Is It That Time? by Just_Me

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I pulled over outside the gates of Fort Sill, Oklahoma for the last time. I turned and looked at it, saying, "Thank God I don't have to see this hell hole again!"

I’d just finished an eight-year enlistment, and I was singing a song that I was making up as I went along. It had no melody, and the tempo wasn’t steady, but it was music to my ears. "I'm free! I'm free! Free from standing in formations, free from uniforms, no more saluting.... And no more damned haircuts. I can tell all the barbers in the world to go to hell. Yell it, all barbers can go to hell!"

I gave the post a one-finger salute, and left a good bit of tire rubber on the road when I drove away.

As I drove away, I reached up and rubbed my head, and snarled several profanities.

I had tried to get a head start on growing my hair out, but the officer in charge had refused to sign my discharge orders unless my hair was "within Army regulations." Rather stupidly, I’d thought, "I don’t wanna drive into Lawton. I’ll just run over to the barbershop beside the PX."

Once I got to the barbershop, I’d had the misfortune to get an ancient barber....and that ancient barber had NOT listened when I said, "Just a light trim." He had taken his clippers and butchered my hair, without listening to a single word I said. It wasn't quite a recruit cut, but it was close enough to piss me off. I cussed him out, or cussed him as much as I could without getting the MP’s called. All my cussing hadn’t impressed that barber. He just ignored me, and started sweeping up all the hair that was on the floor…hair that had been on my head ten minutes before.

I walked out of the shop fuming.

I looked up at the sky, and rather dramatically said, " All you gods and goddesses that ever have been, or ever will be, I hereby make you a solemn vow that I will never have short hair again!"

It was a vow that I planned to keep.

I had been blessed with good hair, and was grateful that it wasn’t too coarse, nor too straight and not too curly. Even the color was perfect; a dark blonde, that got lighter when I was in the sun.

I often thought, "If I’d got to choose what type of hair I got, I would’ve picked exactly what Mother Nature blessed me with."

My thick beard was just as perfect as my hair. My beard grew so fast that my last first sergeant had made me shave at lunch so I’d "look decent" in the afternoon.

After leaving the army, and its ever-present barbers, I let my hair and beard grow and grow. Sure, I had it trimmed a few times a year to keep it neat looking, but never more than half an inch--and I complained if that much was taken off.

Bessie Lou and I enjoyed a few years of meandering across the states, just enjoying our freedom (Bessie Lou was my motorcycle). I often thought, "The Universe created me to be a vagabond, and I’m grateful. Life is never dull."

Fate eventually led me to LA, and I enjoyed all the freedom, and excesses, that I’d been denied while in the army. LA may be a big, noisy place, but there’s always something to do, and new people to meet, and it treats people with a bohemian bent well. In fact, LA welcomes eccentrics.There are so many oddballs there that you have to work very hard to be weird enough to be considered eccentric, which made me fit in just fine.

As happens with most people, I eventually started to grow up. I found a great job that still let me be a free-spirit, and I made pretty good money while doing it. I call that a win-win.

Despite enjoying my bohemian existence, things started to change. I fell in love, and settled into a fantastic relationship. Age happened to me, and I started developing some minor aches and pains. I suspected it wasn’t anything major, just the number of birthdays I had enjoyed, but decided to have it checked out. I made an appointment at the West LA VA Medical Center.

The morning of my appointment, my hair decided to act up. No matter how much I blow dried it, and tried to get it to look presentable, it just decided to do what it wanted. My beard acted the same. I looked at the clock and thought, "Damn! I’m going to be late." I glanced in the mirror one final time, and muttered, "Hair, if you keep acting like this, I’m going to have to do something about you." I pulled it into a ponytail, which is something I never do. I always make fun of guys who wear their hair in a ponytail, thinking, "What the hell is the point of having long hair, if you don’t show it off?"

I muttered a curse at my beard, but decided not to contain it, saying, "Be free and wild, beard."

I arrived at the VA, and started looking for the building where my appointment was, and I noticed something. I thought, "Damn! They’ve even got a barbershop at the VA. The military never stops with wanting to get rid of your hair."

I swear, it felt like my car made the turn into the street where the barbershop was and parked in front of it without me having anything to do with it. There had been no thought. I was just there. I got out of the car thinking, "What the hell are you doing here, Jeff?"

No sooner had I thought that than the answer popped in my head. My Irish accent popped into my head, and I thought, "Boyo, ye be getting rid of all this crap on your head!" I gave myself a stern talking to. "This is too big a decision to make on the spur of the moment. Are you going to ruin twenty years of work on a whim? Think about what you're doing, Jeff. This will affect you for years!"

I didn't follow my advice. I acted. I did a right face, and marched toward the barbershop with as much military precision as I could muster, thinking, "I guess some things you just never forget, and marching must be one of them."

I didn’t even think about the appointment that I was already almost late for.

I entered the shop and saw a sight I never dreamed I’d see again. It was a typical military barbershop, except it only had two chairs, instead of eight or more. Fear clenched my stomach and I almost walked out.

The barber looked like he was about my age, but he had NOT been blessed with good hair genes; he had a fringe of hair, and that was it. It seemed like he was trying to compensate for the lack of hair on his head with a huge moustache. His handlebars stuck straight out on each side, at least six inches per side. I almost giggled when I thought, "He could play a villian in a silent movie. I can imagine him all dressed in black while tying up a girl, and putting her on the railroad tracks for some nefarious reason."

He glanced in the mirror, obviously checking out his moustache, and tweaked it a little bit, then he greeted me with a smile, and said, "Good morning. Come on in. Is it that time?"

"Is it time for what?"

"Well, you aren't the first vet who rebelled against the discipline of the army and let their hair grow out. Normally they'll come in and say, 'It's time to cut this mess off'."

What he said hit me like a bolt of lightning. "Bingo! I hadn't realized that's what my intention was until you said it. It's past time to cut this mess off. Will you help me out?"

"Sit yourself down, and let's get this show on the road, but first, I gotta ask, what brought this on?"

I couldn’t help but laugh. "You tell me, and we’ll both know. This is all spur of the moment for me. If you’d asked me five minutes ago if I’d be sitting in a barber chair, I would’ve said, ‘Ain’t no way in hell I’ll ever sit in a barber’s chair again’." I chuckled again. "Maybe it’s time for me to grow up, and I didn’t realize it."

"Well, I’m glad you’re here. I don’t get to take off this much hair very often, and it’s always fun. What's it going to be? Do you want to just go short, or shall we go shorter or shortest?"

"I'm really not ready for the shortest. How about you do something with the beard and I'll think about what to do with my hair."

He put a paper strip around my neck, and I thought, "I'd forgotten they do that." I smiled and thought, "Jeff, you've forgotten a lot of crap in twenty years. Get ready. You’re in for a helluva ride." Something inside me answered with, "Bring it on. It’s way past time."

I held my beard up while the barber spread the cape around me, and pulled it under the beard. Then he held my hair up in the back and pulled the cape tight--maybe a little too tight.

Once I was finally caped up, he stuck his hand out and said, "Sorry I was so rude. I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Wayne."

"Nice to meet you. I’m Jeff."

Wayne got right to business. "Do you wanna watch, or do you just want a surprise reveal? I'd suggest the surprise "

"I'm ok with that."

"One final question. Do you want to shave the beard or just cut it way back?"

Without thinking I said, "Shave it."

I thought, "What the hell did you just say, and why did you say it?" I had no answer for myself, but I didn't back out.

Within seconds I heard a sound I’d always hated: the sound of clippers buzzing. My stomach clenched, and I got a big knot in my throat. I didn’t know whether to pass out, puke or run.

Wayne saved me the trouble of deciding. Those clippers went under my beard, and up and over my chin before I knew what was happening. He threw the clump on the cape, and said, "My god! I've never cut that much beard off a man. How long has it been since you shaved?"

Seeing the beard on the cape made me think I was going to be sick. I swallowed a few times, to get myself settled down before I answered. "It's been about twenty years. Let me think. Yep, it would've been twenty years if I'd made it to November."

He picked up a comb, and ran it through my moustache. He pulled a bunch of facial hair to the side. "My god! Look at this! Your mustache is more than twice as long as mine. I wish I had the genes to grow mine like this."

Fortunately, I didn’t say it, but I thought, "Buddy, you’d be better off with my hair genes than my beard genes."

He looked at me. "Maybe it's my bias, but I think you’d look great with a handlebar, and I'm going to leave it for now."

"I'm not sure what I think about that. I've never had just a moustache. I was clean shaven while I was in the army, and I've had a beard ever since."

"You’ll never know if you like it if you don’t try it, and it’s a shame you’ve never tried it. I think every man should have a moustache at least once in his life, and if you’re from our generation, you should always have one. It was our trademark, back in the day." He scowled. "I hate seeing so many men our age shaving them, trying to look younger. It doesn't work. They still look like old farts." He grinned at me. "Back to the subject at hand. Can you handle just seeing what it looks like?"

I thought for a second. "I guess I can handle that, but isn’t a handlebar a lot of work? It looks like it would be."

He laughed loud and long. Once he stopped laughing, he said, "Sorry about that. It just struck me as funny that you’re worried about taking care of a moustache after twenty years of taking care of long hair and an extra long beard. I can guarantee you that it’s not going to take you as long to fix some handlebars as it did to dry and comb all the hair you have on your head."

I had to laugh. "I guess you’re right about that. OK, I’ll give a moustache a try. If I don’t like it, I can always shave."

"I’ll be surprised if you don’t like it. You obviously like standing out in a crowd, or you wouldn’t have hair hanging near your waist. You’ll still stand out, but just in a different way."

I grinned. "I like the sound of that, and you’re right. I’ve always marched to a different drumbeat. That’s why I didn’t stay in the army. They don’t like oddballs."

He finished clipping the beard off. "Since I don’t know what hairstyle you’re wanting, I left the sideburns longer. We can always take them off if you want to."

"I’ve never had sideburns either. You’re taking me into uncharted territory, but I’m OK with seeing what it looks like…and honestly, a little relieved that you didn’t just peel me like a grape." I shuddered. "That’s what happened the last time I was in a barber’s chair. I was stationed in Fort Sill. I sat down with a decent amount of hair, and walked out looking like a retired first sergeant."

"Seriously? My first job as a barber was at Fort Sill. I can’t tell you how many thousands of men I peel the hair off of. Wouldn’t it be funny if you were one of them?"

"I don’t remember the bastard who killed my hair, but I remember being in shock for at least a week after I got the haircut." I thought for a second. "Now that I think about it, it could have been you. He was a young man with a head full of hair. I hated him for having that hair when I had none."

"That could’ve been me, but there were several of us who had long hair, and we loved to rub it in the faces of the recruits." He looked sad. "I can’t do that any more." He rubbed his head.

I tried to make him feel better. "So what if you lost your hair. You’ve got that great moustache, and I imagine a lot of men would gladly give all the hair on their head to be able to sport a ‘stache like that."

"You think so?" He rubbed his head again. "I used to change my hair style up regularly, but since Mother Nature got a hold of me, I have very few options. I’m limited to a skullet, a combover, shave or buzz. That’s about it, and I ain’t gonna do a skullet or combover."

I changed the subject. "Did you enjoy working on the base?"

"Yes, and no. I hated working with the recruits. There’s no artistry there, just butchery. It was both boring and stressful."

"Boring I can see, but stressful?"

"We were timed on every haircut, and if it took more than three minutes, we got in trouble. Two minutes were preferred. Ten to twelve swipes with the clippers, and yell, ‘Next’, no matter what the recruit in front of you looked like."

"I enjoyed it when I got to work at the regular base shop." He smiled. "I really liked the crusty old buzzards."

He got to musing, and I enjoyed listening to him. "Every once in a while I miss working on a military base. It was a lot easier. There were only a few styles I had to deal with, and I didn’t have to worry too much about what the customer wanted. Both the customer and I knew what the first sergeant wanted was what was really important, and everything was geared toward making him happy, and shorter always made the first sergeant happier than long did."

"I’ve never thought about that, and you’re right. There were a lot less variables to deal with, so your life must’ve been simpler."

"Much, much simpler." He sighed, "Sometimes I miss it, but overall, I like it here better. There’s more variety."

"I have to admit that I still prefer the crusty old buzzards that come in and know what they want. They want it peeled like they were still in the army. I’m not as fond of the soft ones that want me to pamper them."

He changed the subject. "I’ve heard more than one story like what you said that barber did to you, but don’t worry. Even though my shop is on VA land, I don’t operate like that. I prefer to keep my clients happy, so they’ll come back." He smirked. "Being responsible for keeping customers happy has made me a greedy gut. I like having a regular base of customers that I can count on, but If I’m being honest though, I’m dying to peel you like a grape."

I smiled. "I could tell. You’re looking at me just about the same way I look at a piece of cheesecake. All I want to do is demolish that cheesecake, and it’s obvious you want to destroy my hair."

"Well, destroy might be too strong a word, but I wouldn’t mind taking about 96% of the hair off your head."

"What kind of haircut would I walk out of here with if I just told you to do what you want?"

"That’s easy! My moustache probably tells you I like a vintage look. IF I had enough hair to do it, I’d be wearing a flattop with fenders, and I think you’d look amazing with the same haircut."

I was troubled. "I’m not sure what a flattop with fenders is, but the name gives me the heebie-jeebies. I had to get a flattop once while in the army. They shipped a bunch of us to Germany for three months, and everyone had to have what they called a ‘Reforger Special’. I hated it."

"Let me show you a picture. It’s not your typical military flattop."

"Thank god for that!"

He pulled out an old book, and pointed at a picture. I looked at it. "Oh, that’s a flattop with fenders? I thought it was called a flattop boogie."

"They’re basically the same."

"You really think I could pull this look off?"

"I guarantee you that you can. If you don’t like it, I’ll give you a year of free haircuts."

I couldn’t help but laugh. "Why would I come back for more haircuts, if I don’t like the first one you gave me?"

"Why do you think I so freely offered a year of free haircuts?"

"Ah, I see the method to your madness." I gave an evil-sounding cackle. "I’m going to say I don’t like whatever you do, just so I get the free cuts."

"I like the way you think, but I didn’t give you the rest of the story. Yeah, you get a year of free haircuts, but I get to choose what style you get, and for you, I’d choose to shave it."

"Game, set and match to the barber in the black tunic. You win."

We both laughed.

"Are you ready for the big change?"

I guess?"

"Speak now, or forever hold your peace. Are you willing to try the flattop boogie?"

"Why the hell not? It’s not any more outrageous than what I’ve put up with for twenty years."

He pushed my head forward, and seconds later, I heard scissors chewing through my ponytail.

I knew when he got the ponytail cut off. All the hair that had been pulled from the front fell in my face.

I heard Wayne say, "My god, would you look at that?"

I looked up. "Sorry. I can’t see a damned thing with all this hair hanging in my eyes."

"Just a second, and I’ll deal with that."

I heard scissors opening and closing, and then it felt like he cut through my bangs at my hairline. I shivered, and thought, "What the hell did you get yourself into, you stupid idiot?"

"Now you can see." He picked up the ponytail he had cut off. "Look at this! Any horse would be proud to sport a ponytail this long."

I grinned at him. "Are you calling me a horse’s ass?"

He smirked. "No, but a few more smart comments like that, and I might be." He shook his head. "I’m going to have to be careful around you. I’m used to being the one who makes the smart comments, but I have a feeling you’re going to give me a run for my money."

I grinned. "You bet your sweet ass I will. One of my mottos in life is, ‘There has to be a smart ass in every crowd, and I’m always willing to volunteer for the job’."

"I like that. I think I’m going to steal it."

"I think we can both use it, but you’ll always know that I was the one who came up with it, and you’re just a cheap copycat."

"Touche!"

Wayne wet my hair down, and I felt it when he started parting my hair. It felt like he made a "U" shape on the top of my head, and combed everything away from the part. The bangs (or lack of bangs) came straight forward, and the sides and back were combed down. He put a comb on the top of my head and started going from the front to the back with the clippers.

The sound of the clippers made waves of nausea hit me again. Wayne spoke up, "You’re white as a ghost, and I expect you to start heaving. Do I need to get you a trash can?"

I shook my head, and fought the sickness for a while. Wayne started cutting again, and I was distracted from how I was feeling when I thought, "That’s weird. I would’ve thought he’d cut the back first…but I guess he knows what he’s doing." I smirked. "Either he knows, or he’s doing a damned good job of pretending, and I won’t know which it is which until he’s done."

I turned my attention back to what he was doing, trying to focus on figuring it out, which helped my stomach settle down. At one point I thought, "Admit it, Jeff. You’re enjoying this."

I immediately responded with, "You’re damned right I am."

After getting the inside of the "U" flattened up, he put some butch wax in my hair, and fired up the hair dryer. He tugged and pulled on my hair with a brush all the while aiming the dryer at my hair until he had it where he wanted it, and then the clippers came back to life. For the first time since I walked into the barbershop, I didn’t jump when the clippers came on. I mentally patted myself on the back, and thought (in my best/worst English accent), "Good job, old chap. You’re settling in quite nicely."

He positioned my head where he wanted it. "Whatever you do, don’t move your head." Then he quipped, "Unless you really want a repeat of your basic training haircut. If you want that, go ahead and move your head. It’ll make me mess this up, and I’ll have to peel you like a grape."

"I ain’t moving a muscle!" I did my best to become a statue.

Time after time he moved the clippers from the front of my head to the back, ran a comb through it to remove the hair he’d just cut, and repeated it all over again. I could see tiny little pieces of hair flying through the air, and began to wonder if I was going to have any hair left by the time he was done.

I guess I was holding a lot of tension in my neck, because it started hurting after a while, and I really wanted to move…but I kept perfectly still. Of course, Mother Nature stepped in, and I needed to pee. Then a hair flew in my nose and started itching.

I thought, "Great. Not only do I have to deal with my nerves, but now I have to deal with itching, wanting to sneeze and needing to pee."

Finally he said, "I guess that’ll do."

The first thing I did was move my head, and my neck sounded like a large firework when it popped. Wayne jumped. "I’m glad you didn’t pop like that while I was cutting your hair. I would’ve fu…umm…messed it up for sure."

The next thing I did was reach up and touch the top of my head. It was bristly, but soft and plush at the same time. An overwhelming urge to see what he’d done hit me, and I started to turn around.

Wayne stopped me. "No, no, no. You agreed to wait until it was done for you to see it."

"But I don’t wanna wait."

"Too bad. You’re gonna have to now. You made a deal, and now you have to live with the consequences."

I muttered, "You don’t know the half of it. I’m only beginning to realize the consequences of my actions."

He picked the clippers up, and started on the back of my neck. It felt like he might be tapering the back a little, but I wasn’t sure. I was sure that the feel of the clippers on my neck was both a familiar sensation, and completely foreign. I thought, "Face it, Jeff. You never dreamed there’d be clippers anywhere near your head again."

All I could do was agree with myself.

Halfway through the haircut I thought, "Damn it! What is Mark going to say? He didn’t even know I was thinking about cutting my hair." I grimaced. "Hell, I didn’t know I was thinking about cutting my hair, but here I am doing it."

I kinda got lost in the dismay that washed over me. "Mark loves my hair! He’s going to have about twenty conniption fits. I hope this doesn’t ruin our relationship. I really love the man, and I was very selfish to do this without talking to him about it."

I looked at all the hair in my lap. "Well, it’s too late to cry over spilt milk. There’s nothing to do but deal with it."

I stopped talking to myself just in time to feel him make a part just above my ear. He combed all the hair above the part on top of my head, and took the clippers around my ears. I thought, "My god, I can’t believe I’m going to let my ears show again. Thank god they’re not too big."

An inner voice said, "Are you sure? It’s been so long since you’ve seen your ears, you don’t know. What if they’re really big? After all, I’ve heard that men’s ears and noses keep growing."

I had to worry with that thought for a while, and missed what he did with my hair over the ears. I brought myself back to reality with the thought, "Well, at least you have two ears. Pay attention, and see what he does on the other side, you dumbass."

I really focused when he cut the hair around the other ear, and I could feel it when he created the fender.

Once the sides were done he added a little tonic to the sides, and a little more wax to the top. He picked up a little brush, and combed the flattop…yet again. I seethed with impatience. I wanted to see what I had gotten myself into.

He picked up a pair of scissors and went back over my whole head with a fine-toothed comb, snipping here and there. He finally stopped snipping, and combed the fenders one more time. He paused, and seemed to pat himself on the back. "That’s perfect Wayne, just perfect."

"Hang on, I’m leaning the chair back." Then he put hot towels over my face. It didn’t take him long to shave me, and put the chair back in its "full upright and locked position" (to quote the airlines).

Wayne started blow drying my moustache around a big brush, and I heard him mutter, "Damn! That’s a big ‘stache. I’m so jealous!"

I laughed. "Go big, or go home, right?"

"Well, you’ve gone big. I hope you like it, and don’t go home and shave it."

Then he preached a sermon on the benefits and ways to fix the ‘stache. "A handlebar ‘stache is pretty versatile. It can be soft or harsh. It can be formal or relaxed. It’s all in how you style it. I’ll show you some ideas later. For right now, I’m going to give you a softer look, and show you what you look like."

"Hurry the hell up. I think I might die of old age before you get done with me."

"Knock on wood, I’ve never had anyone die on me." He smiled. "For your peace of mind, if you decide to keep the haircut, it won’t take nearly as long to cut it next time. I promise" He paused. "Come back in two weeks, and I’ll have you outta here in fifteen minutes…max. If you wait eight weeks, it’ll take a long time to straighten you back out."

"Hell, I had forgotten how often you have to get your hair cut when it’s short. I’m used to getting a trim every six months."

"You’re not gonna be able to do that now. Well, I guess you can, but you aren’t gonna look as sharp as you do now. I think you look mighty good."

He grinned at me. "Are you ready to see the new, and much improved, you? God knows I’m ready to show you off. I want a picture of this for my portfolio."

I had to pick on him. I ignored his request for a picture, and mouthed off. "You should’ve said, ‘Much improved in my opinion’. What if I don’t like it?"

He grinned, and shot back at me. "Well, in my opinion, if you don’t like it, you’re a damned fool. I think you look great."

"All right then, let me see the new and improved me."

I didn’t even notice my haircut at first. My first thought was, "I look like I could get a job as a sheriff in the Wild West, or if I dyed it red, I could play Yosemite Sam in a movie." I looked again, and thought, "I have to admit, I kinda like it."

I spoke for the first time since the reveal. "Well, there’s no doubt that this kick-ass moustache is running the show. It’s large and in charge."

"Isn’t it amazing?"

I looked at myself again, and noticed the haircut. I pulled out what little German I remembered from high school (somehow, German seemed appropriate with the mustache). "Ja, ja. Es ist gut. Sehr, sehr gut."

Having exhausted my German, I switched back to English, and put some enthusiasm in my voice. "Yeah, the ‘stache is pretty damned awesome, but it’s nothing compared to the haircut. I love it!"

A big grin spread across Wayne’s face. "Thank god. I was afraid you’d hate it."

"It’s a helluva change, but I think I’m in love with it." I stepped into my best beach bum voice. "It’s totally rad, dude. Really bitching!"

I reached up and touched the top of my head, and shivered. "My god, that feels good."

He gave me a look that broke my heart. He looked so sad. "Yeah, a flattop feels good, but it’s not a feeling I’ll ever experience again. I have to live vicariously through lucky bastards like you who have a great head of hair." He took a deep breath. "What do you think about the sideburns? I can take them shorter if you want, but I think they look good. They’re both a nod to the Fifties, and the Seventies when we grew up."

I couldn’t resist. "What do you mean the Seventies when we grew up? I was born in the Nineties."

He looked shocked. He looked me over, and I could almost hear the wheels turning, and imagined him thinking, "Oh crap, I just screwed up. How did I misjudge him that much? He looks old enough to have grown up in the Seventies."

I let him stew in his juices for just a second. "Just kidding, man. You’re right. I grew up in the Seventies, and as a kid I admired every sideburn I ever saw."

I thought he was going to pass out from relief.

I looked at the sideburns. "I think you nailed it. The length is just perfect. If you’d left them a half-inch longer they’d have been too long. I wanna keep them."

He grinned. "You’re right, I must modestly say I nailed the length. However, as heavy as your beard is, you’re gonna have to be careful when you shave, or they’ll get too long in just a few days." He kept talking. "Now, let me show you some of the ways you can style the ‘stache."

First, he combed the curls straight down, but left the center swept to the side. "Now, this ain’t really a horseshoe moustache, but you can make it work. Just release your inner Hulk Hogan, and go with it."

I shuddered. "He’s not my favorite person. I think I’ll pass on this look."

He looked at me. "Well, it’s your loss. It looks pretty good on you, but ok. Let me show you what else you can do with it."

Next, he combed the entire thing straight down. "You’ve got a helluva walrus mustache here, but don’t ask me how you’re supposed to eat with it. I’ve never figured that out."

I laughed. "You read my mind. That was exactly what I was going to ask."

He put some wax on, and with just a little bit of work recreated his moustache. "I know you’ve seen this look on me, but I wanted you to see it on yourself. Our moustaches are shaped differently, and I think it looks better on you than it does on me. Plus, it’s so much bigger and longer than mine, it’s going to look different"

"Damn! That’s quite a point you put on it. It’s so sharp I could poke someone’s eye out with it."

He laughed, "You sounded just like my mother when you said that, but to reference your comment, my only advice is to not put your own eye with it. To hell with the rest of the world."

Next he curled the ends, until it looked like I had a big circle under my eyes. "This is a very suave, sophisticated look. I would save it for dress up occasions."

I laughed. "What you see is about as dressed up as I get. I haven’t had a suit or tie on in probably twenty years. I rarely even wear jeans. I’m a shorts and t-shirt kinda guy."

He eyed me over, and for the first time, I wondered if he was gay. "As good looking as you are, you can pull off shorts and a tee, but I’d be willing to bet you’re sexy as hell when you dress up. You should get a suit, and take your wife out for a fancy dinner. I’d bet she’d like that."

I felt like he was asking if I was gay, so I gave him a clue. "Well, I don’t have a wife, but my partner might like dressing up, and going out."

I could see he was a little disappointed that I had a partner, but he took it in stride. "You should set it up."

"I think I will." I pulled out my phone. "No one’s waiting. Would you mind if I do it now, before I chicken out?"

"Go ahead."

I typed a message, and looked at Wayne. "Do you think this is OK?"

I read it outloud. ‘Do you have plans for Saturday night? I need a date with a handsome dude, and someone told me you were hot as hell!’"

"That’s great. He should love it."

I sent it, and seconds later I got a reply. "No handsome dude here, but if you can’t find someone else, I’ll be happy to go on a date with you. By the way, who is this? ;)"

I replied. "Go to hell, asshole." Then I quickly sent another text. "On your way to hell, go buy yourself some fancy clothes. We’re going paint the town red Saturday right, and I want you looking sharp."

"Again, who is this, and what are you doing with Jeff’s phone? My Jeff thinks fancy clothes are foolish."

"Just shut up, and go buy some clothes. I want every man, woman and child to be jealous of me when I show up with you on my arm."

"HA HA! Jeff made a funny, but I’m not gonna argue. How formal?"

"Suit and tie too formal for you?"

"Hell no. You know I love dressing up, but I ain’t wearing a suit if you're in shorts and flip flops."

"Don’t worry. I’ll make you proud to be seen with me."

"I ain’t believing it until I see it. I’ve never even seen you in a dress shirt."

"Well, I was planning on buying some new jeans."

"Sigh…I knew it was too good to be true."

"Psych! I promise, you won’t be ashamed to be seen with me." I threw him a bone, and for the first time in all the years we’ve lived together, I told him a lie. "I was thinking about new jeans, a fancy dress shirt and a VEST. How’s that for dressing up?" I sent another text right on the tail of the first one. "I might even spring for a nice hat, instead of a baseball cap. If you’re really good, I might even put on a bow tie."

"Now I know you’re not my Jeff. Put my Jeff on the phone. LOL. I can’t wait to see this, but have the paramedics on standby. I might pass out when I see you in something besides shorts and a t-shirt."

"You ain’t seeing crap until Saturday night, but I expect you’ll be surprised at how well I clean up."

"Party pooper! I’ll get you for this."

I read all the texts to Wayne, and he laughed. "You guys sound like a blast. We should hang out together sometime."

I looked at myself. "I don’t know if I’m going to have a partner after what you’ve done to me."

He looked shocked. "I thought you were kidding when you said you came in on a whim. You mean your partner didn’t know you were getting a haircut? OMG! I hope I don’t see you on tonight’s news!"

I gave a half-hearted laugh. "I don’t think he’ll kill me, but he might make me wish I was dead."

"You’d better prepare him. He might have a heart attack if you just show up with this haircut."

"I’ll do that later. For now, I have to stall, stall, stall,"

I pulled out my phone, and told him another lie. I texted, "Still waiting to be called in to see the doctor. I’ll let you know when I’m leaving."

"That sucks."

I had an idea. "Why don’t you go ahead and start shopping? Knowing you, it’ll take you all week to find something."

He sent back a frowning emoji. "F U, but I’ll do that. What’s the budget?"

(We typically don’t make big purchases without consulting one another. It’s not a hard, fast rule, but it’s how we normally work together.)

"The Amex is paid off. Spend what you need to. I want you looking HOT!" I quickly sent another text. "Try to stay off Rodeo Drive though. No need to max the card out."

I got a very mad emoji with steam coming out of it in return.

I replied. "Just kidding, but seriously, get what you want. I’ve had a lot of extra work this year, and budget is not an issue."

I got a stream of smiling emojis and hearts in return.

I thought, "Ok, that crisis has been dealt with for a few minutes. What to do next?"

Wayne wanted to talk more. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, and maybe you’ll get lucky. My ex would’ve loved me coming home with something different, but he had a thing for haircuts. I honestly think the only reason he was ever with me was because I’m a barber, and I could fulfill his fantasies and kinks. Either one of us getting a short haircut sure did make him horny, and my god, when I shaved my head, I thought he was going to…well…never mind..."

I thought, "Well, that’s a lot more information than I wanted!"

I thanked him, and left.

Out of habit, I reached for my beard to pull it out of the way so I could put my seat belt on... And there was no beard. It felt so strange!

I looked at the clock. "Damn it! I’m an hour late for my appointment." I thought, "Oh well, I think it was worth it."

I went to the only nice men’s store I knew of. I was greeted by a man that I could tell thought he was the consummate salesperson, and I was immediately turned off. I hate that kind of pompous, obsequious behavior. I pointed at what was obviously another employee. "I can’t remember his name, but I’m here to see him."

"Oh, that’s Brett. I’ll get him for you."

Brett came over. "I’m sorry, sir. I don’t remember you, but I’ll be happy to help you out."

I laughed. "I’ve never been in here before, but I didn’t like that jerk that came up to me."

He grinned. "To be perfectly honest, I can’t stand him either."

"What can I help you with?"

"I have a hot date Saturday night, and I want to look amazing. Can you help me out?"

"It’ll be fun to help you out. Based on your style, you obviously aren’t afraid of pushing the boundaries, and I’ll help you push the boundaries, and still stay on this side of good taste."

"That sounds perfect. What would you recommend?"

"We just got a new suit in. It has a touch of a retro feel that would compliment your haircut."

"Sounds perfect. Let me see it."

He pulled a suit off the rack, and it was perfect. "I’ll take it."

"Don’t you want to try it on first?"

"I will, but that’s exactly what I was looking for. Let’s find some shoes to go with it."

We went through the store, and within ten minutes, I was in the dressing room with a shirt, tie, bow tie, socks and shoes. I almost choked when I saw the price on the suit, but shrugged it off. "Mark is worth it, and he’ll love seeing me like this."

After getting the outfit on I came out of the dressing room, and Brett gave a low whistle. "They say clothes make the man, and I guess in your case, it’s true. You look fantastic."

I looked in the mirror. "I have to agree. I look mighty damned fine." I looked at myself again. "It’s missing…"

Brett cut me off. "If I may, sir, there’s one thing you need to complete this outfit. I’ll be right back."

He came back with a couple of fedoras. I grinned. "That’s it. That’s what was missing. I can’t wait for Mark to see me."

Brett and I got into a little tussle over the alterations. I shut him up with, "I’ll pay extra to get them done by Saturday. Hell, I’ll pay double, but tell me you can do this by then, or I’ll leave now."

I could see him calculating his commission. "Let me go speak to my manager. I’ll be right back."

Everything went very smoothly after that. I scheduled a pick up for Friday afternoon.

After leaving the store, I sent another text "Get ready for a surprise. You may not recognize me when you see me."

"WTF? What the hell did you do?"

"Wait and see…just be prepared."

"I’m going to die of curiosity before you get home."

"Well, I might die after I get home."

"Is it that bad?"

"I don’t know. I kinda like it, but I’m not sure what you’re gonna think."

"Get your ass home! NOW!!!!"

"Leaving now."

As I was driving home, I could feel my blood pressure rising. The more I worried about what Mark was going to say, the more symptoms I got. My heart got to racing, and I was having trouble breathing. An intense headache hit me. My hands were so sweaty that I couldn’t grip the steering wheel. I was tapping my left foot as fast as I could.

I turned the radio way up, and tried to drown out the voices in my head, but that didn’t help. I could still hear what they were saying.

"Mark is absolutely going to kill you!"

"What the hell did you just do, and what the hell were you thinking?" I answered myself. "I wasn’t thinking. I just acted on an impulse."

It was like I could hear Mark in my head. "You NEVER do anything impulsive. How could you have done something this rash? Hell, you do a cost/benefit analysis when you’re trying to figure out where to go to eat, and you make a major decision like this, without any thought?"

All I could do was shrug. I had no idea how I managed to do it.

Traffic was brutal, and my phone kept dinging with texts. They were all from Mark.

"Where are you?"

"ETA?"

"What the hell is taking you so long?"

"How much longer?"

I finally made it home, and Mark was waiting outside.

Mark is a pretty masculine guy, but he shrieked like a fishmonger’s wife. "What the bloody hell happened to your hair?"

"Well, it kinda fell on the floor of a barbershop…"

"Kinda?" He reached up and touched the top of my head. "I think it more than ‘kinda’ fell!"

He rubbed my chin, while talking a mile a minute. "Your beard is gone. I don’t know what to think."

"Why did you decide to keep the moustache?"

He looked me over. "My god, that thing is huge!" I got my first glimmer of hope that maybe things weren’t going to be as bad as I had imagined when he got a look in his eyes. "...but it’s not as big as some things I can think of." The shine in his eyes got bigger. " We could probably think of some fun stuff to do with that crazy moustache…if you’re willing."

I thought I knew what he was talking about. "Oh, I’m willing!"

He grabbed my hand. "Let’s go in, make a cocktail, and you tell me all about how this came to pass."

"A drink this early? It’s only 11:30."

"Babe, I don’t care if it’s 6:00 AM. I need a drink after this shock."

I made a Jack and Coke for both of us. "Where do you want to sit?"

My spirits lifted when he said, "Let’s cuddle on the couch."

I grinned. "Well, I must not be in the dog house if you’re wanting to cuddle."

He laughed. "I wouldn’t bet on that, but I’m willing to give you a chance to talk before I pull the guillotine out of the garage." He made a cutting motion with his hand across his neck. His smile negated what he said. He reached up and ran his hand up the nape of my neck. "Oh, that feels good."

He sat in the corner, and I put my head in his lap, taking up the rest of the sofa. Almost immediately, his hand started brushing the top of my head. He didn’t say anything, but his expression didn’t say he was upset. I thought, "Take that as a good sign."

He sighed, and looked lost in thought. I let him think. His first comment caught me off guard.

"How did you know? Have you been reading my mind again?"

"How did I know what?"

He sighed again. "Just last week I was looking at your army pictures, and wondered how I would feel if you ever decided to get a ‘normal’ haircut…which by the way, you didn’t do. Leave it to you to do something off the wall." I could tell he was still thinking, so I didn’t reply. I knew he wasn’t thinking bad thoughts, because his eyes were happy. "I think I like your haircut."

A huge weight lifted off my shoulder. "You’re not going to miss my long hair?"

"I might miss the look of it, but I won’t miss having to clean up all the hair you shed, or you waking me up to tell me I’m on your hair, or having the wind blow your hair in my eyes, or calling the plumber every three weeks because the sink or shower is stopped up, or…"

I interrupted him. "Ok, I get it. My long hair was a pain in the ass for you, as well as me." I paused. "Why didn’t you tell me you hated my hair? I would’ve cut it for you." I had to laugh. "I would’ve cut it for you…some."

"Oh, I didn’t hate your hair. I loved it. It was sexy as hell." He gave me "the look". "It was also a lot of fun in certain circumstances." (Mark’s libido is always running at 98%, and all it takes is a look to get him to 100%.)

He rubbed my head. "I think this haircut is gonna be just as much fun in those certain circumstances." Then he looked at his hand, which was shining from the butch wax. He added drily, "Remind me not to touch the sofa when I get up. I’ll leave an oil print on the fabric."

He finished his cocktail, and put it on the coffee table. "Now, tell me all about how this all came about. Curiosity is killing this cat."

I told him my whole barbershop adventure, and when I told him how Wayne had said his partner was only with him because of the kink potential, Mark said, "Did you find out what they did? That could be interesting."

I was surprised, but not shocked. Mark is always willing to try something new. I said, "Of course I didn’t. I’m not going to talk about things like that with a total stranger."

"Of course you didn’t. I’ve never seen anyone as stuck in the Fifties as you are." He stuck his tongue out at me. "You’re such a prude, but that’s OK. You’re my prude." He looked at me. "You know I’m dying to know more about kinks and haircuts. Take me with you the next time you go to the barbershop. I’ll find out some details, and we can try it out."

I rolled my eyes. "You would do that, wouldn’t you?"

"You’re damned right I would, and I’m going to be googling in the meantime. This could be fun."

I eyed his long hair. "I’ll take you with me, but only if you get a haircut, so we can practice what we learn from Wayne."

His eyes were shining like diamonds when he said, "Deal!" He grinned.

I got up to make us another drink. I looked at him. "Are we OK now?"

He stood up. "Come here you goofball. I love you, long hair or short."

Then he gave me a big kiss while rubbing my head. To me, his kiss seemed like it was filled with promise: promises of passion, love and commitment.

He stepped back and looked at me. "Just do me a favor, if you ever decide to do something this outrageous again, let me know at least three months in advance, so I’ll have time to adjust to it. My heart is still pounding from the shock of it all."

"Deal!"

I poured the drinks, and we sat and talked some more, and then Mark got the look in his eyes. We wound up on the rug in front of the fireplace, and somehow our clothes managed to fall off us.

After we entertained ourselves, our stomachs started rumbling. I looked at the clock. "Damn, it’s 4:25. No wonder our stomachs are growling. Are you up for a PB & J?"

"Let’s do it."

We both creaked a little bit as we got off of the floor. "Why did we decide to do this on the floor instead of going to the bedroom?"

"I don’t know. Neither one of us are nineteen anymore. Surely we can muster the restraint to get to the bedroom. Remember the achy joints the next time we get horny in a hurry."

I rolled my eyes. "You’re expecting me to remember something? Hell, I can’t remember my name some days." I laughed. "Maybe it’s a good thing. I got an old man’s haircut, because I’m getting old. My joints are aching, and I can’t remember anything."

"All you need now is a rocking chair on the porch, a pipe and a cane and you’ll be set."

"I need that cane right now, to knock some sense into you."

He grinned. "I ain’t afraid of you. I’m nine months younger than you, I can still outrun you."

I pulled him into a hug. "I guess they’ll have to send me to jail for robbing the cradle." I gave him a solid kiss. "This old fart adores you, and don’t you be forgetting it."

Mark took his sandwich and sat down in front of the computer. A few minutes later he yelled, "Jeff, you may have just created a haircut fetish in me. Some of this looks like fun." He laughed. "Get ready. I’m going to be issuing orders about haircuts like your old first sergeant used to."

I grinned. "I can hear you now. Private, get your ass to the barbershop, and then report to your bunk for a little physical activity."

Author’s notes:
I remember starting this story with the thought, "I want to write about a more adult man making a change. So many of the stories revolved around teens or twenty-somethings. Us old farts can make a change too." I continued the thought with, "Well…some old farts can change. Some of us are very limited by Mother Nature’s handiwork. After she got done with us, most of us are limited to a skullet, a combover, shave or buzz. That’s about it, and I ain’t gonna do a skullet or combover." (Yes. I used that thought in the story.)

I started the story in November of 2019, and then got stumped in the middle. It hasn’t been worked on for several years, because I just couldn’t figure out where to go with it.

I pulled it out of the files this week, and was able to finally finish it. I’m not sure if I like what I did, but at least it’s not in the "Work On Later" file.

If you recognize elements of the story, after my block I took parts of this story and put them into one of my early works, "Russell's Haircut Adventures: Part VII".

Now, on to the rest of my unfinished stories…

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