My Summer 2002 (Part 2) by KF_NDN

---

My Summer 2002 â€" The Second Cut

Summer 2002 belonged to me â€" and it felt damn good.
What I didn’t know back then: my spontaneous "Timberlake" cut in that little barbershop had started something in Marc. Not right away, not that day, but the seed was planted.

**Marc’s Trigger**
Marc â€" wiry, medium height, dark hair always falling impatiently into his face, a lean face with alert, restless eyes â€" sat three days later with a few guys on the wall in front of the supermarket. He wore a loose T‑shirt, sagging baggy jeans and sneakers with no laces. They drank Sprite from cans and kicked an empty chip bag back and forth while the summer heat shimmered above the asphalt.

Jonas walked by. Three millimeters, summer 2002. His head shone in the sun, contours clean, the transitions from skin to stubble sharp and defined. He waved briefly and kept walking. The others whistled and shouted jokes: "Total Timberlake!"

Marc said nothing. He just stared after him, watching how relaxed Jonas looked, head up as if he owned the street. Next to that image, Marc suddenly felt soft, unfinished — like someone who hadn’t yet begun.

***

**Friday Evening**
That Friday night Marc was home alone. His parents were out; Big Brother was on TV in the living room. He shuffled into the bathroom to shower, pulling his T‑shirt over his head. Steam hung heavy in the air from the warm tap.

In the mirror he saw himself: hair on top about four centimeters long, falling messy across his forehead, the sides bushy, more than half a centimeter. Standard 18‑year‑old chaos. Then he pictured Jonas again â€" head shining in the sun, lines like they’d been carved.
"Jonas looks like he finally figured himself out," Marc thought. "And me? Still stuck in fog."

His eyes fell to the cabinet under the sink. His older brother’s hair clipper lay inside â€" a scratched old thing from when his brother went for the army look and buzzed his head to three millimeters for months. It had gathered dust ever since. Marc pulled it out, felt the weight in his hand, flipped it on. The hum was sharp, electric.

*Exactly like that.*

His heart pounded. He set it back down. "Not yet. Tomorrow, maybe."

***

**Saturday Night â€" the First Time**
Saturday night. His parents went to the movies.
Marc’s heart was already racing as he locked the bathroom door. The mirror light burned harsh and white.

He pulled the clipper from the cabinet â€" scratched, dust on the casing. Plugged it in, snapped on the six‑millimeter guard.
He flicked the switch. Bzzzzz â€" the hum filled the room, the blades rasping thin air.
He flinched, took a deep breath.
"Okay. Sides first."

He pressed it to his right temple and drew it slowly back. Crunch â€" fat tufts, almost a centimeter long, fell straight into the sink. Again. The skin beneath appeared pale; the new stubble was even at six millimeters. He turned his head, checked in the mirror. "Clean."

Then the left side. Same motion. Hair slid down onto his chest and shoulders.
At the nape he started lower and moved up. Lighter hairs fell like sand.

Now the top. Four centimeters of soft chaos. He ran his hand through it once, then placed the clipper at his forehead and pulled back. Thick strands lifted, dropped onto his shoulders and the floor. Stroke by stroke. The mirror fogged slightly.
Fifteen minutes later, he was done.

He put the clipper down and ran both hands over his head. The sides felt firm, the top neat, almost military. In the mirror he looked sharper. Better. But next to Jonas’s three millimeters … "Still not enough."

Hair in the sink â€" a dark ring. He wiped it away with a towel, rinsed, swept the floor. Then stood for ages testing the light, watching his reflection shift. The stubble felt alive, electric. And the hunger was awake.

***

**Monday Morning**
Monday morning he saw Jonas outside school. Jonas ran a hand across the stubble, grinning.
"So? Summer style too?"
Marc shrugged. "Looked better. You inspired me."

***

**Wednesday Night â€" 3 mm**
By Wednesday those six‑millimeter stubbles already felt soft compared to Jonas’s three.
Marc knew: time for the next step â€" his own.

He stood shirtless in front of the mirror. Changed the guard â€" click â€" to three millimeters. Light glaring white.
He plugged it in. Bzzzzz â€" sharper, harder than before.

Right side first, slow strokes up. Fine hairs drifted into the sink, black dust on porcelain. Left side next. Then the nape, then the crown, even passes everywhere.
When the buzzing stopped, his head was evenly short, rough, and alive. Perfect.
But inside, the thought flashed again â€" *no guard*. Bare metal. No protection. No boundary.

***

**Thursday â€" Reactions**
Next morning Marc waited out front, three millimeters of new skin on his skull â€" cool, rough, unfamiliar.
Jonas arrived, whistled softly, ran his palm over the back. "Man, you really went for it."
"Your fault," Marc said.

At lunch came the usual comments, but no one laughed. One guy said "Clean," and Marc stored the word like a gem.

***

**Friday Night â€" the Garage**
Friday night they roamed the town.
Behind an old garage five guys leaned on the wall â€" a bit older, close‑cropped hair, polos, rolled‑up jeans, heavy boots.
The one with the shortest cut grinned. "Hey â€" Timberlake and his clone. Three mill is cute. But no guard’s when it counts."

Marc held his gaze. "Maybe."

***

**Saturday â€" the Invitation**
Next evening they went back. Same garage â€" diesel smell, loud music, half‑warm beer.
"So, ready?" asked the tall one, Tommy.
Marc nodded and sat in a battered car seat. Tommy grabbed the clipper, **no guard**, switched it on.

Bzzzzz â€" the air seemed to vibrate. The first pass over Marc’s temple, then down the back. Dust‑fine hair rained to the floor.
Jonas stood a step away, listening to the hum, watching the faint lines appear on Marc’s scalp.
"Go on," Marc said quietly.

Ten minutes later the head was blank â€" bare skin, white under the work‑light.
Tommy nodded, proud. "Perfect. Feel it."

Marc placed his palm on his head, first cautious, then firmer. Smooth.
He laughed softly, disbelieving. "All or nothing."

Jonas looked at him and realized something between them had changed.

***

**Monday â€" the Message**
Three days later Jonas’s phone lit up: **Come over.**

Evening light orange. Marc answered barefoot in jeans, his scalp smooth and gleaming.
"Damn," Jonas said in the doorway. "You really did it."
Marc grinned. "Feels free â€" like wind on skin, only real."

Inside, the room was warm.
On the desk: a hair clipper, a light‑blue polo, half a beer. Jonas sat on the bed.

"A few days ago you still had stubble," he said.
"Gone," Marc answered. "Zero means zero. Do the upkeep myself now."
He picked up the clipper, turning it in his hands. "You’re overgrown again. Not even three‑day stubble up there."
"Yeah, getting softer every day."
Marc smirked. "Then make it right. Three millimeters, that’s all. Sit down. I’ll do it."
"Just three?" Jonas hesitated.
"Promise."

Jonas sat. The air smelled of warm metal. Marc plugged the cord in, the cable scraping the floor.
Click. Bzzzzz.

Marc guided the clipper steadily across his head, row after row. Fine hair loosened, some stuck to shoulders, others slid silently to the floor.
The hum changed, lower, closer.

"I’m just going over evenly," Marc said calmly. "Have to or it won’t be even."
Jonas nodded, half closing his eyes. "Go ahead."

Marc stayed focused, another stroke, then another, finally one clean pass over the crown. Light glinted on skin where short hairs had been. Jonas didn’t notice.

The buzzing stopped. Only the smell of warm metal lingered.

Jonas raised a hand to check â€" and froze. Nothing. No stubble. Just skin.
He ran his hand again, slower. The surface was smooth, unreal.
He stood up, turned to the mirror.
"Marc … I’ve got no hair left," he said, voice shaking. "I â€" I look like a skinhead. I’ve got a bald head! What the hell did you do?"

Marc set the clipper on the table, calm. "Relax. Just wanted it even all over. Honest â€" it suits you. Look at yourself."

Jonas stared. Light gleamed across his bare scalp, temples broader, features harder.
He pressed his palm flat on his head â€" warm, strange, honest.
"Damn," he whispered.
"Bald," said Marc quietly, almost proud. "Clean. Honest."

Jonas shook his head, caught between laughter and disbelief. "I only wanted three, man."
Marc smiled slightly. "Maybe you just needed to go further."


Want the sequel?

---