Between Skin and Hair (Part 1) by KF_NDN

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### 1. Arrival
Luca arrived at college nervous and uncertain. It was his first time away from home, meeting new people—and, most of all—sharing a room with someone he didn’t know. He’d always been shy and reserved, the kind of boy who preferred video games to social gatherings. That meant he had few close friends and little experience dealing with strangers.

Before arriving, he’d had to fill out a questionnaire listing his interests and personality traits so his assigned roommate would be a good match. He arrived anxious but hopeful—hopeful that his roommate might even become a friend. Maybe more than that.

He had persuaded his mother not to come help him move in—it embarrassed him—so he stood alone in the long corridor lined with identical, white doors, each with a small nameplate.
The wheels of his suitcase thudded dully on the floor. *219 B.* He stopped.

A low, steady hum came from behind the door—not a hairdryer; deeper, more mechanical. He hesitated, then slid his keycard through.

The room was plain: two beds, two desks, a spotless sink, and above it, a flawless mirror. In front of it stood a boy—bare‑chested, dark joggers, white socks—holding a sleek electric clipper. The buzzing stopped as he turned.

He had dark, near‑black hair cropped with surgical precision, an angular face with a sharp jawline, and green eyes that looked both clear and strangely familiar.
"Hey. You must be Luca," said the boy.
"Uh, yeah. That’s me."
"Rafael." He smiled easily, stepped forward, and offered a hand. "Sorry for the mess. I was just getting ready for the weekend."

Luca nodded, trying not to stare—and failed.
Rafael’s haircut was mechanical perfection—smooth like brushed steel, the edges at his temples and nape razor‑clean, the length uniformly short. Under the light, the soft fuzz shimmered faintly—almost bald but not quite. It was the ideal balance: masculine, cool, neat, understated.

He thought how different Rafael looked—confident, composed, as if he had control over everything. Not like Luca’s own childish, unruly mop, which curled at the sides whenever it air‑dried too long.

Later, as Rafael inspected himself in the mirror, Luca saw how that machine‑cut look transformed his whole face—made the green eyes brighter, the cheekbones sharper, as if everything about him was sculpted, balanced.
*Maybe that confidence,* Luca thought, *comes from not waiting for someone else to change you.*

***

### 2. The First Weeks
Rafael was easygoing—loud, friendly, athletic. The type everyone liked but no one truly knew. Every Friday he cut his hair—always early evening, just before going out. "Weekend prep," he called it.

At first, Luca only listened; the faint vibration of the clipper was like a steady rhythm beneath campus noise. Soon he found himself watching deliberately.

Rafael’s movements were calm and methodical. He guided the clipper in short lines over scalp and sides, turning the handle to reach the nape, then laid his palm flat over the fresh cut—testing the texture—and finally wiped the mirror clean.

Luca secretly wondered what it felt like—the short, dense stubble that remained when everything else was gone. How a head might feel that had just lost its hair and now carried only warmth, fine hairs, and the faintest sheen.

***

### 3. Cafeteria
One day Luca sat in the large campus cafeteria—white light, rattling trays, the muffled drone of voices. He ate alone, as usual. Rain tapped the glass wall outside.

Across the room he noticed Matteo, a solid guy with neatly styled brown hair—long enough to sway slightly as he walked, parted just right. Luca knew him from the language lab but had never spoken to him. Then his gaze drifted to another table—two guys from the swim team.

The tall one, broad-shouldered and sharp‑featured, stood out immediately: his head was shaved smooth, the skin faintly glossy. Next to him sat another with a precise buzz cut, laughing as he teased the bald one. The bald guy ran his hand casually over his scalp, and Luca felt his breath catch.

*Why,* he wondered, *does that look natural on some people—not strange but honest?* That simplicity, that courage to strip everything away—no styling, no façade. Just skin and light.

***

### 4. Conversations
A few days later, Luca ran into Evan in the cafeteria—the British exchange student with the unmistakable accent. Evan had once been known for his copper‑red mullet, locks flowing over his ears—almost iconic.

Now they were gone. His head nearly bare, only a faint down visible in the light.
Luca stared. "Didn’t you just have—"
Evan grinned. "Yeah, I know. Got tired of it. Shaved it all yesterday. I used to do it back in London. Feels freeing, honestly."
"You went to a barber?"
Evan laughed. "No, did it myself. A friend had clippers, and—bam. You’d be surprised how many guys around here do it. That dude from your hall—Rafael, right?—apparently he helps everyone keep it even."

Luca nodded, both overwhelmed and intrigued. "Wow… I had no idea so many people did that."
"Why wait?" Evan smirked. "It’s just hair. Grows back… or doesn’t, if you like the perks of being bald."
He rubbed his head with visible pleasure, and Luca felt a tingle just watching.

***

### 5. In the Room
Friday night. Again.
Luca sat barefoot on his bed, soles chilled by the floor, hair half‑dry and messy. The hairdryer had been broken for days.

Rafael plugged in the cord, and the familiar buzz filled the air. In the mirror Luca could see him trimming his own hair—the smallest guard, reducing it to near smoothness. The light slid over the new cut, defining every contour.

Rafael leaned closer, checking his temples, wiped the nape clean—and then caught Luca’s eyes in the mirror. Just a moment, but long enough for one of them to look away first.

"Hey," Rafael began, "found a barber yet?"
"Me? Uh… no. Why?"
"Because it’s about time. Your sides look like you’re trying for a perm."

Luca ran a hand through his hair, embarrassed. "It’s just the dryer. Air‑dried it looks… well, weird."
Rafael grinned. "Or you could skip the dryer altogether. I can trim it for you. You look more… experimental than intentional right now."
"I don’t know, I…"
"Relax. I’ve got this."

He grabbed the clippers and a pair of scissors from his black box, pulled a folding chair into the light.
"But first," he said, "scissors. Otherwise this thing won’t even get through it."

Luca wanted to protest but couldn’t. His toes curled involuntarily against the floor.
"Come on, sit. I do this all the time—don’t worry."

He positioned the chair, brushed Luca’s forehead clear, and clicked the shears.
He gripped the blond strands—arbitrary, unsystematic—and snipped them away. One clump after another slid down, sticky against Luca’s skin and toes.

"You just cut at random?"
Rafael shrugged. "Looks worse before it looks good. I’ll clean it up with the clippers after."

With each cut, Luca felt lighter, colder, stranger.
Then came the click of the clipper guard—number two.
"Ready?" Rafael asked, voice calmer than usual.
Luca didn’t answer—only nodded.

The hum filled the air. The teeth glided up his neck—metal on skin, vibration against tension. Luca held his breath. Strand by strand turned to fine dust.
"Think it’ll look good?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah," said Rafael softly. "You’ve got the head and face for it."

The clipper stopped. Rafael’s fingers brushed over the newly buzzed spot, rough and gentle at once.
"That’s a number two—just so you know, if you ever wanna do it yourself."

Luca reached back carefully, feeling the dense, even, bristly surface.
"Like velvet," he said.
Rafael grinned. "Like sandpaper. The good kind."
They both laughed.

"And wait," Rafael added, "till you feel wind or water again—best feeling ever. No weight. Just skin and air."
Luca nodded, fingers still exploring his scalp.
"I don’t know," he whispered, "why I didn’t do this sooner. I already love it."
Rafael tapped the back of his head and said,
"Welcome to the bald‑boys club."

They laughed again, and in the mirror, Luca saw for the first time a version of himself that finally felt right.

***

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