At Gate C-17 - On a Mission by Manny

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“Yes, of course, honey! I’ll make sure I send you an email when I’ve arrived safely. Remember, for security reasons, I won’t be able to call you or FaceTime you from the base. And, yes, I realize that three months is a long time to be away. But, like I’ve explain numerous times, I'm responsible for the training program. The buck stops with me! Since Sean’s wife is giving birth, he can’t go. Besides, the extra danger pay I’ll get for being in a war zone will really help cover Thomas’ college tuition," I explained for the umpteenth time.

Three months away from family, from the office, from everyone I knew! My heart beat quickly at the thought of it. Perhaps it was a mid-life crisis. Wanting to break out of the routines and social confines…do something exotic and on the dangerous side. Additionally, I felt the empty-nest syndrome closing in on the marriage with our youngest child now in college.

I ran my fingers through my soft, plush hair. I was a few years past 40, but still sported a youthful mane of shimmering chestnut-colored locks with fiery auburn highlights. My executive coif was full and on the longish side. Partly over my ears and collar, the style gave youthful look, combined with authority. My hair’s crowning jewel was the abundant forelock that I wore swept straight back in a magnificent pomp.

And, I meant to have it stripped off as part of my adventure! Not just the forelock, but the whole mane - almost everything was going to fall to the barbershop floor!

The makeover was probably more important of a motivator for me going to Afghanistan than the professional considerations for the training program and the financial impact with the extra pay I used with my wife. To be drastically shorn had been a persistent fantasy of mine.

Feeling the clippers tight on my scalp and witnessing the irreversible massacre of my pampered locks had tantalized me for as long as I could remember. I felt curious excitement and arousal when I thought about watching swaths of my silken hair fall in dramatic sheaves to the barber’s cape. I couldn’t wait to see myself shorn of my shimmering mane for the first time - to stare dumbfounded at a practically bald head, to feel nothing but a short pelt or prickly stubble! And then to step over the mounds of hair on the floor that was destined for the dustbin.

Even with three months growth, I expected to arrive back in the US from Afghanistan with very short hair if I actually went through with my plan. To minimize the shock from loved ones and colleagues, I would explain things as a haircut gone off the tracks by a determined serviceman wielding the clippers. ‘Of course, one wanted to blend in on base...to be one of the boys. And, it was just hair. It would grow back quickly enough.’

Or, perhaps not...

I imagined myself blithely commenting, ‘You know, I like it better like this. It’s so much more practical. No, I'm not growing it back. It's my new length, this military look.’

The fellow who normally carried out our contracted training in Afghanistan, Sean, had sported a military-length haircut for as long as I’d known him. It was an amazing flattop that really showcased his dense, flaming ginger hair. A brush on fire...that’s what I told him his hair looked like!

While Sean was grateful that I was filling in for him, he was also skeptical it was a good idea.

“Are you sure about this?" Sean asked, poking his head into my office as he prepared to leave. It was my final day at work before the big adventure.

“Yes, I’m sure," I replied curtly. He was like my wife! Asking and asking...imagining the answer might be different, even with just minutes left before I departed for DFW.

I continued, “It’ll be good for me to give the training so that I refresh my own knowledge about how the equipment we produce functions. I do hope your Melanie’s labor is quick and painless."

“Me too!" Sean chortled.

“Remember," I reminded him, “I’m willing to stay an additional three months if there are any complications, or even if you just want some extra time with your first-born. It’s going to be a girl, you said? You’ll make a splendid father. But start saving right away for the kid’s college expenses. Tuition is over-the-moon these days. To be honest, I’m not sure that what the snowflakes learn these days is worth the cost!"

Sean held up a bag.

“Oh, here, I almost forgot. I brought you a set of fatigues. Cap too. It’s a little big for me, so it should fit you fine. And, it’s what everyone wears on base," Sean explained, thrusting the bag across my oversized mahogany desk.

He added, “If you show up wearing fine business apparel, they may run you off base. You’ll want to blend in, to get along and establish rapport with the guys there. Plus, the camo is to enhance safety with colors coordinated to the Afghan landscape."

“Thanks, pal," I said with a huge grin, imaging myself sporting a camo uniform AND a regulation haircut!

“Have a safe flight," Sean said as he left my office. “Oh, and thanks again for your understanding and compassion. Melanie was so relieved when I told her you’d volunteered to fill in for me. You’re a great boss!"

After Sean left, I called for a cab and gathered up my things for the overnight flight to Frankfurt. As I waited for the cab to arrive, I popped into the men’s room to take one last, long look at my tresses of shimmering silk.

I ran a brush through the thick mane and smoothed the slightly wavy locks in place with my hand. What an amazing feel....

My wife often recalled that it was my sexy shoulder-length hair that had first attracted her. Of course, over the years, I had to have it cut shorter and shorter...but it was still long and full enough to turn a head or two.

I heard the horn of the cab sound. Next stop for me: DFW, Gate C-17, and the barber’s chair!

I had passed the traditional barbershop in the C terminal many times while on business trips. Invariably, there was a soldier or two getting shorn inside by one of the three tunic-clad barbers. The traditional shop was right across from the gate from where the flights to Frankfurt usually left. After Frankfurt, it would be on to Kabul via a military plane and then overland to an undisclosed location in the mountains.

In the cab, my excitement began to sky-rocket. I was certain I would go through with my drastic haircut intentions. It would be a matter of dropping off my suitcase, clearing the TSA security check, and then the quick walk to the barbershop at Gate C-17.

‘You’re going to walk straight in...sit, get caped up, bow your head...and a short time later emerge looking and feeling like a different man!’ I told myself.

By the time I left the TSA checkpoint, my heart was racing wildly. My legs wobbled like jelly. My carry-on bag felt heavier than a millstone. The closer I got to Gate C-17, the more slowly I ambled.

Then, I saw it! The swirling red and white poll! A beacon guiding me to my destination. I stopped dead in my tracks. My willpower evaporated like a swirl of cigarette smoke, quite unexpectedly!

‘Come on!’ I hissed at myself. ‘Keep walking!’

I veered toward a drinking fountain to moisten my dry mouth and lips.

As, I bent over, my thick, lustrous forelock slid down. Six beautiful inches of silken chestnut!

The dangling forelock served as a screaming wake-up call. All the planning, all the persuasive arguments for the trip, all the reviewing of the training manual, the years of fantasizing...it was now or never!

I finished at the drinking fountain and pushed the forelock back in place, out of my face. With new resolve, I turned toward the barbershop and began walking quickly. My cold feet were now hot-to-trot.

I strode up to the door and placed my hand on the bar as a commitment to enter. All three chairs were taken and a couple of guys were in the waiting area, as well. It seemed like all but one were military personnel.

I pushed the door open. The closest barber greeted me.

“You can put your bag over there," he noted. “What time is your flight?"

“Oh, I have plenty of time," I said, glancing at myself in the mirror.

The businessman in that barber’s chair was getting somewhat more than a trim. His hair had been tapered short around the sides and looked very tidy. In back, there was a narrow ribbon of white skin which clearly indicated that an eighth inch had come off. The top was still rather long and full. The barber was beginning to tackle the waves with a pair of thinning shears. Much of the white cotton cape was covered with snippets and strands of his dark hair.

The other two barbers were tightening up their military clients’ regulation cuts.

I examined the length of their hair. One sported a high ‘n tight. YIKES! What was I thinking? He looked almost bald!

The soldier sitting beside me in the waiting area struck up a chat. From the stripes on his uniform I could tell he had the rank of sergeant.

“What sort of a dream destination are you headed to?" he asked in casual tone, as if looking for a way to pass the time.

“Dream or nightmare?!" I chuckled. “I’m off to Afghanistan!"

“Definitely an exotic dream!" he exclaimed with a toothy smile. “I’m headed there too! It’s really a lovely place once you get out of Kabul. Dramatic scenery and such an interesting culture. Are you going to work at the Embassy? You look like a diplomat."

“Nope," I laughed. “I’m going to conduct some training with your types. And, when I leave this barbershop, I’ll be looking much more like you."

I ran my fingers through my mane. Yep, it was all still there - silken, soft and intact.

The barber who had greeted me turned and gave me a quick, but intent, glance. His eyes returned to examine my mane several more times in the ensuing minutes. I sensed he was interested in effecting my makeover.

Oh no, an eager barber! That was my instinctive response. But, after a few moments of reflection I felt I should've though...oh yes, an eager barber!

“You’re going to ditch that GQ coif?!" the soldier exclaimed with surprise.

“Yep, just haven’t decided how short to go. I’ll be in Afghanistan for 3-6 months," I replied. “What do you suggest? I could use an expert opinion."

The interested barber paused his work and turned to join the conversation.

“A flattop. How about it?" the tunic-clad professional suggested.

I felt hard as a rock! My dream haircut, and a barber itching to make my dream come true by taking me down flat as a board.

My mouth felt dry. How to respond?!

Finally, I blurted out, “It’s definitely a possibility."

“No, too much maintenance," the sergeant sitting next to me opined. “You leave here with a flattop and in two or three weeks’ time it’ll look shabby. Of course, you could have one of the soldiers tidy you up. I have a set of clippers and wouldn’t mind filling in as barber, if we’re located near each other. But, Afghanistan is a fairly large place, and it’s difficult to get from point A to point B. If you’re outside of Kabul, it’s a crap shoot with regard to haircuts. No professional barbers in the remote military sites, but some of the soldiers are quite good at giving regulation cuts."

He looked at me closely and then suggested, “Why not let it grow out? You have great hair. I think you could pull off longer locks."

“Hey!" the barber butted in, playfully joking, “Are you trying to undermine our business by running off the clients? I still say a flattop would be perfect for him."

Then, the barber addressed me. “You have the right kind of hair, and also a perfect face and head shape for a flattop. Plush or tight, they both would work fine. Ever had one?"

“No, but I used to have shoulder-length locks when I was this sergeant’s age," I replied.

“Hot damn!" the soldier exclaimed. “That’s the first thing I’m going to do when I get out. Let my hair grow LONG! Long enough to pull into a ponytail!"

“Why? Your current look is so manly and strong. Quite handsome," I noted, without thinking.

He blushed a bit, and we lapsed into silence.

I could tell that the barber who was interested in giving me a makeover had slowed down the progress of the businessman’s haircut. He cycled back to employing the clippers in order to further tighten the already short taper. I sensed the barber was timing things so that I would end up in his chair. I had no idea whether the businessman realized that the length of his hair was going from ‘very short’ to ‘ultra short’ in back.

My stomach churned - nervous and excited - thinking about the aggressive barber who had his eye on me, stalking his prey.

Contributing to the churning was a realization that I was warming to the idea of a flattop! How often I had admired Sean’s flaming top?!

But, I wondered what growing the flattop out would be like. Long and frustrating, for sure.

Surely, it would be much safer to get a standard regulation cut. A spiffy, aggressive taper with enough length on top to slick to the side using pomade. In three months, it would look quite normal.

“NEXT!" the middle barber sang out cheerily, and my chatty neighbor rose to take his turn under the expansive cotton cape.

“See that man?" the sergeant said, pointed to the businessman as he rose. “A very short, tidy taper is what you need. Clipped aggressively up the back."

Suddenly, the businessman was jerked out of his complacency.

“What?!" he stammered. “Clipped aggressively up the back? I asked for just a trim."

I jumped in to fill the awkward silence, “It’s fine. Looks great, really. Yes, perhaps I will go for that length."

The businessman smiled weakly, a bit of relief an obvious peer in the business world had admired the very short length.

My praise notwithstanding, the reality was quite a different story. He had gotten scalped! And, it was only a matter of time before he was face-to-face with the truth, revealed in the reflection of the little hand mirror at the end of the haircut.

A huge white cotton cape sailed through the air. My newfound sergeant buddy instructed the barber to give him a high ‘n tight. His dream of a long, flow past his shoulders would be postponed once again.

The other fellow in the waiting area was soon called to the third seat.

I was next...gulp! Of course, the barber who had his eye on me timed things perfectly.

Moreover, he managed to get the businessman out of the chair and dispatched without ever offering to show him the back of his shorn head. But, the way the businessman’s face looked when he quickly ran his ran up the back of his head while paying, made me certain he would never return to the C-17 Barber Shop.

The eager barber smiled and nodded to me. He patted his chair, as if inviting a favorite pooch to jump up onto the recliner for a cuddle.

I stood and looked at myself in the mirror. My stylish, executive coif was so lustrous and showy. It made me look pompous and powerful. But, at this particular moment, its effect was as if almost to scream out: GET IT DONE! QUICKLY!!

As I walked to the chair, the barber grinned broadly. He was undoubtedly pleased that he'd timed the last haircut perfectly. Yes, I could tell he was eager to start decimating my pretty boy style. My eye locked momentarily and the set of barber shears in his pocket as I eased into the comfortable leather upholstery.

“So, a big change," the barber remarked confidently as I adjusted myself to the big chair.

“Yep," I replied, squirming on account of uneasiness and discomfort. “Time for the big chop."

“Flattop?" the barber asked in sort of statement.

“Nope, just like the man before me, but shorter on top," I explained.

“Shorter," the barber emphasized as he reached for a clean, folded cape. “A tidy brushcut, then. Clipper-over-comb, taken down close."

“I guess so," I replied, not quite sure what he meant by those terms.

The cotton cape floated into place, concealing my business attire.

After the barber placed a strip of tissue about my neck and fastened the cape with a big metal clip, he combed my hair straight down. My crown jewel dangled forlornly past my eyes. The dread of the impending loss drained me of energy. I sat lethargically in the chair, veiled in semi-darkness, waiting for the real start to my transformation.

As I waited, I heard the barber priming his barber shears. The metal-on-metal scraping emitted a menacing sound...precursor snips. SNIP, SNIP, SNIP....

“Let’s start with this unsightly mass," he murmured, yanking a comb once again through the forelock.

A cold blade slipped behind the doomed silken flow.

I felt it high on my forehead. VERY high!

I panicked, but the dryness in my mouth made any sort of protest impossible.

SNIP! SNIP!! SNIP!!!

Off it came! I gripped the arms of the chair beneath the cape as the mighty lock tumbled dramatically past my disbelieving eyes. It plunged dramatically to the cape and pooled in my lap.

“Ahhhh," I gasped, as the neon track-lighting above the mirrors blazed into my unveiled eyes.

“Turn my chair, so I can watch," my pal sergeant told his barber.

“It’s not pretty," I warned.

The truncated, crudely hacked bangs looked awful!

“Not yet, but it will look fantastic very soon," my barber assured everyone in the shop.

All attention was fixated on my divestiture.

I watched as the barber reached for a menacing set of Oster hair clippers. He grinned as he snapped the machine on; a determined hum filled the small shop. My thick hair was in no position to resist the clipper's sharp, predatory teeth.

The barber was all smiles as he placed the machine just below the base of my modest sideburn. He was going to drive it right up the side of my head, through the temple.

There was no possibility of intervening or altering course. The fact was, I didn’t want to! I was now quite committed to my chosen fate.

With his free hand, the barber gripped my head and wrenched it to the side. As he did, I too gripped the arms of the chair; I was going through with the makeover - with trepidation, with relief, with determination, with elation!

I watched as the clippers began climbing up the side of my head. The first clumps of my once-cherished hair fell away to the cape. Higher and higher the clippers climbed, still pressed relentlessly to the scalp. Then the chattering metal teeth emerged through my thick locks at the crown. With a quick flick, the barber sent a wad of shimmering chestnut hair flying away from us. In the mirror, I watched it plunge to the floor. A swath of stubble was left behind in its place.

“There, now we’re starting to make some progress, turning you into a soldier," the barber commented with light gayety as he took off a second swath of hair.

The side of my head was essential bald, leaving my ear on prominent display. There was still quite a collection of choice locks covering the rest of my head that were waiting to fall.

Spontaneously, I grinned. I was going to enjoy watching the entire show! After decades of dreaming and dreading, it was finally happening.

“That’s quite an efficient machine you have there," I commented.

“I only use Oster’s. No better balding clippers in the world!" he exclaimed.

He showed off their effectiveness on his third drive up the side of my head.

“An overgrown thatch of pretty boy hair...and an instant latter...just STUBBLE!" the barber announced loudly as he showed off the efficiency of his Oster’s.

I watched with glee as another large shank of my shimmering chestnut fell to my shoulder where it rested, detached from my scalp.

“I should have done this a long time ago," I murmured.

Was it the way I truly felt, or was I trying to convince myself?

“You still reluctant to go flat?" the barber asked as he moved my head into a forward, downward bow. “I can leave it plush on top and then, if you don’t like that, I can take it down to a tight recon."

“That sounds like a plan," I replied, again not knowing exactly what those terms meant.

Feeling my heart pounding faster, I added, “A flattop sounds fantastic. Yes, I've decided. It's what I want."

In response, the barber unleashed the clippers tightly up the back.

“Wow, you certainly have a lot of hair," the barber commented as he watched sheaves of chestnut fall to his feet.

“Had!" my sergeant pal called out, enjoying the show from the neighboring chair.

“Good riddance," I murmured, while being forced to keep staring at my lap.

“So, why the big change?" the barber asked as he continued to bald the back of my head.

“It’s my chance to shake things up, this trip to Afghanistan. My little lady is a huge fan of the girly hair. She’d die if she knew what was happening to me right now," I laughed.

"She doesn't know?!" the middle barber asked.

“You’ve grown a pair of balls, I gather," the sergeant laughed. “But they need to grow a lot bigger! I wouldn’t want some controlling woman wearing the pants at my place!"

My barber let me sit up straight again, interested in hearing more about my domestic situation.

“Ditching the pretty boy look was the right thing to do," he commented.

Then, he cocked my head to the side and began stripping off the remaining fluff.

“I have a mind to SHOE you," he suddenly added. “Everything lather-shaved except for a thin rim around the crown.

My cock swelled into high alert.

“A shoe...?" I gasped.

“And, there won’t be any fretting about ‘how long will it take to grow out’ because you won’t be growing it out!" the barber teased.

The sergeant piled on, “No sir! You’ll return from the Afghan battle field as the man of the house! And the horseshoe flattop will give you the air of authority you need to bring that whining wench under control."

“Hey, hey! She’s not so bad," I said defensively.

“Any woman who tries to control her husband’s hair length is a hussy in my book," the third barbers opined.

My barber started whacking off all the length on top with a pair of shears.

I loved seeing the last clumps hair fall to the cape. It was a sort of personal liberation and freedom. I had been convinced to throw all caution to the wind with regard to hair length. Now I was starting to think about FaceTiming my wife before boarding and showing her the new me!

In a mood of excitement, I suddenly heard myself say, “Yes, I’ve decided. Shoe me!"

The men in the shop gave a spontaneous whoop of approval.

“You won’t regret this," the barber said as he brought the Oster’s tight up the back, through the cowlick and straight down the top of my head, pulling up at the very end, near the hairline. A vast amount of cut hair tumbled down my face into the cape. I blinked ferociously, processing with what had just happened. The vibration of the teeth on top of my head had felt like a charge of an electric shock pulsating through me.

I felt proud of my decision to get shoed - at that moment, anyhow. I couldn’t stop smiling.

“Look at all that worthless hair!" the barber said as he pointed to the collection in my lap and then to the floor around the chair. “It’s more hair than off all the other heads I’ve cut today combined!"

“I'm looking like a mean hunk of meat, macho meat," the sergeant commented.

His haircut was almost ending.

After he was uncaped, the sergeant hung around my chair, observing and chatting in a friendly, curious manner.

“I like your new look" he said. “What was that you said about me? My shorn head looking so manly and strong? Handsome, I think was how you put it! Well, it’s exactly how I’m feeling about you, right now."

He flashed a toothy smile and his crystal blue eyes sparkled with delight.

Yes, the sergeant was handsome, I thought. And very virile.

The barber became distracted for a moment as a man popped his head in the door and asked how much haircuts cost.

As the barber was turned away, the sergeant brushed a huge chunk of cut hair tenderly from my shoulder.

“Maybe we can get seated together on the plane tonight," he suggested. “I hear the flight is only half-full."

“I’d like that," I replied in a soft voice.

The barber returned to his work, and my new pal took a seat in the waiting area.

“You two known each other long?" the barber asked, sensing there was some sort of relationship.

“We just met here," I laughed. “I don’t even know his name."

“Chip," the sergeant announced loudly.

“And, I’m Charles," I said.

“Chip and Chuck! How cute," the barber laughed.

“I go by Charles," I insisted.

“Not any more, you don’t, Chuck!" Chip teased. “You’ve got an air of Chuck Norris to you with your bold, brave look!"

The barber was just finishing up on my shoe, taking the length down quite short. I was virtually bald!

“Like this, or lather shaved?" the barber asked.

“Lather shaved!" Chip opined.

“Like he said, I guess," I replied. “As long as I’ve gone this far, I might as well have things done right!"

The massage of the lather on my scalp felt heavenly. The barber’s strong fingers worked the warm foam into my newly exposed skin.

“The back will gleam like a cue ball when I’m finished," the barber said as he began scraping with a straight-edge razor.

Then, he continued, “You know, when you first walked in here, I never EVER imagined this is how I’d be cutting your hair. I thought for sure you’d be one of those demanding, self-important business executives who cluck and crow about their precious manes. ‘Just a trim!’ or ‘Tidy me up a bit.’ They can be so fussy!"

I blushed. That description matched the usual me!

“But when you commented you were in for a big change..." the barber confessed.

“...then you were eager to cape me up!" I laughed.

“Sure was! I won’t deny it. I love to take a pretty boy and make him look like a real man. And a fellow can’t look any more manly than the stud who sports a horseshoe flattop," the barber added.

He took a damp, warm towel and wiped away the residual foam along with the clinging snippets. The towel stayed wrapped around my head for a few minutes to sooth my newly shaved scalp.

The grand finale of my transformation was a sudden pat of witch hazel on my shorn head.

“OUCH!" I gasped, as I jolted in the chair.

“Love to do that," the barber joked. “Welcome to your new look!"

The barber beamed as he showed me every side of my startling, eye-catching horseshoe flattop.

“Well, what do you say?" he asked.

“It’s amazing! I can’t believe that's really me in the mirror," I replied.

When the cape came off, I was jerked back into the memory of my old self. The expensive Canali suit and silk tie! The whole executive look that had been obfuscated by the cape. I gulped. The shoe on top looked so out of place!

“Come on, Chip," I said, as I paid the barber. “I've got to get out of these fancy threads and get comfortable for the overnight flight!"

Once outside the barber shop, I opened my hand bag and pulled out the camo uniform Sean had given me.

“Where did you get that?!" Chip asked, totally started. “That badge on the sleeve, it’s my battalion’s insignia!"

“From my team member who usually does the training," I answered.

“A nice guy with an amazing red flattop?" Chip asked.

“Yep, his name is Sean!" I exclaimed.

My heart raced as I suspected I very well might be heading up into the remote mountains WITH Chip.

“You’re the one coming to continue our training?!" Chip asked. “We’ll be together for the next three months!"

“The next SIX months, at least!" I replied with enthusiasm. "I've just decided to stay longer."

Chip and I scurried to find a bathroom so I could change.

“Let’s go in there; I can help you," Chip said, pointing to a ‘family’ bathroom.

We went in, and he locked the door.

My heart began to pound! The turning key guaranteed blissful privacy.

The manly Chip helped me out of my suit jacket and then began to untie my expensive Italian cravat....

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