Maik and Tim - Part 3: To Perfection by GermanCut

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Tim and Maik â€" Part 3: To Perfection

I don't know whether Mr. Bollmann can cut a bald head with a razor, and I don't want to test it with my son. So, we drive into the city center. We see a rotating blue-white-red column from afar. We stop near the barbershop, put on our shirts and get out. As we can read on the price table: Headshaves are explicitly mentioned. We've come to the right place! I look through the window. "Pretty crowded", I say, "We'd have to wait longer. Please write your mother that it will take a while and that she should not wait for us with lunch. The best thing to do is to eat something here first. "Dad, are you crapping yourself?" Tim asks. "Yes, Tim, I do. An hour ago, I had long hair and in maybe an hour I won't have any hair at all." "What does 'maybe' mean!" Tim replies indignantly, "You will chicken out?" He provokes me. "No, we'll both go in together, take a seat and get shaved and will both come out together as baldies. Promised! We'll go through this together. But I’m starting to get hungry. Let's eat something over there!
After we had lunch, we gather all our courage and enter the barbershop. It's still crowded, and we'll have to wait. Many guys and older men want a fresh haircut. "Fresh haircut" here means "number zero" for back und sides in four out of five cases. We watch as hair is shaved off on the sides and neck with clippers and finally with an electric razor for the hairline. There are many variations on the tops of the head, even six-millimeter cuts are made, like Tim and I have. When it is finally our turn, we are almost disappointed that we can't continue watching.
We are placed on two chairs next to each other. In the same rhythm and somehow theatrically, the barbers put our cloaks around us. My barber, with short thick black hair on the top of his head, the obligatory shaved sides and a short, well-groomed full beard, says: "Hairstyle-correction for you, right? Did you try this yourself?" We nod, because we don't want to blame Mr. Bollmann. "Could be difficult…" says Tim's barber, a younger man with bald sides but longer, curly black hair on top and a precisely trimmed moustache. "Oh, it won't be that difficult", I say. "I’d like a head shave! Make me completely bald!" "With Gilette?" my barber asks. "Yes, a wet shaving! A smooth bald head!" The other barber asks Tim: "And what’s about you?" "Just like my dad. Shave it all off!" he answers. The barber looks surprised and then smiles amused. Tim smiles back. "Okay, let's go!" says the young barber.
This is the starting signal for the play "synchronized shaving", which the four of us are now performing. It is indeed a spectacle, because almost all eyes are on us. You don't see two head shaves at the same time every day! Tim and I are in the spotlight and we enjoy it.
I would have liked to watch Tim's head shaved smooth from the waiting chairs (and Tim probably also wanted to watch me), but now I find it exciting to look in the mirror and watch how the same thing happens to both of us at the same time: First, the last bit of hair is shaved off with the clippers (remark of the younger barber, when he puts the machine to Tim's forehead: "Now there's no turning back!"). Two bald heads are now looking out of the mirror. For a moment, Tim looks shocked, as if he regrets his daring. His barber reassures him: "It looks good, my friend. Really!" I pretend to be cool, but the heat rises through the neckline of the cape into my head.
Because now happens, what I have often imagined: The shaving foam is mixed and spread extensively on our heads with circular movements. The feeling of the shaving brush bristles and the pleasantly warm foam on the scalp is indescribable. I'm glad that I have a cape on, because I'm not sure if the swim-shorts would have hidden enough of what is starting to stir in them. I look over at Tim, who changes his position and now sits with his legs apart. So, he seems to feel the same way. One leg moves quickly and rhythmically with excitement, and I realize that I'm not keeping my legs still either.
A short pause. The warm foam opens the pores. After all the excitement, I almost get a little sleepy, my eyelids become heavy. I look in the mirror again: With our foamed heads we look as if we were wearing swimming caps. Strange and kind of awesome. Whyever, I still feel quite horny.
Now comes the main thing: The blades are applied and our hair is scraped down to the bone. I feel the slight scratching on the skin, see the foam on our heads become less and less lane by strip, while something new arises: radical, uncompromising, clearly defined, bright and shiny: two bald heads. Often my gaze wanders over to Tim, who has closed his eyes deeply relaxed and devotes himself completely to the moment: the scraping of the blade, the second application of shaving foam, the creation of a bald shiny head under the barber’s hands. The barber's finger lightly touches his cheek as he shaves his temples. It's strange how little men usually get close to each other in everyday life, but here men's faces are only a few centimeters apart, men touch other men's cheeks, heads, necks. And you can enjoy it. I get to enjoy it together with my son.
We marvel at the final product. The young barber runs over Tim's head, who shudders visibly. "Satisfied, my friend?" We don't say anything, we are simply speechless and look at our changed reflection with our mouths open.
My barber looks at me questioningly: "And what do we do with beard?" I am also asking myself this question right now. My three-day beard somehow doesn't fit into this face anymore. "We can trim it," he says, "it's a good contrast." "No, it should come off, too", I hear myself say to my own surprise. "One more shave, please! And the same for my son!" To tell the truth, there is not much to shave on Tim, but his slight beard fluff also makes his face appear hairy compared to the bare skull.
The headrests are attached, the chairs are put back. "Like at the dentist", I think. But it is, unlike at the dentist, pure benevolence. I always shaved myself before my three-day beard look. Getting shaved is a luxury, it's like wellness for men! Almost tenderly, the blade strokes my upper lip, cheeks, chin and neck, fingers tenderly touch my skin. And you sit, no, lie quietly, let other hands do the work on you. "Your first shave", the young barber says to Tim. It is not a question, but a statement. "Do you enjoy it? Feel free to visit us once a week!" "I can't afford that," Tim answers, "but maybe once a month." "Well, you don't need it that often. You are... 15? 16? And you are blond, so you don't look unshaven so quickly. But next time you come to us, I can do both on you: shave your head and beard." Tim swallows easily and answers in a hushed voice: "I think I like the bald head on me, but I don't know yet if I can get used to it." "You will", says the barber, "especially if your friends say that it looks good. And your bald head really suits you! Believe me! Many young people just look stupid with bald heads." After these encouraging words, Tim looks in the mirror with a certain pride and slightly questioningly. "Bald for holiday or bald forever", he seems to think.
The beards are off. But something is still wrong. It is again my barber who gives me the cue like a prompter. "Eyebrows?" Yes, that’s it! It is the eyebrows that are not "right". In Tim's case, they really dominate his face now. Although he is â€" or was - blond, his eyebrows are very dark. Like fat caterpillars, they lie over Tim’s eyes. My eyebrows don’t look better. "We shave them short and pluck them into a slim form. I’ll do them like mine", says my barber. I watch his eyebrows â€" two very slim strings â€" and say: "They look smart. So, let’s do it!"
The procedure now is not really relaxing, but rather painful. To everyone's amusement, Tim and I scream out in intervals: "Ouch! Aaargh! Ouch!" But at the end, our faces and heads are washed and rubbed with a sharp-smelling lotion. Very cautious and at the same time strong.
I look at the whole result in the mirror: a smooth head, a tanned shiny face, all without a single hair, except for the eyebrows, which swing in an arc over the eyes, thin as if drawn with a pencil. They provide a feminine contrast to the rest of the face. The change is enormous. I don't recognize myself, but I like myself exceptionally well with this naked, open face: all facial features seem distinctive, stronger, more defined. My earring shines like everything else. The face reminds me of something or someone. But I can't figure it out.
When we get up from our chairs, three or four people are really clapping their hands. "I'll see you, boy!" the young barber says to Tim. He answers: "Yes! And thank you for everything!"

We stop in front of the door, shake our heads and get a laughing flash. "We really did it!" "Weird!" "I can't believe it!" "How it feels, totally soft, totally smooth!" We drive ourselves, then each other over our freshly shaved bald heads. We grin at each other. Suddenly it occurs to me: "Mr. Clean!" "What?" Tim asks. "We look like Mr. Clean! Don't you know him? We could be his brothers!" "Sure, I know him!" says Tim. "He has an earring like you. But otherwise? He wears a white T-shirt, doesn’t he?" We are already near our car, but then we go a little further to a clothing store.
Inside, we look for white T-shirts. "Take them in a smaller size than usual!" I suggest to Tim, "Mr. Clean doesn't wear baggy T-shirts." "What kind of pants does Master Propper actually wear?" Tim asks and holds out white shorts instead of waiting for my answer. I see a pair of cheap white flip-flops and take a pair for each of us. After this short, violent consumption frenzy, we change our clothes behind a curtain. Then I step in front of the mirror outside. The T-shirt is much tighter than those I usually wear. Not only does it span my biceps and make my pectoral muscles and nipples visible, but it even shows my six-pack. It's like a second skin. The shorts don't reach the knee like my swim shorts, but they are so short and tight that the mirror shows me much of my tanned legs and a really smart ass. The white clothes stand out against my tanned skin, my muscles protrude enormously. I radiate not just "power", but "potency", because when I think of this outfit and my new bald look, I think of "sex machine".
Tim stands next to me in front of the mirror, legs apart and with his arms crossed: the youthful version of Mr. Clean: dressed like me, bald like me and with raised slim eyebrows. I assume the same Mr. Clean-like pose. We stand like this for a while, look at each other, nod to each other in confirmation. Then I say: "There's still something missing, Tim!"
We keep the white clothes on right away and, after I have paid, go to a jewelry store just a few meters away. "Tim, luckily you already have pierced ears", I say, "but the little plug in your ear, it doesn't work! It was already too inconspicuous before. It's like you don't really dare to wear an earring. You now get a real earring. One of gold like me and Mr. Clean." "Dad, that's expensive", Tim says, and I like him for such remarks. "Yes, haircuts and clothes were cheaper. But Tim: I'm totally proud of you, I admire your courage, which I didn't have when I was your age. You have completely transformed yourself in a few hours together with me: from the good student to the ghetto-kid to a very perfect Mr. Clean. I think I’ll never forget this day when I got my head shorn first and shaved bald later, together with you." I run with my hand over Tim’s bald head. So smooth! He smiles. "You're already a badass guy, Tim, do you know that? I have a cool son who fully deserves the gift. So, and now don't make any fuss and come in with me!"
The sun is already a little lower when we come out of the store and go back to the car. Two guys, one a little shorter and narrower, but both with very short shorts, tight T-shirts, two bald heads, where the scalp shines in the light like the fat gold earrings do. Two guys who feel totally liberated.
People stop, turn around to look at us, some indignant, many enthusiastic. We get appreciative looks, from women and men, see people smile, one woman even whistles.
What a day! And it is not over yet.

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