Francois Signs onto the Grooming Policy by Manny

---

Francois could not believe his ears. What was the old man saying?! It was simply unheard of! Did he think we were still back in the 1950s where bosses ruled and grooming standards were strict in the corporate world?!

"Yes, I do realize that, sir," he stammered, nervously mopping back the voluminous forelock that had elicited the snippy rebuke. "I suppose I just ran out of time to get a haircut before this interview. No, my hair is not normally this long."

Even as the words were streaming out of his mouth, Francois could not believe he was apologizing or making up those sort of white lies. Still the older man's glare did not soften!

Francois' babbling continued, "Of course, I will visit the barber you recommend if you really think this issue needs to be addressed right away."

He hated the idea that the job offer had been so attractive he was negotiating away his dignity....and his beloved mane of long, thick stylized hair!

Francois watched the old man slowly call a number from his cell phone. He gulped nervously as he listened to the quick conversation. Then the old man handed him a business-sized card stapled to the corner of a sheet of standard white paper. It looked like a form. On the left side of the card was a traditional barber's pole. The rest of the card simply read "Pete's Barber Shop" and the address.

Francois' hands trembled as he received the card stapled to the paper. "You mean this barber is waiting for me right now?"

Then his eyes focused on the form beneath the card. At the top, in fairly bold print was the title, "Grooming Policy Consent"....followed by a few sentences and a signature block.

Francois' eyes bulged as he read the statement he was to sign....bi-weekly haircuts at Pete's Barber Shop..."to the length of senior management's specification!" He was to have no control over his hair length. And the final indignity was that his haircuts would be deducted from his paycheck!!

"I'm to sign this?" Francois asked nervously.

The old man handed him a pen and tapped the tip of his finger authoritatively at the signature line.

Francois' hand felt clammy and partially paralyzed as he held the pen. He wanted to drop it. He wanted to throw it in the old man's face and storm out of the office. He wanted to.....do anything but......slowly, very slowly, with a hesitant hand, he signed away his signature, long, wonderfully lush, stylized mane. There, the deed was done. His hair would be cut short by a barber. By Pete!

He loathed the old man who smiled slightly with a satisfied look, content that he was imposing his will on poor Francois. With a flourish the old man signed the contract that officially employed Francois. According to the in-processing checklist, the first step after "grooming compliance review" was the badging unit to be photographed and fingerprinted.

Francois stared momentarily at the card with the barbershop pole on it. He hated the thought of what was to come, but realized he had no good options. The employment market had been very tight and after six months with no salary he was quite lucky to have a salaried job with benefits. Absentmindedly, Francois mopped back his heavy mane of glistening mahogany. Perhaps there was an upside to a very short haircut -- less time grooming in the morning and easier upkeep in windy and rainy weather.

As he walked towards the exit of the building, he could not resist one last glimpse of his beautiful hair; Francois pushed the door to the men's room open. There in the mirror he saw his precious, carefully coiffed locks. He looked liked something off the page of a men's fashion advertisement or a Hollywood gossip column. Lovely dark brown hair framing a manly face with large green eyes accented by long lashes and dramatic brows. He smoothed down his silken locks. The barber would certainly butcher them! He wondered what that ambiguous term "to management's specification" meant. But, judging from the other men he saw in the office, it meant very short taper around the ears and up the back, parted on the side and slicked into place. There would be no more running his fingers through his soft, silken tresses to relieve stress or for sheer pleasure and relaxation.... As he stared at himself in the mirror, Francois thought what it might feel like to have the clippers running up through his nape....and watching clumps of shorn hair piling up on the cape. His mind wandered to a radical "after" image and he thought of how the chiseled nape would feel with its short stubble. To his surprise, he felt his cock stir. Francois' heart rate suddenly quickened. He found himself lamenting that he wasn't heading towards the barbershop on his own accord. The disgrace of being forced into the haircut by that awful old man was totally humiliating. Without another thought, he flicked his head back to send his lovely locks flying....and then he swirled around and marched straight out of the bathroom. Francois plodded forward toward Pete's Barber Shop relentlessly. He could not stop the momentum. His hair would be cut. Period. That's all there was to it.

Francois' pace quickened as he approached the barbershop. He was surprised at how his attitude had suddenly changed from the moment he was staring at himself in the mirror, lamenting his impending loss, to the instant where he imagined himself under the cape, watching his pretty hair fall in the wake of the clippers. Was it just a matter of wanting the haircut over as quickly as possible....or was he really beginning to eagerly anticipate his required date with the clippers?!

Francois' hand gripped the metal door handle and he pushed his way into a time wharp. The shop was empty, except for the single middle-aged barber who was clad in a traditional white tunic that buttoned on the shoulder and had his name "Pete" embroidered into the pocket. His salt and pepper hair was clipped close on the sides and a bit longer ontop -- a classic crewcut. Francois' eyes glanced at the tall jars containing blue "barbicide" with a variety of instruments floating inside. Everything in the shop was from a long-forgotten era: the chairs, the harsh neon lights, the old analogue TV set with an awful image flickering on the screen, tattered magazines (hunting, car and golf) that were years old.....and then there were the clippers!! A least a half dozen, in all sizes, hanging from the counter. They seemed huge -- like hedge clippers for the hair with menacing steel teeth.

Francois' eyes quickly shifted back and forth between his hair and the clippers. Then reality hit. And it hit hard. He was petrified! The last thing in the world he wanted was to climb into the chair and sit silently, like a lamb before the shearers, while Pete stripped off his carefully cultivated carefree-playboy persona! He realized that the excitement on his way to the shop had been simply a defense mechanism to disguise his fear and force him to go through with what he dreaded, what he loathed, what or who he....hated! Yes, that awful old man that had given him the job, contingent on his signing the company grooming policy!!

The barber cleared his throat, reminding Francois that he was frozen in his tracks, just inside the threshold of the barbershop. "Are you Frank?" he asked. "From Mr. Schaeffer's office?"

"No, my name is Francois. But, yes, I'm a new hire to work for Mr. Schaeffer."

"He refered to you as Frank, so you better get used to it. Now sit there. I see, I have my work cut out for me....pardon the pun, Franky-boy. Mr. Schaeffer has given me very specific instructions, and I can see why," the barber said with a hint of mystery.

Francois hated the name Frank!! He thought of arguing with the barber and insist on being addressed properly, but instead he walked submissively to the chair that Pete had indicated to him. All three chairs in the shop were faced away from the mirror, and Francois felt uncomfortably facing away from the mirror. He squirmed momentarily in the chair while the gaze of barber Pete was supplemented by his pawing at the long hair he'd been instructed to cut off.

"I swear," laughed the barber, "I'm beginning to think that old man Schaeffer has prioritized the hiring of longhairs. Why just last week the fellow he sent over walked in here with a ponytail that hung down to his waist. Thick blond hair that covered my floor like a shag carpet. And Schaeffer had ordered him up a flattop too -- the fellow was unrecognizable when he left, minus the hair."

Francois' heart sank to his toes. A flattop?! That was abhorent!

Pete continued, alleviating him of at least that small fear, "But Mr. Schaeffer has something else in mind for you. I think it'll look fine, Frank."

"My name's, uh...." but the sentence was muffled by the snap of the cape, followed by a billowing mumrur as it floated through the air. The barber pulled the cape firmly and tightly around Francois' neck. He could barely breathe.

And then he felt the barber push his head forward and heard the crunch of shears, which were deployed at the nape. Crunch, crunch, crunch..... The barber quickly lopped off the length that normally flowed past the base of Francois' collar.

Momentarily, Francois felt encouraged that perhaps he'd get away easily. Maybe, just maybe, he would escape the clippers all together.

The snipping of the shears continued around the left ear. Then, globs of his lovely mahogany locks began falling into sight on the snowy white cape.

Francois felt his cock stir involuntarily. He felt strange about that. Was his forced haircut really beginning to turn him on?!

Then the barber combed a veil of heavy hair in front of his eyes and the harsh neon light was momentarily blocked out. To his horror, Francois felt the barber shears near the very top of his forehead. CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH. In three deft moves, the shears lopped off the mighty forelock. It fell in heavy segments to his lap -- long locks at least 8-10 inches in length were removed in a matter of instants.

"No more hair in your eyes," the barber quipped. Then he began lifting segments of Francois' long hair and scissoring it off fairly short --less than an inch in length. Hair was falling everywhere. "Perhaps you'd like to watch your haircut," the barber suggested. "Would you like me to turn you towards the mirror?"

Francois did not know how to answer.

But, there was no need to because, at that moment, the door to the barbershop swung open and in walked Mr. Schaeffer!!!

Francois felt his stomach churn as the old man strode up to inspect progress on the haircut.

"Frank here's been nice and cooperative, Mr. Schaeffer," the barber offered up. "And now that the bulk of the length is gone, I'm ready to start with the clippers."

Out of the corner of his eye, Francois watched the tunic-clad barber reach for the largest set of electric clippers.

Suddenly, his head was forced forward so that his chin touched his chest. Fracois was rendered totally helpess and prostrate as Mr. Schaeffer closely supervised phase two of the haircut when "Frank" was taken down from a short to a shorn look. The clippers zoomed up the back of his head! Beneath the cauldron full of shorn hair on his lap, his cock sprung at once to an erect position. Frank looked on helplessly and full of shame. There was no way the barber or Mr. Schaeffer could overlook what was happening to him. He heard the two snickering....

After the barber obliterated most of the hair from the back of Frank's head, he fell into a chat with old man Schaeffer. "So you liked the flattop that the last fellow got, hey Mr. Schaeffer. It's a classic cut. Timeless. I sported one for years. Although Goldy locks didn't seem to happy about losing his tail. I took it off with these -- best set of clippers a barber could own. Cut its way through that heavy cord of hair like it was a piece of thread! You should've seen my floor when it was all said and done. I used the lather and straight razor on the sides and landing strip just like you told me too. I don't think that fellow had ever had a razor taken to his scalp before. You should've seen his face when I swirled the chair around! Like he'd seen a ghost. In fact, I was just asking Frank here whether he wanted to watch the rest of his haircut when you came in. I've learned that it's best to strip off the bulk first, facing away from the mirror, when a pretty boy is getting a proper haircut. Once I had a grown man let loose some tears when I plowed the clippers into his tidy business cut! He was all dolled up in a nice suit with cuff links....and when his groomed pomp fell to the clippers, he turned into a sobbing sissy. Told me baldy cuts were for little boys, not grown men....."

With that, Mr. Schaeffer spoke: "Give this one a baldy cut. And make him watch."

Francois' lip quivered as the barber swiveled the chair toward the mirror. His eyes locked onto Mr. Schaeffer's and then the tears that had welled up in his eyes broke the barrier and stream down his cheek. Instinctively, he reached out from under the cape and sent a mound of his shorn hair in Mr. Schaeffer's direction. The old man jumped back, But clumps of Francois' beloved hair clung to his trouser legs, causing him an intemperate outburst.

Pete was quick with the balding clippers. Like a bootcamp barber he stripped away all but the shortest length of stubble from poor Francois' head. The plush mahogany color gave way to a dull brown/gray five o'clock shadow.

Frank looked foolish shorn down to the wood! He felt friendless and vulnerable.

"Lather him up and scrape him clean," Mr. Schaeffer instructed the barber.

Quickly, Pete dispensed a huge handful of warm shaving cream into his hand and began to rub it into Francois' scalp.

"Please, Mr. Schaeffer, not a chromedome!" Francois begged.

The barber hesitated and awaited Mr. Schaeffer's instruction.

"Get on with your work," the old man snapped. "I want Frank back at work in 15 minutes. Report straight to the badging unit for your photo and then to my office." The old man patted the thick leather belt that held up his suit pants. "I have one more special training session for you with this to remember rule number one at the firm. Comply with all orders quickly and submissively. No complaining or questioning. Do you understand Frank?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Schaeffer," he said meekly averting his eyes, wondering what it would like to be shorn by order of the old man and then spanked by his own hand....

As the razor scraped away the stubble and foam from the top of Frank's head, he felt himself hating the old man less and admiring him more. And, Frank wasn't such a bad name after all.....

---