Make Your Own Man by HairNoMore

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It was a grey Wednesday afternoon, and four proudly nerdy students—Elliot, Marcus, Tom, and Ben—were slumped around a table in the university common room. Their combined bank balance could barely buy a packet of crisps, and they’d already exhausted their usual free-time rituals: debating sci‑fi canon, ranking video‑game soundtracks, and arguing about whether quantum mechanics disproved free will.

Elliot pushed his glasses up his nose. "We need something to do tonight that doesn’t cost money. At all. My overdraft is already giving me dirty looks." Marcus, who always had an idea brewing behind his slightly-too-enthusiastic grin, snapped his fingers. "Studio audience tickets! Loads of shows give them out for free if you apply online." The others perked up. Free was their favourite price.

Tom immediately pulled out his phone—his most prized possession, protected by a case covered in retro game stickers. "Let me check what’s available." He tapped away for a moment, then his eyebrows shot up. "Guys. There are tickets tonight for something called Make Your Own Man."

Ben blinked. "Make your own what now?" Before Tom could answer, Marcus practically leapt out of his chair. "Oh! I’ve seen that show on TV. It’s hilarious." The other three leaned in, hungry for details. Marcus launched into his explanation with the enthusiasm of someone giving a TED Talk on a topic nobody asked for. "Okay, so the whole premise is a guy is selected at random from the audience, and a panel of women decides on how he should be changed so that they find him appealing, and at the end of the show he goes off on an exotic all expenses paid holiday with one of the panellists. They literally build his personality, his style, his vibe, and then give you a girlfriend!"

Tom snorted. "That sounds chaotic." "Anyone got any better suggestion?" asked Ben. Everyone pondered but nobody said anything. "OK Book the seats Tom, it’ll be different if nothing else."

That evening they turned up at the foyer. They were each made to sign contracts stating that in exchange for being able to watch the show for free they agreed, that if they were picked, that they would go along with all the transformations suggested. They too their seats and settled down to enjoy the show.

The host burst onto the stage. "Tonight’s lucky man will be chosen… right now!" The studio lights swept across the audience like a search beam, hunting for its next unsuspecting star. The light came to rest on Ben, who was happily munching popcorn. "You!" the host boomed. "Come on down!" The crowd roared. Ben blinked, pointed at himself, and was already being ushered toward the stage by two grinning assistants.

He stepped onto the stage, a little dazed, and the host slung an arm around his shoulder with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times. "Let’s get to know you," the host said, turning him toward the cameras. "What’s your name?"

"Ben," he replied, giving a small wave.

"And how old are you, Ben?" "Twenty." The host nodded theatrically. "Excellent age. Prime makeover material. Now, the question the audience always wants to know…" He leaned in. "Girlfriend?" Ben laughed nervously. "Uh… no. ", then he blushed. The audience whooped. The host grinned. "Well, we’ll see if that changes after tonight... And what do you do, Ben?"

"I’m a physics student."

"Ooh, clever," the host said, turning to the audience. "We’ve got a brainy one! Perfect. They always make the best transformations." The crowd cheered again, and Ben shook his head, half‑embarrassed, half‑amused. "Alright, Ben," the host said, gesturing grandly toward the centre of the stage. "Your adventure begins in the Transformation Booth. You won’t hear a thing from outside, and you won’t know what changes we’re making until the very end. Ready?"
Ben took a breath. "As I’ll ever be."

The door slid open with a soft hiss, and he stepped inside. The booth was sleek and brightly lit, with a stool, a mirror he wasn’t allowed to use, and a set of folding screens he could slip behind whenever he needed to change. The moment the door sealed shut, the outside world went silent.

The host gestured toward Ben. "Ladies, what do we think?"

They leaned forward, studying him through the glass. "Cute, but hiding," one said. "He’s got a good frame, but he’s drowning in those clothes," another added. "He looks like he’s trying to disappear," a third noted. "And that hair… we’ll get to that," the fourth said with a grin.

Ben couldn’t hear a word, but he could see them talking, pointing, evaluating. His stomach fluttered. A wardrobe assistant entered the booth carrying a simple pair of athletic shorts. She gestured toward the folding screens. Ben nodded, understanding the routine of the show, and stepped behind them. He changed quickly, neatly folding his clothes before stepping back out in just the shorts. The panel reacted instantly. "He’s got good legs!" "He’s stronger than he realises." "Turn around for us." The assistant tapped Ben’s shoulder and mimed a spin. Ben complied, cheeks warming, but he did it — slowly turning so they could assess him. He felt exposed, but also oddly… seen.
The panel analysed their subject.

"Those glasses hide his eyes." "He looks older with them." "He has a nice face — we need to show it." "Contacts. Definitely." Ben, unable to hear them, only saw the pointing and gestures toward his face. He instinctively touched his glasses, confused.

A moment later, the booth door opened and an optician stepped inside with sleek, futuristic equipment. Ben blinked behind his lenses, startled. The optician gestured for him to sit. Ben obeyed. A curved scanner lowered in front of his face, soft lights flickering as it mapped the surface of his eyes. Ben held still, heart fluttering, feeling oddly like he was being calibrated. The optician left, returning ten minutes later with a small sterile case.

Ben swallowed. The optician tapped the side of his glasses. Ben hesitated, then removed them. The world blurred instantly, soft and indistinct. He felt strangely exposed. The optician lifted the first contact lens. Ben’s breath caught. A cool touch. A blink. Suddenly the world sharpened in one eye. The second lens followed — another blink, another rush of clarity. Ben instinctively reached for the bridge of his nose, expecting his glasses. Nothing. His face felt lighter, unfamiliar.

Now the panel zeroed in on the next target. "That hair is all over the place." "It’s not bad, but it’s not doing him any favours." "He needs something sharper." "Something that shows his face." After a brief debate, they signalled their decision. A barber’s chair was carried into the booth. Ben sat, gripping the armrests as the barber draped a cape over him. He couldn’t see anything — no mirror, no reflection, just the hum of clippers and the soft snip of scissors.

Hair fell around him. He swallowed. When the barber left, the panel studied the result. "Still too long." "It’s tidy, but not transformative." "He needs a buzzcut." "Clean, simple."

The chair returned. The clippers buzzed louder this time. Ben felt the vibration against his scalp, the air cooling as more hair disappeared. He exhaled slowly, trying to imagine what he looked like. When the barber stepped out, the panel leaned in again. "Better… but not bold." "He could pull off something stronger." "Shorter?" "Much shorter." "High and tight. Horseshoe flattop." "Yes. That."

The chair rolled in once more. Ben’s heart thudded. He didn’t know what a was going to happen, but the seriousness of the barber’s expression told him it was… significant. The clippers worked with precision this time — deliberate, structured, architectural. He felt the sides go almost bare, the top shaped into something crisp and geometric. When the barber finished and left, Ben slowly lifted his hands to his head. His fingers met sharp edges, short bristles, and then the startlingly bare skin of the sides. His breath caught. He didn’t know whether to laugh, panic, or marvel. Outside, the panel beamed. "Perfect." "He looks powerful now." "That haircut changes everything."

Then one of them tilted her head. "With the hair gone… his ears stand out more." "True." "He needs something to balance it." "A piercing." "What kind?" "Hoop? Stud? Tunnel?" "No tunnel — too much." "Silver hoop. Clean. Confident." Decision made. A piercing technician entered the booth with a small case. Ben blinked, confused, she approached his face. Before he could overthink it, there was a quick, precise motion — a soft click, a tiny sting. Ben inhaled sharply, eyes widening. The technician stepped back, smiled and then left. He raised his hand slowly, fingertips brushing the cool metal of the new silver hoop. His breath trembled.

With Ben now sporting his sharp new haircut, a silver hoop in his ear, and clear vision through his new contact lenses, the panel leaned forward again, ready for the next stage. "Alright," one of them said, tapping her pen against her clipboard. "Time to dress him." "Clothes will make or break this," another added. "He’s got a great build — we need to show it off properly." "And absolutely nothing baggy," the fourth insisted.

Ben, standing in his athletic shorts, watched them gesture animatedly. He couldn’t hear a word, but he could tell they were plotting something big.

A wardrobe assistant entered the booth carrying a neatly folded outfit: slim black jeans and a trendy patterned shirt — the kind that looked great on mannequins and influencers. She gestured for Ben to step behind the screens. He did, pulling on the jeans and buttoning the shirt. When he stepped out, he tugged awkwardly at the collar, unsure. The panel studied him.

"Hm." "It’s… fine." "But it’s not him." "The pattern fights with his haircut." "And it hides his shoulders." "No. Next." Ben saw the assistant’s polite smile as she ushered him back behind the screens. He exhaled, relieved — the shirt had felt wrong the moment he’d put it on.

The next option was a sleek, expensive designer T‑shirt — bold logo, sharp cut, the kind of thing that screamed fashion‑conscious. Ben slipped it on and stepped out again. The panel reacted instantly. "Too try‑hard." "It distracts from his face." "And from the haircut we just gave him." "He looks like he’s wearing the shirt, not like the shirt is working for him." "No. Not this one."

Ben looked down at the logo, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief. He didn’t feel like himself in it anyway.

The wardrobe assistant returned with something much simpler: a plain white T‑shirt. Ben blinked. That was it? He stepped behind the screens, pulled it on, and immediately felt… different. The fabric hugged his chest and shoulders just enough to show his natural strength, without being tight. It was clean, bright, uncomplicated. When he stepped out, the panel’s reaction was immediate and unanimous.

"Oh wow." "Yes." "That’s it." "He looks incredible." "It brings out his build." "And his haircut." "And his eyes." "This is the one." Ben stood there, surprised by their enthusiasm. He looked down at himself — the shirt felt comfortable, natural, almost empowering. He straightened his posture without thinking.

Outside the booth, the four panelists leaned in, whispering intensely. Ben could see their animated expressions, their hands waving, their heads shaking or nodding — but he couldn’t hear a single word. He swallowed. Whatever they were planning, it was clearly important.

One panelist held her hands near her neck, miming a necklace. Another immediately shook her head. A third made a "so‑so" gesture. The fourth crossed her arms decisively.
Ben frowned. Were they talking about… jewellery? For him?
He had no idea. After a moment, all four panelists shook their heads in unison. The idea — whatever it was — was rejected. Ben exhaled, still clueless.

Next, one panelist rubbed her hands along her arms, miming spreading something. Another pointed at Ben’s skin tone. A third made a dramatic "nope" gesture. The fourth held her hands up like she was warning against disaster. Ben blinked rapidly. Were they talking about lotion? Makeup? Sunscreen? He had absolutely no idea. After a brief but intense debate, the panel collectively waved the idea away. Ben’s confusion deepened.

Then the fourth panelist — the one who’d been quiet for a while — suddenly sat up straight. "I know what he needs." The other three turned to her. "What?" "What are you thinking?" "Tell us."
She smiled slowly, dramatically. "A tattoo."

The audience gasped — a loud, collective intake of breath that Ben could see but not hear. His eyes widened. The panel erupted into excited chatter. "What kind?" "Something bold." "Something that fits his new look." "Not small — he’s too well‑built for a tiny design." "It needs presence." "Upper arm?" "Yes, definitely the arm." "Black ink. Strong lines." "Nothing gimmicky." "Something that makes him look confident, not trying too hard." Ben watched them, heart pounding.

The panel leaned in, their voices animated, their hands sketching shapes in the air. "He could pull off a big piece." "A full upper‑arm tattoo would look incredible." "It would balance the haircut and the earring." "It would make him look powerful." They looked at each other and nodded. A unanimous decision. Ben swallowed. Whatever they’d agreed on, it was big.

The booth door opened, and two assistants wheeled in a large, reclining couch — the kind that looked halfway between a dentist’s chair and a spa bed. Ben blinked. He mouthed silently: What is that? The assistant got him to change back into the shorts and then gestured for him to lie down. Ben hesitated only a moment before climbing onto the chair. It reclined automatically, tilting him back slightly, his arm resting comfortably on a padded support. He felt strangely vulnerable, like he was preparing for something official, something serious. He looked toward the panel, hoping for a clue. They were buzzing with excitement.

The booth door opened again. This time, a tattoo artist stepped inside — calm, focused, carrying a compact case of equipment. Ben’s eyes widened. He didn’t recognise the tools, but the audience’s reaction outside — a mix of cheers and gasps — made his pulse spike. The artist gave him a reassuring nod, then gently positioned his arm. Ben’s thoughts raced.
What are they doing? Is this… is this really happening? Are they drawing something? Is this permanent? Oh no. Oh wow. Oh no. He tried to steady his breathing.

The artist prepared his arm with professional efficiency — cool wipes, careful positioning, a steady hand. Ben felt pressure, movement, the sense of something deliberate happening on his skin.
He still couldn’t see anything. He still didn’t know what they were doing. But he could tell — from the precision, from the focus, from the way the artist worked — that this wasn’t small. This wasn’t decorative. This was something bold. His emotions swirled.

He stared up at the ceiling of the booth, breathing slowly, trying to imagine what was being created on his arm.

The tattooist stepped out of the booth, leaving Ben alone for a moment. His upper arm felt warm and newly alive, the skin tingling where the bold black tattoo now wrapped around it. There was no bandage — the ink was meant to be seen. When the wardrobe assistant returned with his new outfit, Ben stepped behind the screens and pulled on the slim black jeans. Then came the white T‑shirt — clean, fitted, simple. As he slid his arm through the sleeve, he felt the fabric settle high on his shoulder. The sleeve ended well above the midpoint of his upper arm, leaving a large, unmistakable section of the tattoo exposed. Thick black lines, bold shapes, and part of the design’s sweeping curve were already visible.

Ben stared at the glimpse of ink, breath catching. He still couldn’t see the full tattoo. But what he could see looked powerful. When he stepped out, the panel watched him through the glass — and all four women smiled with complete satisfaction. He was finished.

The booth door opened, and Ben was guided back onto the main stage. The lights felt brighter, the audience louder, the air charged with anticipation. He blinked, adjusting to the openness after so long in the enclosed booth. The panel stood beside him, proud and excited. The host stepped forward.

"Ben," he said, "you’ve been through quite a transformation tonight. Are you ready to see the results?" Ben’s heart hammered. He had no idea what he looked like. No idea how dramatic the changes were. No idea how the tattoo looked — only that a big, bold portion of it was already visible beneath his sleeve. He took a breath, feeling the weight of the moment settle over him.
"Yes," he said quietly, but with a steadiness he didn’t expect. "I’m ready."

The host stepped aside and gestured grandly. "Then let’s show you."

A row of enormous mirrors stood at the back of the stage, each one covered with a heavy black cloth. Assistants took their places beside them. Ben’s stomach flipped. The host raised his hand. "Three… two… one!". The coverings were pulled away.

When the mirrors were uncovered, Ben’s breath caught — but not for the reason the audience expected. He didn’t recognise the man staring back at him. For a split second, he genuinely thought he was looking at someone else — some model the show had brought out as a comparison, some impossibly polished version of what he wished he could look like.

The man in the mirrors had:
• a sharp, commanding high‑and‑tight flattop
• clear, bright eyes unobstructed by glasses
• a clean white T‑shirt that framed his chest and shoulders
• a bold black tattoo wrapping his upper arm, visible and powerful
• a confident stance that looked like it belonged to someone who knew exactly who he was

Ben blinked rapidly. That can’t be me. He leaned closer, squinting slightly, trying to reconcile the reflection with the person he believed himself to be. The jawline looked stronger. The haircut made his face look more defined. The tattoo gave him an edge he’d never imagined. He felt a strange, dizzying disconnect — like he was meeting a stranger who somehow shared his bones.

Then, almost involuntarily, Ben smiled. And the reflection smiled back. That was the moment it hit him. It is me.

The smile transformed him even further. His shoulders rolled back. His chest lifted. His spine straightened. Without thinking, he corrected his posture — not the shy, rounded stance he’d carried for years, but something open, grounded, assured.

In the mirrors, the man looking back suddenly looked:
• bolder, as if he’d stepped into his own space
• more confident, like he belonged in the spotlight
• stronger, not just physically but in presence
• alive, in a way he hadn’t seen in himself before

The audience saw it. The panel saw it. And Ben felt it. A warmth spread through him — pride, disbelief, excitement, and a quiet, growing certainty that this version of himself wasn’t a costume or a trick of the lights. It was him. Finally visible. Finally standing tall. Finally becoming the person he’d never dared imagine.

The applause was still rolling through the studio when one of the panelists — the same one who had first suggested the tattoo — stepped forward. She was grinning, eyes bright, clearly thrilled with how the transformation had turned out. Ben saw her approaching and felt a flutter of nerves, but not the old kind. This was something new — a warm, rising confidence that matched the man he’d just seen in the mirrors. She stopped in front of him, still smiling, and lifted a hand to his cheek in a playful, testing way. The audience let out a collective "ooooh," sensing something was about to happen. She leaned in, aiming to give him a quick, celebratory peck on the lips — light, teasing, the kind of gesture you give someone you’re proud of.

But Ben — standing tall, shoulders back, feeling the strength of his new presence — didn’t freeze or shy away. He met her halfway. And instead of the tiny peck she intended, he returned the kiss with a gentle but unmistakably confident one — not forceful, not dramatic, just real. A kiss that said I’m here. I’m not hiding anymore.

The audience erupted. The panelist blinked in surprise, then stepped back with a delighted smile, cheeks flushed, clearly impressed by his boldness. She reached for his hand. Ben took it without hesitation.

The two of them — looking every bit like a striking, self‑assured couple — turned toward the edge of the stage. The audience rose to their feet, cheering, clapping, whistling, celebrating not just the makeover but the moment.

Ben glanced back once at the mirrors, seeing the man he had become reflected from every angle. Then he let himself be led offstage, hand in hand with the woman who had helped shape his transformation, the applause echoing behind them like a send‑off into a new chapter.

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