Pilot's Cap by Manny

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“Aren’t you supposed to be heading into the cockpit?" I asked the imposing man, dressed in a full pilot’s uniform (to include a spiffy cap that commanded authority).

He smiled broadly, revealing a perfect set of white choppers.

“I’m off duty, heading home, happily," he replied. “Very happy, actually, since I’ve bagged a seat in business class. That doesn’t happen very often!"

He removed his cap, and I was suddenly staring at the most amazing deep-pile flattop! The dense brown hair on top was perfectly level and the sides reduced to a heavy stubble halfway up.

I told myself to stop staring at his haircut!

Nervously, I picked up the airline magazine and thumbed through it as the off-duty pilot got himself situated.

It was he who initiated a bit of small chat while we awaited takeoff.

“Heading home? Or…" then, he gave me a once over and answered his own question, “…no, you are off on a business trip. I can see from the way you’re dressed. If you were heading home, you’d be in your casual clothes, I assume. Unfortunately, airline personnel are required to be in uniform when returning home on the airline’s dime."

“I suppose if there’s an emergency in the cockpit, they can quickly identify you and have you take over the controls," I laughed. “Anyway, that uniform is pretty splendid. Better than a business suit. And, I love the cap!"

At the mention of the cap, the pilot put his hand up to his clipped nape.

“Ah, the cap," he sighed. “It’s responsible for this…."

The pilot ran his head lightly up the back of his head and touched the erect strands of his top momentarily.

“Your flattop?" I stammered.

I wondered if he had seen me staring at it so intently. His next comment left me in no doubt.

“Yes, it attracts quite a bit of attention. Flattops can be a bit demanding with regard to maintenance, but I’ve sported one for the past 15 years on account of the cap," he explained.

“Really? How so?" I asked, intrigued. “I’ve always been fascinated by flattops."

“Well, when I got this airline job, I was sporting the floppy look of the rom-com beau that was trending at the time. Remember the look? Long and wavy on top and tidier around the ears and nape," he said.

“Like Hugh Grant in Notting Hill and his amazing hair in Maurice?" I asked.

“Exactly!" he laughed. “Fact is, before the makeover, my friends jokingly referred to me as ‘Maurice’ on account of the hairstyle. I must say, I did rock the look. I sort of miss the length on top from time to time."

“So, go on," I urged. “I’m liking the story, and we have several hours to kill."

“I had always felt that when I moved into the career mode, I needed to tone down the pretty boy persona. You know, adapt a more professional appearance. The first time I dressed in my new uniform and put on the cap, that feeling was strengthened. It didn’t look horrible, but there was too much bulk poking out from the cap. I thought I needed a tidier look," he explained.

The pilot continued, “Then came my first trip…rushing through the airport, taking the cap off at security and clamping it back on without a mirror…by the time I got in the cockpit and removed it, my hair was a mess! It was sweaty, and falling in my eyes. My cockpit colleague looked at me and joked it was a bit of a security hazard!"

“I can imagine," I laughed. “And the next thing you know, you’re on your way to the barber shop for a flattop?"

“Not exactly, but a barber shop that specialized in flattops did become my ultimate destination," he replied. “Lots of pilots are veterans who sported military lengths during an air force or navy career before going civilian. It’s a sweet deal with both a government pension and a big salary from the airline."

“So, after the first hairstyle malfunction in the cockpit, what happened?" I asked.

“I went to my regular salon and told the stylist about my situation, that I wanted my hair cut shorter," the pilot replied. “I remember her combing my long forelock straight up, like she usually did, examining it, and asking ‘a bit shorter or a lot short?’ On impulse, I blurted out ‘a lot shorter’. I thought she’d take off an inch or two from the six-inch lock. To my shock, her scissors quickly lopped off a full four inches! I couldn’t believe it! In a split-second, there went the foundation of my rom-com floppy hairstyle -- down to the cape! She smiled as she sectioned the next lock and snipped it off to the same short length. Very quickly, much of my hair was transferred from head to cape. Then, for the first time, she used electric hair clippers on me. They had a big plastic guard on them, but it felt odd to have my head nudged forward so that I was staring at a lap full of cut hair and feeling the vibration at my nape. Actually, it felt a bit exciting!"

“And did you like the final result?" I asked.

“No!" he exclaimed. “Not one bit. I remember staring at myself in the mirror as she finished blowing my hair straight back, thinking I looked like I was wearing a small plastic bicycle helmet! It was just long enough on top to lie down flat, but took some coaxing with the blow-dryer and product. I absolutely hated the new haircut -- so rigid and puny and sterile. But what was there to do? I told myself I would wear the cap as much as possible, and that it would grow out soon enough."

“But, it never grew back out, did it?" I remarked.

“Nope, in fact, the very same day, it was cut even shorter. Much shorter!" he laughed.

“Flattop short?" I asked.

“Bingo!" he exclaimed. “By a traditional barber. And, that same man has been keeping it sharp and tidy for the past 15 years!"

The pilot showed off his top by tilting his head down so that I could see the dense top in its full glory.

“Shouldn’t a pilot prefer a landing strip?" I remarked, with a twinkle in my eye.

“Ha! Now you’re sounding like my barber, Fred!" the pilot replied. “He often asks, ‘How about a landing strip this time, pilot?’ Fred’s an old-school professional. I just hope he doesn’t retire. He’s already cut back to working only three days per week."

“So, how did you settle on Fred to put an end to the bicycle helmet haircut?" I asked.

“Well, I was heading into the subway and passed the sign that had caught my attention before. ‘Barber Shop, Second Floor. We specialize in flattops and other military haircuts.’ Instead of walking past it and taking the escalator down to the subway tracks, I paused. My mind was whirling. I periodically had wondered what a very short haircut would be like, the type so many of the pilots sported. Of the various military lengths, the flattop had intrigued me the most. It was a way to have very short hair, but to be a bit standout-ish, to project a bit of a flair. And, even within the flattops, there was variety. Quite an array, actually: deep pile, landing strip, high and tight, horseshoe. All of them, I thought, looked great on men who had thick, dense hair like mine."

“So, without a second thought, you headed up to the second floor," I guessed.

“And there was Fred, standing idle, arranging some things on his counter, while the other barbers clipped away on clients," the pilot said. “I asked him, ‘are you the flattop pro?’ He just smiled and pointed to the chair. It was odd to be seated, facing away from the mirror. Fred wasn’t much for chatter and didn’t ask for any specifics. His only communication was, ‘first time flattop?’ I said it was, that I needed a tidy, professional look."

“And, then, for the second time that day, your head was pushed forward, and you were staring at your lap while the clippers went up the back of your head," I commented gleefully.

“Except, this time, I experienced the controlling grip of a traditional barber. No gentle nudge forward! Fred manipulated my head in a firm, authoritative way. Furthermore, there was no plastic guard on the huge set of clippers -- just naked metal teeth which moved tightly up the back of my head, from nape to crown. My heart was pounding!" the pilot recounted. “Under the white cape with pinstripes, I was gripping the arms of the chair, wondering how I would look."

Then, he continued, in a more somber tone, “I felt instant regrets. I mean, I was going to be almost bald by the time the haircut ended. And, I thought about my then-girlfriend, who was a big fan of my Hugh Grant pretty boy look…I had no doubt she would flip-out over the flattop!"

“Fred was a good barber, though," I commented, trying to bring his account back into a sunnier tone.

“The best! He clipped and clipped…and snipped and snipped…and clipped and clipped. The haircut seemed like it was going on forever, and I had plenty of time to study the shop. Very frozen in time, very vintage, with a checked linoleum floor and bright neon lights. The red vinyl upholstery on the four big barber thrones had also been used on the line of chairs in the waiting area. Huge jars full of blue barbicide at each station on the counter completed the predominant, red-white-blue color scheme. Then there were the various framed pictures that enhanced that patriotic theme: the Iwo Jima statue; a formation of flying Blue Devil navy jets; the Tomb of the Unknown soldier in Arlington; historic flags with mottos like ‘Don’t Give Up the Ship’; and several photos of aircraft carriers."

“So, how did you feel when the big reveal ensued?" I asked.

“My stomach was in total knots as Fred swiveled the chair around so that I could see the new me. Fortunately, it was love at first sight! I broke out into a huge smile. The flattop was perfect, far better than I ever imagined. I felt manly and virile," the pilot replied. “As Fred held up a mirror to show off the back, he said, ‘I left it long on top, but can take it down shorter if you’d like.’ I assured him that it was perfect just the way it was."

“Thanks for telling me your flattop story," I remarked. “I love to hear personal accounts like that."

The pilot looked at me and studied my carefully styled executive coif. I got nervous, because I knew what he was thinking.

“Maybe my story has given you the needed nudge to put an end to this GQ look you’re clinging onto," he murmured.

“Too bad my office garb doesn’t include a cap to give me a big push into the barber’s chair like you got," I said softly. “I need much more than a nudge. I practically need someone to drag me into a barber shop and tell the barber to give me a flattop. I worry a lot about what everyone might think and say."

We sat in awkward silence for a bit.

Then, the pilot said, “I’m Bill, by the way. My barber shop isn’t that far from the airport. My car is parked there, and I wouldn’t mind…in fact, I’d rather enjoy being the one to drag you into the shop and instruct old Fred regarding your exciting makeover."

My heart pounded! I gripped the arm of the airplane seat, feeling like I was already in the barber chair. How I wanted to say yes!

“Bill, eh?" I stammered. “I’m Phil."

“Bill and Phil. Ha! Phil’s first flattop!" he laughed. “Years from now you’ll be telling someone how you met this off-duty pilot on the plane who was your source of inspiration to shed the coif. Phil met Bill! Ha ha!!"

“If only…" I answered vaguely.

I imagined myself in the big chair, caped, head bowed down and barber Fred firing up the clippers. My soft, elegant hairstyle falling away in swaths….

Just then, we were interrupted by the flight attendant with the drinks cart.

“I’ll have a double bourbon on the rocks -- Buffalo Trace if you have it," Bill said.

“Same for me," I piped up.

As we sipped our beverages, I thought it more than a coincidence that we favored the same liquor.

“What hotel are you staying in?" Bill asked.

“The downtown Hyatt," I replied.

“So, after the barber shop, I can take you there," Bill said, in a playful, teasing tone. “I’m not going to let you off the hook about the haircut…and I have another two hours to work on your resistance. Who cares what others say or think?! Have you wanted to get a flattop for a long time?"

“For as long as I can remember," I admitted.

“It’s going to happen today, I can feel it in my bones," Bill replied.

“I’ve never been closer to a ‘yes’ on the matter than I am just now," I confessed, feeling midway between reluctant and ready.

Then, I turned the tables on Bill.

“So, when are you going to say ‘yes’ to Fred’s proposal to carve a landing strip into that dense patch of hair on top?" I asked.

Bill flashed a big smile. “Today! If you’re there with me and sporting a fresh, first-time flattop!"

I looked at him. It would be fun to watch Fred take Bill’s showy top down. I imagined the clippers plunging straight into those tall, erect strands. Fifteen years of a lovely plush pelt obliterated in seconds. And, in its place, a glaring white strip of virgin scalp!

“Deal!" I found myself stammering, extending my hand to shake on the matter.

Bill grasped it forcefully. Our fates were sealed…and I imagined we were both feeling the same mix of anxiety and excitement.

“We have a lot in common, and I’d like to get to know you better. Do you often come to town on business?" Bill asked as he released my hand after the prolonged shake.

“At least once a month, and sometimes, bi-monthly. It depends on the time of year," I explained.

“Perfect! Fred can be your regular barber…although he doesn’t work every day of the week. He’s always there Saturdays. You can stay the weekend and we can do something together after our haircuts. Do you play golf?" Bill asked.

“I enjoy a round every so often, just to relax. I’m not a competitive type," I replied.

“Oh, I am!" he crowed. “Very competitive. And, I might want to have a competition with you some time about who can get the shortest haircut. I’ve dreamed of an extreme shoe. Everything shaved shiny smooth except a trace of hair like a horseshoe around the crown."

“Well, what’s been keeping you from it?" I asked, intrigued.

Bill blushed with embarrassment.

“Afraid about what people would say," he finally confessed with a laugh. “Stupid, isn’t it?!"

Both of us were left to our thoughts and fantasies for much of the rest of the flight.

As we began our final approach for landing, I remarked, “Well, this is it! Landing strip, straight ahead!"

Bill chuckled, then added as he pawed at his deep pile pelt, “I’m going to miss this up here."

We almost galloped through the airport terminal to Bill’s car.

“I can’t believe I am doing this," I said as we speed away from the airport parking garage to the barber shop.

I examined my nice executive coif in the mirror of the sun visor. So, plush with perfect waves that were swept back from the face.

“Is pretty boy preening again?" Bill smirked.

“You can say your good-byes to this plush patch up here," I retorted, as I playfully brushed the top of his pelt.

Then I spotted the sign for the subway station with its attached parking area. I imagined myself riding the escalator up to the second floor and meeting old Fred.

“Ready?" Bill asked with a smile as we exited the car.

“Sort of," I mumbled nervously.

He put his arm around me and playfully tussled my hair.

“Let’s go, pretty boy!" he laughed.

There was no way I would be doing this without Bill’s impetus, determination and support.

Then, I thought I felt a brief, tender caress. Bill’s fingers lingering in my locks.

“I might need some comfort later on if my new haircut distresses me too much," I said softly.

We walked through the door into the station. I saw the escalator leading up to the shops.

“Let’s go, Mr. GQ!" Bill playfully hissed. “It’s time you got a real man’s haircut!"

I felt like I was heading to my execution as we rode up the moving stairs. Closer and closer to the clippers I climbed.

Then, the neon glow of the barber shop came shone like heaven's shekinah glory. And, finally, a complete view of the shop!

It was just as Bill had described - red, white and blue, with lots of patriotic and military overtones. The barbers were all sporting snappy white tunics. I quickly spotted Fred, the oldest of the four barbers on duty. All the barber chairs were occupied. We would have to take a seat in the waiting area.

“Howdy, fellows," Bill announced as we entered. “I have a new client for you. Phil’s looking forward to his first flattop!"

The barbers all murmured their approval, and I found myself the attention of every person in the shop. I took my suit jacket off and hung it on a hook near the entrance.

“And, Fred, I’m going to have you take my top down today. It’s time this pilot got his own landing strip!" Bill exclaimed.

“Well, I’ll be. Miracles never cease," Fred remarked in a deadpan voice.

I enjoyed the camaraderie in the shop. So much better than my salon where people pranced around, feeling cute and on show. Plus, with only male barbers and clientele, the dynamic was quite different.

I squirmed nervously in the waiting area, watching all four haircuts in progress. None of them were that exciting. But, ahead of us in the waiting area, was a shaggy teen sitting next to his stern-looking father. He had a big bowl of blond hair that was in his face, as well as over his ears and completely covering his collar. Periodically, he would flick it out of his eyes, exasperating his father.

“Who’s next?" one of the barber’s asked as the client he had just finished left his chair.

“That would be me," the stern-looking father said.

“I can take your son first, if you’d like," the barber commented hopefully. “He seems to be in much more need of a haircut than you."

The father advanced toward the chair, “No one would argue with that, but he’s just accompanying me here today. None of you barbers will get near his precious locks with your cutting instruments, I’m afraid. He's adamant."

“Dad!" the lad whined, obviously embarrassed.

Another barber was finishing.

Oh, no! I supposed I was next!

He was a young, muscular guy whose tailored tunic accentuated his physique. The tats on his biceps gave him a modern look that was out of sync with the shop. His blond hair was shorn into a bald fade.

He pointed at me. “You? Or your buddy?"

“Go ahead, Phil," Bill urged. “I’m waiting for Fred."

I stood up slowly. My legs felt like jelly, and I paused to stabilize myself before the last leg of my journey. The chair, as well as the closely clipped barber, awaited me.

I glanced in the mirror. My coif! The chopping block was imminent!

I ambled to the chair.

“Flattop! Right?" the barber chirped as I took a seat.

“Yep," I muttered.

“Want to watch your transformation?" the barber offered, as the cape fluttered down to blanket my nervousness.

“Sure," I eked out, pleased that I was given a choice.

He pulled the cape tightly into place, fastened it with a big metal clip, and then swiveled the chair around so that I faced the mirror.

“Finally putting an end to this weary professional look," he commented in a bit of a taunting tone. “How short are we going today? A recon? High and tight? Horseshoe?"

I glanced at his bald fade. The young barber definitely preferred ultra-shorn looks. ‘Less is better’ probably defined his approach to haircuts.

“Uh, not so short. Plush on top. Actually, the same length that my friend Bill over there is sporting now," I noted.

“I can handle that," the young barber said as he grabbed his balding clippers and forcefully moved my head into a bowing position.

The machine sprang to life; a numbing fog enveloped me.

Instantly, the steel teeth began chewing off my hair, tight up the back of my head.

“There, there, first bit of the helmet taken off," the barber laughed. “You’re already looking better."

I felt a cool blast of air conditioning on the shorn strip up the back of my head, especially the exposed neck.

“What blade are you using, Tyson?" Bill asked from the waiting area.

“#0000! I’m balding the back and sides, all the way to the crown," the young barber replied.

“I see that," Bill said in an equivocal tone. “The length of fine sand paper."

My stomach lurched. Why hadn’t Fred given me my first flattop? This Tyson fellow was itching to strip me of all my pampered hair….

I braced for a few more forceful drives with the clippers as Tyson completely stripped the back of my head down to the wood.

“Sit up straight!" Tyson instructed, tapping me on the shoulder.

In the mirror, I still looked the same. But not for long.

Tyson cocked my head to the side and brought the balding clippers close to the scalp, up through the sideburn and temple. He flicked away a padding of clipped hair; I saw for the first time how very short the sides and back were going to be. Yes, it would be a fine sandpaper, as Bill had described.

“So, what’s inspired this big change?" Tyson asked.

Why didn’t I get silent Fred?! My head was spinning, yet Tyson wanted to engaged in chitter-chatter instead of concentrating on his work.

“I’ve always admired the flattop and knew that I would get one at some point. Bill there was my inspiration and connection to this shop," I explained.

I watched Tyson strip away all the hair around my ears.

Then, without notice, he seized my forelock with a comb and quickly ran the clippers down the plastic teeth. My executive quiff!! GONE in a split second!

I stared dumbfounded at the large clump of hair that still clung together as a unit in my lap.

“Love to do that!" Tyson chortled. “Instant change. The old look is history, Phil. No going back now…."

I stared at the VERY short bangs that remained. Nothing more than an inch.

I felt strangely nauseous and energized by that sudden, dramatic move.

Then, I heard Bill being summoned to the chair by Fred.

Oh, it was time for his deep pile to take a mega-hit!

“A landing strip, at last," Fred chortled as Bill settled into the red vinyl upholstery.

“Yep, you had faith this day would eventually come," Bill replied cheerfully.

“Are we going for a light touch, like just grazing the top of your head, or…?" Fred began.

“Nope! Hit it hard! Plow the clippers down the middle and give me a broad field of white on top," Bill instructed.

I heard the cape being cast.

“How you holding up over there, Phil?" Bill asked.

“Well, I’m practical bald," I deadpanned.

“You are not!" Tyson interjected. “Look at this dense patch up here! Truth is, I’d like to see you cueball bald. Scraped clean. Nothing but shiny, creamy-soft scalp up here."

I squirmed beneath the cape as I imagined Tyson draping my head with warm, moist towels prepping it for a total head shave. His muscular arm pulling the straight edge razor across my scalp. A teasing, wicked smile across his face as he left nothing on top but virgin, creamy-white scalp. It was another of my fantasies…to sport a masculine, in-your-face, bald-by-choice chromedome.

The fourth barber finished his client and stared at the shaggy lad in the waiting area.

“Come on, hop up here! That shag is a mess," the idle barber taunted.

The stern father announced, “Well, he’s not getting a driver’s permit until it’s been cut short! Can’t have him driving with hair in his eyes like that. He’d be a menace to society."

Bill joined the pressure campaign, “Go ahead, boy! Get a haircut! You’ll look and feel much better. Fancy a flattop like mine, kid?"

“Tell you what, son," the father announced to the shop, “you climb into that chair right now and you can have Aunt Maggie’s vintage Cutlass Supreme. As the executor of her estate, I’ll have her car put in your name instead of sending it to auction."

“Really?" the lad stammered. “Her ’72 Cutlass?!"

“That’s right, but this offer expires in ten seconds. 10 - 9 - 8 - 7…" the father droned.

In a flash, the lad was on his feet, tossing his hair back and moving quickly to the empty chair.

“Well, well. The moptop on the chopping block!" the barber chuckled. “Any specific instruction, pop?"

“Off the ears, collar and eyebrows. Especially the bangs -- snip them nice and short, away from the eyes," the father said.

The cape fluttered through the air and the lad squirmed nervously in the chair.

“So, tapered short up the back and around the ears," the barber summarized, putting his own (much shorter) spin on the makeover.

The barber combed the lad's thick, heavy bangs straight down, “Let’s start with this mange in front…"

SNIP! SNIP!! SNIP!!!

The lad’s muffled gasp filled the shop. His long bangs had been cut to mid-forehead -- ramrod-straight across.

Meanwhile, Tyson was still taking my top down.

“I think it’s short enough," I stammered, somehow pleased with the way the haircut was turning out. It was shorter than I had wanted, but looked good.

“You have the perfect hair for a flattop," Tyson said, also pleased with how things were turning out. “But, just a bit shorter will be better. At this length, hair seems to grow very fast."

Off came another 1/8th of an inch without my specific consent.

“No landing strip? Are you sure?" Tyson teased.

“Maybe next time," I said reluctantly.

Then Tyson quickly took off another ¼ inch. I was stunned. My flattop was now VERY short. Looking almost military like. Just short of a landing strip.

“There," he said quickly to preempt an outburst, “this the perfect length for you."

My stomach churned. My new look was a far cry from the executive coif I had pranced into the barber shop with.

To my surprise, Tyson snapped the clippers back on.

“I think a smaller patch on top would be even better," he told me.

“What??" I wailed.

Then he began whittled down the radius of the patch. Less and less hair remained on top. I definitely was looking like a mean drill sergeant!

Finally, the cape came off. I was free from Tyson’s control! I was a new man.

As I emerged from the chair, I surveyed the other clients.

The poor lad! His whole head had been clipped down to a virtual crewcut with the “little boy bangs" left as the only bit of length. He no longer looked like a teen, but an elementary school pupil. Hair was all over the cape and floor.

“Looking smart, kid," I said perfunctorily to give him some hope. “I wish my dad was giving me a vintage Cutlass Supreme!"

Then I examined Bill’s new landing strip. Wow! It was massive and dominated his head.

“How’s it looking?" Bill asked, curious, as his chair faced away from the mirror.

“Like you could land a Boeing 747 on it," I laughed.

The comment also brought out a smile on Fred’s face.

I continued laughing, unable to stop. Bill's landing strip was amusing me to no end.

“He said he wanted me to plow the clippers down the top, so I did," Fred stated, rather apologetically.

“Looks like you could easily turn this into a shoe," I noted casually.

“A shoe?!" Bill stammered.

“Go ahead, Fred, shoe him!" I urged.

Fred looked at Bill for confirmation.

My new pal sort of shrugged and said, “Why not? Do it!"

I watched in awe as Fred turned Bill’s flattop into a shoe. While I had been a big fan of his plush top, I had to admit that ‘less was more’ in terms of his flattop. I glanced in the mirror and got a quick glimpse my own.

“I know what you’re thinking," Tyson said with a touch of mirth in his voice.

I gave him a ‘deer in the headlights’ look. My mouth felt dry and my legs wobbly.

“Come on, the seat here is waiting for you," Tyson said, tapping the red vinyl upholstery. “You’ll have a shoe of your own!"

I found myself moving slowly back to Tyson’s chair. What the bleep! Was I insane?!

Tyson was all smiles as I eased back into the chair, which was still facing away from the mirror.

“So, it’s a shoe for you too, Phil!" the barber chirped.

My mouth was totally paralyzed. My lips drier than the Sahara.

I heard myself say, “No, I want to go all the way. Cueball bald. Clean as a whistle. And, I want the big reveal. A total surprise to see myself newly hairless."

The cape was on, the balding clippers were on, Tyson’s muscular arm was on....and the remnants of my hair were OFF!! In a flash he clipped off all the length.

Then, the warm moist towels were on, the soothing white foam was on, Tyson’s muscular hand was on....and the remnants of my stubble were OFF!! Ably, completely scraped off.

SCRAPE! SCRAPE!! SCRAPE!!!

It felt like a sort of numb nirvana. I was transported to another world of imagination, of me walking into the business conference with my new look...a chromedome! Everyone blinking and murmuring. A soft ripple of giggles and gasps. A few cruel taunts. I would stand alone, bald to the bone!

As Tyson was wiping away the bits of foam with a moist towel, Bill walked over.

His grin was ear-to-ear.

“And, you said you weren’t competitive…! But, look, you beat me to it! Bald to the bone! You can't get shorter than that," he exclaimed.

Then he came closer and put is hand on my virgin scalp, caressing the tender skin lightly.

“How does it look?" I asked, enjoying his attention and touches.

“As good as it feels," he assured me with a wink and another stimulating rub.

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