Maybe as a reaction to the thrill I found from wearing ties and pocket protectors and suspenders, I got really into dressing “hip.” Skinny jeans, leather jackets, V-necks. I was already agonizing over my image so I leaned into looking as cool and tough as possible, so nobody would know that I went home to put on nerdy clothes and rub myself through a pair of tighty whiteys. 

But the yearning was so strong it was starting to drive me insane. How could I spend my life denying what I wanted to be, what I actually was? I made such amazing progress in my kink life: I got beaten, spit on, tied up, dominated, and abused. But this one thing that was so central to my desire had to stay partitioned off. 

At some point in the height of the Obama Administration, I discovered that I wasn’t alone. The internet showed me stories of handsome jocks becoming sniveling little nerds living lives of abject humiliation. As their appearance became dominated by thick glasses, overstuffed pocket protectors, and extremely high-waisted plaid pants, their lives became a never-ending nightmare of wedgies, swirlies, and noogies. In other words, my dream life.

And there was one motif that cropped up repeatedly: the bad boy being forced to get an extremely rigid, extremely retro FLAT TOP HAIRCUT. Like Samson before them, as soon as these rebels had their hair shorn into this retro conservative haircut, they changed. They became well behaved, they started wearing white button downs and ties and glasses, they lost everything that made them cool. That was it! That was my answer. THE FLAT TOP.

I didn’t get one. I had luscious curly hair, thick and cascading in beautiful waves. The kind of hair that barbers dream of cutting. Hair that was perfect for a high fade with tons of length on top. It looked gorgeous. It looked... cool. 

The Doms I played with told me to get a flat top. “It will change you,” they said. I refused to listen. I could just come home after work and put on my suspenders and pocket protector, load my hair up with gel, and comb it into a nerdy side part. That was enough. Except, it wasn’t. I would jerk off in my gear and once the thrill had passed, I would wash the gel out of my hair and go back to being “me.” I had a closet full of nerdy gear I wanted to wear, and it just sat there, waiting.

But then I moved to Chicago. I thought starting fresh would give me the balls to really start living full time as a nerd. It didn’t. I started this blog, wrote stories about extreme transformations I wanted to go through, and then went back to my life as an unfulfilled hipster. It was tearing me apart.

Maybe it’s the political climate, the not knowing what the future holds. Maybe it’s the fact that I had finally started chastity and was getting in touch with my true desires. But I started thinking about flat tops again. You can’t just wash a flat top out. If you get a flat top, that’s it. That’s your hair style. Just a geeky jarheaded look you can’t undo. 

I couldn’t stop looking at images of FLAT TOPS on Instagram, imagining “what if.” Imagine my surprise when I realized that all of the flat tops I loved were tagged in Chicago, from the same barber, one that I passed every day on my way to work. This was fate. I made my appointment and waited.

Finally the day came and I was ready to back out. I had dressed in highwater pants and a button down with a pocket protector. I had already shaved my beard a month before to prepare myself for this drastic, clean cut, goody goody change. I was ready to accept my fate but the anxiety was killing me. Soon my shorn nerdy head would be on full display and I didn’t think I was ready. But I went to a bar near the barbershop, drank two whiskeys, and headed on in. I asked for the flat top and the barber grinned. He loved cutting them. 

He didn’t let me see what he was doing and, for my part, I did a good job of maintaining casual conversation. I gulped and stammered as I saw long curls fall onto the cape and drop to the floor. But when he whipped me around to look at the final product, I just about fainted. My head was flatter than a table. It made my ears stick out in a super dorky way. And when I put my black rimmed glasses on, I looked like the person I had always dreamed of being. 

I ran home, sucked my boyfriend’s dick, and went to bed, humping the mattress. 

The next day, I put on my old clothes and went to work. But it didn’t feel right. I had the hair I had always wanted but everything felt wrong. My flat top hadn’t fixed my problems. I went home, dejected.

The next morning, however, as I applied wax to my new, extremely short hair, something came over me. It felt so good to prep this dorky retro haircut. I just had to wear a dorky retro outfit to match. I put on some highwater pants that went above my waist, a white button down, some white socks, black boots and said, “Fuck it.” I slid a pocket protector into pocket with just one pen, took a deep breath, and headed out to the train.

The commute was terrifying, every moment inching closer to having all my coworkers see me like I had just stepped out of a time machine from Mission Control 1963. But I did it. I got to work, took off my coat, and got ready. There were some smirks from a few people. One coworker even came over, looked at my haircut, and flicked me in my pocket protector, saying, “Well this really completes the look.” I was humiliated. I didn’t want to do it again.

But the next morning, as I waxed the flat top, the same power took over. How could I have such a perfect nerd haircut and not go out in a perfect nerd outfit? I put on another pair of highwaisted pants, my thick glasses, and a pocket protector, now with TWO pens. And went off to work. 

Every day was a thrill. People would stare and I would just beam back at them, happy as a clam. My mood improved. After all, I looked like I was from Leave It to Beaver, so I might as well be as chipper as a cast member. Every day I would put another pen in my pocket protector until it filled up. I started applying more and more product to my hair to make it as rigid as possible. I found myself proudly marching down the street, my jarhead reflecting light off the horseshoe, the white socks gleaming brightly between the hem of my pants and my black leather shoes, my pocket protector stuffed full of pens. I was finally myself and it was amazing.

My relationship had been tested as all I wanted to do before my transformation was jerk off to stories I had written or roleplays I had done. My boyfriend couldn’t compete with that ideal fantasy. But the fantasy became a reality. I found myself becoming more submissive, more able to articulate my desires, and I stopped blaming him for not reading my mind and libido. I was a nerd now. I could be used the way nerds would be used. My boyfriend figured it out. He would pull me into a headlock, noogie me while I sucked his dick, and then come in my flat top. On good days, he would even knock me down afterwards and take money out of my wallet, before winking and kissing me.

Was I getting wedgied non stop? Had I suddenly broken out in zits and been forced to do tons of homework? Did I shrink to 5′2″ and lose all my muscle mass and pee myself whenever a jock looked at me funny? No, not at all. Those were the things I wrote about. The things I fantasized about. The things I wanted. But they were fantasy. THIS was reality. I was dressed out in public as the nerdiest person I had ever seen. Who cared if it didn’t match up with some extreme over the top fantasy. That was porn. This was real. 

As opposed to the characters in my stories who usually lose their confidence and end up meek and shy, I became the opposite. I became friendlier, more outgoing, eager to go out in the world! The more I lived my life as a nerd, the more people would see me. If they didn’t care, great. If they laughed at me, well they’re terrible people but also I like getting laughed at so thanks for the spank bank material, ya jerks. And maybe, just maybe, they see me waddling around with my pants above my belly button and my flat, flat flat-top and think, “Wow, I’ve always wanted to be brave enough to do that. If that jerk can, I can too.” 

Now I get to live my truth. I get to see my barber every two weeks and ask him to take the flat top shorter, more severe, even got a horseshoe. They say the thing about flattops is they never grow back. So far, that seems to be the case. I look straight out of the 1950s and I couldn’t be happier. 

I’m not a nerd from my stories. I still have tattoos and a septum piercing and a lot of attitude. But I am nerdier than I ever thought I would be. I dress like this around friends, family, and coworkers. I used to go out partying, drinking, smoking and cursing. Now, I curse less, I go to bed earlier and wake up with the crack of dawn, I’m even finding myself more studious and polite. I spend my free time reading about D&D and playing video games. I’m not going to hide it anymore. I get to look like a dweeb for the rest of my life and it’s amazing. And it all started--the thing that made it all possible--is one perfect flat top.