The Gig by Lemon

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Mark dabbed his face with the towel having dried the rest of his body. His straight, brown hair was combed forward, hanging past his eyes, nearly brushing his upper lip. He carefully brushed it back, applying light heat from the blow dryer until his brunette waves gently rested over the sides of his head.

Today was Saturday. Mark's day "off." Mark spent the rest of his week applying to jobs, seeking gainful employment as a software developer after a downturn axed his old position. It had only been four months, he told his girlfriend the other day. He had made a nice salary with some tucked away in savings to weather the unemployment stint. But the savings dwindled. His girlfriend, Janie, had started picking up the tab when they went out, but Mark continued to pick up his share of the bills for their apartment. In a couple months, he wouldn't have enough to cover rent and his other monthly expenses. Of course, Mark still tried to find work, but who knew when that would come along?

He soft-launched the idea of being a stay-at-home boyfriend, doing all the cooking and cleaning. As an attorney for a prestigious law firm, Janie made plenty for both of them. But she casually rejected the idea in the same manner it was offered: "We both need to have careers, sweetie. You don't want to be dependent on me."

But on Saturday, Mark put those worries aside. Dressed in a tee and pair of sweatpants, he sauntered to the kitchen. "Can I make you some breakfast?"

"Oh, thanks, but I'm okay," Janie called from her home office as she wrapped up some last-minute work. "But I have something for you."

Mark cocked an eyebrow and walked over to Janie's desk. She swiveled to face him, a light smile touched the corners of her mouth. "I have a gig for you." Mark's eyebrow arched higher. "It's just for a couple of hours today. It pays $500. Here's the address." She handed him a scrap of paper with her handwriting.

"What's the gig?" He quizzed before whining, "I don't need gigs. I'm looking for a job. And is the gig even software related?"

Janie kept her smile and spoke evenly, "It's not software related, but it pays, and it's easy. It's just something for a little extra cash."

"But we don't need the extra cash!"

Janie's smile slackened. "Mark. It's not about the money. It's been four months. And I don't want you to lose your fire. I want you to know it's serious. I want you to be serious. Just do this." She swiveled back to face her computer.

Mark's eyes narrowed. The entire situation was humiliating. No job. Near daily rejection emails from company AI bots that swiftly reject his resume. No savings. He'd shredded his dignity by even toying with the idea of being some homebody boytoy for Janie. And now, Janie was sending him off to do "gigs" like some task rabbit. "And if I don't?"

Janie paused drafting an email and let out an exaggerated sigh. She didn't look back at Mark. "Mark, if you don't come back with $500 today, whether it's from what I've sent you to do or some other project you can find for yourself, then maybe we need to have a talk about our future together."

Marked replied with a curt "bye" and turned on his heels, grabbing his keys off the counter and rushing out the apartment door. He just had to get away from Janie for a second and think. She never told him what the "gig" was. What could pay $500 for a couple hour's work? He considered going to an ATM, withdrawing $500, and returning after a long walk, but that would only make the hole deeper. He'd accelerate his utter financial ruin and when the truth came clean, Janie would kick him out. No, he thought, she wouldn't kick me out. But he wasn't so sure. The unemployment saga had strained their relationship, hollowing out the once-confident Mark and thinning the patience of an overworked Janie.

He looked at the address scrawled on the torn slip of paper. "Let's see what this is all about," he whispered, exhausted.

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The address took him a half-hour outside the city to a one-story suburban home, surrounded by its identical siblings, each with their matching porches and shutters. Mark's mind raced. Surely, he wasn't being paid $500 to put together someone's IKEA furniture. What if Janie had unknowingly (or knowingly!) sent him to some kind of sex dungeon like in "Pulp Fiction"? Despite their argument this morning, one thing he knew about Janie: She wouldn't hurt me, he thought. She still loves me.

The positive thought gave him some hormonal courage, an electrochemical buzz, that spurred him to knock on the door. With the final pound on the door, so too, did his heart start pounding. If he'd waited another minute, he would've chickened out. Called his parents like a baby, telling them he needed to move in with them. That he and Janie had a falling out--

The door opened. A younger man of ambiguous age--27? 33?--opened the door. He was lanky, all arms and angles, with a thick nest of brown hair atop his head. Unlike Mark, the man in the doorway didn't have a styled, brushed-back coiffure. His hair appeared to be of uniform length with stray strands pointing in all directions. Despite his height and mature face, his hair and timid demeanor gave him a boyish quality. Mark felt oddly at ease in the other man's presence. "Are you Mark?" the man asked.

Taken aback by the directness of the other man's question, Mark stuttered, "Uhh, y-yes. I'm here for a--"

"Follow me," the other man said matter-of-factly. No introductions. No explanations. He just turned and walked into the house and Mark, quickly followed. "Shut the door please," the man called out without looking back, and Mark complied, then scurried to keep pace. The man went down some stairs, into a basement, and stopped at the base of the stairs, just before a plain white door. This is it, Mark thought, the sex dungeon. The man turned around and stared at Mark under the dim light cast by a lone lightbulb. Wordlessly, he brought his hands to Mark's hair and buried them in the thick locks, massaging Mark's scalp and twisting a braid of strands around his fingers. Mark almost protested, but held his tongue. One, he didn't want to ruin this "gig" whatever it was, and two, the other man's gesture, despite his awkwardness, was tender, almost sweet.

"You have nice hair."

"Uhh, thank you. You too?" Mark didn't mean for it to sound a like question. He just thought it was the polite thing to say.

As abruptly as he started, the other man stopped and faced the door again, opened it, and walk through. This time, he waited for Mark to step across the threshold and shut the door himself. This was no sex dungeon. The room was the size of perhaps a large bedroom. The plain carpet and beige paint of the suburban home gave way to wood paneled walls and linoleum floor. A single row of four chairs--the kind of chairs you might find in a waiting area at a mechanic shop--or a barbershop?--were flush to the wall. Opposite the chairs was a wall-to-wall mirror taking up the top half of the wall. The lower half was wall-to-wall cabinets with a sink, and Mark's mirage of imagined sex dungeon implements gave way to ... hair appliances. A hair dryer. Various tonics and tinctures and creams. Sets of shears. And clippers. And in the midpoint of the room, just off-center relative to the row of chairs: A red leather barber's chair with white armrests and a polished metal footrest. The chair must be an antique, but it appeared as if a pair of white-gloved deliverymen had just installed the chair this morning.

"We wait over there for Mother." The man pointed to the row of chairs. Mark's mouth had gone dry, a pair of cotton balls clinging to the back of his throat, soaking up what moisture remained. Mechanically, he followed to the row and chairs and took a seat. The silence was dreadful. "How long--"

A burly, big-armed woman entered the room from the same door as Mark and the unknown man. Mark would not have pegged "Mother" and the man as being related, her overpowering demeanor and size contrasted with his timid, boyish appearance. Mother wore her hair short, a kind of unisex, utilitarian style. Clearly a barbered, well maintained look, but not fashionable. She took her place behind the barber's chair, staring at the two men, her face stone with lips pressed into a tight straight line. "Eric, take a seat," she called. Well, Mark thought, I know that's not my name, so it must be his. Mark's Sherlock-like deduction proved itself correct as the other man stood up and "took a seat" in the barber's chair.

"Excuse me--" Mark started.

"I'll let you know when to speak," Mother retorted, not even making eye contact with Mark as she fluttered a white-and-blue pinstripe cape in the air and let it rest over Eric's thin frame. She placed a neck strip and buttoned up the cape. The chair faced Mark rather than the mirror, and Eric--his head a coppery nest peeking out of the cape--kept his eyes trained on Mark.

Mother went to the cabinets, and when she turned around, she brandished a bulky set of clippers with a thick cord in tow. She snapped a metal blade onto the clippers. From the blade's size, Mark couldn't judge how long it would leave the hair, but he knew it would be short. It was just a matter of fuzz, stubble, or bald. Mother started with Eric's nape, scooping up the unruly hair that curled over the cape with the blade's teeth. Wisps of brown hair floated to the floor. And the wisps became tufts, then whole wads of thick chocolate pooling at the burly woman's feet. Eric's chin was full pressed to his chest, but he still kept his eyes on Mark. Their eyes connected, and Eric smirked. Like Mark was the show or something. What the hell is going on here? Mark thought.

The back of Eric's head cleared apparently, Mother straightened his head and tilted it to the side, starting with his left sideburn. The clippers climbed up Eric's scalp and just before they reached his crown, a deft flick of Mother's wrist sent a clump of hair tumbling onto the cape. Eric momentarily moved his eyes from Mark to the cape, staring at the thick padding of hair. The path cleared by the clippers was a short fuzz. Mark was relieved on Eric's behalf that Mother hadn't completely shaved him.

Mother continued the left side. The blade whined. Rrrrrrr, rrrrr, rrrrr. The clippers climbed up, a flick of the wrist, and more freshly shorn hair tumbled to the cape. Eric's lap had amassed a collection of cut curls that rivaled the mound at Mother's feet. The right side got the same treatment. The side burn obliterated. Rrrrrr, rrrrr, rrrr, the clippers groaned, leaving short fur in their wake.

Eric now had the appearance of a troll doll. His shorn back and sides starkly contrasted with the mess of hair still sitting on top of his head. Thick cords of brown hair poked in every direction. A comb had not tamed those locks in quite some time, Mark guessed. How is she going to blend that top into the sides? Mark mused to himself.

She wasn't. Mother rested the blade of the still-screaming clippers on Eric's forehead and pushed them back, sending strands of hair streaming onto Eric's shoulders and into the stagnant mound at Mother's feet. Eric had a strip of close cropped pile in the center of his head, straddled on either side by unruly waves of brown hair. Mother began again at the forehead. Rrrrrr, rrrrr, rrrrr. The clippers demolished another forest of chocolate-colored locks, which spilled onto the floor. A few more passes later and Eric's messy mop was a close cut. The uniform fuzz masculinized Eric. He smiled at Mark.

"Mother."

"Yes, Eric."

"May Mark feel my head?" Mark's heartbeat, already at a quick pace, raced harder.

"Yes, he may." Mother absentmindedly cleaned her clippers, not looking at Eric or Mark. Mark stood and stepped toward the chair. He could barely walk. He felt the armrests of the chair would reach out and grab him. As he approached Eric, he looked at his feet, noticing the tufts of hair under his shoe. He looked back up. Eric's eyes beckoned, and Mark placed one hand on Eric's head. He slowly brushed his palm back and forth on top of Eric's head, feeling the simultaneous softness and prickliness of Eric's short pile. Mark slid his palm over Eric's crown, cupping the back of his head, and brushing it slowly. Eric whimpered. "How does it feel?"

"Uhh, nice," Mark croaked.

"That's enough," Mother interrupted. Eric gulped, and Mother removed the cape, sending the clump of cut hair in Eric's lap tumbling to the floor. Errant strands landed on Mark's left shoe. Mother gave the chair a dusting then narrowed her eyes at Mark. "Take a seat," she commanded in the same manner she had said it to Eric.

Cotton balls in the back of Mark's throat. "Oh, I-- I-- I'm sorry?"

"You can take a seat or you can leave." Mark didn't have to ask about the money. It was either sit down or forfeit his chance at $500. Forfeit his future with Janie. With the resignation of man sent to execution, Mark rested himself into the cushion of the red leather chair. The white-and-blue pinstripe cape sailed through the air once more, the light cotton sheet feeling like a weighted blanket. Neck strip placed. Cape buttoned. Victim lulled.

The clippers once again whined, but this time behind Mark, out of view. He felt the clipper's blade, warmed by the heat of Eric's haircut, on his nape. He thought about the same blade traveling up Eric's head, delicately but mercilessly mowing down every hair. That same blade was now doing the same to Mark. Rrrrr, rrrr, rrrr, the clippers screamed, and Mark felt a cool breeze on the back of his head. The back of Mark's head was short work. Mother moved to the left side, scooping up his sideburn and promptly flicking it onto the cape. Mark felt his manhood stir at the sight of brown padding severed from the side of his head.

Like she had done with Eric, Mother kept Mark faced away from the mirror, but he could tell that the clippers were not traveling up as high as they had on Eric. He hoped it meant that his haircut would be less severe. But it would nonetheless be transformative, he was reminded, as another thick clump plopped onto the cape. Rrrr, rrrr, rrrr, as the warm teeth of the blade continued to clip, clip, clip Mark's hair away. And all the while, Eric stared at Mark. Now, the roles were reversed, and Eric was having all the fun watching Mark's styled locks hit the floor. Mother took care of the right side all the same. A slight chill blew past Mark's head. He no doubt sported the same fuzz on the sides and back that Eric did now all over his head.

Mark braced for the clippers on his forehead. They didn't come. Instead, Mother now wielded a comb. She used it to scoop up Mark's hair near the crown of his head and ran the clippers over the comb's teeth. Czzzrrrrr, czzzzrrrr. Inches-long clumps rained into the cape. Czzzrrrrr, czzzrrrr, as the blade's teeth ran over the teeth of the comb.

Mother then grabbed a chunk of Mark's forelock. Without the mirror, he could only guess at how much hair she held above her fingers and how much below. He didn't have to guess much longer when he heard the familiar whir as the clippers sliced through the held up hair. At least four inches splattered onto the cape. Mother kept grabbing chunks of hair. Rrrr, rrrr. Waves of hair tumbled into Mark's lap, right on top of his quivering pecker. A few minutes later, and Mother used the clipper and comb to make adjustments. Now, only small bristles snowed onto the cape, like the dust of a barber's fairy. Mark felt bristles tickling his face. The executed man drenched in his own blood.

Apparently satisfied, Mother clicked off the clippers. She gave Mark a light dusting and turned the chair toward the mirror. Mark felt mild relief that he at least had some hair, but the feeling of relief gave way to a morbid excitement that he had much, much less of it. Mother had given him a smart businessman's cut, with the sides taken tight but enough on top to comb over and play with. Mark expected Mother to remove the cape, but instead she bent down and whispered in his hair, "It's not over. Do not get up. Do not spoil this for Eric. Or you won't get paid. And don't say a word." Mother raised her voice, "Eric, I'll be outside when you're finished."

Mark met Eric's eyes in the mirror. Eric stared and stared and stared at Mark. Almost as an afterthought, Eric blurted, "Yes, Mother." Mother exited, and eventually Eric stood as if bearing a weight across his shoulders. He carefully walked toward Mark and placed his hands on Mark's head. He ran his palms over Mark's bristly sides and whimpered again, just as he had when Mark laid his hands on Eric's scalp. Then Eric tousled the still thick locks on top of Mark's head, toying with the couple of inches Mark still had on top. Mark became excited again. He didn't understand why another man rubbing his head and hair felt so good.

"You're really handsome, Mark." Mark wanted to say, You're really handsome, too, Eric. But Mother's warning scared him. Don't say a word. Eric didn't seem to mind Mark's silence. This was all for Eric. Nothing else mattered. "You could be handsomer." Despite himself, Mark frowned slightly. Eric noticed, and seemingly out of character with his apparent shyness, Eric flashed an almost mischievous smile.

Eric grabbed the clippers with the same blade still snapped on. Holding them above Mark's head, he turned them on. A gentle but ominous hum filled the air. Mark gulped. Eric placed his other hand on the back of Mark's head. It felt cool and so, so, so good against the close-cropped bristles of Mark's nape. Eric had all the power; Mark was the sheep at the hands of the shearer. Eric placed the clippers on Mark's forehead, letting Mark feel the gentle vibration for just a moment. Then back. The short but plush businessman's cut gave way to a clippered pelt of fuzzy hazel. Mark's heart pounded. He watched the mirror as Eric made pass after pass. Rrrr, rrrr, rrr. Eric mowed down the Mark's coiffed look and tufts of hair fell to Mark's shoulder and slid down the cape.

Eric switched off the clippers, and Mark stared at his shorn crown then flicked his eyes up toward Eric's. They looked almost like brothers or cousins, matching cuts. The identical shearings lightened their dark brown hair to caramel. Eric removed the cape and dusted Mark and the chair. Mark stood and faced Eric, his eyes just a few inches above Eric's. He felt something strange inside him. He was having conflicting feelings about this strange him, about the feeling of his hair being shorn.

"I hope to see you again," Eric whispered. Mark wanted to speak but didn't know what to say. Or whether to say anything at all. He just left. Mother waited outside the basement room door and wordlessly handed Mark an envelope. He didn't open it or look back at Eric. He just walked out of the house and into his car and drove home. The entire 30-minute drive he kept stealing glances at himself in the rearview mirror. He couldn't believe that less than two hours ago he sported brushed back waves and now those waves were on a linoleum floor in Eric's basement. Or probably in the trash by now. He stared at the bristles and ran a hand over his head. He felt that same soft yet sharp texture of shorn hair that he had felt when he rubbed Eric's head. God, that felt good.

When he pulled back into the parking garage of his apartment, he opened the envelope. Five one-hundred dollar bills. And on the envelope's inside lip, a phone number. Mark's heart, calmed from the commute into the city, raced again. "I hope to see you again, too," Mark whispered.

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