Thunderdome (Part 3) by KF_NDN

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The bass pushed everything forward. On the main floor, the fog hung in the light like water, moving in waves that broke against bodies.

Lukas, Kevin, and Timo stood in the middle of it. The floor vibrated; every step sounded like an impact. At the edges, strips of light flickered, flashing across faces â€" boxer cuts, mullets, shaved sides, sharp angles.

Their own hairstyles suddenly seemed from another time: gelled fringes, clean contours, white T‑shirts over jeans, Nike belts. They stood out â€" everywhere.
"Dude," Kevin shouted, "everyone here’s got that same cut. It’s like… mandatory!"
Timo grinned, shading his eyes from the light. "Maybe the haircut’s included in the ticket price."

Lukas laughed, but uncertainly. The bass was too loud for long thoughts. He wiped his damp palms on his pants, feeling the vibration in his stomach. Everything was too close, too glaring. At the same time, the energy pulled him forward.

Between flashes of light, someone suddenly caught his eye â€" a boy in a dark shirt, with light hair that looked too long for this crowd. Something about him stood out: his posture, his movements, the contrast to all the rest. Lukas’ gaze stuck to him for no reason, just like that.

It was Joris, arriving too, with his friends. They were still laughing, looking relaxed, as if at an open‑air festival. But Lukas saw how they were glancing around â€" at the haircuts, the people, everything around them. Joris grinned, but his eyes lingered on the shaved cuts everywhere.

Finally, he pointed toward a sign nearby: "Gabberkapper â€" walk‑ins only."
"What’s that?" Niels shouted.
"Festival barber," Joris called back, half laughing. "Pretty practical in this heat."

They walked closer. A small area â€" mirrors, stools, a guy in gloves holding a buzzing clipper. No cash desk, no conversation â€" whoever wanted to, sat down; the rest just watched.

The bass drowned everything out; no one really heard what was said. Joris stood at the front, gestured briefly â€" maybe something like "just a little shorter." The man nodded.
Then he pressed the clipper to Joris’s forehead and drew it over his head. One straight stripe, then a second, longer, smoother. The crowd stared; someone filmed with a phone.

"Looks insane," said Kevin beside Lukas.
Timo laughed. "He’s got guts. Maybe it’s mandatory before you’re allowed in."

Lukas stared. Something about the scene gripped him â€" not the courage, but the quiet ease with which Joris just held still. After a few minutes he stood up as if nothing had happened, grinned, and ran his hand over the almost bare sides of his head.

"Man, what a guy," Kevin muttered. "He looks like he came straight out of a catalog now."
"Clean," said Timo. "Guess that’s how you do it here."

Lukas nodded slowly. "I want a haircut too… but not like that. Just a bit, normal."
"What’s normal?" Kevin grinned. "Nothing’s normal anymore, Ponyboy."

Lukas looked again â€" at the sign, the stool, the boy already sitting next, the clipper buzzing to life again.
It no longer sounded threatening, but almost inviting.

The music kept pushing everything forward. Lights jumped, bodies moved in jerks, hands up, heads down. The floor trembled with every beat of the bass.

Lukas stood with Kevin and Timo a bit off to the side of the floor, near one of the concrete pillars. You could still hear the buzzing of the hair clippers nearby â€" short, steady bursts, each followed by a new smile. Always the same sequence: a boy sat down, and five minutes later he stood up again, lighter‑headed, grinning.

"I swear," Kevin shouted, "if you sit down there, I’m filming you."
"Better take the gel out first!" yelled Timo, laughing. "Otherwise the clipper’ll get stuck!"

Lukas grinned awkwardly, glancing over at the onlookers near the Gabberkapper. Again and again, someone stepped forward from the crowd, sat down, and moments later stood up transformed. It looked simple, unspectacular â€" a routine, almost friendly.

His own fringe was already sticking; the gel had given up. He ran his hand through his hair and felt how soft and strange it seemed.

Kevin leaned closer to him. "Go on, just make it short. Just a bit, you know. When he asks what you want, say normal. He’ll figure it out."
"Maybe it really is just a festival thing," said Timo. "Makes sense in this heat."

Lukas nodded without answering. The sound of the machines cut through even the bass â€" a second rhythm, metallic and even.

"I’m going over," he said finally.
Kevin called after him, "Go for it, Ponyboy!"

Lukas pushed his way through the crowd until he stood right in front of the stand. Above the mirror, the sign glowed: Gabberkapper â€" walk‑ins only. The barber was just wiping the chair with a towel, brushing the last light hair clippings from the floor with a small brush.

"Still free?" Lukas shouted over the music.
The man nodded, wordless.

Lukas sat down. The stool was low, with no backrest; the light beamed down harshly from above.
"Just a bit," he yelled, "keep the top, shorter on the sides. But not too short."

The barber gave a tight smile; maybe he didn’t understand him. He lifted Lukas’s chin with one hand, set it firmly down against his chest.
Then he switched on the clipper. The buzzing was deeper than the music, vibrating.

The first pass came at the nape. Lukas felt the vibration against his skin â€" cold, steady â€" one stripe, then a second, right beside it. Hair slid down onto his shoulder, tickled, stuck to the skin. He couldn’t see it.

The barber switched sides, ran the clipper up along the contours, close to the ears. Lukas stayed still, trusting the movement.

Then the man stepped in front of him, face to face. Lukas looked up briefly, wanting to say something, but the noise swallowed everything.
"Just… a bit," he murmured.
The barber nodded okay, held the clipper without a guard above Lukas’s forehead, and guided it gently forward.

With a single movement, he drew it from the hairline over the crown. Strands slid forward â€" soft, heavy â€" and then the next ones.
Lukas felt only the smooth, even glide â€" no resistance, no tugging. Another path, the same sensation again.
He didn’t realize that nothing of "keep the top" would remain.

For the first time, he felt air on his scalp. A faint shiver ran down his neck. The barber worked on smoothly, until no more hair rose against the blade in front. Then the short, dry buzz as he switched off the clipper.

With a brush, he swept the warm hair remnants from the crown, across the forehead, down the neck. Dust of hair that wanted to dance in the light.
"Finished," the barber said quietly.

Lukas slowly lifted his head.
In front of him, no reflection he could instantly understand â€" only light, gleaming skin, a forehead that reached further than before.

Behind him, someone laughed. Maybe Kevin, maybe someone else.


For a moment, Lukas heard nothing. Only the lingering hum of the clipper, which started up again somewhere behind him. The floor under his feet vibrated; the air felt cooler, as if someone had opened a window.

Automatically, he raised his hand to his head â€" and stopped. Where his hair had been just minutes before, he felt smooth skin, warm and dry. No resistance, only the faintest hint of stubble. That sensation made the music seem even louder.

The barber tapped him lightly on the shoulder â€" a sign that he was done. Lukas stood up and ran his hands over his head. Where was his hair? He couldn’t go home like this; his mother would kill him.

Around him, a few people clapped, as they did after every shave. No cheering, no mockery â€" just acceptance, a fleeting welcome in a silent sequence.

Kevin and Timo stood at the edge, half‑grinning, half‑startled. Kevin still held his phone in his hand.
"Man, you really did it," he shouted. "Not a little bit â€" nothing! Smooth as ice!"
Timo laughed, but there was something enviable in his laugh. "Looks insane, honestly. You kind of… fit in now."

Lukas wiped his hand over his head, a reflex, as if checking whether it was real. The light slid over the curve of his skull, subtle reflections along the sides â€" sweat or shine, he couldn’t tell.

He looked around, through the haze, the lights, the faces. It felt like he was seeing them differently now â€" clearer. The trembling in his stomach gave way to a calm tension.
"How does it feel?" Kevin asked.
Lukas thought for a moment. "Light."

Kevin laughed and tugged at his arm. "Come on. At least now you don’t stick out like some schoolboy anymore."

Together they pushed back into the crowd, into the flicker of lights and bodies. People turned to look at Lukas, but not mockingly â€" rather measuring, approving. He felt the bass in his chest, but for the first time he had the sense he was part of it, not just watching.

Further back, he caught sight of Joris, whose head also gleamed pale, nodding to the beat. For just a second their eyes met â€" not as a greeting, but as a quiet recognition. Two who had arrived in the same rhythm.

Timo leaned toward Kevin. "I swear, we’re doing it tomorrow too."
Kevin grinned. "Sure. Later we’ll find that guy with the wired machine. He does it clean."

Lukas only understood later that he meant the one from the old fanny pack.

Now there was only music, bodies, motion â€" and the smooth head under the lights, which felt perfectly natural, as if it had never looked any other way.

Here’s the complete English translation with all details intact and paragraph spacing preserved for clarity and copying:

The bass was still everywhere, but its hardness had softened a little, as if the night were catching its breath. Lukas and the others stood at the edge of the hall, where the light was gentler â€" if one could even call that flickering gray "light."

The people around them now looked like a single sea of heads: uniform haircuts, short, precise, military â€" but the outfits remained varied. White tracksuit tops next to tight shirts, jeans, sweatpants, Air Max â€" everything fused into a strangely harmonious chaos.

Kevin and Timo stood close to one of the Gabberkapper stands. "I’m doing it," Kevin said firmly. "Now or never."
Timo nodded, scratching the back of his neck. "Five minutes, then it’s our turn."

The barber worked fast; you could practically count the rhythm with the music. A march of cuts: sit down, nod, buzz, stand up, smile. All in even tempo.

Lukas stayed a little back, watching the whole thing. He still felt light â€" not empty, but free. His friends, on the other hand, seemed to be wrestling with the moment before.

After a few minutes, it looked like their turn had come â€" or so they thought. Then suddenly the barber grabbed his clipper, wiped down the chair, called something to a colleague, and waved off the ones waiting.
"Maintenance break! Closed!" someone shouted.
Kevin grimaced. "Oh, great!"
"No luck," said Timo, looking around. "Maybe there’s another stand in the back."
"Or you chickened out," laughed Lukas.
Kevin turned and grinned. "Then come along if you know better."

They moved deeper into the hall, past dancing groups, drink stalls, and fog machines. The bass became duller, but steadier. The light kept shifting its colors â€" from blue to white to red.

Finally, they found another Gabberkapper at the edge of a side hall. It was almost quiet there, only occasional beats from outside drifting in. Three chairs, two clippers in action, a small line in front.
Lukas leaned against the wall. "Looks like you’ll get double service here," he said.

In front of them, a young Black man sat in the chair, visibly enjoying the ritual. The barber guided the machine steadily, leaving a narrow mohawk strip â€" even, ridge‑like, as though carving a line into metal. The crowd watched intently, not amused but respectful.

Right beside, the second Gabberkapper took his next customer â€" a pale, wiry guy with a carefully blow‑dried quiff, like straight out of a fashion ad. The barber brushed across his forehead, switched on the clipper, and with one decisive movement drew it from front to back. The quiff collapsed, strand by strand, until there was nothing left of it. The man remained still, lips pressed into the faintest of smiles.

Then came the foil shaver â€" a soft, high‑pitched buzzing that glided over his scalp. Every pass was rhythmic, almost ceremonial. No one spoke, no one laughed. Only the gentle sound of electric precision.

Kevin stared. "Intense," he muttered.
Timo nodded slowly. "That guy was just a model type a minute ago."
"Now he looks like one of us," Lukas said quietly.

The barber set the device aside, wiped a cloth across the man’s gleaming head, then used a brush to sweep away the last light flakes. The guy stood up, grinned briefly, and gave a small gesture of thanks â€" almost like a bow.

Kevin pulled the next chair closer. "I swear, if I don’t do it now, I never will."
Lukas grinned. "Then go for it already."

He stayed where he was while Kevin took the seat and watched as the rhythm began again: the buzzing, the steady pull of the clipper â€" quick, precise, without a single unnecessary word.

Here’s the full English translation with no content removed and clear paragraph breaks preserved:

The smell of electricity and heat mixed with the dull bass from the hall. Lukas stood close enough to feel the vibration of the machines as Kevin took his seat in the chair.

The Gabberkapper stepped silently behind him, checking the back of Kevin’s head with two fingers â€" like someone briefly taking a pulse. Then he began.

The sound was there again immediately: that vibrating, calming hum. The first stroke went across Kevin’s neck â€" one straight line, then the next, higher, more precise. The gel in his hair dissolved, flaking off in small gray specks onto his shoulders.

Lukas watched as more and more patches of shine appeared. The barber worked with the same stoic composure as before: neck, sides, then forehead. Without asking, without hesitation.

Kevin laughed briefly, let it happen, sat perfectly still. Within a few minutes, only the round shape of his skull was visible.

The barber switched tools â€" from the low buzz of the main clipper to the high, almost gentle hum of the foil shaver. Even movements, in rhythm with the music. A brief press against the temple, then silence, then the hum again.

When he finished, he took the brush, swept the remnants away with two quick motions, then grabbed a small cloth and polished the bald surface under the last glint of light. Kevin stood up, grinning, almost reverently.
"Bro, this feels insanely clean," he shouted.
Timo clapped him on the back. "Your look kills it. My turn."

The second chair was free, the other barber already ready. Timo sat down, glanced once at Lukas, and grinned wide. "If I pass out, catch me."

The machine started. With Timo it went faster; the barber barely changed direction â€" one pass across the top, then the sides. Hair drifted down through the beam of light, settled on his arms, fell to the floor, where it mixed with the leftovers from before â€" blonde over brown, a carpet of equal differences.

In three minutes, Timo was done too. The barber placed his hand flat on his head like a ritual, turned it slightly, as if giving him strength for a moment before taking up the cloth. Then a brush stroke, light, and the end.

Timo stood up, looked at himself in the small mirror, and laughed out loud. "I can’t believe it. Looks… better than I thought."
Lukas grinned. "Told you."

Now they stood there together, the three of them side by side, their heads shining under the hall lights, faces altered yet unmistakably the same.
"An hour ago we looked like we were from another planet," Kevin said.
"Now we are the planet," Lukas answered quietly.

They laughed, shoulder to shoulder, as the bass found their balance again. Out on the floor, the light seemed brighter, wider, clearer â€" and as they walked back, a few people turned to glance at them. Not in mockery, but in curiosity.

Three new silhouettes that fit perfectly into the picture.

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