I
Eros didn't dare look down for fear of drawing attention to his unwanted boner but he was certain that it was now visibly tenting out the front of his shorts. He could feel it straining, hot and hard against the thin cotton fabric of his underwear.
He was acutely aware of the TV cameras following his every step, beaming the very obvious sign of his arousal into households all across America! Oh sweet baby Jesus! - and if the audience's eyes weren't fixed on his erection then they almost certainly were fixed on his shoulder-length hair and thick brown mustache and beard.
As a younger man, Eros had shaved his face clean and slathered his hair with Wildroot Cream-Oil before coaxing it into a severe executive contour, each strand slicked down tight to his head. It was a shiny, greasy and very conservative haircut but as he'd gotten older he'd rebelled against his rigid Utah upbringing until, at the age of 24, he founded a proto-hippy commune ten miles outside Pasadena.
The commune consisted of about thirty like-minded, free-loving individuals, mostly young women, who lived in seven rusting caravans on a few acres of scrubland. It was part spiritual retreat and part hippy-harem with Eros as the sole stud, and it was here that Eros had allowed his hair to grow, to thrive!
Freed from their oily imprisonment, his long locks had flourished in the Pasadena sunshine, and now, six years later, they had attained a sort of Zen-like perfection that balanced length with texture with the most gorgeous sun-kissed color. They had the sort of natural vitality that only came with a good diet, fresh air and plenty of herbal shampoo.
His hair was as much a symbol of his personal growth as it was a physical adornment to his pretty head, and it reflected not only the time and care he'd spent nurturing it but his entire life philosophy.
Eros and the Stylist arrived at the Forfeit Station and the Stylist patted the seat of the first of the three waiting barber chairs.
"Oh sweet fuck," muttered Eros under his breath, the red leather squeaking as he lowered himself down, reclining back into the chair and putting his sandaled feet on the metal footrest.
"Cape him up! Cape him up! Cape him up!" cried the audience enthusiastically.
The Stylist removed the collar and leash and then pulled the white cape from the back of the chair, shaking it out theatrically and floating it around the beatnik's shoulders, leaving just the man's hairy legs and handsome, hirsute head exposed.
If Eros had hoped that the cape would at least cover his tumescent manhood then he was sorely mistaken. Alas! as the sheer fabric gently settled over Eros's chest and lap, it only made his arousal even more obvious.
He groaned as Stylist lifted up his hair and secured the cape tightly around his neck. It was six years since he'd even been to a barber shop. Six years since he'd poured the last of the vile Wildroot Cream-Oil down the toilet and flushed! Six years since another man's fingers had even touched his hair, let alone cut it [a task he entrusted to the dainty hands of Sapphire, who trimmed his hair every month at the commune to keep it lightly shorn about his shoulders].
Eros felt exposed, ridiculous, like an exhibit at the zoo, and he felt an odd sense of restriction, almost as if he was being pinned into the chair by this lightest of capes. Even worse, he saw that the front row of seats immediately opposite him were occupied by a group of six men all in their mid-20s.
He unintentionally made eye contact with one of them, a handsome black-haired jock with a very short, waxed flat-top with shaved landing strip that had been cut with an almost militaristic precision. And suddenly Eros was acutely aware of the sheer incongruity of both his own flowing mane and his bizarrely-erect cock. He felt his masculinity shrivel inside him as he saw the look of mocking amusement on the jock's face. But then Eros wasn't the first man to pop a haircut-boner as he sat in the chair waiting to be shorn like a sheep, and god knows he wouldn't be the last.
Once he was securely caped up, Eros shook the bangs out of his face. The gorgeous honey-brown, ten-inch-long hair that he'd spent the last six years pimping to perfection glowed in the studio lights.
The Stylist looked upon those lush locks with undisguised enthusiasm. The last hippy he'd relieved of his hair had been at Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco some six months earlier. The two had met in the Golden Gate Park before returning to the man's lodgings where the Stylist had relentlessly milked him dry with one hand while removing every last trace of his beautiful hair with the other. He'd even taken off the dude's two black eyebrows before the night was over.
Outside of the army, divesting a beatnik of his hair in 1958 was a very rare occurrence but that just made these opportunities even sweeter. Most men didn't have hair down to their shoulders and even fewer were prepared to offer it up as a sacrifice to be ritualistically ruined on a TV gameshow.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" proclaimed the Stylist loudly as he faced the audience, his hands resting on Eros's shoulders. "Welcome to the circus!"
II
The Stylist picked up a bottle from the counter and started to spray the beatnik's head with water. Once Eros's head was thoroughly doused, the Stylist dragged a comb through the thick heavy locks so that they hung down around the hippy's head - six inches long at the back and over ten inches at the front - touching his shoulders, hiding his ears, ticking his chin and obscuring his face - a dark, wet, helmet of hair.
Eros opened his eyes but all he could see was the thick, dripping brown curtain. His cock jumped again as he heard the metallic scrape of the scissors being lifted from the counter. It was almost as though he wanted it, as though his erection was actually eager for it, his hairy balls pulled up tight against his body.
Oh fuck, then he could feel his hot seed churning as the Stylist's fingers pressed down on the top of his dome and pushed his head forward, so that he was almost facing his own lap, the forelocks hanging wet in front of his face.
To his own surprise, he didn't even try to resist - he just complied.
He felt the Stylist lifting the hair up from the back of his head with the comb, low down at the nape of his neck. He could feel the individual strands pulling gently at the roots as the cool steel scissors slipped against his scalp and then *crunch*. He heard and felt the blades close and a six-inch long hank of wet hair fell on to his shoulder and slithered down the cape, down his chest where it came to rest, brown against white, against the unmistakeable outline of his erect cock.
And fuck fuck fuck, it was like being in a barrel and going over Niagara Falls, the current quickening as the precipice approached, his stomach in his mouth as gravity took hold and hurled him over the edge; and he was absolutely powerless to resist as the water carried him down, down, down.
Oh god, he thought. It's all going to come off.
And with that feeling of exhilaration and inevitable surrender came a perverse sense of liberation because he knew he just had to sit there and take whatever the Stylist dished out.
