The Greaser Challenge -

I

The first challenge was called 'Greasers Grilled'. The format was simple even if the stakes were high. The announcer would ask a total of 25 trivia questions. Each contestant would have the opportunity of buzzing in with an answer using the buzzers set into the top of their podium. There was one point for a correct answer but a wrong answer meant an automatic deduction of a point. So it wasn't just a question of being quick. The contestants would have to be right too.

"After all 25 questions have been asked and answered," the announcer said, "we'll tally up the scores. The contestant with the least number of points will be eliminated from the competition and will face their destiny in one of the barber chairs of doom!"

Luca, Tommy, Tyler, and Ryan stood poised behind their podiums, finger on the buzzers, their eyes fixed ahead with expressions of intense concentration as the announcer prepared to kick off the quiz.

"Question one: What is the capital of France?"

Luca pressed his buzzer. "Paris!". This was easy, he thought, relieved to have got his first point. If the questions stayed like this then his hair would be safe, at least for now.

"Question two: Who wrote the famous play 'Romeo and Juliet'?"

Ryan buzzed in this time. "William Shakespeare." he declared. He'd done it at school, and hated every word, but at least it had finally come in useful.

The crowd murmured in approval as the announcer confirmed Ryan's correct answer but Ryan's thoughts drifted to his slick, lavender-scented executive contour, how it must look to the audience, to the people watching at home, and how Shakespeare had brought him one point closer to saving it.

The quiz progressed rapidly, question after question after question. 25 questions had seemed a lot to Tyler before the quiz started but with each passing question there were fewer and fewer opportunities to buzz in and save his blond Brylcreem'd locks.

Soon all four contestants found themselves in a storm of questions and answers. Although the questions had started off easily, they quickly escalated to more challenging topics.

Luca's quick reflexes and basic general knowledge dominated the early part of the quiz. He buzzed in often and correctly and quickly secured a comfortable lead. Ryan, determined to keep up with Luca's pace, was a close second but Tommy and Tyler struggled to stay with the other two. Tommy's general knowledge wasn't great anyway so a lot of the time he was just left floundering. Tyler knew the answers but only after he'd heard them, and then he mentally kicked himself for failing under the pressure.

With two-thirds of the questions asked, both Tommy and Tyler were far behind, their incorrect answers resulting in deductions from their scores that they could ill afford.

Tommy's frustration only increased as he watched Luca and Ryan pull ahead while Tyler started to feel increasingly nervous about his pathetically low score. The threat of imminent elimination was palpable. Each question carried the potential to secure either Tommy or Tyler's place in the next round or secure their place in one of the barber chairs.

The pressure was relentless. With each missed answer their chances of survival grew slimmer. Tommy thought of his greased jelly roll being casually degraded into something unrecognizable and he knew he was in big trouble. By his own calculation, he'd only got three points but Tyler had four! His mind was filled with visions of sharp scissors indiscriminately hacking away at his magnificent haircut, clumps of his greased locks being thrown into the air only to rain down onto his shoulders, into his lap, onto the floor. He thought of cruel laughter, of the audience applauding and demanding "more! more! more!", encouraging the Stylist to ever greater depths of humiliation.

The announcer read out the final question. Tommy had to get this one right if he was going to have any chance of avoiding the Stylist, making it into the next round and getting his revenge on Luca.

"Question twenty five: Monticello, the house of former President Jefferson is in which st..."

With a quick flick of the finger, Tommy managed to buzz in just milliseconds before Tyler.

"Virginia!" he said. "It's in Virginia!" As a kid he'd had a pen-pal in Charlottesville and one year he'd received a Christmas card showing Monticello in the snow.

The quiz was over.

The announcer dramatically declared the results: "In first place we have Luca with an impressive 9 points! In second place we have Ryan with 8 points!"

There was clapping and cheering from the audience.

"However," the announcer continued with barely concealed excitement: "we have a tie for third place between Tommy and Tyler with four points each!"

Gasps of shock and delight filled the studio. The spectators were hoping for some drama and this more than met their needs, for the moment at least. Tommy and Tyler exchanged nervous glances, knowing that the fate of their hair hung in the balance.

"This means we're heading into a sudden death round to determine who will advance and who will face the Stylist's shears!"

The audience held its breath, their eyes fixed on the two contestants.

The announcer clarified the rules: "One more question will be asked. Only Tommy and Tyler will be able to answer. The first contestant to buzz in with the correct answer will secure his place in the next round. But a wrong answer will result in immediate elimination!"

Tyler unconsciously lifted up one hand and ran it down the back of his head, slowly stroking the blond Brylcreem'd hair from his crown to his finely-tapered neck. Both Tyler and Tommy knew that the outcome of the next few minutes would determine whether they would still even recognize themselves when they left the studio.

The announcer asked the sudden-death question: "What is the main ingredient in Murray's Superior Pomade?"

Silence filled the studio.

Tommy used Murray's pomade in his hair all the time but he was nowhere near confident enough to risk buzzing in with a wrong answer so he just stood there, in an agony of indecision. And then to his utter dismay, almost in slow motion, he saw Tyler's hand moving, his index finger aiming for the buzzer on his podium! And then the sound of Tyler's buzzer filled the studio!

'This was it,' thought Tommy. His hair was about to be trashed in the most humiliating way... and Lisa would watch and Luca would've won.

And Tyler gave his answer, the words tumbling over themselves in his eagerness to get them out of his mouth. But as the words formed on Tyler's lips, the realization dawned upon him that his answer was wrong.

"Murray's Superior is made from uh... uh... it's beeswax..." Tyler said, his voice filled with uncertainty. Another long silence filled the studio, and then the announcer delivered the crushing blow.

"I'm sorry, Tyler, but that answer is incorrect. You've lost and now it's time for your appointment with the Stylist."

In that moment, Tommy's heart soared with relief. He knew that the big cash prize was still within reach, that Luca was still there to be humiliated, and that his own haircut was untouched and still firmly rooted to his head. With a triumphant grin, he watched as Tyler's shoulders slumped in defeat.

II

Tyler had gambled everything, all his hopes pinned on giving the right answer to save his hair from a potentially terrible fate. He'd buzzed in with a guess, the words escaping from him in a trembling rush of anxiety and adrenaline. But it was the wrong answer. After a moment's astonished silence, the audience had erupted into cheers and applause. They had come to see a dramatic transformation and that's exactly what they were going to get.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it seems poor Mr Goldenhead will be the first of our contestants to brave the Stylist's chairs tonight," the announcer declared in a tone of mock commiseration.

"Will his sumptuous slicked-back locks be shorn down to their roots, reduced to the merest shadow of their former self? Or," the announcer continued darkly, "perhaps the Stylist has more inventive plans in mind, ready to unleash his full creative powers upon Tyler's unsuspecting head!"

Tyler inwardly groaned and closed his eyes.

The Stylist stood up, collected some items from the countertop and walked over to where Tyler was still standing behind his podium. To Tyler's horror, he saw that the Stylist was clutching what looked like a thick leather dog's collar and a short leather leash.

Both items looked as though they had been very well used.

"It's time for your transformation, Mr Goldenhead," the Stylist announced as he dramatically buckled the collar around Tyler's neck before attaching the leash with a metallic 'click'.

Tyler's cheeks burned red with shame. Here he was, a senior accountant with Witter, Witter & Grabb, dressed in his white shirt and tie, with his immaculate thick blond hair cut, Brylcreem'd and styled to perfection, stood in a television studio wearing a leather collar like he was someone's pet! Tyler's humiliation only increased as the Stylist yanked on the leash and started to lead him over to the dreaded Forfeit Station.

As they made their way across the studio floor, the audience started a slow, rhythmical clap that got louder and louder and louder. And then, to Tyler's dismay, he realized they were also chanting, actually chanting in unison!

A single word, and the word was "Bald."

"Bald!" they cried.

"Bald. Bald. Bald! Bald!! Bald!!! BALD! BALD!! BALD!!!"

Quietly at first, little more than a whisper, the volume increased until it was a deafening roar.

"Bald! Bald! Bald!"

The Stylist and Tyler arrived at the Forfeit Station and Tyler was forcibly pushed towards the first of the three barber chairs. With a feeling of impending doom, and with the thunderous chant still ringing in his ears, Tyler took a seat. He placed his hands on the armrests and his shoes on the rubber footrest. He looked out into the crowd which was baying for his beloved hair, demanding that it be delivered up to them on a platter!

"BALD!"

The Stylist raised his hand to silence the raucous spectators.

"As much as I appreciate the advice," he said in a deep voice, "our friend Tyler is most certainly not going to leave the chair 'bald'. No, no - I think it's only fair that we leave him with at least a little of his very beautiful hair still attached to his head."

Tyler groaned again.

There were a few mutterings of discontent from the more rebellious elements of the crowd but most of them seemed happy to settle back into their seats and see what transpired.

The Stylist removed the collar and leash. He then pulled the white cape from the back of the barber's chair, shook it out and theatrically floated it around Tyler's shoulders. The cape was fastened securely at the back of Tyler's neck, a couple of inches below his expertly-barbered blond taper.

Tyler felt the weight of the cape pressing down on him, almost like he was imprisoned by it. With his chest, arms and lap fully concealed beneath the cape, and with just his head sticking out for everyone to see, his slicked hair felt acutely exposed and vulnerable. The barber's chair was then swiveled around, away from the audience, so that Tyler was facing his own handsome reflection in the mirror.

The Stylist walked to the counter, picked up a comb and went to stand directly behind the chair, his back to the audience. He made eye contact with Tyler in the mirror, winked and placed the comb at front of Tyler's thick hairline. He paused for a moment and then very slowly he dragged the comb back through Tyler's Brylcreem'd locks, over the crown and down the back of his head. And then he did it again and again.

Front to back. Front to back.

"Mmm...," the Stylist growled, so quietly that only Tyler heard. "Such a beautiful color..."

The Stylist then parted Tyler's greased hair in the center, and then on the right, and then on the left, as if trying to decide what Tyler's best look would be.

Tyler watched everything in the the mirror and grimaced and winced as the comb was dragged through his thick hair, the tactile sensation of his hair being pulled around adding to his mounting unease. He usually enjoyed having his hair played with. But this was different. He got the distinctly unpleasant feeling that the Stylist was toying with his hair, like a cat with a mouse.

The Stylist then placed the comb at the nape of Tyler's neck and dragged all the hair forward, in the opposite direction of growth, enveloping his face in a curtain of oily yellow strands.

Tyler knew he must look ridiculous, sat there with a sheet of hair falling over his face, an absurd inversion of his regular slicked-back style. The hair cascaded down over his forehead, almost caressing his lips, and then he was acutely aware of the unmistakeable scent of Brylcreem as the hair hung down past his nose.

It had been ten years since he'd first put the famous white cream in his hair and there hadn't been a single day since when he'd not stood in front of the mirror and admired the way it accentuated the golden glory of his blond mane. Just the smell of it caused an intense physiological response that almost bordered on arousal.

With his vision almost totally obscured by his own thick hair, Tyler heard more than saw the Stylist move to the counter and select a pair of sharp barbering scissors.

Suddenly his heart was in his mouth.

Having his hair combed, styled, well that was one thing. But now it seemed like his prized hair was actually going to be cut and that would herald the true beginning of his transformation. Although he'd been expecting it, had implicitly consented to it, the realization struck him like a thunderbolt.

Tyler was suddenly aware of the scissors slowly entering the thick curtain of hair that hung down over his face, about an inch below his hairline and high up on his forehead.

His heart raced and his pulse pounded in his ears. And then *snip* he simultaneously heard and felt the hair being cut off.

And again.

*snip*

Tyler groaned so loudly that every single person in the studio heard it. It was a loud guttural exhalation as a four-inch-long lock of his own hair, made heavy and slippery with its coating of Brylcreem, fell onto his chest and slid slowly down the cape before coming to rest in his lap where it shone gold against the white fabric.

Another *snip* then another *snip* and another.

*snip*

Tyler instinctively scrunched his eyes tightly shut as the scissors slowly edged their way across his forehead. Working from the right side to the left, the Stylist snipped off all of Tyler's long oily bangs, one after the other, gradually freeing his face from its Brylcreem'd curtain of golden hair, one excruciating inch at a time.

A ripple of applause passed through the audience as Tyler felt the scissors free the last of his long bangs from his head. He slowly, reluctantly, opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. He nearly gasped.

His bangs had been decimated, reduced to a mere inch in length and leaving him with an absurdly high fringe that even a child would've been ashamed to wear, let alone a 31-year-old grown man.

Tyler felt his cock shrivel in his boxers. He'd appeared on the show as an act of self-validation but not only had he fallen at the very first hurdle but his cherished hair, one of his most attractive features, was now being systematically wrecked before his very eyes!

"Such beautiful hair too," the Stylist remarked. He reached over Tyler's shoulder and casually scooped up a handful of the trashed fringe from where it lay in Tyler's lap. The Stylist bought the severed hair up to his nose and inhaled deeply.

"Aaah, the sweet smell of defeat," he laughed.

Then, placing one hand on the back of Tyler's slick head, the Stylist reached around and rubbed the greasy strands directly into Tyler's face and over his eyes, his nose, his mouth! Tyler spluttered with surprise. He could even taste the citric scent of the Brylcreem on his lips.

A chorus of boos rang throughout the studio as the audience voiced its disapproval of the Stylist's theatrical antics. The Stylist just shrugged and casually threw the handful of hair back into Tyler's lap.

Working quickly, the Stylist selected an elastic band from the counter and deftly created a Mongol topknot directly on top of Tyler's head using the long, slick hair that had remained untouched. The oily topknot consisted of a perfect circle of hair sprouting from Tyler's scalp, about two inches in diameter at the base, the actual topknot itself being maybe five inches long.

The Stylist wasted no time in selecting a pair of Wahl clippers from the counter. He flicked them on, immediately filling the studio with the sound of the powerful motor. Tyler stiffened. He hadn't had hair clippers used on his head since he was a 12-year-old kid. They just reminded him of botched home haircuts, merciless teasing from his school pals and jarheads in the military with white-walls and jutting ears.

Tyler grunted in surprise as the Stylist grabbed hold of the Brylcreem-y topknot and used it as a handle to roughly pull Tyler's head forward so he was looking down at his chest. The Stylist then placed the chattering clippers at the nape of Tyler's neck and drove them slowly all the way up to the top of his crown, only lifting them away once he arrived at the newly-formed topknot.

Maneuvering Tyler's head with the topknot, dragging it left, then right, then forward again, the Stylist buzzed down the slick blond hair until the back and the sides were sand-papery bald. Then, pulling back on the topknot so Tyler was staring directly up into the studio lights, the Stylist placed the clippers at the childishly short bangs.

He paused for a second, looked down into Tyler's attractive face and then slowly buzzed off all the hair from the front of his head, decimating the once-thick hairline that had been happily sprouting just moments before. A golden shower of greasy fragments of hair sprayed into the air and rained down onto the cape.

The Stylist then carefully edged around the circle that formed the base of the topknot. Once finished, it was the only hair of any significant length left anywhere on Tyler's clipper-shaved head.

By the time the clippers were turned off, Tyler was almost bald. His shoulders, his chest, his lap, and the floor around the barber's chair itself, were littered with the shorn ruins of his treasured, blond haircut. Only the topknot itself remained as evidence of his former glory. Most of the hair was gone and it was going to take months and months for it to grow back.

Tyler thought of the hours he'd spent styling his hair both at home and at work, of the dozens of tubes of Brylcreem that had passed through his hands and into his hair. And he thought of the numerous bi-monthly visits he'd made to the exclusive barbershop on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax where they'd artfully snipped his locks into tonsorial perfection. The sheer investment of time, effort and money, and now his hair was gone!

He was acutely aware of himself and how he must appear to the watching audience and to the television cameras: the striped cape, his shorn head with its ludicrous topknot hanging down past his right ear, his adored hair scattered on the floor, now being carelessly trodden beneath the Stylist's patent leather shoes.

He felt his ears glowing with embarrassment.

Extracting a bowl of hot white cream from the shaving foam machine, the Stylist quickly lathered up Tyler's head with a brush. He then removed all of the remaining blond stubble with a straight razor, leaving just the lank topknot as a sad reminder of what had been lost.

After wiping Tyler's scalp clean with a towel, the Stylist openly fondled the topknot, curling it and twisting it around the index finger of one hand while running his fingers lightly up and down the back of Tyler's glabrous head with the other. The newly-denuded scalp prickled under the Stylist's touch, the super-sensitive skin exposed to the air for the first time in Tyler's life.