Richard confronts corporate changes by Manny

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Richard had always believed that refinement was a kind of armor.

Every morning, he stood before his mirror and assembled himself piece by piece: the crisply starched shirt that was offset by classic cufflinks; the tailored suit that draped perfectly across his shoulders; the tasseled Italian loafers that cost more than some people’s rent; and finally, the crown, his hair.

Thick, plush chestnut waves swept back into a polished executive pomp, the sides and back cascading in immaculate, glossy layers that brushed over his collar, neatly groomed. It was the kind of hair that signaled authority, taste, and a certain old world confidence. When he looked at himself, he saw a man who belonged in boardrooms, not break rooms.

But the world he knew was about to vanish.

The announcement came on a Tuesday morning: the company had been acquired. Not by a traditional competitor, but by a youth driven, aggressively casual, hyper modern tech conglomerate whose culture was the polar opposite of everything Richard embodied.

Within days, the changes began. A schedule was distributed to employees with milestones coming in rapid succession for everything from new logos, to redesigned offices, to revised organizational charts with amalgamation of some departments.

The new leadership toured the building in hoodies and joggers. The dress code was abolished. The old mahogany conference tables were replaced with standing desks and beanbags. The walls were repainted in neon colors. The cafeteria began serving protein shakes and kombucha.

And the employees? They looked like they’d stepped out of a gym commercial sporting shaved heads, tight fades, butch cuts or tight tapers. Athletic wear was everywhere. Richard felt like a museum exhibit.

Most of Richard’s old colleagues welcomed the changes and quickly adapted their wardrobes. No ties! Yay! Sneakers! Yay!

But, Richard was loathe to change. He wore his suits. He polished his leather loafers. He styled his hair with the same meticulous care.

As his breed of traditional workplace dinosaur shrunk, the looks began. Not hostile, but almost worse. Bemused. Patronizing. As if he were a relic to be gawked at in a museum.

He overheard whispers: "Does he know we’re not doing the whole Wall Street thing anymore?" "Looks like he’s going to a wedding." "Man, that hair… does he blow dry it every morning?"

And each comment chipped away at him.

Richard wasn’t naïve. He understood corporate politics. He understood survival. He knew the office tide had shifted dramatically. If he didn’t change, he would be in the front lines of redundancy.

His gravitas, polish and experience felt like liabilities. His look screamed out "yesteryear". The suits had to go! And so did the HAIR!

Richard made the hard decision one morning as he stood in front of his mirror adjusting his tie and perfecting the sweep of his pomp.

That weekend he would go out and buy a new wardrobe for the office.

And, he would have his hair cut. SHORT! Like everyone else. GULP!

He imagined himself sitting in a barber’s chair and watching those chestnut waves fall to the floor, his head bowed to facilitate the barber’s work in wielding the huge set of electric clippers.

He imagined walking into the office sporting a shorn head and wearing a track suit and sneakers. He felt sick.

But he also felt something else: resolve. Steely resolve. His survival was dependent on it. If he didn’t evolve, he’d be erased. He wasn’t ready to become obsolete. Change would be hard, but he could do it!

Back home that night, Richard sat at his desk with a glass of scotch and typed into his search bar: "modern men’s short haircuts"

Then: "corporate athletic culture hairstyles"

Then: "buzz cut professional?"

He clicked through dozens of images: tight skin fades; high‑and‑tight military cuts; textured crops barely an inch long; shaved heads with sculpted beards; men with hair so short it barely cast a shadow.

He felt his stomach twist. He closed the laptop. Then opened it again. Then closed it. Then he poured another drink.

The next day, Richard approached Evan, a rising star in the new regime -- mid‑twenties, sharp, athletic, wearing a hoodie and a fade so tight it looked airbrushed.

"Evan," Richard said, "can I ask you something? I want to fit into the new office. And, uh, well, the truth is, I need to find a new barber."

Evan smiled widely and deadpanned, "You think?!"

He gave Richard the once over. "Are you thinking about a gradual change or ripping off the band aid?!"

OUCH! The question sounded painful.

"Quick, definitive change," Richard forced himself to say.

"I use the Chop Shop in Bingham. Ask for Hunter. He’s brutal with the clippers! Cuts the meanest bald fade," Evan said, then ambled away laughing.

Richard felt like he’d been punched in the stomach.

A BALD FADE! Just the name terrified him.

He watched Evan chat with another fellow. Both glanced at him and shared a good chuckle.

Word spread quickly that everyone should expect to see a new Richard after the weekend.

Random people dropped by his office all day to "congratulate" him in advance.

"Is it true? The big chop? At last!!" they would chirp. "We wondered how long you would hold out getting onboard with the program."

Their fingers would simulate a pair of scissors or set of clippers.

Some even were bold enough to take the liberty to tussle his executive coif!

"No more Mr. GQ look come Monday!"

Richard endured the friendly taunts with grace and forbearance.

With each visitor to his office, it became easier to confirm that the rumored makeover was, in fact, true.

Finally, he gathered the courage to announce the dreaded term -- BALD FADE! â€" to one of his well-wishers.

"You’re kidding! A bald fade?!"

Saturday morning’s styling session with his magnificent mane was like a final farewell. He had already donned his new track suit and sneakers. He carefully brushed his silken chestnut locks one last time and applied a small bit of hair spray as the forelock was especially heavy and long.

Then, Richard was off to the Bingham Chop Shop. He had made an appointment online with Hunter for 10:00 a.m., early in the day to get it over with.

The shop sat on a corner with a traditional barber pole swirling, like it had been there forever -- even though it was only a few years old. The owners deliberately crafted a space that resembled a 1950’s garage band rehearsal room mashed up with a contemporary men’s grooming studio.

Everything about the decor felt intentional. The walls were covered in vintage pin‑up posters framed in chrome, old motorcycle parts mounted like art, black‑and‑white photos of a variety of 1950’s haircuts -- everything from rockabilly quiffs to flattops -- neon signs in electric red and teal and retro barbershop poles spinning lazily in the corners.

The chairs were refurbished Koken classics -- heavy, chrome‑trimmed, leather‑upholstered beasts that looked like they could survive a nuclear blast. Each one gleamed under the lights and seemed to have been polished that morning like a prized vintage car.

The shop vibe was unapologetically masculine. Clippers buzzed nonstop. Men walked out with fades so tight they looked carved.

And behind one chair stood Hunter, the barber who would change Richard’s life — a young guy with tattoos, a mischievous grin, and the unmistakable energy of someone who loved to inflict a dramatic transformation.

Richard barely had time to get settled into the Koken chair before Hunter was commenting about his abundant mane.

As he surveyed Richard’s chestnut pomp, Hunter let out a low whistle.

"Damn," he said. "That’s a lot of hair! Thick, healthy, shiny hair!"

Richard swallowed. "Yes. I… know. But, most of it needs to go. I, uh, I want a bald fade."

There, he had said it! It came out more easily than Richard had imagined.

Relief swept through him after the instruction had been given -- but, followed in rapid succession by a wave of anxiety.

Hunter grinned widely. "Whoa! So short?!"

Richard nodded, trying to look brave or even just casual.

The barber clapped his hands together. "Oh, man. This is gonna be fun."

Richard’s stomach churned.

The cape was fastened around Richard’s neck with a flourish, as if the barber were wrapping a gift he couldn’t wait to have opened.

He reached straight for the big set of Oster clippers -- the kind used in military induction cuts, known as balding clippers -- and snapped them on.

BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

The sound enveloped Richard’s head. He winced.

The barber laughed. "Relax, man. I’m doing you a favor. It’s good-bye prissy haircare and hello bald fade!"

"Right," Richard croaked.

"Chin up," the barber said. "Let’s rip off the band aid!"

Richard braced himself for the assault of the clippers, as he eyed the Oster’s nearing his face.

The barber placed the clippers at Richard’s forehead -- right at the base of the pomp -- and without any ado, drove them straight into the plush silken mane.

A massive swath of chestnut hair exploded off Richard’s head and tumbled down the cape in thick, glossy sheaves.

Richard stifled a gasp.

The barber grinned like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Oh yeah!" he enthused. "This is the good stuff. Perfect for the chopping block."

Before Richard could recover, the barber made a second pass.

Then a third.

Each swipe sent more of Richard’s identity sliding down the cape in heavy, luxurious clumps. The pomp collapsed instantly, imploding like an obsolete building that had been laced with dynamite by a demolition crew.

Richard felt cool air hit his scalp -- a sensation he hadn’t felt since elementary school.

The barber kept going, quickly and mercilessly.

"Boot camp tempo," Hunter remarked cheerfully. "No point dragging it out."

Richard gripped the armrests.

The barber moved to the sides, switching to a guard that looked dangerously small.

"Hold still," he said, though he didn’t wait for Richard to comply.

He pressed the clippers to Richard’s temple and buzzed upward in one brutal sweep, mowing off the elegant waves that had once framed his face.

Hair rained down like a storm.

The barber chuckled. "Man, this is great wait to start my day! What’s with the new look?"

Richard felt his ears emerge -- fully exposed, naked in a way that made him feel strangely vulnerable.

"It was time for a change," Richard said glumly.

The barber didn’t slow down.

He buzzed around the ear. Behind it. Up the side. Up the other side. Around the back.

Richard’s collar length waves vanished in seconds.

The barber stepped back, admiring the carnage.

"Mind if I make a suggestion?" Hunter asked, finally pausing from his relentless assault on Richard’s locks. "Without the helmet hair, your head is going to seem a bit small, puny-like. I’d suggest a little length on top. Just to give you a bit more presence.

More length?! That was something Richard definitely could handle. But, the characterization of his head as "puny-like" was another kick in the stomach.

"Sure, you’re the professional," Richard replied in a daze.

"All right," Hunter said. "Time to square you up."

Richard blinked. "Square?"

The barber grabbed a flat top comb -- long, rigid, unmistakably authoritative -- and pressed it against the top of Richard’s head.

"Gonna give you something sharp and boxy," he said. "Something that fits the new world you’re moving into."

Before Richard could respond, the barber switched to a lighter clipper and skimmed it across the comb, slicing off everything above it.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ

More hair fell.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ

The top flattened.

BZZZZZZZZZZZ

The edges sharpened.

Hunter worked with the speed of someone who’d done this a thousand times and enjoyed every second.

Then, he reached toward the hot lather machine.

Richard’s eyes widened. "Is that…"

"Yep," the barber said. "Gotta clean you up."

Warm foam spread along Richard’s temples, behind his ears, down his neck.

Then came the straight razor.

Cold. Sharp. Unforgiving.

The barber scraped away the last remnants of Richard’s old life with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Man," he said, "you’re gonna look like a whole new dude."

Richard wasn’t sure if that was comforting or terrifying.

The barber whisked his neck, unfastened the cape, and spun the chair toward the mirror.

Richard stared -- numb, disoriented, disbelieving.

The chestnut waves -- his pomp, his elegance, his signature -- were gone from his head. Remnants of his once proud mane littered the pin-striped cape.

In their place was a tight, squared, brutally modern flattop: sides clipped nearly to the skin; back high and clean; top flat, sharp, geometric and edges razor defined.

Richard looked younger, leaner, bolder and shockingly different. Different from his old self, but quite similar to Evan or one of the other new office colleagues. Trendy, edgy….minimalist in the hair department.

The barber crossed his arms, proud of his work.

"Damn," he said. "You look like you just graduated from the military academy!"

Richard swallowed. He didn’t feel elegant. He didn’t feel polished. He felt… stripped.

In addition, he felt relieved! It was over!

He felt free, he felt he would once again be competitive in the office and give the new, younger set a run for their money.

For a moment after the cape came off, Richard remained frozen in the Koken chair, hands gripping the armrests, the leather cool against his palms.

Hunter gave the chair a casual tap.

"Payment is at the reception desk. If you liked my work, request me again next time," the barber suggested.

Richard rose slowly, legs unsteady, as if he’d just stepped off a boat.

The floor around the chair was covered with thick chestnut waves. Showy, glossy locks. The pomp he’d sculpted every morning lay dismembered amid the wreckage. The collar length layers he’d once smoothed with pride. All of it lay in a wide, scattered halo around the base of the chair -- a fallen monument to the man he used to be. He stared down at it, throat tight. The sheer volume of it was shocking. He hadn’t realized how much hair he’d had until he saw it all at once, lifeless on the black and white tile.

But the loss, in some strange way, generated a sense of pride. That he’d gone through with the divestiture in one quick visit to the Bingham Chop Shop. The band aid had been ripped off, and he had survived.

As he waited to pay, Richard lifted a hand to his head. A strange sensation washed over him -- a dizzying thrill.

His fingers met bristles. Short. Stiff. Foreign. Cool to the touch.

He gently ran his hand across the top -- the flat, squared plane the barber had carved with ruthless efficiency. The sensation was electric. His scalp tingled. His ears felt exposed. His neck felt naked.

He glanced back to watch Hunter sweeping up all the cuttings of his hair on the checkered floor. A huge panful was being dumped into the trash. A metaphor for his old self and image….

Richard caught his reflection in the mirror again -- the sharp lines, the clean taper, the brutally modern silhouette.

He was becoming accustomed to it.

Outside, the wind hit his head like a slap -- startling, bracing, undeniable. He paused on the sidewalk, hand drifting once more to the top of his head, this time savoring the feel of the short, rigid bristles that had replaced his once luxurious mane.

One thing was certain: there was no going back. He couldn’t go back to his old look. But he had to go back to the office.

Richard’s return on Monday was nothing short of cinematic -- not because he wanted it to be, but because there was simply no way to walk into that neon‑splashed, hoodie‑dominated workplace with a boxy, razor‑sharp flattop and not draw attention.

And the reactions came fast.

Richard stepped through the glass doors wearing a charcoal track jacket, matching joggers, sleek black sneakers, and the most aggressively modern haircut in the building!

The contrast to his old persona was jarring.

Friday, he’d looked like a CEO from a luxury watch commercial. Today, he looked like he’d just finished Marine Corps PT.

Heads turned. Conversations paused.

Someone actually whispered, "Holy sh*t! Is that Richard?"

Another voice: "Dude looks… intense."

A third: "He went flattop? Respect."

Even Evan -- the one who’d encouraged a bald fade -- did a double take. He approached with a grin that was half admiration, half disbelief.

"Richard!" he exclaimed jovially, "Was it Hunter who transformed you? You rock that top!"

Richard forced a smile. "It was Hunter’s suggestion, actually. I had asked for the bald fade you recommended."

Evan circled him like a mechanic inspecting a rebuilt engine. "This is more than different. This is… bold. You look like you could bench‑press the entire analytics team."

Richard wasn’t sure if that was a compliment, but people were smiling at him -- genuinely. Not mockingly. Not pitying. Just… impressed.

And that was new.

While Richard made some progress in accepting his new haircut, the track suit felt like he was wearing someone else’s skin.

Sure, it was comfortable â€" but, too comfortable. It lacked the structure, the weight, the authority of his tailored suits. He kept tugging at the sleeves, adjusting the hem, trying to make it behave like wool and silk instead of athletic fabric.

The sneakers felt wrong too. Silent. Springy. Casual in a way that made him feel exposed.

As the day went on, something surprising happened.

People approached him more. They talked to him more casually. They treated him less like a relic and more like a teammate.

Someone even said, "You look 10 years younger."

Another: "You look like you’re ready to run the place."

And slowly -- very slowly -- Richard felt the knot in his stomach loosen.

By the end of the day, the track suit didn’t feel quite as foreign. The sneakers didn’t feel quite as wrong. The flattop…while it still felt shockingly short, felt totally empowering.

He wasn’t elegant anymore. He wasn’t polished. But, he was relevant! Richard was on the vanguard, pushing forward.

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