The invisible man becomes an influencer by HairNoMore

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Steve lived quietly—so quietly that most people never realised he was there. He worked, he gamed, he went to the gym. That was his entire world. At the gym he trained hard but alone, always with headphones in, always avoiding eye contact. Nobody approached him, and he approached nobody. His shaggy, unstyled hair hung over his ears and forehead like a curtain he never bothered to lift.

One Saturday, he finally forced himself out for a haircut. It had been months. The barbershop he used was usually calm, almost empty—perfect for someone who preferred to blend into the background. But today, it was packed. Every chair full. Clippers buzzing nonstop.

As Steve walked in, two other guys entered at the same time—both loud, energetic, and instantly chatting. With no seats left, the three of them ended up standing together in the corner. The two strangers were excitable in a way Steve wasn’t used to. They joked about the wait, about their messy hair, about how they were both getting "proper military high and tights today." Somehow, they pulled Steve into the conversation. He nodded, offered a few quiet replies, and even managed a small laugh. It felt strange, but not unpleasant. When the two guys finally got their turn, they emerged transformed—sharp, clean, confident. They spun around and asked Steve what he thought.

He told them they looked great. And he meant it.

Then the barber called Steve over. Steve sat, expecting the usual: What are we doing today? But the barber didn’t ask. He glanced at Steve, then at the two guys he’d been standing with, pick up his clipper snd ran them up the back of his head.

"So what’s the occasion then?" the barber asked casually. "All three of you going for the transformation today?"

Before Steve could protest or reply, the clippers were continued to shear away his hair. A cold rush of air hit his newly exposed skin. There was no going back.

Steve opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He watched chunks of his shaggy hair fall to the floor, each one a small piece of the version of himself he’d been hiding behind. When the barber moved to the sides, Steve felt his ears—usually half-covered—suddenly exposed, sticking out more than he’d ever realised. His stomach tightened. The barber noticed.

He gave a knowing smile. "Don’t worry, mate. I know exactly how to take the emphasis off them." Before Steve could ask what that meant, there was a quick, sharp pinch. Then a warm pressure. The barber stepped back, satisfied. A small black hoop now sat neatly in Steve’s ear.

"There you go," he said. "Balances everything out."

Steve stared at his reflection. His hair was brutally short. His ears were fully visible. And the hoop glinted against his skin like a tiny rebellion. He didn’t recognise himself—but he didn’t look away.

The next day at the gym, Steve walked in expecting the same invisibility as always. Instead, two well-built, popular guys approached him with big grins.
"Mate, that haircut is sharp," one said.

"Seriously," added the other. "Looks class."

Steve blinked. He had assumed no one at the gym even knew he existed. But these two clearly had noticed him long before today. They introduced themselves as Matt and Craig, both friendly and confident and nothing like Steve. They invited him to train with them. Steve hesitated—but only for a moment.

Training with them was nothing like training alone. They pushed him harder, encouraged him, joked with him. For the first time in years, Steve felt part of something. At the end of the session, they arranged to meet him again the next day. Then Matt said, "Pub?" Steve surprised himself by saying yes.

At the pub, the conversation flowed easily, and Steve thought this is what it must be like to have friends. Matt kept glancing at Steve’s earring.

"You know," he said eventually, "that hoop actually looks sick. I’ve always wanted one." Steve felt a warm flicker of pride. Someone like Matt—confident, popular, effortlessly cool—was inspired by him.

Matt stood up suddenly. "Come on. Let’s get one."

Steve followed him to a nearby tattoo and piercing studio. Matt got a silver stud, grinning at himself in the mirror. Then, impulsively, he decided to get a tattoo as well—something bold, something visible. Steve watched, fascinated. The idea of a tattoo lodged itself in Steve’s mind and refused to leave.

Over the next week, he found himself drifting back to the tattoo shop. Just browsing. Just looking. Just imagining. On his third visit, the tattoo artist raised an eyebrow.

"Back again, mate?"

Steve shrugged. "Just looking."

The artist smirked. "There's nothing to be scared of mate."

Before Steve could deny it, the artist patted the chair.

"Come on. Let’s do something small. Something discreet."

Steve tried to say no, but the artist was insistent, confident, persuasive. Steve wasn’t strong enough to say no. He sat down. The artist chatted with him—about the gym, about Matt’s impulsive tattoo, about confidence. Then he said, "Trust me. I’m going to make you look awesome."

And he began to freehand. Not a small tattoo. Not a discreet one. A bold, blackwork piece that grew and grew until it covered Steve’s entire upper arm—impossible to hide under a T‑shirt. When it was done, Steve stared at it in awe. It was stunning. Powerful. Beautiful. He loved it. But not on him. On him, it felt too loud. Too visible. Too much.

The next day at the gym, despite the heat, Steve wore a tracksuit top. He kept tugging the sleeves down, terrified someone would see. Halfway through the session, Craig frowned.

"Mate, you’re sweating buckets. Take that off."

Steve tried to protest, but Craig was already unzipping it. The tattoo was revealed. Both Craig and Matt froze. Then:

"Holy—Steve, that’s incredible."

"That looks unreal."

"That looks awsome on you."

They circled him, admiring the lines, the shading, the boldness. They weren’t laughing. They weren’t judging. They were genuinely impressed. And for the first time, Steve felt something unfamiliar but warm: Pride.

Over the next few weeks, Steve trained harder than ever. His muscles began to stand out in ways they never had before. His confidence grew in tiny, almost invisible increments. But his high and tight haircut—once sharp—began to look tired.
Craig noticed first.

"You know," he said, "I’ve been thinking about going shorter for ages. Seeing you with that cut… yeah, that’s convinced me."

Matt agreed. So the three of them went to the barbers together. This time, Steve asked for a military high and tight with shaves back and sides. The guys asked for the same. They all walked out looking sharp, clean, confident. And as Steve walked down the street, he caught his reflection in a shop window.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t look away. He looked good. He looked like someone who belonged. He wanted to be noticed.

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