Cocktail catastrophe by Manny

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It had been a "plus one" invitation, so I didn’t know everyone all the guests at the cocktail I was hosting. My apartment was buzzing with an artsy crowd -- as the gathering was to celebrate a prestigious award our film had won -- but none dazzled more than a young fellow named Carlton. He moved through the milieu like a social butterfly -- charming and schmoozing, entertaining and being followed about by a gaggle of people attracted to his handsome looks.

Within minutes of meeting him, I developed a marked dislike of Carlton. My first impression was negative, probably because he remarked about my ‘little slum of a penthouse’ when we were first introduced.

But, as I watched him work the crowd and captivate the attention of many, I realized the remark was intended to be ironic, that he had been blown away by my pad overlooking Central Park. I heard him gushing about it when talking with third parties.

While I warmed up to him, there was no denying that Carlton was an attention whore. He needed to be at the center of attention.

This was not at all difficult with his fine threads and shoulder-length mane of dazzling mahogany which he tossed about freely. One minute, his fingers would be plying back the abundant growth to reveal the full extent of his handsome face. Instants later, the heavy locks would again be veiling his eyes with an allure straight out of the Arabian Nights.

As a hair and make-up professional in the movie industry, I had worked with many magnificent manes. Truly, Carlton’s was in the top ten. Under certain lighting, his auburn highlights blazed in a copperish glow, which looked absolutely exquisite.

I was in the kitchen, replenishing a tray of hors d’oeuvres, when Carlton sashayed in.

"I know this is going to sound rude, Ben, but do you mind terribly if I smoke in your slummy little penthouse?" he purred, an unlit cigarette already dangling from his full, French lips.

"There are some ashtrays out on the terrace," I replied tersely.

"Yes, I saw them, but all the pretty people are hanging inside, and I’m desperate for a cig," he insisted.

I gave him a withering look.

"All right," he whined irritated by my unspoken refusal to his request. "Then perhaps just let me light it here and walk through your holy house to the terrace?"

"Fine," I grumped.

"Lighter?" he demanded, even though it was posed as a question.

"There are some matches in the pantry back there," I said, pointing to the service area.

"Never mind, I’ll just light it here at the stove," he replied in a snippy tone, flipping on the gas burner.

I watched Carlton lean over to light his cigarette directly from the burner.

To my horror, in slow-motion anguish, I witnessed his thick, magnificent forelock sliding down…and forward...into the FLAME!

A HUGE flash erupted! Simultaneously, a singeing sound crackled out and an awful stench of burning hair filled the kitchen.

Carlton jumped back, letting the cigarette fall from his mouth.

"What the hell?" he stammered.

All I could exclaim was, "OMG! OMG!!"

"What happened?" he asked, still totally unaware of the awful damage that had been inflicted on his showy mane by his own carelessness.

"Your hair!" I stammered. "Your hair caught on fire as you lit the cigarette."

Instinctively, his hand rose up to verify my statement.

The singed clumps in the middle of his forehead that had survived the flash blaze broke off right at the hairline as he felt the damage.

It was Carlton’s turn to burst forth with a series of OMGs!!

"Does it look too bad?" he asked in a total panic.

"Carlton! Most of your forelock is gone! There’s a huge missing chunk of hair. It’s history," I stammered.

"Where’s a mirror?" he shrieked. "I can’t let anyone see me until I can fix this."

He felt around the singed bristles and missing section.

I wasn’t going to be the one to clue him in on the impossibility of ‘fixing this’ disaster.

"Come back, to my bedroom," I said, leading him through a hallway to the back of the penthouse.

Then, he saw the damage for the first time!

A look of anguish engulfed him. He stared in disbelief. His hands tried to push the surviving locks this way and then that.

"Give me a brush! Some hairpins, if you have any!" he shouted.

I watched his vain attempts to camouflage the damage. He pulled hair from the side; he pulled hair from the back. Each attempt looked goofier.

Finally, he asked, "You’re the movie star hair genius. What do you suggest?"

"Let me try," I said, knowing full well where this would end up.

But, it did give me an opportunity to play with what remained of Carlton’s thick locks, to brush them and manipulate them. It was truly an exquisite mane. Except for the singed, missing, and all-important front….

As I worked with Carlton’s hair, I massaged his shoulders in an effort to help him settle down and relax a bit.

Without his cocky edge and preening ego, I felt momentarily sorry for Carlton. His vulnerability had unleashed a softness and sweetness.

"That feels good," Carlton murmured. "Thanks for trying to help me."

"You have truly amazing hair," I replied, captivated by the gloss and density of his mane.

"Can you work some magic?" he asked hopefully.

I broke the news to him as gently as I could.

"Afraid not, my friend. There are really only two options. I can offer you a baseball cap, which would totally screw up your stunning outfit. Or…" I continued as I reached into the cabinet under the sink of the master suite and pulled out a box, "they’re the best solution, in my opinion."

"Electric hair clippers!" Carlton sputtered, his eyes locked on the big set of Oster’s.

"I’m sorry," I said softly.

"Give me a buzzcut?!" Carlton continued ranting in disbelief. "No f***ing way!"

"Clipped pates are creating quite a buzz these days. Brad Pitt just got one and looks like a macho hunk with his mane clipped to the wood. Then there’s that cute Spanish tennis player, Carlos Alcaraz, who had his brother take him down to an induction cut before winning the US Open," I continued gently.

Carlton just stared at me with a numb, blank look, as if trying to process how a single, careless second had transformed his appearance.

"Actually, as I examined the damage to your forelock and what left here in the most visible of spots, the Brad Pitt length is out. I’m going to have to take you down to a #1 all over. A true induction cut," I explained.

"Like the tennis player?" he asked.

Then I dug my Arkansas Razorbacks ballcap out and tossed it to him.

"Or, put this on and go back out to enjoy your cigarette on the terrace," I said.

"Razorbacks," he laughed in a caustic, ironic way, "more like razor head! Are you sure you can’t work your magic with the remaining hair and style it somehow?"

I resisted a bit of schadenfreude as I turned down that suggestion flatly, "Nope. I may be a genius when it comes to hairstyling, but not a miracle worker."

Carlton just sat there, not making a selection.

"Okay, I’ve got to get back to the kitchen and finish that tray of crudites," I remarked nonchalantly as I prepare to leave Carlton stewing with his predicament.

"A buzzcut, trendy?" he asked. "Really? And it would work for me?"

"Especially when it’s a dramatic change. Let’s mow it all off and you stride out there, embracing the new look. Tell people you were tired of constant compliments and decided to shave it all off. It will make you seem so manly and virile," I urged. "Clipped to the wood and not caring one bit if your fan club sobs! What else could bring more attention?"

I felt Carlton would fall for that dynamic.

Then, I added, "Of course, you could tell the truth -- that you leaned over a stove burner and caught your hair on fire and the induction cut was the only viable option you had."

"I’m for the…" he stammered, "…the buzzcut. The brutal induction look!"

As he said the words, a wave of relief swept across his face.

"Great choice!" I laughed.

"When it’s been done, we can go back to the folks…you make an announcement in the living room about my stunning transformation…and I burst in with my shaved head. But not a word about the stove accident…more like, ‘I was tired’ of the mane," Carlton warned.

"Take a seat there," I said pointing to the chair in front of the vanity. I’ve got a cape in here somewhere. But, we need to be quick. I don’t want to leave my guests wondering what happened to us."

"They’ll assume that we’ve escaped for a little romantic interlude," Carlton quipped. "You lured the stunning Carlton back to your lair…"

"…and made short work of his hair!" I laughed. "Ah, here’s the cape!"

I was quick and businesslike as I prepared Carlton for his makeover.

Then I fondled his abundant tresses.

"Hmmmm, so much hair is going to come off. I’m going to have a big mess in here," I said, tossing shade on Carlton’s pretty locks. "Let me spread a sheet under this chair. That way when all these long locks have been shaved off, the clean-up will be a lot easier."

As I rummaged for a spare sheet, Carlton whimpered, "Are you sure there’s no alternative?"

He was still clinging to hope for some pathetic miracle which was not going to happen.

"Pick up that chair," I ordered. "There, the sheet is now in place. Set it down and take a seat. Fortunately, these are fastfeed clippers. They can mow all this off in a jiffy."

I brushed Carlton’s fantastic hair straight back from his face and observed the exquisite highlights one last time.

Then, I snapped on the Oster’s.

I yanked Carlton’s head back by the hair, as if he were in a bootcamp barber shop.

"The movie ‘Full Metal Jacket’ has one of my favorite opening sequences," I said as the clippers moved toward the target. "Those poor longhairs watching the beautiful silken locks fall to the pale blue capes. Clump by clump, they shed their old identities…. Have you seen it?"

Carlton nodded in the affirmative with a sad look on his face.

Very slowly, I thrust the metal teeth of the clippers into his mane, right at the hairline.

He winced involuntarily.

"Hold still," I snapped.

Then, with determination, I began driving the clippers down the top of his head.

Lovely brown hair fell in glorious sheaves to the cape and then onto the sheet on the floor beneath us.

I wished someone had been filming the downfall of his magnificent mane. Slow motion shots of the hair cascading to his shoulders and then drifting lifelessly to the floor.

Carlton’s lip quivered as he watched the destruction of his locks in the vanity mirror.

"My bet is that you’ve fantasized about this many times, the brutal end to your pretty boy hair," I suggested.

Carlton grimaced, but didn’t deny it.

"Fantasies about what it would be like to feel the clippers mowing everything off, down to the wood, and watching your appearance change dramatically, before your eyes," I continued.

More of his hair tumbled to my feet.

"Are you with me, buddy?" I asked.

"I guess so," he eked out, gulping and beginning to sweat.

I drove the clippers up the side of his head, uncovering his shapely ear.

"A butch is a very simple, practical haircut. You’ll be surprised at how much you appreciate the end of elaborate haircare," I continued.

Carlton eyed the mounds of hair that had piled up in his lap.

"Maybe I had a subconscious ‘death wish’ for my long hair when I was so careless by that stove," Carlton mused, for the first time coming out of his negative trance. "It’s true, actually. I’ve felt the urge to shave everything off, from time to time -- especially in summer."

"It’s a common feeling that most longhairs experience," I said, being a bit of an expert on the matter. "But, keep in mind, it’s closely followed by intense feelings of regret, once the deed has been done."

"Yep, that’s where I am right now," Carlton confessed, knocking a pile of cut hair from his lap to the sheet on the floor of my bedroom.

"But, the good news is that the regret will end…first with acceptance, realizing the world hasn’t come to an end, and, then…" I began.

"Wait, let me guess!" Carlton chortled. "Then, gratitude? Realizing that life is a whole lot easier without the mop?"

I smiled.

"Yes, sometimes…gratitude for the freedom. Sometimes the brutal mow down results in a definitive end to the long hair phase," I mused.

Then, I added, "But, when the mop, as you called it, is as stunning as yours, the tendency is to grow it back as quickly as possible. I would say that in a year or two, it’ll be back to the length you came to the cocktail sporting," I noted casually.

"A YEAR?!" Carlton groaned.

He reached up and touched his stubble for the first time, as if to confirm his hair was really gone!

After letting him wallow in his misery for a bit, I shoved his head forward to tackle the most abundant part that remained, driving the clippers straight up the back of his head.

"Such lovely hair," I remarked casually, as I watched it fall.

"I was in a men’s shampoo commercial, once," Carlton said, as his face stared into his lap. "Suds-ing the mane up in the shower -- from the waist up, which showcased my hairy chest -- and then swishing the freshly dried locks about so that the sheen emanated in every direction. Got paid a pretty penny for my pretty hair display."

I felt a bulge just listening to the description, which made me curious about his furry chest.

"And, now look at you! You could be a poster-boy for the Marine Corps. A freshly minted new recruit in bootcamp!" I laughed, running my hand lightly across the stubbled scalp.

I allowed him to sit up straight and see himself in the vanity mirror. Carlton grinned nervously.

"It’s not that bad," he commented, as I snapped off the clippers.

I withdrew the cape and encouraged him to feel his new look.

"Whoa! That’s short," he murmured as he got closely acquainted with the sandpaper feel of his new haircut.

I added a few tender strokes of my own. All evening long, my feelings about Carlton had bounced around. Seeing him shorn and submissive ratcheted them into a very positive direction.

"Short and sweet," I concluded, my hand still lingering on the stubble. "Ready for your big reveal to the guests?"

Carlton’s face blanched.

"Uh, no, not really. In fact, I was wondering if I could just stay back here a bit and process this new look. I can also clean up that hairy mess," he said pointing at the sheet on the floor that was covered in cut hair.

"Save a lock or two with those gorgeous highlights for me. I want to show my colorist to see if we can replicate that fiery auburn tone," I remarked.

Immediately, Carlton was on his knees, sifting through the piles of cut hair. He selected a thick, long lock and held it up to me.

"Like this?" he asked, proud that his fabled hair was to be replicated in my exclusive salon.

"Perfect! Such a showy lock," I said. "I’ll try to wrap up the party and be back in a bit."

"Tell people I wasn’t feeling well and had to leave," Carlton said, staring mournfully at his buzzed head in the mirror.

It took a bit of effort to get the folks to leave, but, finally, I escorted the last one to the door.

As I headed back to the bedroom, I felt excited to see the shorn Carlton again.

I pushed the door open and was treated to the most amazing scene! Carlton, virtually in the buff, was sprawled on my bed with his shorn head on the pillow. His chest indeed was covered with a silken pelt and his legs covered in a dense, manly fur.

I approached him quietly. I couldn’t help but stroke his striking chest. Such a long, silken pelt over the perfect architecture!

Then, Carlton cracked a small smile.

"I thought you’d like that," he said, opening his eyes.

My hand moved to his shorn head, and I stroked it lightly.

"I wasn’t sure if it was ‘Sleeping Beauty’ or ‘Sleeping Baldy’ on my bed when I came in," I chuckled.

"I just wanted to say, thank you, Ben. You’ve been an angel -- so kind and caring," Carlton murmured.

He was so changed from that obnoxious, arrogant longhair who craved the crowd’s attention.

"I was thinking," he said, blinking nervously.

His hand reached up to feel his stubble.

"Since I’ve come this far…why not go all the way?" he murmured. "Totally clean. Cueball! Lather shaved to the scalp. Only soft, supple scalp left."

"I was thinking the same thing early," I laughed. "You might like that very much."

I began to unbutton my shirt.

"It will be easier if we do it in the shower…." I said, imagining the fun to come.

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