The chair by Fred

---

The Chair

It begins with the climb. The young man stands at the edge of the barber chair, its leather gleaming under the warm lights, the steel footrest polished smooth by decades of use. He hesitates, as though standing at the threshold of something larger than himself. The chair is not just furniture; it is a place where control is handed over.

The barber gestures with a simple nod. No words are needed. The young man obeys, stepping forward, planting his foot on the rung, then lifting himself into the heavy chair. It swallows him whole. He sits tall, yet there’s no mistaking the imbalance—this seat belongs to the barber, and the one who sits here sits under his authority.

The cape comes next. A snap in the air, sharp and commanding, then the vinyl sheet descends. It slides cool over the young man’s arms and chest, heavy and sealing. The barber fastens it snugly around his neck, not painfully, but close enough to remind him he will remain enclosed until the work is done.

The clippers come alive with a low, buzzing hum that fills the room. The barber places a firm hand on the crown of the young man’s head and guides it downward. He yields, chin lowering until it brushes the cape. There is no point in resisting; the hand is steady, insistent, certain.

The clippers climb the nape of his neck in a single, smooth stroke. He feels the vibration through his skull, the warm motor grazing his skin. A cascade of auburn hair falls onto the cape. At first it is just a few strands, then whole locks, tumbling down in thick, curled clumps. They gather in his lap, stark against the black vinyl.

The young man’s chest tightens. Each pass of the clippers is both loss and relief. The hair that has defined him, shaded him, given him softness, is sheared away without hesitation. Yet a thrill runs through him as well. To obey, to let go, to endure the transformation—there is power in that too.

The barber tips his head this way and that, nudging it with quiet authority. The young man obeys each movement, feeling the tension of submission in his neck and shoulders. The cape grows heavier with clippings. Auburn strands cling to his skin, tickling, itching, but he does not lift a hand. He remains still under the barber’s control.

He risks a glance at the mirror. Half of his head gleams white and bare, the other still thick with auburn waves. He feels torn between two selves, undone yet unfinished. The clippers sing again, and the rest of the old self falls away.

At last the clippers fall silent. For a moment there is only the hush of the shop, the faint rasp of a comb being drawn from a jar. Then comes the click of scissors, bright and precise.

The barber combs the hair on top forward, then lifts it section by section. The young man watches in the mirror as auburn locks, longer and richer than he realized, are held high, then severed with a sharp snip. Each cut sends another soft plume drifting downward. The strands fall like autumn leaves, catching the light before settling on the cape, on the floor, on his shoulders.

There is a beauty in it—watching the hair fall, freed from his head, alive in its descent. He feels the oddest mixture of pride and sorrow. The barber works with a rhythm, scissors and comb in concert, reducing what was once wild into order and form.

The sides stand stark, clean whitewalls running neatly up to the crown. The top, now shorter, is shaped and blended, precise but not harsh. The young man runs his tongue along the inside of his cheek, tasting nerves. He wants to shift, to stretch, but he remains still, holding to obedience as the barber makes his final adjustments.

Hair lies thick across the cape—auburn against black, a testament to what has been taken. The silence of the stopped clippers is profound, as though the whole room is waiting for something to conclude.

The barber’s hand finds the fastening at his neck. With a soft flick, the cape loosens. Air rushes cool against his throat. The young man exhales, realizing how confined he had been. The vinyl slips slightly open, enough to expose the skin just above his collar.

He hears the rasp of a lather brush, the clink of a razor stropped. A chill spreads across his neck as foam is applied, cool and wet. He shivers, but he does not move.

The razor comes next—gleaming, sharp. The barber presses a hand lightly against his head again, pushing it forward. The young man obeys without hesitation. The blade glides with slow precision along the nape of his neck, each stroke peeling away stubble, defining the edge. He holds his breath, feeling the closeness of steel and the weight of trust.

When the razor is finished, a hot towel wraps around his neck. The warmth seeps into his skin, releasing the tension he hadn’t realized he was holding. It feels almost like absolution: the sharpness of the blade giving way to comfort, the strictness of obedience giving way to reward.

The cape is lifted away completely, a cascade of auburn clippings sliding to the floor in a pile at his feet. He rises, lighter in every way. The mirror shows him transformed. His face is clearer, jaw sharper, freckles more vivid. The softness of his old self has been stripped back, replaced by something leaner, stricter, more defined.

The young man lifts a hand to the whitewalls, feeling the bristle against his palm. He looks older, more disciplined, yet he still sees the shadow of loss in the mirror—loss of the auburn waves that once framed him.

And yet, as he leaves the chair, there is a quiet pride. He has obeyed. He has endured. He has been transformed. The hair will grow again, but this moment—the surrender, the trust, the razor’s edge—will remain with him long after the clippings are swept away.

---