Make your own Man - the sequel by HairNoMore

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Ben spotted them first — Elliot waving both arms like he was trying to flag down a helicopter, Tom already halfway out of his seat, and Marcus staring with his mouth slightly open.
The pub was warm, noisy, and familiar. Ben stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him, and for a moment the three of them simply stared. They squeezed into their usual booth, pints already waiting. For a moment, the three of them just stared at Ben — really stared — taking in the haircut, the posture, the tattoo peeking from under his sleeve.

Elliot was the first to speak, rubbing the back of his neck. "Mate… I swear, if that had been me up there? I’d have died of embarrassment. Like, actually keeled over. Standing in those shorts, everyone judging me… nope. Couldn’t do it."

Tom nodded vigorously. "Honestly, the tattoo part nearly made me cry on your behalf. I kept thinking, ‘They can’t make him do that, can they?’ I felt so bad for you, man. I mean, it looks amazing now, but at the time I was like… poor Ben."

Ben laughed softly. "Thanks for the sympathy, I guess. Honestly? At first I was terrified. I felt like I had no control. But then… I don’t know. Something shifted. Every time they made a change, I felt a bit more… seen. And now?" He glanced down at his tattoo, then back up with a small, steady smile. "Now I feel good. Better than I ever have." Marcus nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

Tom raised his glass. "Well, you look like a superhero now, so cheers to that." Elliot clinked his glass too. "Yeah. Embarrassing or not, it worked." Ben smiled, but he noticed Marcus still watching him — thoughtful, almost wistful — and he filed that away for later.

Eventually, Elliot leaned forward. "So… the girl you went on the trip with. What was her name again?" Ben’s expression softened instantly. "Sophie." Tom raised his eyebrows. "And…?"
"And she’s my girlfriend now," Ben said, unable to hide the warmth in his voice. "She’s funny, friendly, easy going… I just love being around her." The three of them exchanged looks — impressed, surprised, and genuinely happy for him.

Later, when Elliot and Tom went to the bar, Marcus lingered behind. He hesitated, then said quietly, "Ben… I’m happy for you. Really. But… I kind of wish it had been me." Ben blinked, taken aback. Marcus looked embarrassed, staring at the table. "I just… seeing you change like that. Seeing you come back so confident. I guess I wanted something like that too." Ben put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey. You can talk to me, you know." Marcus nodded, but didn’t say more.

Two days later, Elliot frowned over his cereal. "Anyone heard from Marcus?" Tom shook his head. "He didn’t answer my messages." Ben felt a small twist of worry. "I’ll go check on him." He walked down the hall and knocked. "Marcus? You in?" A long pause. Then a reluctant, "Yeah."

The door opened a crack. The room was dim, curtains half‑drawn. Marcus looked… deflated. Sad. And wearing a woolly hat. Ben stepped inside. "Mate… what’s going on?" Marcus sighed and pulled off the hat. Ben’s eyes widened. Marcus had tried to copy his flattop — but with his thinning hair, full beard, and softer build, it didn’t suit him at all. The cut was uneven, harsh in the wrong places, and made him look older, not sharper.

"I thought… maybe if I looked like you, I’d feel like you," Marcus muttered. "But I just look stupid." Ben shook his head gently. "You don’t look stupid. You just need something that fits you. Come on. We’re going to see Sophie." Marcus tugged the woolly hat back on before they left.

Sophie’s city‑centre apartment was bright and modern. Ben let them in with a key — something Marcus noticed immediately. Sophie appeared from the kitchen, smiling. "Ben!" He crossed the room and kissed her, warm and natural. She kissed him back, then gave him that soft, affectionate look Marcus had never seen on her face during the show.

Then she noticed Marcus. "Oh! Who’s this?"

"This is Marcus," Ben said. "One of my best mates." Her face lit up. "Marcus! Ben’s told me loads about you — you’re the one who always comes up with the weird theories during movie nights, right?" Marcus blinked. "He… said that?" "All good things," she said warmly.

Ben went to make coffees, leaving them alone. Marcus cleared his throat. "So… what do you do?"

"I work in television," she said. "Which is how I ended up on that panel. Honestly, I feel lucky — I’d never have met Ben otherwise." She glanced at his hat. "Why are you wearing that? It’s not cold." Marcus froze. Slowly, he removed it.

Sophie’s expression softened instantly. "You tried to copy Ben’s haircut." Marcus looked down. "He just seems so confident now. So happy. I thought maybe…" She stepped closer, voice gentle. "Marcus, you don’t need to be Ben. You need to be you. And you deserve to feel confident in your own way."

He swallowed. "I don’t know what that is."

She smiled. "Then trust me. I have an idea." Ben returned with coffees. Sophie clapped her hands lightly. "Right. After this, we’re taking Marcus for a haircut. And then he’s meeting Ethan."
"Ethan?" Ben asked. "My personal trainer," she said. "He’s brilliant." Marcus looked terrified.

The barber studied Marcus for a long moment, then gestured toward the chair. Marcus sat slowly, the vinyl creaking beneath him. His woolly hat was still on. He hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of it, then pulled it off with a sigh. The barber didn’t flinch. "We’ll start fresh," he said gently. A cape was draped over Marcus’s shoulders. The mirror in front of him had been covered — deliberately, mercifully. He couldn’t see himself. Only feel.

The clippers buzzed to life. As they passed over his scalp, Marcus felt the vibration echo through his skull. Hair fell in soft tufts, sliding down the cape like discarded versions of himself. He swallowed. The sound was louder than he expected. The sensation — colder. His beard was next. The barber trimmed it down, shaping it into a cropped goatee that revealed more of his jawline than he was used to. Marcus stared at the covered mirror, wondering what he looked like now. Wondering if he’d made a mistake.

He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Like he’d peeled away something protective. But beneath the discomfort, something else stirred — a flicker of curiosity. Of possibility. When the barber stepped back, Marcus reached up instinctively. His fingers met smooth skin. No hair. Just the clean curve of his scalp and the sharp edges of his new beard. He didn’t know how to feel.

Part of him wanted to laugh — at the absurdity, the boldness, the sheer drama of it. Another part wanted to hide. To rewind. To undo. But then Sophie stepped forward, studying him with a thoughtful smile. "You look strong," she said. "Like someone who’s ready to take up space."

Marcus blinked. He didn’t feel strong. Not yet. But maybe… maybe he could. She handed him a small black stud earring. "One more detail," she said. He nodded, letting her guide it into place. A soft click. A sting. A new edge.

When he finally saw himself in the mirror — shaved head, sculpted beard, black stud glinting — he didn’t recognise the man staring back. But he didn’t hate him either.

Ethan was tall, muscular, and surprisingly warm. He circled Marcus once, nodding thoughtfully. "You’ve got great bone structure. Strong shoulders. You could be a superstar if you want to be."
Marcus blinked. "Me?"

"Absolutely," Ethan said. "Give me a few months and you won’t recognise yourself." And he meant it.

Marcus kept at it. The gym became routine. Ethan pushed him, encouraged him, celebrated every milestone. His body changed — fat melting away, muscle building, posture straightening. His confidence grew with it. One day, surrounded by guys with inked arms, he realised he didn’t feel intimidated anymore.

By the time spring rolled around, Marcus barely recognised the man he used to be. The gym had become part of his rhythm — not a punishment, not a chore, but a place where he felt grounded. Strong. Visible. And he’d noticed something else: the men around him, the ones who carried themselves with that easy confidence he’d once envied, didn’t hide. Their tattoos weren’t just ink — they were declarations. Stories worn openly. No apologies. No shrinking. No shame.

For the first time in his life, Marcus felt like he belonged among them. One afternoon, after a session that left his arms pumped and his chest heaving, he caught sight of himself in the gym mirror. His shaved head. His sharpened jawline. His shoulders, broader now. His posture, no longer folded inward. He didn’t look like someone who needed to hide. He looked like someone ready to take up space.

So he walked into the tattoo studio with a steady voice and said, "I want a tattoo. Something that marks my journey." The artist studied him thoughtfully — the shape of his arm, the way he stood, the quiet determination in his eyes. "I can design something that grows with your physique," the artist said. "Bold lines. Strong contrast. A piece that moves with you."

Marcus nodded. "Yes. That’s exactly what I want."

The design was ambitious — a full blackwork sleeve that wrapped from shoulder to wrist. Sweeping arcs that followed the curve of his deltoid. Sharp geometric angles that emphasised the definition in his forearm. Negative‑space patterns that made his biceps look even more sculpted. A visual story of breaking old patterns and building new ones.

As the needle buzzed and the ink sank into his skin, Marcus didn’t feel fear. Not even a flicker. Instead, he felt a rising certainty — a sense of stepping fully into himself. He wasn’t trying to imitate Ben anymore. He wasn’t trying to impress anyone. He wasn’t trying to disappear. He was claiming his body. His story. His space.

When the artist finally wiped down the finished sleeve, Marcus stared at it in the mirror — the bold black shapes, the way the design made his arm look powerful, the way it felt like armour and identity at the same time. He smiled. A real, unguarded smile.

For the first time, he didn’t worry about how others would perceive him. He didn’t brace for judgement. He didn’t shrink. He felt proud. When he walked back into the gym the next day, the other guys nodded at him — not out of politeness, but recognition. He nodded back, feeling like he’d finally stepped into the world he’d always watched from the edges. Marcus wasn’t hiding anymore.

Later that week, his friends observed him as he chatted easily with a group of girls at the pub, joking, relaxed, completely at ease.
Ben grinned. Marcus caught his eye and gave a small nod — grateful, confident, and finally himself.

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