The Haircut Story Site

Thunderdome (Part 2) by KF_NDN

The station smelled of metal and sunlight. It was just after ten when Daan, Mick, and Rik stood on the platform. Daan carried the hair clipper in an old fanny pack �" the zipper half open. His hands rested casually in his pockets.

Mick pulled the hood of his white tracksuit jacket over his head, but it slipped back immediately. The light reflected off his freshly shaved sides. He grinned at Daan. "Unbelievable how light the wind feels now."
"Told you," said Daan. "Now you’re one of us."

Rik stood a little apart, wearing a dark T‑shirt and jeans. His head was smooth except for the orange‑red stubble that sparkled in the sunlight. He had headphones hanging around his neck, but left them switched off.

The train to Utrecht rolled in �" yellow carriages, open doors, hot air streaming out. They got on, found seats by the windows. As soon as they sat down, beats blared from a phone speaker, far too loud, but no one seemed to mind.

Groups of young men kept coming through the aisle, many in tracksuits, with gelled haircuts �" clearly heading for the same destination. Daan nodded, Mick grinned here and there; there was that wordless recognition among those who already knew what it was about.

As the train pulled out of the station, Mick leaned his head against the window, the air streaming across his short hair. For a moment, he thought about how he’d woken up with curls just yesterday. It felt like another life.

"See them back there?" Rik whispered, pointing toward another group a few rows away. "Bet they’re going too."
They looked like high‑school kids �" light jeans, polo shirts, clean sneakers, smelling of cologne. One waved to someone and laughed shrilly.
"Love Parade types," Daan said quietly.

Mick looked more closely �" and then his gaze caught on one face.
"Wait a second," he whispered, "is that… Joris?"
Daan turned slightly. "Who?"
"The second from the left, gray shirt. I know him from school."

Joris had short, dark blond hair, gelled upward, a neat cut, traveling with three friends �" Niels, Tom, and Bram. Their voices carried brightly over the music. Nothing about them suggested a scene or a statement.

Mick leaned lower, discreetly. Joris laughed, said something, slapped Tom on the shoulder. Then he glanced down the aisle, saw Mick �" just for a moment �" and hesitated.
Mick raised a hand, half unsure.
Joris blinked, taking a second. "Mick? What the… man?" His voice came half‑loud, puzzled.
"Yeah, it’s me," said Mick.
Daan grinned. "Surprise worked, huh?"

Joris stood up and came over. "I almost didn’t recognize you. What’s with your hair?"
"Thunderdome, man," said Mick. "We’re doing it properly, not halfway."
Niels grinned from his seat. "You guys look like machines. We thought it was some big techno festival or something."
Daan shrugged. "It is �" just without sunglasses and cocktails."

Everyone laughed, a bit uncertain at first, then genuinely. On their heads the contrasts reflected back: gel against the matte shine of freshly shaven hair.

As the train rolled over the wide fields toward Utrecht, some people stood between the carriages, music blasting from portable speakers, others clapping in rhythm. Between the groups there were glances again and again �" who belongs where? Who’s already "in," and who isn’t yet?

Joris eventually sat down with them. He looked again at Mick’s head, both stunned and fascinated. "I think I’m only just realizing this day isn’t going to be what I expected."
Mick grinned. "You can count on that."

Arrival in Utrecht

The train pulled in. First the metallic screech of the brakes, then sudden silence, before the speaker announced one last "Utrecht Centraal."
Daan, Mick, and Rik stood, backpacks slung over their shoulders. After the dull rattling of the tracks came a different sound �" low, deep, vibrating. The bass. At first only faint, but it was already in the city air, somewhere far off, like a heartbeat.

On the platform, a wave of young people was moving. Tracksuits, hoods, Air Max, excitement in their faces. Some had shaved heads, others gelled hairstyles �" but all seemed to be heading the same way.
"That way," said Daan, without even looking at the sign.

They followed the stream, down through the underpass, up onto the forecourt. Sunlight flickered off the asphalt. In the distance lay a gray concrete complex �" the hall. Between them and the gates, the bass kept growing stronger, as if it were rising from beneath the ground.
"That’s it," Mick said softly. Nobody answered.
They started walking. Every movement already felt like part of a bigger rhythm.

A few platforms away, Joris, Niels, Tom, and Bram stepped off another train. They had no idea Daan and the others had arrived just a few minutes before them.
The boys looked relaxed, laughing, tossing jokes at each other. Polo shirts gleamed in the light, hair gel sparkled. But here too: the music in the air, that steady pulse drowning everything else out.
"Hey, you hear that?" Tom asked.
"That’s got to be the hall," said Joris. "Come on, let’s go."

As they climbed the stairs, Joris hesitated for a moment. Ahead of them walked three figures �" tanned necks, shaved sides, slow steps �" Daan, Mick, and Rik. He recognized them first in profile, then clearly.
"Up there… that’s them from before," he murmured.
No one said anything. They kept walking �" not exactly following, but carried along by the flow.

Later, on the A2 just before Utrecht, a gray Golf was parked at a rest stop. Kevin, Timo, Dennis, and Lukas opened the doors, stretched, and looked up at the sky.
"It’s got to be somewhere around here," said Timo.

In the distance came a deep thudding �" barely audible, yet palpable. Even the asphalt seemed to vibrate with it.
Kevin grinned. "That’s not party bass. That’s something else."
Lukas nodded silently. No one needed to say more.

They got back in, rolled the window down, let the wind in �" the bass was louder now, almost as if it were rising straight from the ground. Crowds of people were walking along the access roads, many with shaved heads, tribals on their jackets, hands raised.
Kevin turned off the engine. "Come on, let’s walk."
They joined the flow �" a stream of white sneakers and gleaming skulls �" moving toward the gray dome.

Three currents, three movements, one destination.
From above, they looked like lines merging into the same wave. The bass now ruled everything �" the crowd’s footsteps, the synchronized breathing, the humming in the air.
And somewhere in between �" Lukas with too much hair, Joris with the wrong expectations, Daan carrying the clipper in his fanny pack. Everything was moving, on a collision course, a day ahead that everyone was waiting for.

The sun blazed mercilessly over the concrete. The bass thumped through the ground, vibrating in the soles of their shoes. In front of the hall gates, hundreds of boys crowded together �" hoods, lots of bare skin, everywhere athletic guys with shaved heads, tense and expectant.

Daan, Mick, and Rik stood in the middle of it all. The air shimmered; their movements were short and angular, their gazes darting like searchlights across faces. Everywhere the same tension �" a restless waiting that tingled in hands and heads.

Mick grinned, his eyes sweeping through the crowd. He thought he recognized Joris among the faces but couldn’t be sure. "Insane how many here look like us," he muttered.
"That’s the point," Daan said shortly.

A few rows away, Lukas, Kevin, and Timo held their tickets in hand. They spoke little, just watched this sea of identical cuts and the same serious expressions. Lukas felt the air playing across his hair �" suddenly too long, too soft, too visible.

Then the entrance opened. A jolt ran through the mass. Voices, pushing, metal barriers, movement. The bass hit louder now, more direct.

Daan looked at Mick �" brief glances, no words. The crowd began to move.

Three groups, three paths �" and above them all the same heartbeat pulling them in, step by step, into the darkness behind the gates.

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