Luck was on my side by Manny

---

After being told there was absolutely no way I could schedule an appointment for at least three weeks, I turned on a charm offensive to win-over the gatekeeper.

Patricia was middle-age and homely. Plump and pasty-faced.

But, she had beautiful green eyes that danced with delight as I leaned over her small desk and purred, "I’m sure you’re the real boss in this office, Patricia. The gorgeous gatekeeper who calls the shots…."

She giggled and gave me a coy smile.

I could tell Patricia was softening as she eyed my abundant mane that dangled so close to her face she could probably smell the fragrance of my expensive shampoo. The long, soft locks of mahogany shimmered with vitality. Wouldn’t Patricia just love to plunge her fingers into them? Perhaps she was fantasizing at that moment about some steamy intimacy with me -- a stud, half her age who could make her wildest fantasies come true!

Patricia replied in tentative voice, "I did have a cancelation, this morning, but had penciled in a longer lunch break for Mr. Chandler. I could, however, perhaps..."

"Go on, gorgeous! Tell me the good news," I encouraged her.

"Oh, why not?! Give me your documents and take a seat. I’ll call you in a about half an hour for your interview with the boss," she said, giving me -- her hot eye candy! -- the once over.

I blew Patricia a kiss as I tossed my locks over my shoulder and murmured, "I owe you big time, baby. And, I can’t wait to make it up to you somehow...."

Half hour later, I was following Patricia down a long corridor, feeling quite pleased with the way I had engineered the instant appointment through flattery and stud sex appeal.

Just before opening the large door of carved hardwood, Patricia advised me, "Now, for the best result with Mr. Chandler, don’t speak unless spoken to. Be deferential. Flattery may have worked with me, but it will not work with him! He responds to humility and subservience. Never contradict him. Answer honestly and modestly. Don’t brag!"

Ugh! The man sounded awful! But, he was my last hope. I needed to persuade Mr. Chandler to approve my financial application. And, my case was awfully short on merit.

"Thanks for the advice, my adorable little powder-puff," I replied. "I’ll be total sweetness coupled with sincere adulation when I interact with Mr. Chandler."

She eased the door open, "Uh, excuse me, Mr. Chandler. There’s been a bit of a change to the schedule I gave you earlier. Your 11:30 appointment is here. And, these are his documents."

I was ushered into a HUGE office! The desk alone was larger than my studio apartment, almost.

Mr. Chandler glared as he took the folder from Patricia. I could tell he was irritated about not having that longer lunch period.

I thought I might sit down, but then decided I shouldn’t move until Mr. Chandler told me to make myself at ease. I quickly realized that making people feel at ease was NOT part of his modus operandi.

The first thing that impressed me about Mr. Chandler was his age. He was young! About my age!! Here I was groveling at his feet, yet we’d had approximately the same amount of time on planet earth.

The second thing that impressed me was his grooming. It was impeccable. His figure was trim and wiry. His clothing tailored and expensive. His hair shorn into an extremely tight taper with a rigid side part; every hair was brushed perfectly into place. He wore tortoise shell glasses that gave him an intellectual look. And, a rigidly groomed push-broom mustache gave him an air of absolute authority.

In all these things, I was the exact opposite. I was a bit meaty, even flabby. The clothes I had on were like one would wear to a basketball game. And, my long locks made me seem more playboy than professional. My three-day stubble beard was a stark contrast to his meticulously groomed mustache.

Mr. Chandler’s glare hardened as he leafed through my document folder. I stood awkwardly, waiting for his pronouncement.

Finally, he tossed the folder down on the desk with disdain.

"Waste of time," he grumbled. "How did you get through triage?"

Then, he looked up at me, gave me a once over, and cracked a brief, wise smile, "Oh, I see how you made it through. Patricia has a soft spot for charming longhairs who suck up to her."

I blushed. He was on to me.

"Okay, give me your three-minute elevator spiel," he instructed.

I felt like I was on Shark Tank!

I rose to the occasion, pouring out my heart and vision. The intensity helped make up for what was lacking on paper.

Mr. Chandler listened attentively. I dare say, he even smiled a bit at one point.

"Well?" I asked breathlessly, as I wrapped up my appeal.

"Well, it kept your case alive. It earned you a coffee break with me, in the park across the street," he said with a hint of condescension in his tone.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Chandler!" I gushed.

"I have a few questions about this scheme of yours," Mr. Chandler stated, rising briskly from his enormous desk.

I was about to ask Mr. Chandler what his given name was, but thought it best to follow Patricia’s advice and maintain a deferential approach to him.

He strode down the long corridor; I nearly trotted to keep up with him.

"We’ll be having a coffee in the park, Patricia," he said as we walked past. "I won’t be back till after lunch. Around 2 p.m."

I winked at her, and she returned a rapturous smile with a discreet thumbs up.

Just getting away from his imposing office made Mr. Chandler seem more human. I wanted to unbutton his vest, strip off his tie, and mess up his sleek businesscut.

Then, my mind really began to wander! I imagined Mr. Chandler on his knees...groveling, sucking up to me! This particular fantasy was an antidote to the hellish reality I found myself going through!

As we sat at a small outdoor table in the park cafe, Mr. Chandler took off his suit jacket and appeared to relax a bit.

I decided to shed the deference and subservience I had struggled to show.

"How old are you?" I asked pointedly, staring at him intently. "And you must have a name. This ‘Mr. Chandler’ seems to be getting in our way."

He flushed, and I thought I was going to be reprimanded. Instead, he answered my questions in a forthright tone.

"Mack, I’m called. Short for my given name, McAllan. And, I’m 30," he said, again studying me curiously.

"We’re the same age," I said.

"Yes, I know," Mack replied. "I saw it in your file."

Oh, back to that hierarchical position: me the supplicant, and him the dispenser of grace (or the one to have me thrown out, emptyhanded).

"So, you read the file and you heard my plea. What’s the verdict, Mack?" I pressed.

My voice was casual and a bit taunting. Oh, how I wanted to exercise dominion over him -- to lean him over his big desk and wrench down his pants! He wouldn’t be Mr. High ‘n Mighty in that position. A few swats with a paddle was what Mack needed!

"The easiest thing for me would to take a huge DENY stamp out of my desk drawer and close the case before it even became one," Mack laughed.

He simulated the rejection by smacking the table with him hand, laughing as he shrieked, "DENIED!"

The sound of his palm smacking the table was the only "spanking" that would be given during out encounter, I feared, because Mack held the cards!

I endured his taunt, but OMG, did my blood ever boil! He needed to have a ball gag strapped on firmly before I leaned him over his desk and gave it to him in the rear! A big red ball shoved into his mouth to silence him! I imagined myself quickly fastening it on his surprised face before forcedly bending him over the desk. There would be no shouting out ‘DENY’ by the submissive, cowed and gagged Mack!

Back in the real world, Mack relaxed comfortably in the café chair and gazed at me, in a thoughtful way.

Then, to my surprise, he said, "But, perhaps I could work with you...make something of you."

I blinked, not knowing if that was something I wanted to hear or not hear.

"It’ll start with a makeover," he continued. "The first thing we’re going to do is have all that long hair chopped off! You need to be shorn by a no-nonsense barber!"

He let out an eager laugh.

I jolted at the plan. ‘No way!’ I thought to myself.

"You, sitting in the barber chair, head bowed, while I instruct the barber to take the clippers tight up the back," Mack smirked. "The sexy playboy locks falling in sheaves to the big, white barber cape. So helpless, so submissive as he sits in the barber chair while the cut locks pile up in huge, useless mounds around the barber’s feet."

The picture he portrayed was shocking! Being shorn of my long hair at his whim -- was he playing with me? He seemed deadly serious.

"I saw you admiring my haircut," Mack continued. "Back in the office, you were giving it the once over."

He emphasized his point by running his hand up the back of his tight taper.

"This is what you want, isn’t it?" he pressed, still fondling his aggressive taper at the nape.

I protested, stressing the contrary, "I was thinking how much better you’d look if you let your hair grow out. You wouldn’t look so anal! I’d like to strip off that tailored three-piece suit of yours and shave off that authoritative mustache!"

I blurted everything out without pausing to consider the consequences!

Mack took my outburst in stride. He stroked his domineering stache. Another taunt! He held the cards; I was the supplicant.

"Except, I’ve got what you want. The authority to approve financing for your dream project. And you have no sway over me, at least not at this point," Mack said, curiously opening a window as he slammed the door shut.

"At this point?" I stammered, repeating the unexpected twist.

"You do have charisma," Mack replied demurely, averting his eye a bit. "And, I have a weak spot for...."

His mocking dominance drained from the image he projected as submissive vibes intensified. Yes, he wanted me to be dominant over him, possibly even to take it in the rear!!

"In your profession, you’re a power-hungry big shot," I stated, emboldened by his hesitation. "But, in your private life, you yearn for the reverse."

Mack squirmed in his chair and his eyes grew large.

"Go on," he urged. "What would you have in store for me?"

I leaned over and tussled his hair.

He shrank into defenselessness and struggled to smooth his tidy coif back into place.

"You’re so wound up...and I’m tired of your mouth," I said, as I eyed him, like a predator salivates over cornered prey. "I’m thinking of a ball gag for starters! Nice, big and red so that everyone can see you’ve been silenced!"

Mack squirmed in his chair.

"No more taunts from bossy Mack!" I mocked. "You’ll open your mouth in a submissive, cooperative way and then you’ll feel the strap tightening the ball gag into place."

As I spoke, Mack opened his mouth as if he were following my instructions, accepting the gag. I smiled confidently and looked at him dismissively.

"All that prattle about stamping ‘deny’ and these irksome interrogations will cease," I continued, picturing Mack munching on a bright red ball gag.

It was as if Mack had been struck silent, already unable to protest or reply.

"You won’t feel so cocky when I lean you over that monstrous desk in your office and pull down your designer slacks," I laughed. "That tight ass of yours is going to feel quite different once I’ve finished with it!"

I could tell my threats excited Mack. I knew he was wild to experience the humiliations!

"When?" he eked out.

"You’ll go back to the office and have Patricia clear your calendar for the rest of the afternoon. I’ll arrive at 3 pm with everything we need to put you firmly into your new, lowly place," I said breezily.

Mack crossed his leg and squirmed in his chair.

Just then, the waiter approached to take our order. He was handsome and appeared quite manly with his dark black hair shorn into a deep pile flattop. The waiter was extremely deferential to ‘Mr. Chandler’ who was obviously a regular client (and probably a good tipper, as well).

It seemed like the interruption had broken the dynamic that I had developed with an unexpectedly submissive Mack.

"When we finish our coffee," Mack said in a steely tone, "we will not go back to the office. We will go straight to the barber shop!"

He stared at me, held up two fingers and simulated a set of scissors.

"SNIP, SNIP, SNIP!" he taunted. "Those pretty locks falling to the barber shop floor! You won’t be able to charm Patricia once you’ve been shorn of your Samsonesque appeal. My guess is that you’ve never had a flattop!"

"A flattop!" I gasped.

"But I did enjoy that fantasy of having a ball gag strapped on tight," Mack chuckled. "And being leaned over my desk! What a vivid imagination you have. But all your fantasies relating to me will remain simply that. Fantasies! Whereas, your haircut..."

He made the sound of a "click" followed by a droning "buzzzzzzzzz."

I pawed at my locks. The regret at shedding them would be immense.

The waiter came with our coffee.

As he set the tray down, I got a good look at his plush top. Actually, it was amazing!

Once the waiter had left, I asked, "His flattop...was that your doing?"

Mack smiled and stroked his push-broom mustache.

"Yes, yes," he laughed. "So much better than that manbun he used to sport. We took off a 26-inch tail to begin his makeover! A thick coil of hair. It looked so helpless on the floor of the barber shop."

"That’s not the type of makeover you have in mind for me?!" I stammered.

"Oh, yes, it is! The sexy longhair look gives way to a spiffy flattop," he laughed. "You’ll sit quietly in the barber chair. Oh, and when we leave here, it’s ‘Mr. Chandler’ to you!"

"Of course, Mr. Chandler, sir," I murmured deferentially.

After we finished our coffee, Mr. Chandler laid down a $20 bill and escorted me out of the park.

He walked quickly with the strut of a Prussian officer; I almost had to trot to keep up with him.

"A haircut, followed by a crash diet and a wardrobe that’s to my liking," Mr. Chandler announced. "You’ll be unrecognizable."

He poked his finger into my stomach.

"This needs to disappear!" he laughed.

I was still recovering from the humiliating jab in my belly when I saw the whirling red and white pole of the barber shop.

I ran my fingers through my long hair, the thick locks I was so proud of.

"There will be no lip from you in the shop," Mr. Chandler snapped. "No sissy tears either."

"No, sir. No, lip," I repeated mechanically. "No sissy tears."

Mr. Chandler pushed the door open to "The Gentlemen’s Quarters" and I was transported into a vanishing world of barbers in matching white tunics that buttoned at the neck, working behind huge Koken chairs on which the clients were perched high as huge sets of Oster clippers took hair off at the scalp.

"Domenico, I have a new client for you," Mr. Chandler said as he directed me into the Italian barber’s chair which, like all the chairs in the shop, faced away from the mirrored wall and counter.

"Yes, Mr. Chandler," the distinguished barber garbed in white said demurely. "This one is in definite need of my services."

The barber turned to me. "Hop up. Let’s get this transformation going. I suppose you’re here for a makeover. I don’t do girly styles."

"Yes, sir," I stammered. "A transformation...."

"He’s here for a flattop," Mr. Chandler said tersely.

The barber’s eyes lighted up as he reached for the cape.

I squirmed in the chair. Moments later I was caped in white cotton. Domenico fastened the cloth tightly at the neck. He pawed at my thick, glistening locks.

"Flattop, eh?" the barber smirked. "A lot of hair is going to come off."

I gulped nervously.

"Yes, that’s what Mr. Chandler wants," I stammered.

"And, what Mr. Chandler wants, Mr. Chandler gets," my tormentor said as he grasped a shank of my shimmering mane.

"Shall I be your assistant, Domenico? Remove the overgrowth for you?" Mr. Chandler asked rhetorically as he pointed to the shears that lay on the counter in front of the mirror.

"Remember that waiter’s tail?" Domenico laughed. "It took both of us considerable effort to remove it! Where do you find these longhair losers?"

"This little princess pranced into my office today feeling suave and sexy, having charmed my secretary into scheduling him on the spot," Mr. Chandler explained. "But, I could tell that princess had a load on her mind. Now, I’m only too happy to see that load is relieved."

Mr. Chandler primed the shears a few times. Then, he seized a lock near the nape and whacked it off. The sound of scissors cutting through thick hair made my stomach churn.

I sensed that watching the locks fall to the floor energized Mr. Chandler; he gave a muffled cheer as my long hair fell in the wake of the shears. He continued whacking off all the length in back.

How I hated Mr. Chandler as he relieved me of my pride and joy -- my long hair! The humiliation was intense.

He stepped around front to get another look at me, probably so that I could see him arrogant and exultant over my humiliation. I eyed his wiry frame and tailored suit and the bossy mustache! Would I ever get the upper hand over him?

"He’s lost his princess flow," Domenico chuckled. "Now, do me another favor and chop of his forelock!"

Domenico grabbed a comb and started pulling my hair straight down over my face.

"To the top of his forehead?" Mr. Chandler asked rhetorically.

I could hear him priming the shears as a veil of hair covered my eyes.

SNIP! SNIP!! SNIP!!!

I gripped the arms of the chair beneath the cape. How I hated Mr. Chandler!

"Oh, look at princess now!" Mr. Chandler chortled. "The butchered bangs are bang off!"

I stared at the pile of cut hair in my lap. My stomach churned.

Mr. Chandler asked the barber, "How many pounds do you think princess needs to shed? I’m putting chubby on a diet."

I cringed with embarrassment. Of course, I realized that was the precise reaction Mr. Chandler expected of me. But, there was no way to hide the burning crimson on my cheeks.

"Keep Chubby’s hands off the beer and potato chips and he’ll have your trim figure in no time," Domenico laughed.

Then, turning his address to me, the barber asked, "Ready for the real haircut to begin, Chubs?"

The question was rhetorical. More like a warning to brace myself. When Domenico reached for the clippers, he picked up the big Osters -- the kind that look like they were engineered to shear livestock. Just the sight of them made my stomach churn.

Despite their size, Domenico held the machine with perfect ease, like it weighed nothing.

"Lean your head forward," Domenico instructed, as if he were the executioner and I was being told to lay my neck, exposed, on the chopping block.

There was no room for negotiation, and I complied by bowing my head low. The cotton cape with clumps of my forelock resting in my lap were all I could see.

The clippers roared to life -- a deep, mechanical hum filled the barber shop. A numbing vibration traveled through the air, though the cape, and I sense the impending doom heading toward my nape.

Then the first pass hit with a fury.

I could feel a wide, hot path being carved straight up the back of my head. Years of growth fell away in mere moments. I imagined vast pools of my treasured locks pooling at Domenico’s feet behind the chair.

The barber didn’t pause.

He planted a steady hand on the crown of my head, ensuring my gaze remained fixed on my lap. Another pass. Then another. Each one sent more of my sexy identity tumbling down the cape and floor. There would be no more wooing the likes of Patricia without my male model mane.

Domenico was thorough in ensuring the back was clipped down to nothing, as the flattop required.

Then, he moved around to my right side. There were no comments, no chat. Domenico was entirely focused on carving out my flattop. The Oster teeth bit in just behind my ear, and the sound changed -- higher, hungrier -- as they chewed through one of the few remaining parts of my flow.

I felt cool air rush in behind to chill my exposed ear. My scalp tingled, my stomach churned.

"You’re doing fine," Domenico remarked, almost kindly, as he motioned for me to sit up straight. "Boss wants a flattop, and that what I’m giving you -- a tidy, crisp one."

He continued working with the efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times as he turned his attention to the left side.

My hair continued falling away in clumps, in waves, in handfuls, in sheaves, in torrents. Every pass of the clippers stripped away another layer of reluctance, of resistance to the demands of domineering Mr. Chandler!

Finally, Domenico snapped the clippers off. The silence was deafening.

He swiveled my chair toward the mirror.

I barely recognized the shorn man staring back. The sides were brutally short, military short. The top, though, still had some length. But not for long!

Domenico rested a hand on my shoulder.

"Now," he said cheerfully, reaching for a comb, "let’s square you up."

Domenico took a shears out of his pocket and with quick, agile snips lopped off most of the length. Each chop was like a stab wound. It was the continued death of my flow by a thousand cuts.

"When you’re at the gym, huffing away on the treadmill, you’ll be glad you don't have a sweaty mop in your face," Mr. Chandler remarked as he came forward to inspect the progress of my haircut.

Domenico resumed with the comb and clippers, beginning to flatten out the deck. I sat still in the chair, watching the craftsmanship with an interested eye. As I stared, I began to get acclimated to the man in the mirror with his short hair. The top still stood tall and plush -- beautifully thick and still quite showy despite the reduced length.

Was I just trying to convince myself that I could live with the flattop? I started to breathe more easily again.

Feeling relaxed enough to engage in chat-chat, I asked Domenico, "How long have you been a barber?"

"I come from a long line of Italian barbers! Why I’ve been cutting hair since I was a young teen. My father had my brothers and me practice on each other," he laughed.

I watched Domenico bevel the sides of my plush top. It was actually looking quite nice! He was a great barber, I had to concede.

"So, what do you think?" Domenico asked, pausing the haircut.

Although the question was for me, Mr. Chandler stepped in to respond, as if he owned the air in the room. His eyes swept over the plush showy deck, and the verdict was immediate.

"No. That’s far too long," he snapped.

My stomach dropped.

Domenico didn’t argue. He didn’t even blink. He simply switched the Oster’s back on, the resumed chatter of the teetht felt like a sentence being passed.

I wanted to protest, but my mouth was dried and my tongue was tied.

The clippers were eager to strike again.

"Sit still," Domenico instructed.

He thrust the clippers into the top, taking off a half inch. I felt relieved that I had been able to stymy a jolt. The first pass decimated the showy length. Then, Domenico worked to take the whole deck down. The kid gloves were off. I was on my way to a much more military look. Over and over, the clippers worked to flatten me out to a new, sparse length.

"How’s this?" Domenico asked Mr. Chandler.

Once again, the verdict was instant.

"No! Shorter!" he demanded, stroking his push-broom mustache as he sneered in the face of my obvious discomfort.

The clipping resume and the Oster’s sailed briefly across the top of my head, just grazing my scalp. The sensation was so alien, so electric, that my breath caught in my throat. The vibration ricocheted through my skull to the extremities of my body.

Domenico made another pass. Shorter. Then another. Even shorter. Each stroke was decisive, confident, and merciless.

Mr. Chandler smirked with delight as the plushness of the showy top utterly disappeared before our eyes.

I felt woozy as the cool air rushed across my newly denuded scalp.

Mr. Chandler nodded approvingly.

"That’s more like it," he told Domenico. "Good job! Another successful transformation concluded."

I swallowed hard. I wanted to preserve my dignity. Mr. Chandler may have been satisfied with the length...but...I was NOT!

I would show him who the boss was!

I gripped the arms of the chair beneath the cape. It seemed like an insane thing to say, but I forced myself spit it out.

"Domenico, take the top down shorter. I want to see a broader, longer strip on top!"

The barber smiled widely. He liked the assignment, and (secretly) I believe he like me exerting my will over Mr. Chandler’s.

Domenico didn’t bother to seek approval from ‘boss Chandler.’ He launched straight back into action.

The clippers grazed the top of my head again, this time more forcefully and for a longer drive. Again, the sensation was so sharp and so intimate that my eyes fluttered. The buzzing warmth, coupled with the steely shock of exposure, produced a strangely wonderful feeling -- like nothing I’d ever felt before. I look transformed and felt exhilarated.

From that point on, I seized control of my own destiny. I guided Domenico through the final stages of my transformation from flow to brutally short flattop. I had my sides, back and strip lather shaved.

The barber gushed as he showed off his handiwork with a hand mirror.

"Excellent work!" I murmured, as Domenico drank in the praise.

The removal of the hair ladened cape was done with extreme care. I watched in awe as the cut locks fell to the floor, adding to the already huge mounds.

Standing amid my cut hair on the linoleum, I felt emboldened. I could not stop glancing at the man in the mirror. The skimpy, sparse flattop made me feel authoritative and in control.

Then, my eyes locked onto Mr. Chandler, still seated in the waiting area.

"Okay, Mack! Your turn," I snapped.

I pointed to the throne I had just vacated.

"Chair! Now!!" my voice bellowed.

A distraught Mack stood, appearing drained of his commandeering bravado.

"Domenico," I ordered. "Take off his mustache!"

Mack looked shocked! His eyes pleaded with me, but found no mercy. With timidly meek movements, Mack approached the chair.

Oh, yes! The tide had turned...and with a vengeance!

Mack gave me one last imploring look before Domenico fastened the cape into place. The push-broom mustache would fall!

"All off?" Domenico asked me.

"That’s right!" I snapped.

Domenico immobilized Mack’s head with one hand and brough a small edger, wailing loudly, toward the commanding push-broom mustache with the other hand.

A look of horror engulfed poor Mack’s face as the small edger quickly took off one half of the carefully curated stache.

Domenico looked at me, and I flashed a huge smile of approval.

Quickly the remaining half was stripped away.

Mack gulped and swallowed nervously as he gawked at his hairless face. He blinked nervously as Domenico lathered up the stubble.

SCRAPE! SCRAPE!! SCRAPE!!!

My mind drifted as I watched the humbled, stache-less Mack still caped in the chair. First, I imagined him in a more private setting, with the bright red ball gag fastened into place. Then I imagined parading him through his office and past Patricia in his humiliated estate. Finally, I saw the designer slacks down around the ankles, his body bent over his huge desk and my stern paddle poised to strike!

It had indeed been my lucky day, I thought as I examined my sparse flattop in the mirror while Domenico uncaped Mack.

"Our fun is just beginning," I whispered to him, as I led Mack out of the barber shop.

---