Chasing my fantasy by dale watts

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I’m Dale. I’m seventeen, and I’ve known for a while now that I’m different—at least from what everyone around me seems to expect.
I’ve always been more attracted to men. Not just any men either. It’s something specific. Older men, usually. The kind that carry themselves without trying too hard. Masculine, steady, quiet. And the look that always catches me is the same—short cropped hair, right down to a number one or even no guard. That rough stubble across the scalp. Clean. Simple. Certain.
I don’t know when it started, but it stuck.
Most of the time, I don’t talk about it. I don’t even admit it properly to myself. There’s a kind of shame that comes with it, especially where I’m from. It feels like I should want something else. Like I should be into the trends—skin fades, textured curls, the kind of hair that gets attention from girls.
But I don’t think about girls. Not like that.
When my mind wanders, it’s always back to the same image. Sitting in a barber’s chair, clippers buzzing to life, someone confident behind me taking it shorter and shorter. Not awkward, not hesitant—just sure of what they’re doing. It’s not really about them, not in the way it used to be in my head. It’s more about what it represents. Letting go. Being seen. Stepping into something I’ve been holding back.
But reality doesn’t quite match that.
Around Glasgow, most barbershops feel modern. Bright lights, sharp fades, quick conversations about styles I don’t really connect with. It all feels a bit… distant from what I’m looking for. And maybe what I’m looking for isn’t even realistic. Maybe it’s something I’ve built up too much in my own head.
Where I live, changing your hair feels like changing your identity. I’ve always had about six inches on top—safe, normal, easy. Going from that to something like a number one, or less, feels massive. Like everyone will notice. Like everyone will have something to say.
I still go to barbers, but even that feels uncomfortable sometimes. I don’t like sitting in female-run barbershops. It’s not personal—it’s just that I feel uneasy, like I can’t explain what I want without feeling judged or misunderstood. So I avoid it when I can.
My first proper short haircut was before I left sixth year. A buzz cut. It took me longer to decide than it should have.
I remember going into Glasgow for it. Walking the streets for hours, just looking. Stopping outside shops, peering through the windows, trying to get a sense of the place. I wasn’t just choosing a barber—I was trying to find something that felt right. Familiar, even though I’d never experienced it before.
In my head, I had this idea of what I was looking for. An older barber. Traditional. Maybe even someone with a shaved head themselves. Someone who understood the simplicity of it.
I didn’t find that.
Eventually, I settled on a place. The barber was older—late fifties, maybe early sixties—but not what I’d imagined. He had medium-length black hair, not short at all. He didn’t talk much. When I sat down, there was no connection, no ease. Just a quiet nod and the start of the cut.
The clippers felt how I expected. That part didn’t disappoint. The vibration across my head, the sound filling the space around me—it gave me that brief sense of calm, of focus. Like everything else paused for a minute.
But something was missing.
There was no moment. No feeling of understanding. It was just a haircut.
When it was done, I looked in the mirror and didn’t know how to feel. It was shorter, yes. Cleaner. But instead of feeling confident, I felt exposed. Like I’d taken a step I wasn’t ready for.
And the second I stepped outside, the doubts came rushing in.
What are people going to think?
Do I suit this?
Was this a mistake?
I walked away from that shop feeling smaller than when I’d gone in. Not empowered. Not certain. Just unsure.
Now it’s growing out again. Back to that in-between stage that doesn’t really feel like anything.
But the thoughts haven’t gone anywhere.
I still want to go shorter.
Maybe a number one this time. Maybe even less. Not because of anyone else, but because it feels like something I need to do for myself. To prove that I can make that choice without fear getting in the way.
I think what I’ve been chasing isn’t really a barber, or even a haircut.
It’s a feeling.
Confidence. Acceptance. Being able to sit in that chair and not second-guess myself every second of it. Not worrying about what people will say when I walk out. Just owning it.
And maybe one day, I’ll get there.
Maybe I’ll find a place that feels right, or maybe it won’t even matter where I go. Maybe the change will come from me, not the person holding the clippers.
I like the idea that one day I could go all the way. Shave it off completely. Be bald by choice, not because I have to be. Just because it feels right.
People would probably think I’m mad. Seventeen, with thick hair, choosing to get rid of it.
But it wouldn’t be about them.
It would be about finally feeling comfortable in my own skin.
And maybe then, the feeling wouldn’t be so short-lived.
Maybe then, I wouldn’t be chasing anything anymore.
I’d just be living it.

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