.

There were moments when Axel caught a glimpse of himself in a passing window or mirror and felt a flicker of surprise at how far he had come. The wide-eyed boy who had first met Ricky in that pub had been completely erased, replaced by a man who moved through the world with purpose. His jaw was sharper, his eyes harder, his body stronger. The hours spent working out with Ricky and the crew had carved muscle into his frame, and the confidence he carried in his posture was undeniable.

It was a far cry from that first awkward night, when Jake—no, Axel—had looked so out of place beside Ricky. Now, they were the perfect match, a duo who commanded respect wherever they went. Ricky’s hand would often rest on Axel’s shoulder, a subtle but undeniable sign of their connection, their bond as lovers and brothers in arms.

When they were alone, though, Ricky’s dominance softened, turning into something more intimate. He would run his hand over Axel’s shaved scalp, tracing the tattoos on his neck, and Axel would close his eyes, feeling the electricity of Ricky’s touch. There were no questions between them anymore, no uncertainty about where they stood or who they were. They had built something strong together, something that couldn’t be shaken.

Axel had fully embraced his life with Ricky and the crew, and there was no trace of hesitation left in him. This was his world now. His family. His love. There was no past, no "Jake"—just Axel, just the life he’d chosen, the man who had shaped him, and the future they would face together.

It was a typical night at The Crown. The place was always buzzing with the same old faces, men who’d given up on their lives years ago, trapped in the monotony of dead-end jobs, drink, and regret. It was the kind of place Axel and the crew rarely frequented anymore since it was in Axel’s old neighborhood but tonight he and the crew had decided to stop by after a gig. They stormed in with boots pounding the wooden floor, their presence impossible to ignore. The room grew quieter for a moment as eyes flickered their way, the skinhead crew instantly commanding attention.

Axel moved through the crowd with Ricky at his side, their shoulders brushing, their connection visible to anyone paying close enough attention. Axel's bomber jacket was zipped halfway up, his tattooed neck visible beneath, the sparrows flanking his throat like marks of his identity. His head, freshly shaved that morning, gleamed under the dim light.

They made their way to the bar, pushing through the haze of smoke and low murmurs of conversation. Axel leaned against the counter, ordering a round of drinks for the crew. As he waited, Ricky draped an arm over his shoulder, his thumb casually brushing the back of Axel’s neck—a silent, familiar gesture that had become part of their dynamic.

Axel turned to scan the room, his eyes instinctively checking the crowd for any signs of trouble. That's when he saw him.

In the corner of the room, hunched over a pint, was his dad. The man looked just as Axel remembered—maybe a little older, a little more worn down. His unshaven face was sagging, eyes dull with the weight of years spent doing nothing but drinking and watching TV. He was slumped in the same defeated posture Axel had seen so many times growing up.

But what struck Axel the most wasn’t how little his dad had changed—it was that his dad didn’t recognize him.

Axel stared at him for a long moment, half expecting some flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes. But there was nothing. His dad’s gaze swept over him, vacant, like he was just another face in the crowd. No glimmer of familiarity, no double-take at the sight of his own son standing only feet away, transformed into a completely different person.

For a brief second, Axel felt a strange pang in his chest. Not pain, not sadness, but something colder, more final. The man who had raised him—if you could call it that—had no idea who he was anymore. Axel was a ghost from a past life, a life that didn’t matter anymore.

Ricky noticed the shift in Axel’s posture and followed his gaze to the corner. "That him?" he asked quietly, his voice low, only for Axel to hear.

Axel nodded, his jaw tightening. "Yeah."

Ricky didn’t say anything else, just gave Axel’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, reminding him that he wasn’t alone. That he didn’t need anything from this man anymore.

Axel turned back to the bar, grabbing the drinks the bartender slid toward him. He felt the weight of Ricky’s hand on his shoulder, a steady presence that anchored him, reminding him of where he belonged.

There was no point in approaching his dad, no point in forcing a confrontation. The man sitting in that corner wasn’t his family anymore. Axel had cut those ties two years ago, and now it was clear just how permanent the transformation had been. His dad didn’t even know him anymore—and that was fine.

Axel lifted one of the pints and took a long drink, feeling the cold beer slide down his throat. He glanced once more at the corner, at the man who had once been his father, and then turned his back on him completely.

"Let’s get out of here," Axel said to Ricky, his voice steady.

"Yeah, mate," Ricky agreed with a small smile, his hand still resting on Axel’s shoulder as they walked toward the door, the crew following close behind.

As they left the pub, the man in the corner didn’t even look up. Axel was just another stranger passing by, and that’s exactly how it was meant to be. The transformation was complete. There was no going back. Axel had chosen his path, and the man who used to be his father had been left behind in the haze of forgotten memories.

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