PART TWO: Damien's Choice by Lemon

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PART TWO

[For PART ONE, see "PART ONE: Damien's Choice" by Lemon. However, I have written part two in such a way that, I hope, it can be enjoyed, even if you do not read part one.]

Matt had just walked into Bill's Barber Shop. It was now Damien's shop, but the young barber kept the old owner's name for familiarity's sake. Another young man, freshly shorn by the looks of it, had just paid and was on his way out. Another one of Damien's victims. Matt knew Damien's racket. He played the part of the pliant barber, responsive to his client's instructions. He quickly dispensed with that facade if a mop-headed young man entered the shop just before closing. The perfect opportunity. No witnesses. Ironically, Damien looked similar to the class of young men he sheared. He was only in his late twenties with a center part of luscious chocolate locks and a thick brown fur that coated his sides and back.

Matt had been Damien's victim. A few months ago, blonde curtains draped his temples and framed his cheeks. Brownish yellow tufts flared out from his nape and covered his collar. He tucked his wavy sideburns behind his ears, but stubborn locks continued to lap his earlobes. He requested a trim, or maybe he had something dangerously open-ended like "just need a clean up." Damien cleaned Matt up. A set of hungry Osters screamed into the plush thatch at the back of his head and peeled strip after strip of those fluffy waves. Matt tried to politely interject. They all did. But politeness could not dissuade a monster. Politeness made you say dangerously open-ended things like "oh, that's a bit more off than I expected." No demon-barber would interpret such a statement as a demand—or even a request—to stop the carnage. Such a comment could merely be dismissed as a misunderstanding—after it was all over and there wasn't a strand left standing. Matt's mouth had done dry after the sides had been clippered. There was still a chance to save some of the mop on top, at least a side parting or French crop or something salvageable. But none of those was part of Damien's plan. The clippers screamed through the top. Matt was shorn just in the same way he saw this other young man leaving the shop.

Now, months later, Matt's close crop had grown out into a thatch of one to two inches all over. He could tell from Damien's slightly agape mouth and widened pupils that he did not expect any victim to return to the shop and request another haircut. Victims were written off as losses; potential customers expended as joy rides for the demon-barber.

"Well, aren't you going to clear your chair?"

Damien gulped. "Y-yes, of course," he stuttered and removed the cape from the chair, inviting Matt to sit. The young patron eased into the seat while Damien stood behind. "So, perhaps a skin fade and growing out the top?" How cute. Flustered by the return of a victim, Damien thought he could make amends, play the "good" barber, the accommodative barber. He'd help his victim recover from the shearing with maintenance cuts, tightening the sides while the top grew out in a functional manner.

"No, let's do the same as last time," responded Matt. Although seated and faced away from Damien, Matt sensed the barber's pause. He heard no shuffling of feet or preparing of tools. The victim's request for a haircut, the very same haircut, stupefied the demon-barber. Matt could almost sense ... shame, shame at being confronted by someone he'd wronged. But that could have been merely the projection of Matt's own fantasy, to see his one-time bully embarrassed.

The moment passed. Damien went to his tools. Matt just knew the demon-barber was mulling over whether to pretend to have forgotten the specifications of Matt's haircut, but an "I'm sorry, could you remind me what we did last time" would have betrayed him. The lie would write reveal itself in every syllable and inflection. Damien remembered. Every demon-barber remembered. He settled for a middle-ground approach and mumbled, "Sure thing. Number two on top, zero on the sides?" The question could be interpreted as merely confirming the last haircut rather than pretending to have forgotten it.

"That sounds great." Matt stretched out the last word, a dagger slowly twisting.

Damien fired up the Osters, the only sound in the shop. Damien palmed Matt's crown, tipped his head gently down, and place the blade on his nape. The rest went easy. Pads of thick, dirty blonde hair slid down the cape. The clippers cut easily into the relatively short hair. Damien made quick work of the back and sides, leaving just the thick thatch on top. Damien admired the young man. He was quite handsome, and he felt a twinge of guilt at what he had done before, at what he had done to all his victims. He deprived them of agency. He abandoned every principle he applied to every other customer. He gave into his demon-barber desires. He wanted to re-urge his suggestion to just shape up the top and help it grow out, but that would only make him feel worse. Damien knew that Matt would rebuff the idea. Matt had turned Damien's joy ride into a humiliation ritual. Look, look! See what you have wrought! Sit in the prison of your pleasures!

Damien switched out the attachment on the clippers and pushed the #2 blade into the thick pile on top. Row after row, wads of hair tumbled to join the small nest in Matt's lap. Like all of Damien's victims, Matt was young and attended the nearby university. Most of the students were out-of-towners. It was a college town and not much of an independent community. But Matt was one of the few locals who attended. And that would be Damien's undoing. Those months ago, after Matt's initial shearing, Matt's friends and family, of course, saw the new shorn look, and Matt told them just where he had received it: Bill's Barber Shop, operated by its new proprietor, Damien Northrop. Matt's dad knew someone who knew someone who knew the eponymous Bill, the shop's namesake.

That was Damien's mistake. His plan for his victims counted on them being virtual outsiders—out-of-towners. He was just removing the cape from Matt when the bell above the door tinkled, announcing a new visitor. Now, this was truly ridiculous, but Damien maintained his composure. "I'm sorry, we're closed for the day."

"Yes, yes, you are closed for the day." He was elderly, but not frail, with short and wispy white hair. He held a work bag with a metal clasp closing the topside opening.

"I'm sorry, excuse me, but we're closed, you'll need to come back tomorrow."

"We still have one haircut left today," retorted the old man.

Up from the chair, Matt now faced Damien. His freshly cropped hair highlighted his sharp cheekbones. His arms looked stronger, muscled and toned. "I noticed that it's just you in the shop, and I realized that you don't have anyone to cut your hair, Damien. So, I asked Bill here if he'd come out of retirement to do you a favor. It used to be his shop you know?"

Damien's palms were clammy and cold with sweat. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry as sand. He breathed out slowly. "That's kind of you, Matt." Ah, so he remembered the victim's name! "But, it's unnecessary. Thank you, but I'll be closing up for the day if you could please excuse me." Neither Matt nor Bill moved a step.

Matt's grin widened. "Don't make this hard, Damien. In his bag, Bill has a few restraints. Those are for the naughtiest boys, but you're not that naughty are you?" Matt cocked his head, daring Damien to a challenge.

Damien just gulped and wordlessly took a seat. He didn't dare say a word. What was there to say? He figured that Bill and Matt didn't have a light trim in mind. Saying anything could only make the situation more humiliating. Damien would spiral into pleading and begging and then the restraints would come out. That left only one option: Take his lumps.

Bill set his bag down and took position behind the chair. "Well, that's very good then. I figure it'll just be easier if I use your tools," he added cheerily. Damien let out an involuntarily "mm-hmm." The elderly barber flicked the cape up into the air and it fluttered down over Damien. The cape's fabric felt oppressive as if embedded with metal weights. Damien gulped again.

Armed with a spray bottle and comb, Bill begin to wet and comb Damien's hair. "Well, Damien, I hear you haven't been acting very good at all." Another spritz of water. "You've given quite a few unwanted haircuts, I understand." Another pass of the comb. "And I can tell from your silence that you know what you've done. Well, you're smart enough to know what's next."

Bill paused, expecting a reply or some form of acknowledgement from the demon-barber turned captive. "Not quite, sir."

Bill set down the spray bottle and comb. "You're going to get an unwanted haircut yourself." He quickly added: "Well, I'm perhaps pre-judging by saying 'unwanted.' I should say, you're going to get a haircut of someone else's choosing."

Matt had taken position in one of the waiting chairs, one foot propped on his other leg's knee. He stroked his chin, toying with Damien. Matt had much time to think on the haircut he would inflict on Damien, but there was no need to rush things or reveal all. "Hmmm, should we do a light trim?" Another stroke of the chin. "Or perhaps a skin fade while we let the top grow out?" A private jab. "Or how about"—Matt raised an eyebrow—"we shave him bald?" Damien nearly leapt from the chair but managed to keep his butt firmly planted. Matt smiled; he noticed the nearly imperceptible reaction rippling beneath Damien's stoic exterior. "No, Damien, here, has acted awfully childish, don't you think? I think it's fitting he get a very childish haircut. Bill, you remember the one we discussed the other day?"

"Indeed, I do. I think it would be very fitting," replied Bill.

Matt clapped. "I can't wait to see! Let's do it."

His hair fully combed out, Damien felt wet tendrils tickling the top of his ears. His straight bangs hung limply, reaching the tip of his nose. Behind him, Bill primed the shears, snapping them open and close with a metallic ting. Damien's own tools would deliver his demise. Bill waddled to the front of the chair, slid the open shears behind Damien's curtains, just above the eyebrows and snapped them shut. Inches of damp hair thudded against the cape. Snip, thud. Snip, thud. Snip, thud. Straight across the bangs until a tidy line sat just above the brows. Bill worked his way around the sides and back, pulling hair away from the head and lopping off inches of hair to match the length of the bangs.

After the initial shock of the bangs, Damien felt some relief. Yes, it would be much shorter than his previous look, but Bill apparently was leaving him some length. Bill transitioned to the top, combing the hair straight up and snipping above his fingers. Damien was losing a lot of hair, but he'd still have several inches on top—more than his victims. So, what was this child's haircut? Just a regular gentleman's haircut? There was nothing 'childish' about that. A side parting plastered to his forehead? Well, just wash out whatever goop the elder barber puts in and salvage the rest. Damien could not be sure, but it had to be worse than whatever he was thinking.

Bill tousled Damien's hair on top to see where everything lay. He made minor adjustments to the bangs and snipped a stray hair or two. He gave another tousle to signal he was done with the top. Unexpectedly, Bill retrieved hair clips and began clipping up the hair around the sides and back of Damien's head. Damien pondered, What haircut would—Oh. Damien would be receiving a bowl cut. The ultimate childish haircut for little boys. Damien attempted to remain calm as his pace quickened. Almost certainly Bill would be taking the sides tight, tight, tight, but with the bowl, he'd have quite a bit of length on top. This was still salvageable.

Bill prepared the clippers. Matt craned his neck from the waiting chairs like a father administering a mid-haircut inspection. "Let's take it pretty close." Bill glanced back. "I was going to do a #2."

Matt chuckled. "Oh no, much tighter, Bill. Take it to a zero." Bill wordlessly complied and snapped the #0 blade onto the Osters and fired them up. He palmed Damien's crown, avoiding the hair clips, and not-so-gently pressed Damien's chin deep into his chest. The Osters hummed on Damien's nape and sailed upwards. The clippers screamed as they chewed through the thick brunette waves, four, five inches plopping to the floor. The clippers returned to the bottom of Damien's neck and made another pass. Plop. The blade went higher and higher, nearly into Damien's crown, just below the hair clips. Salvaging a bowl cut would be tough. There was no blending. Just the naked sides into the mushroom top. Bill finished the back and turned to the sides.

At this point, Matt got up. Damien feared some mid-haircut interruption, but Matt remained silent. He grabbed the shop's push broom and began sweeping Damien's shorn locks into a neat pile, being mindful to look up often and taken in Damien's transformation. Damien stirred under the cape. Another man sweeping up your own shorn hair—it was both humiliating and exhilarating.

The clippers scooped Damien's left sideburn, and Bill flicked his wrist so the thick pile would tumble onto the cape. Bill scooped behind Damien's ear. Flick, plop. He drove the clippers up and up, just below the mushroom top. Plop. A sizable mound of multi-inch tufts sat on the cape. Matt had stopped sweeping. The size of the pile Matt had created made Damien's eyes widen. He gulped again and lightly tapped the cape from underneath, sending the small mound to the floor. Matt smiled. A part of Damien wanted to smile, but he didn't. His stomach was in knots. His head rang with a cacophony of emotions that his brain could only process as "confused." But, he did like seeing Matt sweep up his hair. Matt—

Bill finished up the right side. The last tufts of hair thudded onto the floor. The clippers powered off. The three men only heard the soft hum of the air conditioning. Bill removed the hair clips and returned with comb and scissors. He combed out the mushroom and tidied up with the scissors, ensuring a uniform bowl all around Damien's head. That step complete, he took the trimmer, pushed the cape below Damien's neckline and cleaned up the stray hairs.

Once satisfied with his work, Bill spun the chair around. Damien looked at least ten years younger. Pale sandpaper sides contrasted with the plush mushroom top. He was a little boy. Bill broke the silence. "I'd say it's perfect."

Matt whistled. "Quite perfect, Bill. Quite perfect. The precision is excellent." Matt returned the broom to the corner and walked back behind the chair. He locked his gaze with Damien through the mirror. "Do you think you deserve this haircut?" The question caught Damien off guard. He quietly suppressed a choke in his throat and gulped. Matt grinned. "See, this haircut you have here is awfully cute, isn't it?" Matt ruffled Damien's hair, disrupting the mushroom's neat precision. "This is a haircut that good little boys get. Damien, do you think you've been a good little boy?" Silence. Matt maintained his gaze, but Damien broke off, casting his eyes downward. The demon-barber had been cowed. "That's right. You know, Damien, that you have not been a good little boy at all. You've been a naughty little boy. So, I don't think you deserve this haircut at all. You deserve a haircut that naughty little boys get."

Matt walked over to the counter. Damien's mind screamed, Run! Run! But his muscles were powerless, rendered impotent by the cape's spell. Matt returned behind the chair. "I think you know what's in my hand, Damien, and I think you know that you deserve it." Matt lifted an empty hand and ran his fingers through Damien's mushroom top, front to back. Damien surprised himself and Matt by letting out a soft moan, almost a whimper. Was it fear or desire? Likely both. Damien's eyes watered, in anticipation for what was to come and in mourning for all his beautiful hair lying limply on the floor.

Matt ran his hand through Damien's hair again but stopped midway, lifting Damien's bangs from his forehead. Matt raised his other hand again. He held the Osters with a #2 blade attachment. He powered the clippers, and the scream of the blades filled the shop once more. Matt and Damien looked into the mirror as the Osters rested on Damien's forehead and pushed back. The mushroom top quivered and silky chocolate locks fell the cape, leaving a light strip of fuzz in their wake. Matt continued the clipping, front to back, revealing the soft pelt on top, strip by strip. He made the last pass, ending Damien's transformation from the long-haired demon-barber into a shorn and subdued victim himself. Matt turned off the clippers and rubbed Damien's fuzzy scalp. Another whimper.

Matt replaced the clippers and turned to Bill. "Thanks for your help. That's all." Bill gave a nod and interjected, "Shame. That was a mighty fine bowl cut, but you cleaned him up nicely." He grabbed his bag and went. Matt removed the cape from Damien, but still entranced, Damien remained in the chair, sullen, downcast.

Matt smiled. "Well, I think you've learned your lesson, haven't you?" Damien sat motionless. Matt slowly spun the chair and took Damien's chin, lifting it up. "You were very naughty. You deserved this. But don't feel so bad. At least we didn't shave you."

"Y-yes," croaked Damien.

Matt let go of his chin. "Clean up the rest of your hair." Damien sat unmoving, but Matt started for the door. As he reached the door handled, Matt glanced back before exiting. "Oh and Damien?"

Damien kept his eyes down, not moving from the chair. "Hmm?"

"Call me sometime if you've learned how to behave properly. My number's folded up next to the register."

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