#haircontrol

The bathroom mirror reflected a stranger: slick hair, polished shoes, tie exact. Sir had demanded perfection. Today, the world would see it.

The phone vibrated in his pocket. “Send me a photo. I want to see you dressed properly.” He raised it to the mirror, framed himself perfectly, snapped the shot, and sent it — every detail feeling foreign, dictated, precise.

Before stepping out, he inhaled, exhaled, bracing for every glance. The slick hair, the perfect folds, the polished shoes — impossible to ignore. Out of place, exposed, yet he forced himself forward. Every whisper, every curious look, felt like a test.

He’d chosen Robin for the party — harmless, easy, maybe even fun. Then Sir’s message came: Change of plans. I’ll pick you up.

By the time the horn sounded outside, the choice wasn’t his anymore.

They stopped at a vintage barbershop.

“Have a seat, son”. Sir’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Elvis will suit you better.”

Cold water hit his scalp, sharp as a shock. His messy Robin hair collapsed, tamed into silence. The clippers followed — steady, merciless. When the barber sculpted the gleaming pompadour, the boy in the mirror was gone.

Outside, Sir opened the trunk. A pink Elvis suit waited, bright and final.

“Don’t look so uneasy,” Sir said, his hands resting on the boy’s shoulders. “It’s a special day. You’ll be speaking in front of everyone — you should shine.”

“A bit more product than usual, do you remember last year with your dumb fringe” he murmured, meeting his reflection’s eyes. “That boy isn't you anymore today for your graduation speech, you’ll glow.”

Sir ran his palm slowly over the slicked surface, feeling the stiffness with approval.

He thought it would only be for a day.

Sir had guests — the slicked-back look was just for show.

But the praise came fast, and the style stayed.

Now, every morning is the same: pomade, comb, submission.

He’s tired of it. Tired of the stiffness, the routine.

He slicks it back anyway. The pomade burns. The comb drags.

And every stroke feels less like grooming, more like punishment.

“Can I try a middle part?” he asked.

Sir said yes.

He was hopeful on the way there, imagining soft layers and movement.

But the moment they stepped into the barbershop, Sir spoke quietly to the barber — and his heart sank.

Sir knew what he meant — soft, messy, free.

Still, he gave him slick, tight, faded.

The boy lost months of growth — hair he’d let grow just for that dreamed hairstyle.

He looked down at the hair on the barbershop floor, silent, sad.

Sir placed a hand on the back of his neck, gently petting the freshly faded nape.

“You got what you wanted,” he said.

Sir had been out all morning.

So the boy let his hair fall.

No pomade. No part. Just soft strands brushing his forehead — free, for once.

But Sir came home early.

Now he sat, freshly styled — scalp tight with pomade, hair parted with military precision. Sir had done it himself, combing slow and firm until the boy’s reflection looked nothing like the one from that morning.

“Look at you,” Sir said, voice low.

“Breaking the rules the second I’m gone.”

“You’ll sit and think about what you did. The punishment will be severe.”

The boy clenched his jaw, fists tight on his knees.

He found out she’d be performing in three months. The only nearby show. He needed to be there — no matter what.

At dinner, his dad’s friend offered him a job at his luxury restaurant. “Pays well. But the image has to be exceptional.”

The next morning, he was sent to a barber. His adored mop was gone in minutes, replaced by a sharp and short side part it had a shine he’d never worn before. With his forehead fully exposed, he felt weird. Too neat. Too polished. Like someone else.

Later, in the restaurant, he buttoned up the white shirt, tucked it tight, stepped into polished shoes. He looked at himself once in the mirror.

Three months.