Pompous Peter, Preening Peter! by Manny

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Peter was in his usual business executive mode, equipped with all the trappings of corporate power, including an Italian suit, leather loafers and monogrammed cufflinks. He sat bored in the conference room of the off-site at a downtown hotel. His dapper looks were generally admired by his colleagues, particularly the thick, wavy black locks that oozed vitality and were worn swept back in a full executive style. It was a carefully crafted longer look, that in earlier times challenged the corporate strictures by lapping over his ears and hanging in plush waves toward the base of his dress collar.

During one presentation that he had no interest in, Peter's mind began to wander to a favorite fantasy -- getting a radical makeover! He had noticed a young, muscular bellhop in the hotel whose head was shorn into a bald fade. Peter amused himself by imagining himself approaching the bellhop, praising the radically short crop and asking him to recommend a barber shop.

The drift into fantasy land was slow at first. But, then with a familiar, thrilling momentum, Peter hurtled towards a transformation that so extreme it would make his colleagues, and everyone he knew, gasp at the magnitude of the change.

He shifted slightly in his chair, feeling the weight of his thick, wavy black hair as it brushed the back of his collar. He smoothed it back with his hand. It was the kind of hair that projected power, elegance and sophistication.

And yet...imagining it all gone gave him a secret thrill.

Peter’s pulse quickened as he thought about the handsome bellhop and the image his shorn head projected -- so confident and casual in that effortless way youth were allowed. The brutally tight bald fade left little to interpretation. Clean. Sharp. Dominant in its own way. The audacity of it. The freedom of it. The way it made the bellhop look like he had nothing to hide and nothing to prove.

As the presenter droned on about market segmentation, Peter imagined the conversation he would have with the bellhop. ‘Uh, your haircut.... It’s...impressive, so clean and confident.’ The bellhop’s grin would speak volumes. ‘Oh, sir, my barber shop is nearby, if that’s that you have in mind.’

Peter imagined his stomach tightening as the bellhop gave his pampered coif the once over. A recommendation. A shop. A chair. Clippers buzzing to life behind him as he awaited, captive by the cape snuggly fastened about his nervous neck. The first lock falling -- heavy, dark, unmistakably his! The fantasy sent a quiet shiver down his spine.

He straightened up in his conference chair, leaning forward, hoping to re-focus on the presentation. But his fantasy churned on unrelentingly. It would not be repressed! Peter adjusted his cufflinks and flipped through a handout. But inside, the fantasy looped again, stronger this time, more vivid.

To delight, the very young man he was fantasizing about slipped into the conference room to refresh the tables. He came straight to Peter's table, as if he were in on the fantasy, and leaned over to replenish the small bowl of mints. Then he swapped out the pitcher of water.

Peter was given a very up-close look at the bellhop's haircut. There was almost nothing up there except stubble! He imagined his 5-6 inch raven locks being shorn off by the bellhop's barber. How would it feel to see the cape covered in hair, his hair...and the unfamiliar man in the mirror with a clipped head? Peter’s fantasy stopped being abstract and became frightfully real. All his attention narrowed to the young man in the crisp hotel uniform, moving between tables with easy athletic grace. He brought dignity and strength to a lowly job of service.

After the bellhop left the room, mental images of the brutal fade remained -- skin‑tight at the sides, the transition so sharp it looked carved. The top barely more than stubble, a whisper of dark shadow that caught the light. There was no softness, no waviness, no movement -- just bold, unapologetic exposure.

Peter’s hand nervously returned to his own hair...so soft, so comforting...those plush executive waves that had been part of his identity, part of his authority, for so long.

The fantasy kicked in with intense reality -- caped like a convict facing the executioner, Oster clippers in hand! The white cotton drape resting heavily over the shoulders, swallowing the suit beneath. The first pass of clippers biting into his hairline. The vibration against his scalp. The shock of cool air hitting newly exposed skin.

Peter’s pulse thudded in his throat.

To his relief, the presenter declared a 15-minute break. A change of scenery would shake the vivid thoughts that had been consuming him.

But, there was no relief! Right outside the conference room stood the bellhop, lingering nearby, arranging the empty water pitchers.

Peter was seized with the idea of interacting with him, a brief chat about nothing. Or, about his...oh, that bald fade!

He ambled toward him, outwardly casual, but inwardly consumed with excited tension.

"Sir, did you need something?" the bellhop asked with servile innocence.

Peter cleared his throat. His voice came out softer and more controlled than he expected.

"Yes, actually. I wanted to ask you something...." Peter began.

The bellhop tilted his head, curious and open.

"Your haircut. It’s...quite striking," he said quickly.

There, it was out! A brief wave of relief swept through Peter, followed by internal commotion.

An unguarded grin spread across the young man’s face.

"Thank you, sir. I like to keep it tight," he replied casually.

"It’s more than tight. It’s, well, it’s practically bare," Peter remarked in an amused tone.

The bellhop laughed, running a hand over his scalp with a mix of self-consciousness and pride.

"Yep, it’s a zero fade. Almost nothing on top. Feels great, honestly. No sweaty hair to deal with when I’m handling luggage for the guests or setting up the conference area," he replied.

Then, the bellhop continued by asking, "Thinking about trying something different, sir? I mean, with your hair?"

Peter’s heart stuttered. OMG! The conversation was veering out of his control!

"I’ve considered it. A change -- something more...decisive," he managed to respond, sounding perfectly normal about the matter.

The bellhop’s smile widened in a warm and encouraging manner.

"If you want a real transformation, I know the perfect place. My barber doesn’t mess around, though. No prissy looks or trendy styles," he stated.

Peter’s stomach churned with fear and excitement. No prissy looks! Is that what the bellhop thought of his hair?!

"I imagine he doesn’t, not from the looks of things," Peter stammered, this time sounding a bit nervous.

The bellhop leaned in just a little, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"I can give you the address. He’ll take care of you," the young man said with bold confidence.

Peter’s fingers twitched at his side, imagining the cape, the clippers, the first heavy lock sliding down the expanse of cotton.

"Yes, I think I’d like that. Time I got a good shearing," Peter laughed nervously.

Just saying that made him almost swoon with anticipation and relief.

A few minutes later, the bellhop found Peter exactly where he left him and handed him a small folded slip of paper.

Peter accepted it with a polite smile and tucked it into a pocket.

Before walking away, the bellhop added, in a bright and eager tone, "If you want, I can walk you there after my shift. It’s only a few blocks from here."

That hit Peter like a splash of cold water. Walk with him? Perhaps the young man would boldly tell the barber he was there for the same bald fade! He’d be ushered straight to the barber throne for a thorough shearing!

Absolutely not!

Peter’s smile froze and he cleared his throat, trying to sound casual -- authoritative, even â€" but the nerves leaked through.

"Oh, uh, no, no, that’s...uh, very kind of you, but unnecessary. I wouldn’t want to take up your time," Peter stammered.

There. Said. A boundary drawn, thin but firm.

The bellhop smiled and nodded, accepting the response without offense.

"Of course, sir. This evening the shop is open late, just FYI," the bellhop added.

"Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind," Peter replied tersely.

He would not be rushed. He would not be escorted. He would not be delivered to the barber like a lamb to shearing.

But the address was in his pocket now. The timing was perfect for a casual stroll over to the shop after the conference ended....

Peter's colleague and friend, Lawrence, noticed the exchange. He was the type who usually didn’t miss much, and certainly not that critical moment. Back in the conference area, Lawrence slid into the empty chair beside Peter with the smooth confidence of a man who enjoys stirring the pot. His voice dropped into a teasing murmur.

"Well, well. Did I see you slipping a love note from the help into your pocket just now, right outside the door?" Lawrence asked with his bright blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

Peter froze.

"It wasn’t -- I mean, it’s not -- Lawrence, don’t be ridiculous!" Peter exclaimed.

Lawrence raised an eyebrow, amused. Peter’s defensive reaction intensified his interest. He was on to something!

"Come on, Peter. Out with it! I saw the way you two were talking. He is a little stud-muffin. And now you’re acting downright flustered," he continued to tease.

Peter cleared his throat and tried to regain some of his usual corporate composure.

"It was the address of a barber shop. That’s all. I asked the bellhop where he gets his hair cut," Peter replied calmly.

Lawrence’s eyes darted to Peter’s glossy waves, the ones that always look like they belong in a luxury menswear ad. What he wouldn’t give to have thick, healthy hair like that! Instead, Lawrence’s own blond locks were thinning and his hairline beginning to recede.

"You? Asking a kid with a bald fade to recommend a barber shop?! What, did you run out of Italian stylists who charge by the strand?" Lawrence laughed.

Now that his interest in a barber shop had been pried into public, Peter decided to continue talking about his startling idea in a simple, straightforward way with Lawrence. He would test out the reaction in the professional world.

"I’ve been thinking about...uh, a change. Something short. Possibly very short. Maybe even as short as the bellhop’s," Peter said without any hint of drama.

Lawrence blinked. For the first time, the teasing faded.

"You’re serious," Lawrence remarked, somewhere between a statement and a question.

Peter nodded, his fingers brushing the back of his collar where his hair pooled in soft waves.

"I don’t know. It’s been like this forever. I just...I keep imagining it. A makeover -- something decisive, clean, different," he said. "What do you think? Should I do it?"

Peter felt strangely exposed, as if the question itself had peeled back some layer he usually kept hidden.

Lawrence’s reaction was instant and absolutely theatrical, exactly the kind of over-the-top disbelief Peter dreaded, but in some way expected.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes wide, mouth dropping open in a gasp so dramatic it could win awards.

"You? Shedding that showy hair?! You’re practically a GQ cover model! Executives would kill for that mane. And you want to...what?! March into some bargain‑bin barber shop and come out looking like a kid from the ghetto? Or a blue‑collar bellhop?" Lawrence replied, gleefully skewering Peter’s idea.

Peter winced. Lawrence was right about the stark contrast. His hair conveyed polish, power, and control. The bellhop’s image was the opposite: raw, exposed, stripped down.

Peter cleared his throat.

"It’s not a bargain‑bin shop. And I didn’t say I was doing it. I was just...thinking about it," he murmured.

Lawrence narrowed his eyes, studying his friend with a mix of disbelief and fascination. Shedding that pampered mane...emerging from a barber’s chair with a bald fade!

"Peter, that’s not a ‘thought.’ That’s a cry for help! Or a midlife crisis -- or both," Lawrence remarked forcefully.

"Or, perhaps maybe it’s just time for a bit of change -- time to shake things up?" Peter asked rhetorically.

Lawrence inhaled deeply and then brought the discussion toward a close with a quick turn of the knife, as he was apt to do.

"You know...maybe that’s what you need. You’ve been strutting around with that perfect executive coif for years. Pampered and impeccable. Maybe getting cut down to size would do you some good," he purred in a cool, confident tone.

Peter’s stomach flipped. The phrase ‘cut down to size’ hit hard. Lawrence was his good friend!

At that moment, the conference organizer began urging everyone to take their seats for the final session.

Before walking away, Lawrence finalized his thoughts, "I think it’s outrageous. I think it’s insane! But, it might be exactly what ‘Pompous Peter’ needs."

Peter stewed angrily at being called pompous as he watched his friend stride away.

He knew that Lawrence had mean little epithets for everyone. He’d laughed at many of them -- always on the mark and always playfully cruel. So, his was Pompous Peter! And, there were probably more in Lawrence’s little library of nicknames: Preening Peter? Pretty Peter? Prissy Peter? Powderpuff Peter?!

Deep within, he knew it was true: he was pompous. And, the truth hurt. He'd always struggled with vanity and pride. He’d spent years cultivating an image of polish, control, superiority -- the perfect suit, the perfect posture, the perfect hair, the perfect accessories. It was vanity dressed up as professionalism.

Pompous Peter! Yes, the shoe indeed fit! He’d been exposed by his close friend -- thankfully in a private, direct manner.

He shifted in his seat, fingers again brushing the back of his collar where his thick waves spilled over. The contrast between his lush executive mane and the bellhop’s stark, fearless fade hit him harder than before.

Lawrence and he exchanged a few glances throughout the final presentation.

As soon as the conference ended, Lawrence rushed over, feeling a bit guilty about delivering such a harsh truth.

"Oh, don’t look so wounded. You know I adore you, Peter," Lawrence said, trying to soften the mood and patch things up. "You’re turning a big number soon, aren’t you? That’ll rattle any man. Midlife crisis, reinvention, whatever you want to call it."

Peter nodded, glad that Lawrence was trying to make amends and somehow explain his outburst.

Yes, that big number had been looming over him like a shadow. And yes, he’d been thinking about youth, about relevance, about not wanting to fade into the background of younger, hungrier executives.

"Maybe that’s part of it. I don’t know. I just...I look at him, the bellhop, so young and confident, so trim and sharp. That haircut, it’s so...bold. Like he’s not afraid of anything," Peter babbled.

Lawrence snorted, "He’s twenty‑something and carries luggage for a living. Of course he’s not afraid of anything! Still, I get it. You want to feel younger. Less weighed down by your own image. Peter, you’re probably tired of being so...uh, so curated."

Peter exhaled a soft, embarrassed laugh.

"Curated. That’s a polite way of putting it," Peter murmured, having to agree with the assessment.

Lawrence studied him for a long moment, then leaned in with a sly, wicked grin.

"Well, if you really want to shake things up, if you really want to shock the world -- and yourself! -- nothing will do it faster than shaving off those five-inch glossy CEO locks! You’d go from GQ cover to...well, whatever that bellhop is!" Lawrence exclaimed, encouraging Peter with a friendly pat on his shoulder and tussle of the mane that was teetering on destruction.

Peter’s stomach surged with electrified excitement.

"More youthful," he murmured. "More...fearless."

"Or more insane," Lawrence laughed. "But that’s exactly the point! I say, do it!"

Peter took out the folded slip of paper with the address of the barber shop. It suddenly felt like a ticket to a different version of himself, a re-imagined and energized version, he hoped.

He waved the note at Lawrence, "Here’s the address the bellhop gave me...."

"Oh, this is happening! You’re not backing out now, I’m going to make sure of that," Lawrence said enthusiastically, snatching the paper.

Peter blinked, startled, with a deer-in-the-headlights expression.

"We’re not dragging this out. Oh, no," Lawrence insisted, beginning to tap the address into his cell phone.

"We?" Peter asked, raising his brows.

Lawrence grinned like a man who had just appointed himself the architect of someone else’s destiny.

"Yes, we!" Lawrence insisted, "I’ll escort you myself. Make sure you actually walk through the barber shop door instead of circling the block like a coward."

"Lawrence, I don’t need an escort. I can...." Peter objected.

"I know you, Peter!" Lawrence insisted, "Please. Without an escort, you'll get within ten feet of that barber shop and suddenly remember an urgent email. No, I’m coming! I’ll sit right there and make sure you leave that chair with a bald fade that’s so sharp it’ll make the bellhop jealous."

Peter felt half panicked, half thrilled. A bald fade! His mane, gone! He swallowed hard.

"Midlife crisis solved. Vanity cured. And, honestly, you might even look better," Lawrence opined. "Stronger and less, uh...ornamental?"

Peter was too numb to feel a sting from that final dig. He felt emotionally exhausted as the fantasy hurled toward reality with lightning speed.

"You’re right, Lawrence, the time is now," Peter admitted with a weak smile that conveyed assent. "And, yes, I need an escort to make sure it happens, I do indeed."

Lawrence clapped him on the back triumphantly. Then, his fingers simulating a set of fast-feed hair clippers, he ran them up the back of Peter’s head while making a buzzing sound.

"It’s a ten-minute walk," Lawrence said, studying the map on his phone. "Ready, pretty boy? There will be no more ‘Pretty Peter’ when this is all said and done!"

"Let me just stop by the men’s room," Peter replied nervously, rapidly smoothing his coif back into place.

The fluorescent lights of the bathroom caught the sheen of Peter’s thick, wavy black mane. He had no doubt he would miss his power helmet that was worn swept back in plush, glossy waves. He pulled a brush through it. It was the kind of hair that stylists raved about, that other men his age (like Lawrence!) envied. Soft, heavy, luxurious. His signature look since even before joining the corporate elites.

The thought of a radical makeover -- a bald fade -- left him in half dread, half thrill. Undeniably, there was the fear of losing what he had always relied on. But, Peter couldn’t deny the excitement that flared intensely every time he imagined the clippers whirling, sitting helplessly in the barber chair, and watching the pampered clumps falling away.

Those few seconds of exhilaration...would they be engulfed in waves of remorse or would they lead into a bold new chapter of his life?

Peter leaned closer to the mirror, studying himself, when the door burst open. It was Lawrence! Peter felt like he’d been caught doing something illicit. He quickly put the brush away.

"Well, well. Admiring yourself, are we?" Lawrence smirked.

Peter sputtered, feeling chastened and mortified.

"You were practically caressing it, Peter!" Lawrence exclaimed preemptively. "If vanity were a crime, you’d be doing life, Preening Peter!"

"I was just taking one last, good look -- a final farewell," Peter said lamely. "Come on, let’s go!"

"Atta boy. Big chop time," Lawrence responded playfully.

As the two men left the hotel, Peter was privately glad he had a determined escort. Without Lawrence’s determination, there would have been a 99% chance of losing his courage before he ever arrived at the barber shop. And, the fantasy would have endured to be imagined yet one more time....

The walk allowed Peter some time to reconsider the severity of a bald fade! He wasn’t ready to go so far, to ask for something so extremely short. It would be like a total surrender, a free-fall into a scary abyss.

Internally, he rehearsed something more nuanced, ‘Cut it short.’

Simple. Open-ended. He’d let the barber decide how far to take it. And, if the barber interpreted "short" as very short...well, that would be his fate.

But, the way he was dressed and the length of his hair.... No, certainly the barber wouldn’t do anything so extreme as a bald fade. Perhaps he'd emerge from the chair with a standard businesscut or a traditional ‘short back and sides’ -- a barbered look?

Suddenly, Peter felt Lawrence’s arm wrenching him around the corner.

"You’re herding me like a marine recruit," Peter sniffed.

"Boot camp, my friend. And the first stop is the barber shop," Lawrence taunted. "After that, we can work on you shedding ten pounds, or so. You’re in the danger zone for developing a fulsome, midlife beer belly. That's probably also fueling your anxiety."

Peter let himself be guided. Yes, there was the emerging beer belly which concerned him.... That makeover would take considerably more time and effort than the impending haircut. His shearing would be quick. In and out. Twenty minutes, and he'd be a different person altogether!

Lawrence continued hustling Peter along with surprising speed, weaving through the sidewalk potholes and other obstacles like a drill sergeant marching a new recruit toward the inevitable buzz of the induction clippers. They turned down a side street, veering away from the main drag -- a quieter block where the neon glare of the modern city gave way to older storefronts of weathered brick. The dull bulbs of the old-fashioned street lights cast a softer, warmer glow.

Then, Peter spotted it! His destination! Half a block away it shone like a beacon: the striped pole turning lazily in the evening air. Red, white, and blue bands spun in a slow, hypnotic spiral; soft streaks of color painted the sidewalk in mobile hues.

Peter paused the march to steel his nerves.

He took a deep breath and then said in a soft, determined voice, "This is it."

"I like that determination," Lawrence remarked, giving his friend’s arm an encouraging caress. "You won’t regret it."

Then, in typical Lawrence-fashion, he added, "But, maybe you will!"

Then, Lawrence quickly pushed the glass door of the shop open. It bore gold lettering in a vintage cursive font: "Enrico’s Barber Shop."

A small bell jingled with a bright, nostalgic chime. Before them, spread out the floor in a checkerboard of black‑and‑white linoleum tiles, worn smooth in the places where barbers have stood for decades. Some tiles were chipped at the corners, others slightly faded, but the pattern gave the cozy room a timeless rhythm. Two massive Koken chairs dominated the space, their chrome gleaming under the overhead strips of naked neon lighting. The leather was a deep oxblood red, cracked in places without any attempt of repair. Each chair had a heavy footrest with ornate scrollwork, the necessary, intermediate step towards Peter’s makeover.

As soon as they entered the shop, Lawrence announced to the idle barber that his friend "...is here for a bald fade!"

The old man smiled warmly, and patted the chair where the transformative deed should happen.

The barber was in his late fifties with salt‑and‑pepper hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. He wore a crisp white smock with ‘Rico’ embroidered on the chest pocket in the same vintage cursive as on the door. He had the confident look of a seasoned professional who'd been cutting hair his entire life. He wasn’t the chatty type, but his expression seemed calm and welcoming.

The shop was quiet, just Rico -- no customers in the chairs, no faint hum of clippers in the background. But the smells of talcum powder, witch hazel, barbicide, and warm shaving cream conveyed a sense of prior activity. Oh, and the big pile of hair swept up next to the big trashcan to one side of the shop.

Peter swallowed nervously. His locks might be doubling that pile!

The way Lawrence had announced the haircut in a definitive, forward way still rattled Peter. It had sounded like a cop delivering a prisoner to the jailor or like a judge reading out a death sentence!

"A bald fade, eh?" Rico chuckled. "Sure, I can do that. Take a seat here, young man."

Peter felt the blood rush to his face -- a hot, mortifying flush that rose from his collar to his ears. His hand instinctively was raised to his hair, fingers brushing the thick, glossy waves as if to protect them.

Lawrence continued his mission by giving Peter a firm pat between the shoulder blades while nudging him a half‑step closer to the chair.

Rico noticed the hesitation. He looked Peter up and down: the expensive suit, the polished shoes, the immaculate executive mane, the palpable tension.

He’d seen this dynamic before. And, it was his favorite professional moment -- giving a hesitant pretty boy a makeover! He would relish dispatching that salon style to the linoleum floor. But, Rico was patient. The trick was to allow space and time; that was the most certain wait to preempt any last minute bolting from the shop on account of cold feet.

Peter instinctively tried to reset the instruction as he put one pricey loafer on the fancy footrest of the big throne-like Koken.

"I...uh, I didn’t say -- I mean, I was thinking something short, but...uh," his voice cracked.

He cringed at the cracking voice. It exposed his nervousness.

"Don’t worry, sir. We can do whatever you want," Rico reassured him, as Peter settled into the soothing leather.

"Something short," Peter said, before adding, "very short, really."

He watched Rico snap open the cape. He had come so far! Farther than he’d ever gone to transform his fantasy into reality.

The white cotton sailed around and the fluttered down, covering up the trappings of corporate power.

Peter was in place for a big chop. His hair suddenly felt heavier and looked more pompous than ever.

Oh, the cape was fastened so snuggly! The big metal clip had the strength of a huge key locking the prison door on the new convict. Peter struggled to breathe!

"Very short," Rico echoed, beginning to brush through the soft wavy locks.

Peter’s dangerous, electric curiosity flickered back to life. The thought of what he was about to say terrified him. He was toying with fire....

"Do you think a bald fade would even be appropriate for a man my age...a professional man?" Peter asked.

Rico relished the moment and purposefully decided to prolong it by not immediately responding. Instead, he hummed cheerfully as he organized his things and swapped out the blade on his favorite set of Oster clippers.

Men brought in by friends, men wrestling with pride, men on the edge of transformation. He recognized the signs: the nervous fingers, the darting eyes, the stiff posture under the cape.

Rico savored the anticipation before him the way a sculptor probably felt before the first decisive strike of the chisel. Instead of pure, snowy white Carrera marble, he had an exquisite mane of glossy, raven waves to work on....

Rico viewed the transformation as an opportunity, a thrilling privilege. And, some mystery as well. Rico was never certain how the newly shorn man would react when the deed had been accomplished. Shock, usually. But, followed by what? Joy, horror, remorse, curiosity?

Rico took a comb and seized the forelock, lifting it up and away from the forehead. The six-inch locks looked doomed. With his other hand, he brought the huge set of Oster clippers to life. Click! A purring hum and faint burning smell added to the sensory warnings that the haircut was imminent.

"A bald fade, then," he said casually, "It’s what I’m hearing?"

Rico paused; he was open to, but not expecting, a contradiction.

Peter gripped the arms of the chair under the cape and gave the slightest of nods.

The barber smiled, but maintain his preparatory stance, examining the glossy mane with appreciation. Half of his clientele were geezers with thinning, sparse snow. Most of the others were young men and kids. The current demographic beneath his cape was rare. So was his premium hair. Rare, striking hair -- the kind barbers secretly love to cut off, to dispatch to the floor. The authority to transform, to alter a man completely!

The silent timeframe for second thoughts expired.

Suddenly, unannounced, the transformation was unleashed.

Rico drove the screaming teeth right into the lush, captive forelock! Peter jolted. Lawrence gasped with a delighted horror. And Rico hummed contentedly as he pushed the clippers back through the raven locks...slowly, authoritatively, unstoppably.

"A bald fade," he chirped quietly as the first drive of the clippers came to an end. Mounds of the glossy hair that had settled on Peter’s shoulders started tumbling behind to the floor or sliding down the cape into his lap.

They were at the point of no return. The swath of exposed scalp down the top of his head declared as much.

Rico brought the clippers around for a second go with the determination of an executioner’s blade and the gentleness of a surgeon.

Lawrence watched the tufts of cut hair begin to form small pools of ebony on the linoleum floor. He shifted uneasily in the chair, feeling responsible. It was shocking, really! Peter was actually getting a bald fade -- and he was the catalyst, the enforcer who made ensure it happened!

Jealousy? Was that his motive? Putting an end to the one department where Peter held the unquestioned upper hand? Lawrence felt his thinning locks nervously. He never would have gotten a bald fade, had he Peter’s mane!

The sound of the Osters continued to fill the shop with a deep, confident BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.

After four fruitful drives down the top, Rico shifted focus and swapped the Oster blade to a #0000. Let the "balding" in "bald fade" begin!

He guided Peter’s head into a full bow so that he was forced to stare at the huge cauldron of cut hair in his lap. The longest, most beautiful of his locks -- that pampered forelock of lore that formed the capstone of his coif -- was still identifiable in the collection of cut hair.

Suddenly, the vibration of the clippers landed at the base of Peter’s nape, right where his thick waves usually brushed his collar. The way the Osters felt shot straight through him. Peter intensified his grip on the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles felt frozen in place.

The barber pushed the hungry, unforgiving teeth upward in a slow, deliberate drive.

Larry was mesmerized by the river of black hair that poured down the back of the cape and fell into a mound at Rico’s feet. He inhaled sharply, feeling free from the guilt he had initially felt and consumed with delight. Prissy, pompous Peter would not be the same when he was escorted back to the hotel. How the others would howl when they saw him shorn of his fancy locks! Mocking, taunting, teasing him shamelessly. Then, taking turns rubbing the sparse bristles that remained.... It would be a bitter tonic for Peter, but it might be his making!

Rico continued the upward passes, each one carving a clean, pale path through Peter’s diminishing mane. Stroke after stroke, the barber cleared the entire back of Peter’s head. No more thick, glossy waves cascading past his collar. Now, just bare skin fading into the faintest shadow.

Peter could sense the change in back, even though he couldn't see it. He felt the air on his scalp -- cool, alien, stinging!

Rico moved to the side, wrenching the head in a new direction. Peter watched in the mirror as sheaves of his hair slid down the cape, adding to the dark, glossy pile in his lap.

He detached himself from the man in the mirror, as if the image belonged to someone else.

But it didn’t. He knew it. It was his. Strangely his, eerily his!

The barber moved to the other side, tilting Peter’s head with a more gentle, practiced touch. The clippers glided upward, erasing the sideburn, then the hair above it, then the entire side panel of his executive coif.

Peter was transfixed as he watched the transformation unfold in the mirror. His fantasy of years now almost a new reality. His ear emerged, looking stark and exposed, and very vulnerable. Without hair, the prominent ears seemed to be his new distinguishing feature. And they were rather large!

Lawrence broke the silence, "Look at that. It’s looking good."

The remark seemed rehearsed, forced, and false.

"A businessman opting for a bald fade," Rico chuckled. "This has certainly made my day."

Now, the barber’s remark oozed sincerity and truth, in stark contrast to the phony compliment proffered by Lawrence.

Peter couldn’t speak. His throat was too tight, the beating of his heart too loud.

He certainly looked different...younger, sharper, bolder. More exposed, perhaps even more real?

"Head down," Rico said tersely as he moved into a final mode.

Peter obeyed instinctively, submissively.

He felt the vibration of an edger in the most sensitive of areas, around his ears and at his nape. The virtually imperceptible taper of the bald fade was being sharpened. Skin at the bottom, a whisper of shadow above, a smooth transition into the short stubble on top!

Rico dusted away stray hairs with a soft brush before loading it with talc and coming in for another vigorous sweep. Then, came the dramatic reveal of the totality of the change via a hand mirror.

Peter inhaled. His hair -- his signature, his pride, his vanity, his security blanket, his authority -- all gone!

"Well?" the barber asked, trying to assess his client’s reaction once the shock had settled a bit.

"Peter, you look incredible!" Lawrence exclaimed to fill the void of no response from the shorn client who was still trying to come to terms with himself.

Then, in typical Lawrence-style, came the follow-up on dig, "Incredibly different! Gee, a bald fade!"

Peter lifted a trembling hand to his scalp from the safety beneath the cape. He felt the rasp of stubble and the smoothness of the fade.

A shiver ran through him as he whispered, almost in disbelief, "I...I actually did it."

Then came the smiles and the congratulatory pats. Off came the cape! Peter emerged from the chair, shaken but confident. All he wanted to do was savor the victory of bringing his fantasy into the real world.

He turned and looked back at his shorn head in the mirror. The shock was renewed. He hated the look, actually. Hated it! But, he was glad it had happened.

Then, he glanced at the floor. His hair! His treasured pampered locks. ‘All the King’s horses and all the king’s men’ couldn’t...revive the coif that had been uttered destroyed!

"Well? What do you think? If it’s not short enough, I can always take more off," Rico chuckled.

"Short enough?! There’s barely anything left," Peter whimpered.

He ran a tentative hand over his scalp. Again, the rasp of stubble felt stimulating and shocking.

"I’m not sure this is the best look for me," Peter finally concluded, "But you did a fine job. Excellent work really."

"Mark my word," Rico said lightly, "Once the shock wears off and all the teasing ends, it’ll be a keeper."

Then, he pointed to the floor and remarked, "There’s no returning to that, I hope. Not for real men, in my book."

Peter stared at the thick, glossy black waves, the long strands curled like ribbon, heavy mounds that once brushed his collar, soft clumps that still shone under the shop lights.

He loved that hair, and now it was just a shattered community, a pile of debris -- post-hurricane wreckage.

"There’s something cathartic about disposing of the old look," Rico said with a twinkle in his eye. "Go ahead, the broom is over there."

With heavy hands and no ceremony at all, Peter put himself to the task of sweeping. Gathering the vast carpet into a large pile felt moving. Cathartic, was that it? Lawrence sprung to help, wielding the dustpan. He gave a low whistle of awe. One, two, three! Pan after pan, Peter’s cut hair was dumped into the wastebin.

The lid slammed shut. Gone! Just like that -- a part of himself had been discarded, disappeared.

Peter looked anew at the man in the mirror.

"The bald fade is already growing on me," he said as he fished for his wallet.

Rico smiled broadly, especially when Peter told him to keep the change.

"What about you?" Rico asked Lawrence. "A new look, as well?"

He motioned toward the chair.

Lawrence shook his head no in a definitive manner.

"I see you’re clinging on to the last stages in front. What about a chromedome?" Rico pressed.

"Do it!" Peter yelped, enjoying the new focus. "Rip off the bandage. Save yourself years of fretting over the gradual MPB look that's been taking over your looks!"

"No, thank you!" Lawrence stated firmly. "One transformation and one baldy on the executive team is enough!"

Just a brief glance in the mirror and one thought of getting shaved clean was enough to hurry Lawrence out of the shop.

As they stepped outside, the cool air hits Peter’s newly exposed scalp and sent a shiver down his spine. He felt lighter -- raw and unarmored.

And then Lawrence started in, "Oh, Peter...the bellhop’s going to have fawning, lusting eyes for you! And the guys at the conference? They’re going to rib you for weeks."

Lawrence took the liberty of giving him a brisk Dutch rub. The touch of Lawrence's hand felt comforting.

But, his stomach tightened at the thought of the reactions to come.

"You look fantastic -- a completely different man. And people are going to notice," Lawrence babbled on.

"You couldn’t have done something radical, as well?" Peter noted wryly. "Shaved smooth. Bald to the bone. We’d be making a joint re-appearance at the hotel with new visuals. I wouldn’t feel so nervous just now if you had submitted to Rico's razor."

Lawrence didn’t respond.

The two friends walked in silence. Peter felt a flutter of nerves -- virtually paralyzing nerves -- as they approach the hotel.

The reactions began the moment Peter stepped back into the lobby with Lawrence close by his side for moral support.

The spotted their colleagues at the nearby bar; chatter sounded as people made plans for dinner.

The young bellhop, however, was the first to notice Peter's shorn head.

He had glanced up automatically as the doors open and his eyes widened with shock and delight. A grin spread across his face like sunlight breaking through clouds.

"Whoa, sir! You actually did it!" the bellhop exclaimed. "You found Rico and got his signature cut!"

Peter lifted a hand to his scalp, still not used to the rasp of stubble.

Awkwardly, shyly, Peter replied, "Yes, well...uh, like I told you earlier, I thought it was time for a change."

The bellhop stepped closer, openly admiring the fade.

"That’s clean. Real clean. Rico did you right," he oozed with praise. "Looks sharp on you, sir. Makes you look younger. Not look these other stuffed shirts."

The bellhop laughed and pointed playfully at Lawrence, who grimaced.

"Rico wanted to scrape Lawrence cueball clean!" Peter laughed, savoring the stinging description of his dominating colleague as a ‘stuffed shirt'!

Lawrence bounced back quickly, "You two almost look like brothers now. Who’s older?"

The bellhop laughed. Peter groaned.

Then, their coworkers at the lobby bar spotted them.

"Holy Peter?!" one gasped.

The others turned, and a wave of reactions ensued. Gasps, laughter, shocked stares, hands flying to mouths.... One guy actually dropped his pretzel!

Peter felt his stomach twist. He was in the spotlight, the target of stares and gawks, and suddenly he yearned for a hat. Any kind of hat to hide his zero fade.

"What happened to the hair?!" one coworker demanded.

"He went to the bellhop’s barber! Same haircut," another noted astutely.

Lawrence stepped forward and confirmed the observation, "That’s right. He got a bald fade from the barber recommended by the bellhop. It’s new look for our Peter. He’s fresh from the chair."

There was a bit of spontaneous, half-hearted applause...which did not spread to the group.

"Peter, man, you look...different," one female executive observed. "I never thought the day would come when you’d can the coif."

Another colleague noted, "You look tough! Like you just enlisted!"

Possibly a compliment, but probably not.

Peter forced a smile, but his pulse kept racing. Talk about feeling vulnerable! Every comment landed like a jab, even those that could have had a positive interpretation.

Finally, someone said something that made him feel better about the transformation.

"You look younger. Seriously. Ten years younger," his colleague affirmed.

Then, the repeal of the compliment: "Just wait until the other see him back at the office. They’re going to think he’s the new intern!"

The group howled with laughter.

Peter whispered to Lawrence, "Do you think I made a mistake?"

Lawrence shook his head, surprisingly sincere for once, "No, you look great. You look like a man who isn’t hiding behind his helmet hair. I admire your courage and your boldness. That’s what makes you such a solid man and a dear friend."

Peter felt grateful for those words of affirmation.

"There's always the chromedome waiting to become reality," Peter laughed.

Lawrence gulped dramatically, and ran his fingers through his thinning locks. To think he had once sported a puffy, feathered do and surfer locks. Oh, to be young again!

"No more Pompous Peter! Or prissy Peter, or preening Peter, I promise," Peter said, giving his pal a brief thank you hug.

While Lawrence was invited to join the others for dinner, no one included Peter. His colleagues drifted away in small groups, and Peter was left standing solo, feeling alone and feeling numb.

His hand touched his shorn head -- slowly, almost involuntarily, and he felt the rasp of stubble under his fingertips. The sensation was still shocking, still new. He rubbed the back of his head, where the fade was tightest, and a strange ache bloomed in his throat.

That’s when he heard a voice beside him. "Hey, you okay?"

The bellhop approached with an easy, warm confidence, his uniform jacket slung over one shoulder. His work shift was clearly over.

Peter startled slightly, then forced a small smile. "Oh, I guess so. Still adjusting to this look and feel."

"Yeah, a big change like that will hit you in waves," he said sympathetically. "I’m off now, by the way. Name’s Carlo. And, you look a hundred times better than any of your colleagues."

Peter’s smile grew, genuine this time out of gratitude for the camaraderie he felt developing.

"There’s a tavern a block from here. Good place. How about I take my ‘new brother’ for a celebratory drink. That is, if you want company," Carlo said.

"Sure, but only if I'm picking up the tab," Peter replied, smiling broadly.

"Deal!" Carlo exclaimed. "But why don’t you run up to your room and change?"

Carlo eyed him skeptically, giving Peter the once over. "That suit...not exactly the look for a sharp, trendy fade!"

"Why don’t you come up to the room with me? Help me pick out something to wear?" Peter replied coyly.

Carlo didn’t reply immediately. The vibes, though, were unmistakable.

"You go on up. I know what room you’re in," Carlo replied, glancing nervously toward the front desk.

Carlo’s colleagues seemed to be watching the two.

Peter surmised there was some sort of workplace limitations on interactions with hotel guests for the employees.

"You may hear a gentle knock on your door in a bit," Carlo said softly. "Or, you may not. If that’s the case, I’ll be waiting for you just out in front.

Peter drifted toward the elevator feeling his bald fade. Either way, he’d be a winner...a new friend, or something more intense!

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