Clean-up by Snagg

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The key turned in the lock with a quiet click, and Ralf pushed the door open. The scent hit him first: weed smoke, stale takeout, and that faint sourness of unwashed dishes. He stepped inside their apartment — his boots heavy against the floorboards — and immediately saw Marcus sprawled on the couch, a joint smoldering in the ashtray beside him, half-lidded eyes barely registering his presence.
"Heyyy, my Captain," Marcus slurred, lifting a lazy hand. "You're home early."

Ralf looked around. Lots of loose sheets of paper, an empty pizza box, crumpled clothes, a half-eaten burrito on the floor. His jaw tensed. "It's seven-thirty, Marcus. This isn't early."
Marcus shrugged, then chuckled to himself. "Time's… like… subjective, you know?"
Ralf's voice turned to gravel. "Marcus. What the hell is this?"
The younger man blinked. "This?"
"This chaos. This... lifestyle. Every damn day I come home from the gym — from working — and you're either asleep, high, or making TikToks about late capitalism in your underwear."

Marcus sat up slowly, rubbing his face. His long, chestnut-brown hair fell across his eyes in messy waves. "I've been working on my thesis."
"Right. While high on my couch."
"Your couch?" Marcus raised an eyebrow, trying for sass, but Ralf's expression shut that down fast. His eyes, a stormy steel-blue, narrowed.
"Get your shoes on, boy."
"What? Why?"
"We're going out."
"I'm not high enough to go anywhere."
"You're exactly high enough for what I've got in mind."

The barbershop was small, industrial, and reeked of aftershave and fresh-cut hair. The walls were covered in black-and-white photos of old-school military cuts and bold, tattoo-style art. In the center stood John — bald, bearded, sleeved in ink from wrist to neck — who looked up from wiping his clippers.
"Ralf," he greeted with a nod. "What's up? Something wrong with the flattop I gave you yesterday?"
Ralf jerked his head toward Marcus, who stood behind him in a hoodie, his shaggy mop peeking out from under the hood like a rebellious halo.
"My partner needs a reset," Ralf said simply. "High and tight. Real tight."
Marcus's eyes widened. "Wait, what?! No way, Captain, you can't be serious."
John looked between them. "You sure he's in on this?"
Ralf turned to Marcus, voice low. "You want to continue drifting through life without a compass? Fine. But if you want to live with me you clean up. Literally and metaphorically. Starting now."

Marcus stared at him. Then at John. Then at his reflection in the mirror — tousled hair, unshaven face, eyes red from smoke and late nights.
"OK," he muttered, pulling the hoodie off and sinking into the barber chair. "But I swear, if I look like a potato—"
"You'll look like a man," Ralf said firmly, taking a seat nearby, arms crossed.
John caped his client and brought the clippers to life. "Alright, let's do this."

Marcus flinched as John pushed his head forward and ran the #0 guard up the back of his head. A cascade of thick brown hair tumbled down onto the cape.
"OMG," Marcus whispered, watching the pile grow on his lap. "So much hair!"
"What else did you expect? You're about to be sheared like a sheep," John said with a smirk, switching angles, going up the sides now. "You had a lot of hair for someone who clearly didn't know what to do with it."
Ralf chuckled darkly.
With surgical precision, John shaved the back and sides, leaving only a stripe of longer hair on top. He gradually blended the edges with a #1A, making the transition crisp and clean.

Marcus swallowed hard, watching himself transform in the mirror.
"You weren't kidding," he murmured. "That's… high. And tight."
"That's the name," John said, now trimming the top down to just under an inch with scissors. "No more hiding behind the mop."

Ralf cleared his throat. "I think you should use clippers for the top as well. Use a #3. I'm sure my boy agrees, right?"
Marcus nodded weakly and John took the clippers again.
"And also shave the back and sides nice and smooth. And shave his face, too!"
"Well be done!"

After John finished with the top, he wrapped a warm, damp towel around Marcus's face. After a couple of minutes, he removed the towel and applied a generous lather of warm shaving cream, covering Marcus's jaw, cheeks, neck, and upper lip.
John then reached for his straight razor. With a steady hand, he began at the sideburns, making smooth, deliberate strokes with the grain of Marcus's three days' beard. He worked methodically down each cheek, around the jawline, and carefully along the contours of the neck.
"Still doing okay?" John asked.
Marcus gave a slight nod, eyes closed, somehow he had begun to enjoy the transformation.
After the first pass, John reapplied the lather for a second, closer shave — this time going against the grain.

Now onto Marcus's head. John applied another hot towel, this time wrapping it over the scalp. Once removed, he lathered the sides and the back.
John started shaving again. He was meticulous, checking his work by running his hand lightly over the skin, seeking out any rough patches. He lathered for a second pass to ensure a perfectly smooth finish.

The cape came off with a theatrical snap, and Marcus stared at himself. The hair was gone. His ears looked bigger. His jawline sharper. His eyes — still red — looked... clearer.
Ralf stood, stepped behind him, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Now that's better."
Marcus exhaled slowly. "I look like I joined the Marines."
"I don't expect you to join the Marines like I did at your age, but I do expect you to look like someone who's ready to take himself seriously."
John clapped Marcus on the back. "Welcome to the clean side!"

They left the barbershop in silence. The night air was cool on Marcus's freshly shaved neck.
"I still can't believe you did that," he muttered.
"You agreed," Ralf said, not unkindly.
Marcus glanced sideways. "Yeah. Well. Maybe I needed it."
Ralf gave a laugh. "Maybe? Are you kidding? However, I want you to keep this clean look and have John fresh you up once a week."
Marcus groaned. "If it's really necessary..."
"Don't talk like a teenager! Now that you have a proper men's haircut, you can finally start acting like a man."
"Yes, Sir!"

Ralf stopped, running a hand over Marcus' shorn scalp. "You look damn hot with such short hair."
"What will my followers say?"
Ralf rolled his eyes. "You'll have plenty of time to think about how to sell it to them tomorrow when you clean the apartment."

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