Ronny Gets a Job by longhairboy

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Ronny sneered from beneath his overly long bangs. The expression caused his flared nostrils to rise, subtly lifting the ribbons of blonde hair that obscured his eyesight, draped his face, and descended as twin flutters to the massive erection he wasn’t even trying to hide beneath his red leather pants.

Rick stared at him across the table.

“And you graduated from…?”

“University of Ottawa,” Ronny smirked. “Right after my birthday.”

“What was your major?”

Ronny smiled again and brushed his hand across the back of his head, causing his waist-length locks to ripple like a pool of molten gold.

“Sociology.”

Rick’s neck pulsed behind his rigid collar.

Of course it was some bulls**t major, he thought. Nothing that required actual work.

Rick was 38 years old and hadn’t gotten to be the manager of J&R Consulting by being unobservant; he had an eye for details and could have read the insult on this boy’s face a mile away. Not that he needed to. The torn band tee, skin-tight bright leather jeans, and barely concealed member throbbing away were all blatant signs of contempt, but no indicator was so shameless as that hair.

Rick, with his 20-year-old flattop, could only marvel at the lack of discipline that such an unruly—and such a very, very long—mane showed. It covered the boy’s face in the front, preventing him from ever looking anyone directly in the eye, and cascaded in ostentatious waves down his back, ending finally in a row of thin ringlets that curled just below the seat of the boy’s pants. A few strands were piled on top of the snake-like cock, and Rick was sure the slight was deliberate.

Ronny, on the other end of this job interview, shifted his weight with all the confidence of someone who’d already won.

No way I’ll get this f***ing job, he thought to himself. No way.

This had been his modus operandi since graduation: tell his parents he was actively looking for work, then line up just enough interviews to look busy while ensuring by his dress and manner that he was never hired. Letting his hair down was all that was ever required; once they saw that mass of golden silk, prospective employers turned away with barely so much as a polite “we’ll be in touch.”

Which was, of course, the whole point. And it made such delicious sense that his hair, a lifetime slacker’s greatest and proudest achievement, was what kept him out of an office and flush with trust fund money. His parents thought that by now he ought to be living off more than just the family name, but who were they to punish him for a bad economy? Things would pick up eventually. Ronny just had to keep trying.

Suckers.

Ronny could tell this time would be no different, and he was already bored with the interviewer’s mild indignation. He wanted to go home and comb out his mane, then cum all over himself thinking about how this flattopped douchebag hated his stud’s long locks and leather jeans.

The flattopped douchebag in question surveyed the self-described hair god with distaste.

Felix and Tiffany didn’t mention the hair, he thought to himself. But they must know what he’s doing.

Rick recalled Felix’s words, spoken to him on the phone just before this interview had commenced.

“I know you’d be taking a risk, Rick,” the man had said. “But my son really needs this job. You do this, and I’ll be in your debt. I think you know what that can mean. Do anything to see he is selected for this position. Anything.”

Rick strummed a pencil on the desk, wondering now if Felix’s expression of desperation had been literal or figurative. It didn’t matter. This little s**t was gaming everyone around him, abusing parents who supported him in good faith as he sabotaged one employment opportunity after another. Rick’s mind was made up.

“Ron, I’ll be honest,” he said.

Ronny’s smile broadened beneath his curtain of hair.

“I’m really quite impressed with you. I think you’d be a great addition to the team.”

The smug expression dropped off of Ronny’s face so quickly that Rick thought the boy’s supple lips would hit the floor. Best to strike while the iron was hot.

“There’s only one problem: J&R has a strict grooming policy. So I’m afraid that before you start you’ll need to get a haircut.”

Ronny’s face was briefly contorted with a look of pure terror, but then the stud’s grin returned. Rick thought he’d found his target—Ronny thought he’d found his out.

“Man,” the boy crooned, arching his neck so that the gigantic mane splayed across his back and well past the seat of the chair. “I think that’s gonna be a problem. See, I’ve been growing this hair for, um…a while.”

The boy had the nerve to guffaw.

“You know how long hair like this takes to grow?”

“I couldn’t guess.”

Ronny assessed Rick’s flattop.

“No, I guess not.”

The swipe drew a flush from Rick, who contained his words behind a stony face.

“Six years,” Ronny bragged. He stood up to reveal a boner that was at full mast and hair that flowed to past his waist. Between the arch of the boy’s legs, Rick could just see the ends of the hair hanging down.

“I haven’t had a haircut in six years.”

“Well, that is a shame,” Rick sighed. “This is a great opportunity for you.”

Ronny tossed his hair and it was like watching a field of wheat fly through the wind.

“Sorry, dude. No way I’m cutting the hair.”

Rick stood up to meet Ron’s gaze.

“You know what a greater shame is?”

Ron’s lip curled.

“What’s that?”

“That you’re willing to sit on your ass, sucking up someone else’s money, and use this ridiculous hair to make sure you never have to actually put in an honest day’s work.”

Ron smiled yet again.

“It’s a hairy situation, dude. I’m sure I’ll find the right place.”

The hair god turned to walk away, but before he could get far a hand shot out and clasped the end of one of his three-foot locks.

He’d known Felix too long to let this overgrown mop get away with this anymore.

“I owe your father a couple of favors,” Rick said. “Favors he’s accumulated through hard work and good faith, which you obviously know nothing about. Bottom line, you’re not walking out of this room until you’re employable.”

Ronny’s face was red beneath the bangs.

“Dude, no one touches my F***ING HAIR.”

Rick pulled the tendril hard and Ronny yelped.

“Don’t worry, my boy. You won’t have the problem of hair pulling much longer.”

He reached into his drawer and pulled a pair of scissors from an office supply box.

“Now hold still.”

Ronny shrieked and broke away from Rick’s grasp, falling back on the floor where his hair sprawled out behind him in all its three-foot glory. The boy’s bangs had been knocked from his face, temporarily revealing smooth skin and an adolescent appearance that belied his 22 years.

Rick rounded the desk with the scissors just as Ronny swooped his yard of hair off the floor and started back, locks askew and boner pounding, for the door.

“Wait a minute, dude! Not that! NOT THAT!”

Rick cornered Ronny at the door, snapping the scissors menacingly.

“Dude, let’s work something out!”

Rick seized the bangs that reached Ronny’s crotch and held them high in the air.

“First of all,” he grunted. “Look me in the eye.”

With one quick flick of his wrist he snipped the bangs off just above Ronny’s eyebrows, undoing six years of work in half a second.

“MY BANGS!!!”

Ronny’s boner squirted out precum, darkening the ultra-cool leather jeans. His hair boy’s pride, his sheepdog bangs—GONE. Now his naked face was exposed to the world after six years of being hidden behind golden hair.

“Second of all,” Rick seized a mass of spiraling flaxen locks. “Don’t call me dude.”

His scissors sliced through the mountain of hair with a crunching sound like leaves breaking underneath booted feet, and Ronny’s sobs let loose like a waterfall.

“My h- my h- my h- my HAIR!”

Rick was rounding the back of Ronny’s neck, cutting along a straight line as he went, and before long a wall of hair had fallen to the floor, leaving the boy with a blonde mop that just touched his shoulders.

“What hair?”

Ronny sniveled as his penis full on exploded, drenching his leather jeans in piss.

Rick laughed, swiping what was left of the once-magnificent mane.

“Guess those pants are done for. But that’s okay; you can’t exactly wear leather on the job.”

He was cutting random patches out of the pageboy ‘do, leaving the amazing blonde mane a hideous mess of uneven strands and even a few bald spots. A landfill of hair littered the floor.

“My HAAAAAAIR!” Ronny wailed.

The ultimate hair dude, the boy who’d chosen the moniker of Hairgod at only 14, now had short hair for the first time since puberty. Whereas before he’d looked like a teen pop idol with a magnificent mane, now he was just a pip-squeak in his older brother’s clothes.

“Much better,” Rick smirked. “I’ll see you on Monday. Oh, and Ronny?”

Ron had sunk to his knees, crying and pissing into his own severed mane.

“Before you come in, get a haircut. You look like a wreck.”

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