Landon and the Job Offer by ShaggyDS

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Landon stood in the backyard, the smoky tang of grilled burgers and the hum of cicadas filling the air. The BBQ was in full swing—Lisa’s family and friends laughing, clinking glasses, celebrating her graduation. He tugged at the frayed hem of his Metallica T-shirt, feeling like an outsider among the pressed polos and sundresses. His shaggy hair, a chaotic mix of overgrown layers, kept falling into his eyes, and he swiped it back absentmindedly. Lisa was off chatting with her cousins, leaving Landon to navigate the small talk alone.

He’d been dodging the "what’s next?" question all evening. College? Trade school? A job? He didn’t know. What he did know was his bank account was a ghost town, and the stack of job applications he’d sent out had yielded nothing but polite rejections or silence. Smart as he was—aced AP Physics with half the effort of his classmates—he’d coasted through high school on charm and minimal study sessions. Now, the real world was knocking, and he wasn’t sure he was ready to answer.
That’s when Charlie sidled up, a wiry guy in his late forties with a grease-stained ball cap and a no-nonsense vibe. Lisa’s dad, Mike, had introduced him as his best friend from way back, the kind of guy who’d give you the shirt off his back but call you out if you slacked off. Charlie owned a small gas station and auto shop a few miles out of town, and over a cold soda, Landon found himself venting about his job hunt woes.
"Applied to, like, ten places," Landon said, leaning against a picnic table. "Fast food, retail, even a warehouse gig. Nothing."

Charlie squinted at him, sizing him up. "You ever work with your hands? Fix things?"

Landon shrugged. "I helped my uncle rebuild a carburetor once. And I’m pretty good at figuring stuff out."

Charlie nodded slowly, like he was turning something over in his mind. "I’m down a shop helper at the station. Basic stuff—sweeping up, fetching tools, maybe some oil changes once you learn the ropes. Pay’s decent for starting out. But," he paused, pointing a finger, "I got standards. My customers expect good service and clean-cut folks. Professional, you know? No offense, kid, but that mop of yours ain’t exactly screaming ‘hire me.’"

Landon laughed, running his fingers through his hair again, pushing it out of his face. It was a habit, one he barely noticed anymore. "Yeah, it’s been a while since I got it cut. Kinda like it, though."
Charlie raised an eyebrow. "Job’s yours if you want it. But you’d need to clean up. Short hair, neat clothes. That’s non-negotiable."
Landon’s stomach did a little flip. A job. A real one, not flipping burgers or stocking shelves. But the hair thing… he hadn’t had a proper haircut since sophomore year. It was part of him, like his worn-out Converse or his playlist of 90s grunge. He opened his mouth to respond, but his mind was a tug-of-war. Take the job and ditch the hair? Or keep looking and hope something else came along?

He didn’t notice how much he was fidgeting with his hair, twirling a strand around his finger, until Charlie chuckled. "You’re gonna wear that scalp out, kid. Think it over. I ain’t in a rush."
Landon nodded, his thoughts a jumble. "I appreciate the offer, man. It’s just… I don’t know if I’d have time to get a trim before starting. Like, if you need me tomorrow or something."

That’s when Mike, Lisa’s dad, piped up from a few feet away, where he’d been flipping burgers on the grill. "No need to worry about that, Landon!" he called, a grin spreading across his face. "I got a clipper kit in the garage. Happy to help you out with a fresh summer cut. Get you ready for work in no time."

Landon’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to see Mike wiping his hands on a towel, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and encouragement. The crowd around them didn’t seem to notice, but to Landon, it felt like a spotlight had snapped on. A haircut. Right now. His throat went dry.
"Uh…" he stammered, glancing at Charlie, who just sipped his soda and smirked, like he was enjoying the show. Lisa, catching wind of the conversation, wandered over, her eyebrows shooting up.
"Dad, you’re not serious," she said, half-laughing. "You haven’t used those clippers since you tried to cut Max’s hair in middle school. He looked like a lopsided poodle and mom was pissed."
Mike waved her off. "Practice makes perfect. Come on, Landon, let’s get you sorted."

Before Landon could process, Mike was striding toward the garage, the kind of purposeful walk that didn’t invite argument. The garage door rattled open, revealing a cluttered space filled with tools, a workbench, and a folding chair that looked like it had been plucked from a 70s basement. On the workbench sat an old towel, folded neatly, and next to it, a battered black case. The clipper kit. It looked ancient, like something you’d find in a barbershop museum, its cord frayed and the blades glinting under the fluorescent light.

Landon’s feet felt glued to the grass. His hair, his identity, his whole slacker vibe—it was all on the line. He glanced at Lisa, hoping for a lifeline, but she just shrugged, her lips twitching like she was trying not to laugh. "It’s just hair, babe. It’ll grow back."
Charlie clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Your call, kid. Job’s waiting if you want it."

The garage door loomed like a gateway to something bigger than a haircut. Landon’s pulse raced. He could say no, walk away, keep sending out applications. Or he could step into that chair, let the clippers hum, and see where this path led. The weight of the choice pressed down on him, heavier than the summer heat.

He took a deep breath, ran his fingers through his hair one last time, and started toward the garage.

Landon’s sneakers scuffed against the concrete floor of the garage as he approached the folding chair, his heart thudding like a kick drum. The air inside was cooler than the backyard, tinged with the faint smell of motor oil and sawdust. Mike was already rummaging through the black clipper case, pulling out a set of Wahl clippers that looked like they’d seen action in the Reagan era. The blades gleamed under the flickering fluorescent light, and a tangle of attachments—guards, Landon guessed—spilled onto the workbench.

"Alright, son, take a seat," Mike said, his tone cheerful but firm, like a coach rallying a nervous rookie. He grabbed a tattered barber cape from the case, shaking it out with a flourish that sent a puff of dust into the air.
Landon hesitated, his hand instinctively reaching up to tug at a lock of hair that curled over his ear. "Uh, maybe just a trim?" he said, his voice cracking slightly. "Like, clean it up a bit, but… keep it kinda long?"
Mike chuckled, swinging the cape around like a matador. "Landon, I’m gonna level with you. I got one trick up my sleeve, and it’s a summer crewcut. Short, simple, clean. Been doing it since my Navy days. Anything fancier, and you’re better off at a salon with Lisa’s mom. What do you say? In or out?"

Landon’s stomach twisted. A crewcut? His mind flashed to old photos of his dad in high school—buzz-short sides, barely anything on top. Not his vibe. He glanced back at the backyard, where Lisa was now watching from the edge of the garage, her arms crossed and a teasing smile on her face. Charlie leaned against the workbench, sipping his soda, his expression unreadable but expectant.

"C’mon, kid," Charlie said, his voice low but encouraging. "You want the job, you gotta look the part. It’s just hair."

Landon swallowed hard, his fingers brushing through his shaggy mane one last time. The strands were uneven, some tickling his neck, others flopping into his eyes. He’d always liked the chaos of it—his little rebellion against the clean-cut jocks and preppy kids at school. But the job… the chance to work on cars, to learn something real, to stop feeling like he was drifting… it was right there. All it would cost was his hair.
"Alright," he said finally, the word scraping out of his throat. "Let’s do it."
Mike’s grin widened. "That’s the spirit! Hop in the chair."

Landon lowered himself onto the creaky folding chair, the metal cold against his legs. His hands gripped the the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening as Mike draped the cape over him, snapping it shut at the back of his neck. The fabric felt heavy, like a ceremonial robe, and it smelled faintly of Old Spice and mothballs. Mike adjusted the cape, making sure it covered Landon’s shoulders, then stepped back to assess his canvas.
"Gonna look sharp when we’re done," Mike said, plugging in the clippers. The cord dangled, frayed but functional, and when he flicked the switch, the clippers roared to life with a deep, buzzing hum that filled the garage. Landon’s pulse spiked, the sound alone making his scalp tingle.
Mike rummaged through the attachments, muttering to himself. "Number two guard oughta do it. Short enough for summer, long enough you won’t look like a Marine." He snapped the guard onto the clippers, the plastic clicking into place with a sound that felt oddly final.

Landon’s eyes darted to Lisa, who’d edged closer, now leaning against the garage doorframe. "You’re gonna be fine," she said, but her grin betrayed her amusement. "Dad’s skills might have improved."
"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," Mike shot back, winking at her. He turned to Landon, clippers in hand. "Ready? I’ll start at the back, work my way up. Just sit still and breathe."

Landon nodded, his throat too tight to speak. He stared straight ahead, focusing on a rusty wrench hanging on the pegboard wall, as Mike’s hand gently tilted his head forward. The first touch of the clippers against his nape was a shock—cold metal and a vibration that buzzed through his skull. Then came the crunching sound, like Velcro tearing, as the blades sheared through the thick hair at the base of his neck.
Landon’s breath hitched. He felt the weight of his hair falling away, strands sliding down the cape and tumbling to the concrete floor. Mike worked methodically, running the clippers in smooth, upward passes from nape to crown. Each pass left a cool, exposed patch of scalp, the summer air brushing against it like a whisper. Landon’s fingers twitched with his grip on the edge of the chair, fighting the urge to reach up and check the damage.

"Looking good already," Mike said, his voice steady as he moved to the sides. The clippers hummed over Landon’s right ear, folding it down gently as Mike carved a clean line around it. Tufts of dark hair rained down, piling up on the cape’s folds and scattering across the floor. Landon caught a glimpse of one long strand—easily four inches—curling like a question mark on the concrete. His stomach lurched.
"How’s it feel?" Mike asked, pausing to shake hair off the clippers.
"Uh… lighter?" Landon managed, his voice thin. He didn’t dare look at Lisa or Charlie, afraid of their reactions. The buzzing resumed, this time over his left ear, the clippers gliding with precision as Mike shaped the sides into a tapered, uniform length. The number two guard left about a quarter-inch of hair, just enough to keep it soft but short enough to scream "practical."

Mike stepped around to the front, tilting Landon’s head back slightly. "Now for the top," he said. "Gonna blend it in, keep it tight." He switched to a slightly longer guard—a number three, Landon overheard him mutter—and started at the forehead, running the clippers back in neat rows. The sensation was less jarring now, but the sight of his bangs, the longest part of his hair, falling onto the cape made Landon’s chest tighten. Those were the strands he’d spent years perfecting, flicking out of his eyes with a practiced toss of his head. Gone.

Mike worked quickly, his hands steady from years of practice, even if it was just backyard barbering. He used a small comb to lift sections of hair on top, buzzing over it to create a flat, even plane that sloped slightly toward the back. Every few passes, he’d step back, squinting like an artist checking his work, then dive back in, refining the edges with a smaller trimmer he’d pulled from the case. The trimmer’s higher-pitched whine tickled Landon’s ears as Mike cleaned up the hairline, carving a sharp line across his forehead and along his temples.

Landon’s scalp felt naked, the air hitting it in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was a kid. He risked a glance at the floor, where a pile of his hair lay like a discarded costume—shaggy, dark, and utterly foreign now. His reflection in a nearby toolbox mirror was blurry, but he could make out the shape of his head, smaller and more defined without the curtain of hair.
"Almost done," Mike said, brushing loose hairs off Landon’s neck with a soft barber’s brush. He unplugged the clippers, setting them on the workbench, and grabbed a damp towel to wipe down Landon’s neck and ears. The towel was warm, soothing, but Landon barely noticed. His mind was racing, trying to picture what he looked like now.
Mike unsnapped the cape with a flourish, shaking it out so a cascade of hair fluttered to the floor. "Stand up, take a look," he said, gesturing to a small hand mirror on the workbench.

Landon rose slowly, his legs wobbly, and grabbed the mirror. He held it up, angling it to catch his reflection. The guy staring back wasn’t the Landon he knew. His hair was gone—replaced by a crisp, flattopish crewcut that hugged his scalp, the sides tapered tight and the top flat and precise. His ears, which he’d always thought stuck out too much, were fully exposed, and his jawline looked sharper, more angular. He looked… older. Professional, maybe. Like someone who could walk into Charlie’s shop and belong there.

"Whoa," he whispered, turning his head to check the sides. He ran a hand over the top, the bristles soft but prickly, like velvet rubbed the wrong way. It felt alien, but not bad. Just… different.
Lisa stepped forward, her eyes wide. "Babe, you look good," she said, her voice genuine but laced with surprise. "Like, really good."
Charlie nodded, a slow grin spreading. "That’s more like it. You clean up nice, kid. Job’s yours if you want it. Start Monday?"
Landon’s heart raced, but this time it wasn’t panic. It was possibility. He looked at the mirror again, at the stranger who was him, and felt a spark of something new—confidence, maybe, or resolve. He set the mirror down and met Charlie’s gaze.
"Yeah," he said, his voice steadier now. "I’m in."

Mike clapped him on the shoulder, beaming. "Knew you had it in you. Now let’s get back to those burgers before we all starve."
As they stepped out of the garage, the cicadas’ hum greeted them, and the smoky air felt lighter somehow.

Landon’s hand drifted to his scalp again, feeling the unfamiliar texture, and for the first time all evening, he didn’t tug at his hair. He didn’t need to.

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