I
The three remaining contestants were guided away from their podiums in the College Library and towards the opposite side of the studio where a set had been constructed that resembled a mechanic's garage.
"You're gonna look so sweet with a lil' pink horn," Tommy whispered to Luca as they walked. "Or maybe two of 'em...one on each side of your head."
Just the thought of it was making Tommy aroused. The chance of seeing his rival's magnificent greased haircut shaved down into two obscene, erect pink pigtails was like rocket fuel to his crotch.
On Luca it had the opposite effect. He tried to imagine what it would've felt like, to sit there and endure the haircut that Tyler had endured, to have his proud pompadour reduced to... that, that...monstrosity! It would be almost sacrilegious. Blasphemous. He glanced across at Tommy's light-brown jelly roll. As a fellow greaser, he couldn't help but admire the quality of the haircut itself, the precise barbering, the skilled styling that went into creating the coil of oily hair that hung over Tommy's forehead and fell between his two dark eyebrows.
It would bring him no pleasure at all to see such a haircut ruined. He knew what Tommy's hair meant to him, both as a man and as a greaser, but Luca also knew that Tommy would happily bring destruction down upon his own slick head if he had the chance.
Luca had never wanted this feud and he knew Tommy would never willingly end it. But maybe having his hair degraded in such a public and humiliating way was exactly what Tommy needed before he'd bring this fight to a close.
He looked out into the audience to see if he could find Lisa. He knew she was sat there somewhere, watching every moment. They both needed this rivalry with Tommy to end tonight, one way or another. Luca just hoped he was the one who would win.
Dominating the garage set were the three identical Ford Thunderbirds, their red paintwork and chrome bumpers reflecting brightly in the studio lights. The front wheels of each car were lifted up with a hydraulic jack allowing the tires to rotate freely. Lying on the floor next to each car was a spare wheel and set of spanners. Each of the three contestants went to stand next to one of the cars as the announcer explained the challenge.
"We're about to witness a showdown like no other as Ryan, Luca, and Tommy put their handsome hair on the line again to go head-to-head in a race against the clock! Each contestant has to change a single tire but the clock is ticking and time is of the essence!
"Our contestants will need to channel all their mechanical prowess and raw determination to loosen those tight nuts and swap out that tire with lightning speed! Every second counts as they strive to avoid the ultimate forfeit!
"The last contestant to successfully change their tire out faces certain haircut oblivion in the second of the Stylist's chairs! It's a race against time, it's a battle of wits and brawn, and it's all happening on 'The Greaser Challenge'!"
As the contestants squatted down and picked up their nut wrench, the klaxon announced the start of the challenge.
There wasn't even any competition and Ryan had known it from the moment he'd seen the nature of the challenge. He'd looked across at Luca and Tommy, at their leather jackets and boots, at the rebellious greased hair piled up on top of their heads, and contrasted them with his own perfectly tailored appearance.
His job was in real estate, showing wealthy clients around cavernous mansions in Beverly Glen and Bel Air. He'd tried his best, obviously, and enjoyed every second of the thrill of competing, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever changed a tire before, let alone against the clock and in front of a studio audience. From the moment the klaxon sounded and the challenge began, he'd known beyond doubt that his handsome hairstyle was doomed.
Every two weeks for the past six years he'd religiously visited Gino's 'Greased Lightning' salon on Laurel Avenue. It was Gino who'd first barbered Ryan's dark-brown locks into his trademark executive contour and it was Gino who had first doused his head in Linetti brilliantine. As a 19-year-old, having the fragrant oil massaged into his hair had felt like a rite of passage into manhood. It was something he'd never forgotten.
He loved the way the oil-soaked hair looked and the way it shone in the sun, almost like patent leather. He loved the feeling of the hair slicked tight to his head, every strand ruthlessly oiled into place, his white, untanned scalp visible at the side parting.
Hardly a day had passed in the intervening years when Ryan hadn't styled his executive contour with brilliantine and admired the crowning effect it had on his physical beauty. His haircut, and its almost endless maintenance, fulfilled him in ways he couldn't even articulate.
The klaxon sounded again to signal the end of the challenge. Luca and Tommy had both finished and Ryan's spare wheel was still lying untouched on the floor.
Ryan stood next to his car and watched as the Stylist approached holding the leather collar and leash. Even as the surge of adrenaline from the challenge was fading from his blood he could feel another wave starting to build. He'd seen Tyler being led away to the Forfeit Station with the collar around his neck, and now it was going to be his turn to endure the same treatment.
He glanced towards the audience and at the bulky television cameras. In front of all these people, on television, he was going to be led like an animal to have his hair mercilessly butchered. It was going to be a public spectacle in which his handsome, brilliantine'd haircut would have the starring role. His rational mind was repulsed at the thought of it even as the adrenaline flooded through him once again and his cock twitched in anticipation.
Just two months earlier he'd parachuted at Lake Elisnore near Sedco Hills, south-east of the city. Waiting for the Stylist to cross the studio with that collar and leash, Ryan experienced the same emotions he'd had in the little plane just prior to jumping out through the door: an overwhelming combination of terror, exhilaration and inevitability.
Suddenly the Stylist was standing next him, buckling the collar around his neck, his fingers lightly brushing against Ryan's Adam's apple. Ryan shuddered with anticipation and another emotion that was harder to recognize: a deep, indescribable thrill that was starting to build within him, eclipsing even the pleasurable warmth that was spreading through his groin. He could only imagine how incongruous the leather collar looked resting atop the pressed white shirt with its pink, silk tie and the expensive blue suit jacket.
"Haircut time, Mr. Monroe!" announced the Stylist jovially, taking in every detail of Ryan's perfectly-sculpted executive contour. He leaned forward and inhaled deeply.
"Mmm..." he sighed. "Linetti?"
Ryan could only nod, his mouth dry.
Much to Ryan's surprise, the Stylist didn't attach the leash to the collar, as he'd done with Tyler. Instead, he reached forward and slowly pulled Ryan's pink silk tie out of his suit jacket.
"This will do just as well," the Stylist murmured, almost to himself.
Using the tie as an alternative to the leash, Ryan was then half-dragged, half-led, across the studio floor to the Forfeit Station and the second of the two barber's chairs.
As they approached, Ryan got his first good view of Tyler's pink unicorn horn. It looked even more outlandish up-close than it had from across the other side of the studio, the pink strands rising absolutely vertically from the very top of Tyler's hairless scalp. Tyler just sat staring straight ahead, his expression one of pure embarrassment. Ryan raised his eyebrows in surprise when his gaze alighted upon the very obvious sign of Tyler's arousal still tenting his slacks.
Ryan could scarcely believe what had happened to this guy's hair, and he'd just sat there and allowed it to be done to him! There was almost nothing left of the blond Brylcreem'd slick-back. It had been obliterated! He was suddenly overcome with an inexplicable compulsion to reach out and touch Tyler's greased, pink horn, just to see what it felt like, to feel the hardened, rigid hair beneath his fingers, to grasp it in his fist, to feel the shocking contrast between the smooth white scalp and the five-inch-long pink strands. But then they were at the second barber's chair and the moment had passed.
The Stylist pushed Ryan down into the chair and released his firm grip on the tie. As he surveyed Tyler's ludicrous new hairdo, as appalled as he was fascinated, Ryan couldn't help but wonder what the Stylist had planned for his own transformation.
Ryan was sat in the second of the barber's chair, facing out towards the eager crowd of spectators. He expected the Stylist to drape a barber's cape over him, as he had with Tyler. Instead, the Stylist just removed the leather collar from around his neck and placed it on the counter. The Stylist then selected the Wahl hair clippers from the counter and ceremoniously showed them to Ryan. With no guard and just the sharp, bare blades, the clippers would make quick work of reducing any brilliantine'd hair to little more than the very shortest stubble.
The Stylist turned the clippers on, the hum of the powerful motor filling the studio as the audience watched in hushed expectation.
Ryan looked at the clipper blades, and his heart began to race with that old familiar feeling of fear and excitement which he loved and hated so much. He felt his scalp start to prickle, his oiled hair suddenly uncomfortably warm under the bright lights. A bead of lavender-scented sweat trickled from out of his artfully-barbered taper and rolled down his neck where it soaked into the collar of his pristine white shirt.
A minute passed, then another, and the Stylist neither spoke nor moved but stood there silently, like a statue, holding the clippers in his hand. Ryan wondered what it would feel like, to have the clippers roaming freely, wildly, over his head, 'shaving him bald', turning his lush hair into a field of dark-brown stubble, his pale dome fully exposed to view.
Suddenly, to the surprise of both Ryan and the audience, the Stylist reached over and placed the Wahl clippers directly in the center of Ryan's forehead, about an inch above his eyebrows, the buzzing teeth only an inch or so away from his dense hairline.
Ryan sat there, frozen.
The sound of Ryan's heart pounding in his chest sounded so loud in his ears he thought the audience must've been able to hear it. He looked out into the crowd of faces, all eyes focused entirely on his handsome face, on his truly exquisite haircut, on those buzzing clippers.
