Commissioned by Anonymous

The bells above the door gave a dry jangle as the door opened, and Nick stepped into the barber shop. It was late afternoon, and the dust on the windows and in the air could be seen clearly in the evening light, giving him the odd impression that he’d stepped into a sepia photograph. The small room was empty for a few moments, until an older man stepped out from the backroom, the sleeves of his button up shirt rolled up to the elbows, wearing a red and white bow tie matching the barber pole which had initially caught Nick’s attention outside. “Good afternoon, my boy–here for a haircut?” the man asked.

“Oh, well, no…” he said, looking around. He’d really only been interested in the older building’s facade, and had stepped inside to see if there had been any odd details inside which might be worth seeing. “No, I’m an architect–the facade caught my eye, and I thought I’d just take a look around inside, if you don’t mind.”

The older man shrugged, “You’re welcome to look around, if you’d like. Though if you change your mind, just say the word, and we can tackle…that.”

The smile that followed was genuine enough to disarm the slight insult, and Nick ran his hand through his hair, which hovered somewhere between disheveled and neck length. When was the last time he’d gotten it cut? He didn’t know–he avoided getting it done, really. It always felt like a chore, and it didn’t help that he never really knew what he wanted. Still, he had the feeling that he ought to say something–defend himself and his look–but the man had already turned around and gone into the back, leaving Nick alone in the front room.

He looked around, happy to see that details from the past design had been cared for, rather than removed and updated into a mish-mash of styles, like so many other older buildings in the city. Still, the same thing which had drawn his attention to the building in the first place was felt inside as well. The facade, while old, was difficult to place in time. Not quite Art Deco, not quite Streamline Moderne, with odd Nouveau touches throughout. It was old, and yet at the same time, oddly timeless. As he looked around, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, blushed and looked away, feeling a bit silly after the barber’s earlier comment. He did look like a mess, he realized, and certainly less than professional. He really should do something with it, but…what? He hated most styles that were popular these days, and the necessity of upkeep just bored him. He wasn’t a model, and he had no real interest in looking like one.

He walked back, found the barber at a small desk working with some receipts. “Pardon me, but do you know when this building was built?”

“I don’t, actually,” the barber said, “I inherited the space here from my father, but I’m fifty-six, and it was well established when I was a boy, if that helps. Still, even if it is old, it has a certain charm, don’t you think?” He rifled through some papers on his desk and came up with a photograph, “Here–this is my father out in front. I was about…twelve or so when that picture was taken, I believe.”

Nick took the old photograph and took a look at the older gentleman in the photo, the young boy standing next to him. He looked like a character who did not have much patience for play or small talk. Not necessarily mean, though perhaps a bit aloof. The beaming boy next to him seemed happy enough holding his hand. He handed the photograph back after a few more moments. “Nice looking man.”

“He certainly was–where do you think I got my own style?” the barber said, “Can’t say much for fashion these days–all these young men with their hair down to their collars…”

Nick brushed a hand through his own, “This isn’t a style–I just never get it cut is all.” he looked around the room, hoping to change the subject, “It’s funny, the whole building is an odd mix of styles–I’m having a hard time placing it in a period.”

“Well, I’m sorry I can’t be of more help with that.”

“I can find the blueprints and look it up, I suppose,” Nick said with a smile, “Sorry to interrupt your work–I’ll be on my way.”

“Don’t worry sir, it’s…refreshing to see a young man like yourself interested in something so old,” he said, getting up and following Nick to the front door, “Now, are you sure you won’t take me up on my offer?”

Nick paused at the door, blushing again. “Is it really that bad?”

“I’m not one to judge modern tastes,” he replied simply, but after a moment more, added, “But…I think you could do much better.”

Nick looked at the clock on the wall–he’d left work early so he had time to kill, and no plans for the rest of the evening. Who knows? Maybe the barber could work some magic on him that the chain salons couldn’t. “Why not?” he replied, stepping back from the door, and followed the barber over to a chair, sat down and allowed the man to throw a cape over him and secure it around his neck.

“So then, my boy, what shall we do with this?” the barber asked, running his hand through Nick’s hair, “First, when was the last time you had it cut?”

“I don’t know–a few months?”

The barber gave a whistle, “Sounds like someone doesn’t like going to the barber.”

Nick sighed, looking at himself in the mirror. It was impossible, he hated it, he sometimes just wished it was all gone. “You’re right, I don’t. I never know what I want my hair to look like, I never see a style I like on anyone these days, and I usually just end up with, well, a mop.”

The barber smiled again, that same genuine grin, and something about it made Nick smile too–it was infectious. “Still, I’m not the one who can decide here–it’s your hair after all. There’s nothing you want to do with it? Nothing at all? No one who’s hair you like?”

“No one my age, at least,” Nick said, and then blushed when he realized what he’d said.

The barber pushed on, “Well, maybe instead of asking what you want your hair to look like, lets take a step back. What sort of person do you want to look like? How do you want people to perceive you? My father always said that the hair the foundation for a man–it can speak volumes about us, if we let it–and while it might sound a bit egotistical, I regard myself as a master craftsman.”

Nick grinned, but thought back to the old photograph he’d seen in the office. The barber’s father had seemed confident, though maybe a bit strict.

“You know, I bet that a slightly…more conservative look might look nice on you,” the barber said, “Something to help you look a bit older–more established.”

“No, I couldn’t pull off something like that.”

“Ha, well, not normally, but I am a master,” the barber said, “I’m sure that in my hands, it will turn out splendidly.”

“Look, I just don’t think that’s what I’m looking for.”

The barber looked up into the mirror, meeting Nick’s eyes, and said, “I saw how you were looking at my father in that photograph–don’t you think he looked impressive? Important? Certainly no someone who could be ignored, or pushed aside. Isn’t that what you want? Or do you want to be ignored? Seen as someone who can’t even keep himself in order? If that’s what you want, you might as well just walk out the door now with that mop of yours.”

The barber went to unfasten the cape, but Nick spoke, “No, no…I mean, I do want all those things, it’s just…”

“Just what?”

How could Nick put into words what he was feeling? There was truth to what the barber was saying–that was the kind of man he wanted to be, he just didn’t know, well, how to get there. Still, he was a master barber–maybe it would be better to just trust him. “Look…you’re right. That is the sort of man I want to be, but I don’t know what kind of hairstyle would be best…you’re the barber, why don’t you just do what you think would be best for me?”

“If that’s what you would like.”

“It is, I think. You seem to know what I want better than I do, anyway,” Nick said with a grin, but when the barber failed to smile, he just turned and faced the mirror. The barber worked in relative silence for a few minutes and Nick found himself losing focus and daydream a bit. He wondered what sort of cut the barber might have in mind for him–after all, it wasn’t exactly easy to just make someone look older with a haircut. Usually it was age that forced men’s hands, not the other way around. He looked up from where he’d been staring at the cape and gave a start when he saw himself in the mirror, the barber pulling back the shears. “Careful–no sudden movements. I don’t want to cut you.”

“What…What are you doing?”

“You asked me to give you the cut I thought you should have, didn’t you?”

Nick just stared at his head in the mirror. Literally, his head. The barber had somehow culled back his hairline several inches, the bald pate shining through, the rest of his hair pulled down against his scalp, and he just gaped.

“If you don’t like it, I can always change it back–it’s just, this is the man you said you wanted to be. No worries, we can find a different look for you, though I don’t think it will suit you as much,” the barber said, and started combing his hair back up.

“No,” Nick said, surprising himself with the confidence in his voice, “No…No, I like it…Just…” Nick paused, and the barber waited for a few moments. When Nick said nothing else, he took that as a sign of acceptance, and he continued his work.  Nick was now fully absorbed in what was happening. He didn’t know how the barber was doing it–he still was wielding nothing more than a comb, shears, and a bottle of water, but right before his eyes, his hair was vanishing. Even more amazing, he actually looked, well, bald. Like his hair was actually gone, and then he realized that it really was gone. That somehow the barber was actually balding him, and the excited chill that ran down his spine was something he’d never felt before. It looked right. It looked…like him, like who he’d wanted to be.

“Now, how about we add a little grey?” the barber asked, “Right here at the temples. It helps make a man more distinguished I think. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

“Isn’t…Isn’t it bad enough to be bald?”

“”Bad to be bald? My boy, if you don’t like the cut, you should have let me fix it. I’m afraid it’s much too late to turn back now.”

It was, wasn’t it? Nick just stared at his head, still unable to believe what he’d allowed the barber to do to him. And yet…it wasn’t all that bad, really. He did look…distinguished, and confident. It took a confident man to show off his baldness like that after all, and maybe…maybe a bit of grey would improve the look. “I think…you’re right.”

“Very well…sir,” the barber said, Nick blushing as the man, with a few comb throughs, pulled the color from his temples, giving Nick two patches of grey on the sides of his head. After a couple more minutes, the barber inspected his work, and then picked up a jar of pomade, and started combing it into Nick’s remaining hair, matting it down into a shiny slick back, his bald crown shiny and beautifully displayed. The result was amazingly natural, if it hadn’t been paired with Nick’s still young face. “Alright,” the barber said, picking up a hand mirror and positioning it so Nick could see the back, “How does that look to you?”

“Wait,” Nick said, looking at himself in the mirror. “I can’t…I mean, is that…it?”

“Oh, would you like more?” the barber asked, “I suppose I can pull it back a bit further, and grey it out a bit more, though I fear it might drift past distinguished and make you look, somewhat weak. However, if that’s what you would like–”

“No!” Nick said, “No, the hair–just leave the hair, I mean…” he said, staring at his reflection, “God, I look like…like my dad or something.”

“I wouldn’t consider that an insult, necessarily. More men ought to look to their elders for direction. Now, if you are satisfied with the cut, that will be twenty pounds for a cut and style.”

“No, I mean–” Nick said, but his voice cut out for a moment. “What am I even saying, this is crazy–I don’t want to be bald, I don’t want to look like this.”

The barber let the silence hang for a moment in the air, “But look at yourself now. Don’t you already look more powerful? More in charge? More confident? I mean, there are still some issues, sure.” The barber took his hands and laid them on Nick’s shoulders over the cape, “I mean, that face of yours–it lacks experience. This body doesn’t show any signs of a man set in his ways. And don’t even get me started on these clothes you young men wear these days. Preposterous. Here, you know what would help? A shave.” The barber wet a boar bristle shaving brush under the tap and started foaming up a shaving mug.

“No, look, I don’t,” Nick said, and when he said no the barber stopped.

“I thought this is what you wanted,” the barber said, “if not, then you can leave anytime. I’m not keeping you here.” He stepped back from the chair, and Nick thought about it. He could just leave. He could have left at anytime, and yet…he was still here. And he did…sort of like the hair. The barber had been right, it did look good on him, or it would look good on him in forty more years. But it wasn’t the hair that scared him, it was losing…he didn’t know what the barber might do to him next. And yet, part of him wanted to know, wanted to experience it. He stared at his face, wondering what he might look like when the barber finished, and gave a nod. “A–Alright.”

“Very good, sir, with your permission,” the barber said, tilted the chair back and foamed up Nick’s cheeks, before meticulously scraping it away with a straight razor. Nick couldn’t see anything with the chair back, but he noticed than the barber left his lip unshaved. When he finished, he expected the man to sit him back up, but after rubbing down his cheeks with a block of alum, he relathered Nick’s cheeks and shaved him again, against the grain, before wrapping his entire face and head in a hot, steamed towel, leaving him there for several minutes. After the towel was unwrapped, he finished him off with some talcum powder and a strong smelling aftershave, before finally lifting the chair back up, and allowing Nick a view of his face.

He gasped–that couldn’t be him in the mirror, could it? His face was so soft–no, not soft–fat. His cheeks were very large, but from the jowls and laugh lines, anyone who saw him would think him at least in his fifties, and the wrinkles and crow’s feet around his eyes didn’t help either. The only place that hair remained on his face was in a thick, bushy moustache covering his lip, meticulously trimmed, and lightly grey, matching his temples.

“Well sir? How does it look.”

“It looks…marvelous…” Nick said, and it was the truth. He looked better than he’d ever looked in his life, even if he could have passed for his father. As he stared at himself in the mirror, he felt a strange stir in the crotch of his pants–his cock was hardening. He blushed, a light red gracing his cheeks as he tried to regain control of himself. Had looking at this fat, older face actually turned him on? What was happening to him? He raised his hands and rubbed his cheeks, scratching his mustache  still unable to believe it was real.

“I’m glad you approve–very few barbers can give a gentleman a proper shave anymore,” the barber said, discarding the towel.

A gentleman–he looked like a gentleman, didn’t he? His cock was hardening still, and Nick didn’t know what to do. The barber stepped over and removed the cape from around Nick’s neck, and he grimaced when he saw the clothes he was wearing. They were trying so hard to be important, to be noticed–it was rather embarrassing. “I really should find something else to wear, shouldn’t I?” Nick said, mostly to himself.

“I suppose I could help with that, if you’d like,” the barber said, as Nick stood up from the chair. “I agree that these clothes aren’t befitting a man of your stature and maturity.”

The flattery stirred something in Nick again, and he realized he liked this. He could be important now, he could be noticed, if he had the right look. “A suit, I think.”

“Ah, a suit–but what kind of suit? Certainly nothing too modern for a conservative man like yourself,” the barber said, and Nick watched the clothes on his body ripple from where the barber’s rested his hand on his shoulder, becoming a fine cotton dress shirt and highwaisted navy slacks with fishtail backs, the braces crawling up his back and down the front, before a jacket appeared out of this air around him, his shoes darkening into black dress shoes shined to shimmering, and last, a regimental tie growing down from his collar stopping right at his waist, cinched tight to his neck, the starched collar comfortably rigid, forcing his head up to a haughty height. He looked…distinguished, and already older than before, just because of the classic look. No one wore suits like this anymore, or at least no one his age–his old age. He was becoming an anachronism, and he felt pleasure shoot through him again, as he ran his hand along the fine fabrics. “How…how much did this cost? I could never afford something like this.”

“On the contrary, the man you were could never have afforded this suit. But you are a man of power and authority, and with those qualities come wealth…and pride. It feels good, doesn’t it? These fabrics on your skin? You can’t imagine ever wearing something of lesser quality, I’m sure. Don’t be shy–enjoy them–they’re designed for more than looks–good clothing ought to have a certain…feel as well, don’t you agree?”

They did feel divine, and Nick realized that from now on, this would be his standard attire. This is what he’d wear everyday for the rest of his life, and it looked good. It felt right, sensual even, and he realized his cock was fully hard, bulging out the front of the tailored trousers. The barber didn’t appear to have noticed, and Nick suppressed a blush–after all, there wasn’t anything wrong with enjoying his clothes. Still, while it looked good–it still didn’t look right. His body–it wasn’t the right body, not the body he needed to have, this slim, slender form. It didn’t look like a body of age, or privilege, or excess, or pride. “Bigger. I need to be bigger.”

“Bigger? Bigger how?”

“Fatter. I…I don’t know. Bigger, I don’t…no one would listen to me, looking like this, how could I dominate a boardroom when I’m this skinny?”

“A boardroom? I think you’re shooting too low myself. Still, you’re right, aren’t you? Someone as skinny as you are couldn’t possibly be someone with real authority. You have no presence at all–people would be more inclined to just ignore you. Let’s see what we can do about that.” Nick’s frame started filling out, a soft gut pushing out the belly of his suit, his trousers pulling themselves up over his apron, giving him a belly that spoke of wealth and privilege. He was a man who wanted for nothing, and his pants filled in as well, thighs thickening, chest and arms growing heavy, but something else was changing–he could feel a slight pressure from the barber’s hand, pushing him down, making him shorter. 

“What are you doing?” Nick asked, “I don’t want to be short!”

“Oh?” the barber said, letting off, “I simply thought that, well, you are rather imposing, sir.”

“Imposing is good…isn’t it?” Nick said, suddenly not so sure.

“Well, I suppose it can be, but do you want men to respect you, or respect your size?” Nick thought for a moment, and the barber continued. “Besides, all good men need a…flaw of sorts. Something to help put their inferiors at ease, a quality that can appeal to the common man. You wouldn’t want to seem too out of touch with the lower classes after all.”

Nick let out a bit of a grunt, “Fine, I suppose you have a point.” The barber resumed his pressure, and Nick started shrinking–not substantially, not so much that he would be easily ignored or disregarded, but enough to appear–humble, even if he would be nothing of the sort. His height would be a weapon, something to catch his enemies off guard. He would appear unassuming, a fat, jovial man who knew how to wield the avenues of power with an iron hand. he would rule–he would lead–it was his right, his privilege. He was so hard now–so excited, his face reddening as it fattened further, his chin billowing out before settling upon the knot of his tie. He was so powerful–how could he not lust after himself?

“Seems like vanity comes naturally to someone as confident as you,” the barber said, coming up behind him, “Go on–I know how much you want to pleasure yourself. That suit had you all hot and bothered, and now that look in your eyes…No one will ever know if you…indulge for a moment.”

Nick licked his lips, unzipped the trousers and pulled out his dick–his thick, long dick–apparently the barber had been busy down there as well, and started stroking it slowly, never taking his eyes off himself, running his free hand over his beautiful new clothing still listening to what the barber was saying, describing really. His life, the barber was giving him a history, or rather, guiding Nick–no not Nick–Nick was too young. Guiding Nicholas into crafting his own past. How he’d come from old money–very old money–being sent of to be educated at the finest schools–an Etonian and then off to Cambridge–both of them inflating his sense of superiority, however, deeper within him was a desire to serve his country. After training at Sandurst, he entered the army as an officer, but in the army he realized his real pleasure wasn’t serving–it was leading. Government–that was what he sought, and with his family background, and wasn’t difficult to find a high ranking position within the Tory party. He came, shooting his load onto the floor in front of him, and shook his head, almost as though he were waking from a dream, and tucked his cock back into his trousers.

“That will be thirty pound for the cut, style and shave, sir,” The barber said, and Nicholas turned to him, almost as though he were just noticing him, his posture still rigid from his army days.

“Oh, ah yes, a wonderful job as always, my good man. I can’t seem to find anyone who can do a proper job on my hair like you.”

“Most barbers these days simply don’t know how to treat a fellow gentleman,” the barber said with a wink, and Nicholas let out a booming laugh.

“Indeed! And here, a bit extra for you,” he said, adding a five pound note to the amount he handed the barber.

“You’re too kind sir.”

“Oh nonsense–better give it to a man who has earned it than the ruffians on welfare running amok on the streets–the hooligans.”

“Ah, yes–the world has changed, I suppose.”

“Well, then we’ll just have to change it back I suppose,” Nicholas said, giving the barber a nudge, “It takes a strong man to stand in the way of change.”

“Well the Tories have my vote, as always.”

“And I thank you for it,” Nicholas said, “Now I must be off, have a good evening.”

The barber watched the posh MP strut out of the barber shop, proud and self-important, and allowed himself a slight smile, before mopping up around the chair. Things always changed–just not always in the way we expect them to.