Thunderdome by KF_NDN

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The kitchen smelled of hair gel and cold toast. Four German boys crouched around the dining table â€" all in shorts, white tennis socks, Air Max, and bare arms. Their hairstyles gleamed as if freshly lacquered: hair spiked straight up on top, sides trimmed to three millimeters, the back cut in a precise block. The gel held like cement. That shine was more than vanity â€" it was a badge of belonging.

Lukas stood in the doorway. His own hair fell softly across his forehead â€" too long, too tame, too polite.

"Tomorrow morning at eight we’re heading out," said Timo, the oldest. "First to Eindhoven, then across to Tilburg. The Dutch are waiting. Tickets sorted."
"It’s gonna be rough, man," Dennis shouted. "No fairground techno." They laughed, snapped a selfie with the old phone â€" their gelled heads reflecting the flash like aluminum foil.

Then a humming sound came from the bathroom, dull and steady. Kevin stood before the mirror, bare-chested and leaning slightly forward, hair clipper in hand. Five minutes ago, he’d looked just like the others â€" thick blond hair, short and gelled on top, the sides clipped neat down to a few millimeters. The look was perfect, almost too controlled.

He looked at himself in the mirror, nodded once, then set the clipper right at his forehead and slowly drew it over the crown of his head toward the back. The sound was rough, like sandpaper on wood. Fine tufts of hair fell into the sink, shiny flakes of gel and hair.

"Hey, what are you doing?" Dennis shouted.
Kevin smiled briefly. "Just trimming a bit."

Then he ran the clipper down from his temple along the side to the nape. After a few strokes he paused, studied his reflection, and shook his head. "Still too long," he muttered, took off the guard, and started again â€" this time with no spacing. The left side was bare within seconds. Then the same on the right. The skin beneath was pale, almost white, the contrast brutally sharp: a strip of hair two fingers wide on top, smooth skin below with only faint stubble left.

He set the clipper aside, grabbed a bottle of shaving foam, and spread it with his hands along the sides and back of his head. With a Gillette razor, he slowly shaved downward from the temple, rinsing off the foam under running water again and again. With a small hand mirror he checked the back of his head, went over spots, until no hair was left. Then he patted the skin dry.

"Nah," he said without looking up, "they were really getting too long. Now that feels just right."

Dennis stood in the doorway. "Man, you’re nuts. You shaved everything off on the sides â€" and the back too!"

"But that’s exactly what makes it great!" Kevin stepped back, eyeing himself. His head looked different now â€" sharper, more angular, framed by clean lines. The hair on top still stood up, short, stiff bristles tilting forward. The smooth sides reflected the light as if someone had drawn an edge out of skin and shadow.

Lukas stepped closer. The floor was covered with pale hair, soft strands catching on socks. He couldn’t look away. Something about that contrast between the smooth-shaven sides and the cropped hair on top appealed to him in a way he couldn’t understand.

Kevin wiped his neck with a towel, picked up the clipper again. "Anyone else?" he asked casually, almost kindly.
Silence. No one answered. Only the water kept dripping from the razor head into the sink in thin threads.

Kevin turned to the others and grinned. "Suit yourselves."

He walked past Lukas into the kitchen. The others followed hesitantly, looking at him as if he were a different version of himself.

Timo tossed him the car key. "Get the stuff packed," he said. "We’re leaving early tomorrow."

Kevin caught the key and nodded, the sides of his head still gleaming. The boys laughed again, awkwardly this time. It felt as if something in the room had shifted â€" something none of them could name.

Lukas watched Kevin go and wondered where he’d found the nerve. It all felt unreal to him, as if he had dreamed it.


The next day:
Outside, the sky hung gray over the rooftops, as if the night hadn’t felt like stopping.
In the backyard stood Kevin’s car, a dark blue Golf, doors open, soft music playing from the radio â€" the same as yesterday, only muffled, further away.

Lukas came down the stairs with his bag. Kevin was already by the car. The light fell across his head at an angle, and Lukas had to look twice. Yesterday, Kevin had looked like all the others â€" hair gelled, the tips stiff as wire. Now everything was different: the entire top of his head cropped short, evenly, maybe a centimeter long, while the sides and neck were smoothly shaved. The difference was so simple it stood out. Nothing flashy, nothing styled â€" but completely changed.

Kevin bent into the trunk, shoving the bag inside. His profile suddenly looked harder, more angular. Dennis joined them, rolling a can of cola across the roof. "Hey, check out his head," he said. "He looks like Mike Tyson."
Kevin gave a short laugh. "Better Tyson than a salon model."

Lukas studied him, unsure what to say. He only understood that the difference was bigger than he’d expected. That such a small change could transform someone so completely unsettled him.

"All here?" asked Timo, coming from the house, already wearing his jacket.
Kevin nodded and slammed the trunk shut. The sound echoed through the yard, sharp and clear.

They got in. Kevin drove, Timo sat beside him, Lukas and Dennis in the back.
The Golf started on the first try. A hard beat came from the speakers, too fast for the time of day, too loud for the street. No one turned it down.

"Don’t need a GPS," said Kevin. "Just keep heading west â€" first Eindhoven, then Tilburg."
"And then?" Lukas asked.
Timo grinned. "Then Dome. Finally."

Lukas nodded. He said nothing more. In his mind, the word "Dome" was empty â€" just a sound, and he didn’t know what he was getting into. Something with music, he thought, maybe like Rock am Ring, just without guitars.

The streets lay still, the traffic lights changed lazily from red to green. The damp asphalt clung to the tires. Duisburg shrank behind them.

Kevin leaned forward slightly, hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes fixed only on the road.
In the rearview mirror, Lukas saw how the light shimmered across Kevin’s short hair â€" even, unbroken â€" a shade between metal and skin.

At some point, the talking stopped altogether. Only the bass remained, and the soft hum of the highway.

It felt like the beginning of something Lukas didn’t yet know.


Meanwhile in Tilburg/NL:

An early summer morning. Outside, the air stood warm and still, the light soft as if shining through frosted glass. From an old silver‑gray boombox in the kitchen came muffled beats, slightly distorted. The room was small, bright, smelling of shampoo and dust.

Daan stood barefoot on the tiles â€" broad‑shouldered, tanned, his hair short: about ten millimeters on top, the sides neatly shaved. His face was smooth, clear, something focused in his posture. He wore a plain white T‑shirt and gray sweatpants that hung slightly over his ankles.

Next to him, Mick sat on a kitchen chair. Slim‑built, fair‑skinned, with blond curls falling dry and soft down to his neck and a light, fine stubble on his face. The fringe in front was too long, constantly moving. He had taken off his tank top; his skin looked almost pale against the light streaming through the window. When he laughed, his teeth flashed bright and even.

Rik leaned against the door frame â€" stockier than Mick, with short, reddish‑blond hair standing slightly up at the front, almost like Tintin from the Hergé comic The Adventures of Tintin and Snowy". He wore black sweatpants and a light blue V‑neck shirt. His hands in his pockets, his expression curious.

"Ready?" asked Daan, testing the old kitchen scissors.
Mick nodded hesitantly. "I think so."
Daan grinned. "Relax. I thought you liked my haircut."
"I do," said Mick, as if he wanted to smooth down his curls one last time.
Daan reached out toward his head. "Soon we’ll look like brothers."

Without waiting, he grabbed the first strands at the sides, pulled them away from the temple, and cut straight through with the scissors. The metallic sound filled the room. Hair fell in thick tufts onto Mick’s bare shoulders.
"What are you doing?" Mick whispered.
"I’m cutting all this crap as short as possible first," Daan replied cheekily. "Otherwise the clipper will get stuck later. Trust me, boy."

He kept going, crisscrossing, grabbing random curls between his index and middle fingers and cutting them quickly just above the roots. A pale carpet slowly formed on the floor. Some strands fell onto Mick’s jeans, others lay across his arms.

When there was barely any movement left in the hair, Daan set down the scissors and picked up his clipper. He attached a medium guard and pressed the switch. The buzzing was deep and steady.
Starting above the forehead, he slowly drew the clipper over the head toward the back. Freshly cut ends struck against it, tiny bits of hair trickling over Mick’s face. Again and again, he ran the clipper patiently and precisely across the top until the hair was even â€" no more curls, only short, dense bristles, about six millimeters long.

"There we go," murmured Daan, removing the guard. Now he started at the temple. The sound grew sharper, more direct. With steady movements he guided the razor down to the nape. He tilted Mick’s head toward his chest and ran the clipper all the way up the back of the neck to the hairline. No hair was left, lighter skin emerged, and in the nape the two exposed muscle lines gave the shaved head a distinctly masculine look.

Mick’s head was now cleanly contoured â€" short on top, smooth at the sides. The floor covered in golden‑blond hair, meter by meter.
"Done," said Daan, switching off the clipper and stepping back.

Mick stood up slowly. In the light, his face appeared narrower, his forehead broader, his expression calmer. He looked into the mirror, grinned â€" suddenly liberated. "Crazy. I barely recognize myself."
"Looks strong," said Rik. "Completely different from before."
Daan nodded. "Suits you. Really clean now."
Mick ran his palm over his head, laughed. "I feel… I don’t know, fresh. Like new."

Rik grinned. "At least now you don’t look like some random guy on the beach."
"Or gay," Mick said dryly.
Daan laughed briefly. "Come on, be proud. Now you’ve got the Dome haircut."

Rik pulled his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. "Then I’m next. But all the way â€" everything off, even on top."
"Completely smooth?" asked Daan.
"Yeah. Kaale koppen, you know."

Daan set the clipper to zero and began at the crown. With every stroke, dense red‑blond strands fell onto Rik’s shoulders, his face, then to the floor. The buzzing vibrated through the tiles. The last hairs slid down his neck until only bare skin remained â€" with fine reddish stubble gleaming in the light.
"Okay, bald head," said Daan.
Rik ran his hand over his scalp, tilted his neck slightly. "Intense. I look like a skinhead."
"You look ready," said Daan simply.

They stood side by side in front of the small mirror: three young men, three variations of the same transformation. Short and simple on top, nothing left on the sides, only smooth skin and sharp lines.
Mick laughed. "Now everyone will think we’re brothers."
"We are," said Daan. "At least today."

They grabbed their jackets, slipped into Air Max, track jackets, jeans. Three silhouettes â€" strong, bright, almost mirror‑like.
On the floor, hair lay behind in three colors â€" blond, red, brown â€" blended together like traces of something no longer needed.


To be continued...

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