I
From having witnessed Tyler and Ryan's dramatic transformations, Luca knew he was in serious trouble, especially as the destiny of his prized hair was literally going to be in the hands of his greatest rival.
He stood there, next to the arm-wrestling table, bare-chested and breathing heavily, as the Stylist approached with the leather collar and leash. As the Stylist reached forward and slipped the collar around Luca's muscular neck, his fingers lightly touched Luca's heavily-greased D.A.
The Stylist couldn't help but smile in anticipation at what was to come. After all, it wasn't every day he got to contribute to the downfall of such a truly spectacular hairstyle. Violating greaser haircuts had always been something he'd particularly enjoyed, especially given the lavishness with which they were styled and the fundamental role they played in their owners' sense of themselves as handsome men.
And as he admired Luca's pomp, he had no doubt that this man's artfully coiffed hair was one of his most prized possessions.
After the collar was buckled up, the Stylist clipped on the leather leash and then ceremoniously handed it over to Tommy. The rival greaser's grin widened as he took the leash, gave it a sharp yank and started to lead Luca across the studio floor to the Forfeit Station.
There was just one vacant barber's chair left now, and that one had Luca's name written all over it.
A ripple of applause, more supportive than excited, traveled through the audience as Luca was frog-marched past the spectators.
They'd seen what Tommy had done, how he had cheated his way to victory. It was Tommy's jelly roll they wanted to see on the chopping block, not Luca's glorious black pompadour. But nothing's fair in love and war and certainly not on 'The Greaser Challenge'. Tommy had won and Luca had lost, and nothing was going to save Luca's hair from being penalized with maximum force.
Luca somehow looked even more beautiful in defeat, his handsome head slightly bowed, the leash tugging at the leather collar. Many in the crowd couldn't help but admire his sculpted torso as it was exhibited before them. There were audible murmurs of appreciation for the breadth of his shoulders, for his muscular arms, for his toned and honed abs.
A patch of curling black fur lay between his nipples that evolved into a narrow treasure trail as it went south, the hair thickening again as it disappeared beneath his belt and down into his blue jeans.
Some of the women in the front row had to resist the urge just to lean forward and touch...
In many ways Luca was the epitome of a particular sort of transcendent male beauty, crowned by the greased glory of his shining black pompadour.
The Stylist, Tommy and Luca arrived at the Forfeit Station. Tyler and Ryan just sat and watched in silence as the third unlucky loser took his place.
Trying to muster as much dignity as he could, Luca eased his six-foot form into the third barber's chair, the red leather creaking as it took his weight. He slowly reclined back, placing his boots on the rubber footplate, his fingers slightly hanging over the ends of the armrests.
Luca just stared ahead, not focusing on any of the sea of faces that were looking at him with a mixture of sympathy and expectation. He knew Lisa was in the studio somewhere, watching, but he didn't know where.
The audience looked on, spellbound, in a sort of reverential silence as the Stylist, not saying a word, slowly swiveled the chair to face the mirror so Luca was confronted with his own reflection.
Tommy stood and watched. Still bare-chested himself, he caught Luca's eyes in the mirror, flexed his biceps again and grinned.
Luca looked away, back towards his own reflection: his forehead was furrowed, his two thick black eyebrows knitted together almost in puzzlement. His mouth was a straight line, his lips pressed firmly together.
His eyes were inevitably drawn to his own treasured haircut: the most visible symbol of his identity and arguably the most important feature of his entire self-image.
He noticed the deep black luster and the combination of grease and oil that hugged every strand. It looked so wet it could almost have been slicked with water. He noticed how the sides were artfully greased back and then combed up so the hair piled up on his head to form a classic pompadour profile.
He noticed the thick, heavy forelock that dangled from the center of his hairline and hung like a black question mark over his forehead until it reached between his eyebrows.
It was a handsome haircut for a very handsome man.
There hadn't been a single day in the past ten years when Luca hadn't styled his hair into a pompadour. And now Tommy Paul, of all the people in the world, would get to decide its fate. In a very real sense, Luca's glorious hair, such an intimate part of himself, was no longer his own. It now belonged to Tommy.
The Stylist pulled out the white cape from the back of the chair, shook it and flamboyantly floated it over Luca's bare-chested body. It was then secured tightly at Luca's neck leaving just his beautiful head exposed.
The expanse of white cape focused everyone's attention on his black pompadour haircut, still glistening and vital in the bright studio lights, the very picture of 1950s masculinity and a highpoint in the history of male tonsorial art!
"So," said the Stylist, turning to Tommy, who was almost bouncing up and down with excitement. "What do you want to do to him?".
Luca closed his eyes.
Tommy's mind had raced through the possibilities ever since he'd been confirmed as the winner. Maybe a flat-top, or a crewcut, or a buzzcut! Perhaps even a military high and tight, white walls and all.
The thought of seeing the clippers plow through Luca's gorgeous greasy pomp made Tommy's heart soar. Or a bowlcut. Yes, thought Tommy. A really short bowlcut. Or perhaps a mohawk or, even worse, a bihawk, so Luca left the chair with just two little strips of hair on his otherwise bald head.
Bald...the thought of seeing Luca bald, and on his orders, gave a Tommy an almost overwhelming thrill.
He looked down at Luca's greased and oiled hair. It never even occurred to Tommy to be lenient or to show some restraint. Although the winning contestant was encouraged to push for the most dramatic makeover, to "encourage the extreme" as the announcer had said, it wasn't a stipulation of the rules. It was at the discretion of the victor.
But Tommy was enraptured with the prospect of revenge, sky-high on the reality of being $10,000 richer and with his great rival totally at his mercy. And mercy wasn't on the menu. Not today.
So what would be the most humiliating haircut Tommy could think of... He thought, and then he remembered.
He turned eagerly to the Stylist and took him to one side. Whispering so Luca wouldn't hear, he told the Stylist exactly what he wanted for Luca's hair.
The Stylist laughed. "Of course," he said. "It will be my pleasure."
