Curls Shorn, A Star is Born by Manny

---

I was filming the sidewalk cafe scene when I noticed the most amazing collection of profuse brown curls spilling liberally down the sides of a young man's head. He was dressed casually in a tee-shirt and jeans, taking photos of the various staging stations that had been set up to film the clip.

Wanting to get a closer look at the exquisite curls, I ambled over toward him. Periodically, he would arrange his curls -- pushing them out of his face, tucking a mass behind his ear or fluffing them a bit at the nape. The hair was brilliantly shiny in the late morning sun, and I imagined the curls would be quite soft to the touch.

Despite his feminine hairstyle, the fellow emitted unbridled manly handsomeness. An imposing push-broom mustache presided over a densely stubbled beard and a square jaw with an exquisite cleft in the middle. His piercing green eyes were shaded by thundering brows that arched above long, copious lashes. And, his muscular chest that formed faint lines in the plain white tee-shirt was paired with a firm, tight ass.

As the stud was photographing our main actress in the sidewalk cafe, I engaged him in conversation.

"Excuse me," I said in an abrupt, rather harsh tone.

The fellow glanced at me with a sort of guilty look on his face, as if he knew he should not be photographing the scene.

"The filming isn't open to the general public we have an exclusive permit to use this venue today," I informed him, sounding officious.

A blush of embarrassment seeped through the masculine stubble on his cheeks.

"Of, I'm sorry," he stammered. "I'm studying cinematography and just happened to come across your filming area."

"Well, then," I remarked, breaking into a smile, "that's quite different than being a meddlesome paparazzi photographer, angling for some forbidden shots of our star!"

The fellow smiled and asked, "Can I stay then?"

"Sure, as long as the pictures you're taking are for personal use and not publication," I replied.

Then, I added, extending my hand in greeting, "I'm Wayne Webber, the producer."

"And, I'm Walt Williams," he replied. "Ha! We're both WWs!"

Walt's shake was firm and confident.

He asked, "Who are those people over there?"

"Ah, the extras," I replied. "Once we start filming, they'll be choreographed to be strolling to and fro on the sidewalk of the cafe. Too bad you're not dressed differently. I could sneak you in! Have you ever been in a movie or on TV?"

"No, but it's my dream!" he exclaimed. "Even if it's just for a fleeting moment! I see you're aiming for an upscale look with the extras...not my jeans and a tee-shirt apparel."

I gave him the once over.

"I have an idea. Let's see how you are with facial expressions," I said. "Uh, give me a bored look."

He was good!

I put his face through a few paces with different expressions. "Now, a grumpy look...and irritated look...a disgusted look...a suspicious look...a resigned look."

I praised his acting talent, then explained, "On Friday, we'll be filming a bank scene, and we need someone to play the loan manager. The fellow we had lined up came down with meningitis. The manager part even comes with a few words, but a good actor can expand his presence on the screen with some discreet facial reactions."

Walt's eyes lit up.

"Are you serious?" he asked excitedly.

My eyes locked on the mass of beautiful, soft curls that had first attracted my attention.

"Well, if you're willing to" I said, gently breaking him into what he'd be required to do.

Then, I switched tact.

"Oh, since it comes with lines, it also comes with a stipend," I said. "It's a fixed amount per hour that we have you on the set. The cameo role comes with a non-negotiable contract -- a take it, or leave it situation."

I called out to my assistant producer, Jeanie.

"Hey, I think I've found our bank manager," I said to her.

Jeanie came over and immediately was captivated by Walt's looks.

"Yes, with a few modifications, he'll do fine," she said. "Provided we can get him looking professional, like a staid and unyielding bank manager."

"Tell him more about the scene and conditions, to see if he's interested," I encouraged Jeanie.

"You see," Jeanie explained, "the scene is going to start with the camera focused on the back of the bank manager's head. A very sharp, short regulation-length taper then, the camera will expand as it fades from the rigidly clipped nape to the actress' long, soft waves. Simultaneously, the camera will pivot around to a profile view of the two."

I watched Walt's face morph from eager excitement to cautious concern.

"You should see Walt's facial expressions," I told Jeanie. "He nailed every look I tossed at him. Tell him about the stipend."

"It's 150 for every hour you spend on set. It's only going to be one day, so I'd imagine you'd get a check for about 1000," Jeanie said.

"That's generous," Walt said, with some enthusiasm. "Uh, about the nape and taper"

"We would send you to a place and pre-pay the expenses for the haircut. Clothes...if you have a decent suit, we'd consider it. Or, we can provide the wardrobe," Jeanie explained businesslike.

"Well, what do you say, Champ?" I asked. "Your movie debut, as a bank manager?! Might be your break to something bigger. And, I'm not talking about some cheesy TV commercial selling shampoo for coifed curls!"

Walt fondled his mass of soft ringlets.

"I wasn't planning on cutting these any time soon," he whimpered.

"Oh, it's just hair. The stuff grows fast. Male movie stars have their hair cut all the time for a part. Goes with the turf," I said dismissively.

"Well, I'm not planning to be an actor...more a producer or director, like you, Wayne," he replied.

"The best directors have usually started on the set as actors. I did," I replied. "But, I understand. Your hair is too precious. Jeanie, give Zack Hilton a call. He'd make a good bank manager."

"Wait," Walt stammered, sensing a big opportunity was slipping away. "I'll do it!"

"Ah, perfect!" I enthused. "Jeanie, get the contract drawn up. If things go well with Walt as the bank manager, we might think about him for that new detective series we've just contracted to film."

"Of course!" Jeanie exclaimed. "The handsome fellow from the inner city who investigates crimes the cops aren't interested in. The curls and stubble would be fantastic for that part. He's got a real rugged look, his hair so carefree and out-of-control...just like the detective."

Jeanie continued to examine Walt from head to toe. "Yes, a black leather jacket, distressed jeans...a clunky silver chain necklace...I can just see our new detective now!"

"But, first, the bank manager," I stated firmly. "Shorn short and clean shaven. I'll take you myself to the barber shop so we're sure to get what we need. The crisp, military taper is non-negotiable."

"And, the mustache, does that have to go too?!" Walt asked, his interest beginning to visibly waver.

"Perhaps you can keep it," I said. "I'll play it by ear. First the haircut...see what the 'stache looks like once the overgrowth has been clipped off and then either decide to take it off or leave it. We can't have a large, showy mustache stealing the show or taking too much attention away from the main character. No beard stubble, though! That's for sure!"

Jeanie piped in, "I'm going to get the photographer. I want a few photos of Walt before he's shorn, before a star is born!"

Walt enjoyed the impromptu photo shoot, which included many shots featuring his unruly silken mass. Curls over the face, a sexy come-hither look peeping through the ringlets. Curls flailing about as the detective-to-be leapt through the air.

"This is all so exhilarating," Walt stammered gleefully. "Maybe acting IS in my future."

"Just wait till you're caped up in the barber's chair watching the curls fall. Ever seen the opening to Tribes or Full Metal Jacket?" I laughed, taking the wind right out of his sails.

"You're surely not considering an induction cut?" he stammered.

"No, of course not. But, like I said, the taper will be fairly close to military regulation," I reminded Walt.

To ease his anxiety, a bit, I added, "I'm warming to you keeping the mustache. Without the stubble it might convey a sense of rigid authority."

"Can we do it today, and get it over with?" Walt asked. "I don't want to be agonizing about the makeover all night."

"Sure, if you don't mind cutting your hair before you have a signed document," I said. "The filming is wrapping up in about an hour. Once I can get away, we'll head straight to the barber!"

For the next hour, poor Walt could not stop fondling his lush mane of curls. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him tug at them and feel them snap back into place...then toss them about...then paw at the lush collection that dangled from his nape, swirling curls around his fingers. He was in agony over the impending big chop.

When I let him know that I was ready to head to the barber shop, Walt suggested, "How about sidestepping the bank manager gig? I'm much more interested in the detective series."

I stared at him, visibly NOT amused, and said flatly, "You can be forgotten as quickly as you were discovered. Is that understood?"

Walt flushed with embarrassment.

"Of course, of course," he murmured apologetically as he hid behind his convenient curtain of curls.

On our way to the barber shop, I gave Walt a pep talk.

"I won't have any more sulking or passive-aggressiveness, is that understood?" I asked rhetorically. "No more teary entreaties to keep the curls. Once in the shop, you will be silent and submissive as I instruct the barber. No moodiness or sullen looks either. Take the haircut like a man. And, prepare yourself -- it's going to be short. VERY SHORT! Understood? I think a good shearing will do you some good."

"Yes, I'm sorry. Understood. Really, so sorry," Walt stammered. "I've made my decision and my peace with it. The curls are going to be cut, collected and cast into the trash."

"Now, that's the attitude I like." I replied, smiling at the young man warmly.

Martin's Barber Shop was the type of establishment where men came in looking like men and left looking like men. Traditional, timeless and intolerant of girly-boy coifs.

The owner was a portly, no-nonsense sort of geezer. His MPB dipped low in back and the sparse wrap-around fringe was tapered tight. Martin rarely smiled his look conveyed a sort of stern, disapproving air. A solid black barber's jacket added to his sober countenance.

The most upbeat I'd ever seen Martin was watching him take a young teen's overgrown thatch down as an irritated father stood by berating the lad for poor grades. In Martin's hands, the clippers and thinning shears sailed about transferring most of the mop to the gritty shop floor. The teen left looking extremely barbered -- a tidy taper slicked to the side with a dollop of Brylcreem.

It was exactly the haircut I intended for Walt -- short and overly groomed.

As I held the glass door open so that Walt's curls could meet their fate, I felt excited. The ringlets danced playfully around his neck, totally unaware of the clippers that awaited them inside.

The interior of Martin's Barber Shop was as bleak as the barber himself. The dominant feature was fake wood paneling that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. The counter and cabinetry were also clad in a horrid fake wood -- a different synthetic product whose mismatched shade of brown clashed with the walls in a tasteless way. The decor was sparse and dated. Even the calendar that hung on the wall was from a previous decade.

Martin's greeting came with a grumpy half-smile.

Casting a suspicious eye on Walt's curls, he asked, "He here for the big chop, or just you today, Wayne?"

"Today, it'll be just Curly Sue," I replied cheerfully. "You have your work cut out for you, Martin."

My choice of words made Martin grin.

"I'll need a hand massage by the time I finish whacking off that mop," he sighed with a grimace.

Walt remembered my pep talk and endured the mocking with grace.

"All right, hop on up there," Martin instructed tersely, pointing to the chair away from the window. "It's curl chop time."

Walt took a seat on the vinyl burgundy upholstery and shifted nervously as he waited for the cape.

"How short are we cutting this?" the barber asked as he fastened the white cotton cloth around Walt's graceful, long neck.

"Uh, ask him," Walt replied nervously.

Then, I got my chance to do what I'd wanted to do since I first spotted the shimmering mass. I thrust my hand into the vast collection. The silken feel was exquisite. My fingers disappeared into the unruly assortment of ringlets and soothingly soft curls.

"This all needs to go," I said, possessively gripping Walt's locks. "Taper him tightly up the back. Not to zero, but rather to your own length at the nape, Martin. I want him looking professional with a tidy side part and slicked over. Nothing on top very long."

"Just long enough to lay to the side," Martin clarified. "I can do that."

He tried to yank a comb through the mass and Walt cringed.

"Once you've had a proper haircut, the comb will be your friend again," the barber said in a mocking, disdainful tone.

Then, Martin asked, "This your son, Wayne?"

"No, no," I answered quickly. "Just someone who'll be on my set come Friday. I need him looking like a grim, skeptical bank loan manager."

"Maybe I should give him a full MPB look, like mine," the barber quipped as he selected a large set of Oster clippers.

The barber's quip gave me a flash idea.

"Ready to shed the curls?" Martin asked Walt perfunctorily as the machine whirled to life.

"Yes, sir," Walt replied in a tone that exposed the misery he felt inside.

Martin pushed the head forward and went right up the back with a 1 blade. Tangles of hair tumbled in the wake of the unforgiving metal teeth. Instantly, the linoleum floor of the shop was covered in an array of cut brown curls.

"Looking good, looking good," I commented.

"No matter how thick or long or curly hair is, nothing can stop these Oster's," Martin pronounced as he clipped off another swath of silk.

This time, a mass of the cut hair perched momentarily on Walt's shoulder before sliding down the front of his cape and into his lap. Still forced into a penitent bow, Walt had no choice but to study the severed silken swirls.

As the barber shifted to the side, Walt was allowed to sit up straight. More of the cut curls fell to the cotton cape as the Oster's cleared a soaring arch around the ear.

"Feeling a bit light-headed?" I asked Walt.

"I'm beginning to feel a little bald," Walt grumped.

"You want bald?" Martin snapped in irritation. "I can give you bald!"

The barber snagged the ringlets that dangled over Walt's eyes and held them up from the forehead. He brought the teeth of the Oster's menacingly close to the hairline.

"Martin! I need him looking like a professional banker! Not a marine recruit!" I exclaimed nervously.

"Ha, ha," the barber taunted. "Just giving him a bit of a scare."

"And, scaring me too," I added.

Martin began removing the length from the top, clipper over comb. Mounds of cut curls rained down in all directions. Piles formed around the barber's feet. Lovely curls...waiting for the broom and dustpan.

As Walt watched his transformation in the mirror, his face turned a sickly white.

And, his luxurious push-broom mustache increasingly became the dominant feature.

I imagined myself instructing Martin to shave off the manly mustache -- make poor Walt witness another humiliation. 'Take it off, Martin! Shave him clean!' And, then, the sexy 'stache joining the cut curls in Walt's lap.

"What do you think about that mustache, Martin?" I asked, knowing I'd hear a rather disapproving reaction.

"If you want this lad cleaned up, it's got to come off," the barber huffed, "that, and all the beard stubble. Why young men think this neglected look is attractive, I'll never understand."

Walt was going to say something -- most probably make an appeal to keep his beloved 'stache -- but bit his lip.

"Can you take the taper higher up the back?" I asked the barber.

"Just as soon as I finish thinning out this top so it lays down properly," Martin replied. "Curls are a curse!"

The thinning shears went into overdrive. All the bulk and body of the remaining clumps on top was systematically removed.

Then, Martin resumed with the Oster's and took the taper tighter and higher up all over.

"What do you think now?" he asked me.

I stood to examine the new haircut closely, pacing slowly around the chair, looking at Walt's shorn head from all sides.

His lap was a cauldron of cut curls!

I tenderly brushed a few locks from Walt's shoulder.

"About the mustache" I began.

Walt's beautiful green eyes pleaded with me silently.

"I guess it can stay, provided you trim it back so that it's not so showy."

As expected, Walt let out a sigh of relief and flashed a grateful smile.

"So, you want me to shave his beard and trim the mustache," Martin said, to make sure he understood what I wanted.

He proceeded to recline the chair and pump it up. I watched as the lather was applied and the stubble scraped from the manly jaw and chin.

"This is what I would have used to craft a nice MPB dome for you, young man," Martin said, grinning as he held up his straight edge razor.

As the barber began to scrape off the dense beard stubble, continued jabbering, "Just like mine...a nice big shiny dome up on top. No comb would be necessary for you with a bald head like mine. Think how practical."

Martin's animation surprised me there was no doubt he was enjoying himself.

Poor Walt was withering as he lay reclined in the chair, imaging himself with an MPB dome!

After the shave, Martin worked some Brylcreem into Walt's hair and slicked it to the side, his transformation was complete. The plastered look was so severe! The trim mustache gave him an extra air of authority.

"I'm unrecognizable," Walt stammered as Martin showed him the back with a hand mirror.

The cape came off and the cut curls fell to the floor.

Walt stared down in a daze as he studied the vast carpeting on the drab linoleum. He glanced at the broom nearby, ready to sweep it all up and dump it in the trash.

As I stood to pay for the haircut, Martin tapped the chair Walt had vacated.

"Your turn, Wayne," he said, businesslike. "Hop on up."

"Oh, it was just Walt today," I demurred.

"You're looking shaggy," Martin insisted.

I glanced in the mirror. It was true I'd avoided that barber's chair for months. My glossy chestnut locks were looking quite sloppy.

"It's just that I've been so busy with this movie," I explained.

"Ten minutes is all it'll take you and the young man -- same haircut," Martin declared forcefully.

OMG! He wanted to cut my hair as short as he'd cut Walt's! No way!

"Or, perhaps you want the MPB look, just like me," Martin smirked.

He turned around to show off his closely clipped nap that rose to a marvelous dome...a beautiful, big, bald dome!!

My earlier idea suddenly blossomed. The penny dropped! I imagined the opening scene...the camera starting with a tight focus on the taperslowly rising and widening to view the edge of the dome like a rising sun...and further to encompass the whole dip...followed by the total head...and then our actress' soft blond tresses coming into view as the camera swiveled around the desk for a profile dialogue.

Martin would make the perfect bank manager -- older, naturally grumpy and dismissive!

Poor Walt...his curls shorn...for what?!

I sent Walt out to buy me a pack of cigarettes.

When we were alone, I asked Martin whether he'd like to make a quick 1000 with a cameo role as a bank manager.

Surprisingly, Martin was delighted with the idea -- the money and something to tell the old geezers about...him, a movie star, in a different world from his drab barber shop!

When Walt came back, I was sweeping up the last mounds of curls. Martin was grateful for my offered of broom duty.

Poor Walt knew nothing about being replaced by Martin as the bank manager while he was away at the convenience store. I wanted to break it to him gently...that the shedding of his curls had been all for naught.

As we walked away from the barber shop, I asked, "Are you getting used to the new haircut, Walt?"

He paused and replied with his own question, "Do you want the truth...or do you want me sucking it up and acting like I find it surprisingly perfect?"

"Look, Walt, I'm sorry about everything," I stammered. "Your haircut, and...."

I tried to choose my words carefully.

"and, well, that we went into this without a signed contract...and, uh, it happens that...uh, my thinking shifted...while you were."

Walt stopped dead in his tracks! He stared at me in disbelief.

"What?!" he stammered, barely containing his apprehension and anger. "Shifted to what?!

"Shifted to whom, you mean," I said calmly. "Shifted to Martin. When I saw that dip in back of his head and that large MPB dome...and, well, I found myself wanting him to play the role of bank manager. He's older, more mature...seasoned and so stern."

"And my haircut?" Walt exploded. "What of my sacrifice, based on your word?! I believed you, Wayne."

"There's still the big part that you really want...the inner-city detective. It's a three-year contract. You'll be a star," I stammered.

"You expect me to believe that?!" he smarted. "Oh, no...fool me once...I'm not falling for your BS again, Wayne."

"We'll sign a contract. I promise!" I said earnestly.

He turned on his heels.

"Come with me," Walt hissed.

I found myself trotting to keep up with him.

"Did you forget something at Martin's?" I asked.

"No, YOU forgot something! You forgot to get your hair cut!" he snapped. "And, boy, is it ever going to be short!"

"Oh, Walt, please," I stammered.

"I'll sign your contract once I see you sporting a nice big MPB dome just like Martin's! Exactly like the dome you admired so much," Walt exploded, turning the knife.

My groin surged. To be shorn of my lustrous thatch by an eager Martin. To have an MPB dome and wrap-around fringe carved from my treasured chestnut-colored mane. To slink out of the chair transformed with an impromptu, hideous grandpa look.

"If that's what it'll take for you to believe me, Walt," I murmured, feeling queasy excitement, "I'm willing to submit to Martin's razor."

As we approached the glass door, I felt a jolting thrill. I was anxiously anticipating a new and unexpected adventured into the world of MPB-by-choice, by Walt's choice!

---