davesbigwhirlwind

[davesbigwhirlwind]

My forced formal transformation story - the things we do for love...

Sam was the love of my life. She was more stylish, more cultured, more intelligent. I had a reasonable job and was a fairly popular and trendy guy, but I was punching above my weight and I knew it. But we clicked. There was a connection and it just worked. I'd do anything for her. 

We'd been going out for about 5 months when she suggested I should move in to her family home. She lived with her father in a large house alongside their 2 staff. Now her father was a traditionalist, and, like her, was very well educated and informed, and I liked the fact he was very direct. He was a successful business owner and by default seemed to be in business mode, and always wore a somber suit and a serious expression on his face. His wife had sadly passed, but I respected the great job they had done in raising Sam into the fine woman she was. 

He told me that he'd be glad of me to move in - separate rooms of course - but as our relationship was clearly serious he wanted to help us, but emphasised that he wanted to help me develop both intellectually and physically, and while he would take things slowly, he would require me to embrace both the learnings and recommendations he made to help guide me towards being a good husband, should we reach that point. 

I readily agreed. 

A month later and I moved in. Stephen started straight away teaching me much of his knowledge on everything from etiquette to literature, and the art of being a good partner. He explained the man's place was not about fashion, beauty and flamboyancy, but, rather about masculinity, dependability and stability, and being understated, while allowing Sam to take the limelight. He explained that the correct appearance was every bit as important as how you act and how would help guide me through these factors over the months ahead. 

The first change came the following Monday. I woke to find in my wardrobe that all my t shirts had been replaced by good quality white formal shirts, and accompanying white vests to wear under them. And I was gutted to see that my entire trainer collection had disappeared and been replaced by 3 pairs of, very traditional, formal lace up black leather Oxford shoes. Even when selecting my smartest dark jeans, they still looked very out of keeping with the formal white shirt, and pulling on the shoes the leather creaked as my feet adjusted to being wedged into the pointy toes. I tied the laces and saw my face reflecting in the incredibly highly polished leather uppers. Walking in these shoes was a challenge, as the smooth soles meant I had to walk much more slowly and with poise, in order to not skid. 

I would never have chosen these clothes but went along with it, with Sam encouraging me. I got a few wise cracks about shiny shoes at work but that was about it. I worked in IT so it had a fair variety of oddballs, from geeks wearing cartoon t shirts, to goths, so while my change in style was out of character for me, it wasn't a major issue. 

I also needn't have worried about the jeans not looking right, as, by the end of the week, these had all been removed, to be replaced by heavy, pale grey wool trousers, tightly tailored and with razor sharp creases that hung straight down with just a small break above the seam which grazed the top of my Oxfords. A shiny black formal belt was also provided. 

This became what I wore every single day. It felt particularly strange wearing this at weekends when seeing friends, and the wise cracks at work focused on it being my school uniform, but Sam kept me up, telling me how handsome I looked. If she was happy, then I'd cope. I no longer worked out at the gym, and I controlled the time I spent with friends to ensure I committed the time to my new family and to this process.

The following Saturday Stephen announced we'd be making a trip to his barber. 

I was straight into Anthony's chair, and with a glance on the mirror I got a last look at my prized hair. Everyone loved my hair. I got lots of great comments about it. it was long, luscious, tousled and framed my face beautifully being roughly parted to drape down and across my forehead and feel flowing to lying on my collar. 

There was no discussion as Anthony combed through my hair. For years my shoulder length hair has been roughly parted above my right eye, but now a very severe straight part was created on the far left side of my head with the hair scraped to either side of this stark white line. 

Without ceremony the clippers were powered up and ploughed up the left side of my head towards the part, while Anthony used his comb to angle out the hair so that the clippers left a slightly longer length at the top, but otherwise a fine pelt of military length hair was left three quarters of the way up. This continued round my head as my ears became uncovered for the first time. And boy are my ears massive. Alarmingly so. Jug ears without a doubt, and definitely having benefited from the hair that had very satisfactorily covered them for over 20 years. Next Anthony took his scissors and was cutting the top down with massive chunks. Nothing longer than an inch and a half remained. The next shock was just what a big forehead I had. With so little hair, my facial features were really standing out. A razor then took off the hairs at the back of my neck, that had never caused an issue before, but were now clearly too scruffy to remain, while my sideburns were removed to the top of ears.

Pomade was then rubbed into my hair and a comb carefully pulled the hair across my head, while Anthony styles a small quiff at the front and showed me how to re-create this. 

He showed me in the mirror the remains of my hair. The uniformly clipped hair ran over half way up the back of my head before tapering to a slightly longer length leading to a small ridge ran round my head at the point that the clipped hair met the wet-looking slicked hair on top. This ridge dipped slightly at the back, but still remained high up my head, allowing the virgin scalp to shine through across most of my head. This was very much a short, no-nsense business man's haircut

I went to sit with my cold - and much lighter - head, while Stephen got a trim. I realised he had an identical cut. Same left part, clipping, ridge, slicked quiff. Though Stephen wore the cut far better as he had far less expanse of clipped scale due to having a much lower hairline and smaller, rounder head. While my head was very clearly very elongated and egg-like. He also had small ears that sat neatly tucked into the side of his head, unlike my satellite dishes. I ran my hand down the back of my head, which sent a shiver down my spine from the bristles that were an alien feeling. 

Sam looked genuinely shocked when she saw me. I couldn't blame her as my features seemed to have moved round my face from this brutal cut. My massive pale gleaming forehead and giant ears exposed for the first time, and the brutality of the cut showing the elongated oval shaped head that had been hidden for so many years. I felt shell shocked, but Stephen offered a rare word of encouragement by saying how positive it was that the men of the house were now setting a clear standard on grooming. I truly hated this haircut and how it made me feel and look, but a part of me also really felt proud that Stephen wanted me to take on part of his style. This really was a defining moment of moving from fashionable to formal. 

Friends and colleagues either looked in horror or laughed but told me it would soon grow. However I very much doubted this would be allowed to happen. It was the second haircut 2 weeks later that got the worst response, as no one could begin to fathom why I would inflict this same style on myself for a second time. But this became routine that ever 2 weeks we'd both be shaved, trimmed and slicked to ensure the stubble remained short enough to pass muster. 

I think even Stephen realised I needed to get used to my new look as the next few weeks were more about using my new skills, such as Sam and I attending small dinners at home with close friends and associates of Stephen.

Then, an upgrade came. A plethora of very sombre ties in shades of navy, burgundies and dark green appeared alongside a navy double breasted blazer with rows of gold buttons running down the front sides. This became standard attire, as my heavily starched shirt collars now became buttoned to the top and digging into my neck, with a Windsor knotted tie, together with tie clip as standard from morning to night and the blazer whenever with company, and fully buttoned whenever I wasn't seated. I now looked like an off duty naval officer, but it did too make me sit up straight and hold myself taller as a result. 

A couple of other hurdles came over the next month. First I was taken to the opticians for the fitting of my new glasses. It was a surprise to me I was getting glasses, as I lived constantly in contact lenses, having only a small pair of rimless frames for emergencies. However the frames that had been chosen for me were big gold framed aviator glasses that filled the width of my face, and the frames glinted in the light as I moved. However as I was so myopic the lenses were extremely thick, and the lenses shrunk down my eyes (one of my best features, which now looked weirdly small and watery and hidden by these large rectangular fishbowl lenses, with strong reflections) as well as creating a very visible cut in the side of the lenses meaning my head looked like it had had chunks taken out of it. My contact lenses were removed and these became a daily dominating feature on my face, as the world now saw me as a bespectacled man for the first time. Due to the weight of the large panes of glass that now sat across my face, they kept sliding down my nose. They were adjusted, but the result meant the arms of the glasses dug into the side of my face, creating permanent creases in the temples of my head.

I also had my tattoo on my arm removed by Lazer. It wasn't appropriate. It was a painful correction. Both in the emotional loss of something I loved and the physical agony of it being eradicated. 

This was me now, this was my daily uniform. I didn't now need to spend time thinking about what to wear or what to buy, as it was already a given. When I stood beside Sam, she looked radiant and beautiful as ever, while I remain dependable and reliable beside her. Ultimately I was grey. Yes I looked very smart and could be very charming, but no one would give me a second look beyond my formal and traditional appearance. I admit that the old me used to like the glances I'd get from women checking me out, and I would flirt with women and preen myself to be as attractive as possible. Now no one I would have found attractive would give me the time of day, and if people stared, it was now for very different reasons This was me now. Formal, nerdy, a bit ugly. From my smartly quiffed hair and geeky big glasses and smart outfit. But I was fully committed to Sam, as it should be, and that was what mattered. 

[davesbigwhirlwind]

My uncle made me into a nerd

I just wasn't that academic I used to tell my mum - she disagreed - she thought I was just lazy. She was probably right.

I was 16 and leaving school and I didn't have any plans. So my mum announced that she'd spoken to my uncle, who had kindly offered to give me a job as the office junior at the firm he owned. As he lived and worked far away, it had been agreed that I would live with him.

The following Sunday I got the 2 hour train to my uncle's, where he met me at the station.

My uncle was quite a traditional man - he had a fully, neatly trimmed beard, fairly short coiffured hair, and generally wore tweed jackets and cardigans, and was seldom seen without a tie, and loved to smoke a pipe. He was a serious man, and definitely not one to have a joke - he could also have something of a short fuse, and could be a man of few words. Despite this, we had a good chat, and he seemed genuinely pleased that I was going to be working for him - he said that he felt I had great potential, and that he was sure I would do well - I just needed to follow his instruction and do my best.

I knew my uncle would want me to be fairly smart for the office, so I'd brought my old school trousers and shirts to wear in the week. I mentioned this to him, and he said we'd sort everything in the morning.

I settled into the spare room, which was a big, comfortable room with a double bed, chest of drawers, TV and big wardrobe which was currently half full of all sorts of stuff, such as an old computer, boxes of paperwork and some old clothes.

Monday morning came, and when I got out of the shower and there was a multi-packet of briefs and white vests on my bed. My uncle passed my room and said to put on the underwear and then he would be back - I explained I already had underwear that was fine to wear, but he said it made sense that I wore what he had got for me as it was new, and could I just do it please.

I did as he asked, to save starting off on the wrong foot, and then my uncle came in "Right, we'd better get you ready for your first day at work! Are you excited?" I assured him I was, and was ready to get stuck in. He said he had sorted some clothes for me to wear, but I reminded him that I had already brought some trousers and white shirts with me. "Oh no, you don't want to be wearing your school uniform! You're an adult now, so it's only right that you look the part. Now, I've looked out some clothes I don't use that will be perfect, given that we're a similar size - and you're welcome to keep them." I said I could buy anything that I needed, but he said that wasn't necessary, and I should save my money, and he was only too happy for me to make full use of these things that had just sat in his wardrobe. This was clearly an instruction rather than an offer. 

I looked at what my uncle was wearing - a pair of bluey-grey wool trousers and a pale grey check shirt, with a dark grey tie with cream stripes through it - he always looked a very washed out, as he generally only wore shades of grey or bluey-grey, with only his brown shoes adding any colour, and everything always looked very old fashioned. I could only hope that the clothes he was offering had been rejected by him for being too casual or colourful.

He went over to the dresser and opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of chocolate brown socks which he passed to me. I looked a bit confused. "Put them on" he said - I genuinely hadn't understood, as I could believe that anyone would think that a 16 year old boy would wear brown. I slipped the socks on, and he instructed me to pull them up. I did so. He then went to the wardrobe and pulled out a shirt that was very similar to his - a cream colour with a check running through it. I buttoned it up. It seemed very baggy and long in the body, but my uncle assured me that was the style. Next, he pulled out the most horrible pair of flannel trousers. They were a mid-brown colour, made with thick wool and tailored loosely - again, I said I'd just wear my own trousers, but this time he was clear "put them on." I grudgingly took the trousers from him. They were very rough texture and surprisingly heavy. I slipped them on and as I pulled them up my legs I could feel the coarse material rubbing against my leg. It felt horrible. I pulled them up and on buttoning them up I found they fitted my waist perfectly. The twin pleats meant there was extra fabric which then made for a wider trouser than the normally skinny jeans I'd normally wear. Sharp creases ran down the middle of each leg and then a turnup at the bottom gave extra weight which anchored the trousers which then hid part of my foot, due to being wider than I was used to. 

I was then told to do up my top button. I did so but it was really tight! I was then passed a brown tie with beige stripes. I tied it and my uncle then clipped on a solid tie bar about a third of the way down which attached to the shirt - very similar to one he was wearing. "You'll always want to wear one of these as it stops your tie getting in the way"

"Now, shoes," he said digging into the bottom of the wardrobe. "I bought this pair but they were too big for me, so I bought another pair in the size smaller, so I'm thinking these will fit you perfectly. He then presented a pair of highly polished tan brogues. They were covered in intricate stitching and decorative small holes in the leather and with a row of very fine laces running up the middle. I recognised them. They were identical to the pair my uncle was wearing. I said something about hard leather not being good for my feet, but he assured me I would soon get used to them. He pushed them onto my feet and then tied the laces tightly. What between the collar cutting into my neck and now the shoes restricting my ancles, I was not feeling so good, and that was before the horror of the suggestion of having to wear this outfit out of the house!

My uncle had one last surprise up his sleeve, as he showed me a tweed blazer in a light tan colour, wide lapels, and a longer, boxy fit. it was again heavy and felt too big. My uncle did up the top button of the two on the front and declared it perfect. I was then shepherded downstairs to be paraded in front of my aunt, who declared me to look very handsome, and that the colours really suited me. 

My uncle explained that he had tried wearing shades of brown for a short time, but he felt grey suited him better, so he relegated those clothes to the back of his wardrobe. I thought back to when I'd looked in the wardrobe and the various being brown, fawn, cream colours in the wardrobe - it now dawned on me that these weren't just random clothes that had been put there for storage....

There was a big mirror in the hallway, and I stopped to stare. I looked ridiculous. If you chopped my head off you'd think I was a middle-aged man (or older!) as no-one under 50 would wear any of these clothes, or in any of these colours. And this look definitely didn't suit me, and nor did it go with my lovely hair which flowed freely to just below my shoulders and with the gently tussled look that I had perfected after getting out of the shower. At least my hair was there to express my personality.

"Right, will we go then?" my uncle said. I nodded grudgingly. He opened the front door and gestured for me to walk in front of him to head to the car on the drive. I took one step 'clack.' And another 'clack.' I then walked closer to the car 'clack. clack. clack.' I lifted one of my feet and looked at the sole, fitted with metal plates. I then remembered you can also hear my uncle coming a mile off. I'm used to it now, but it always used to take me by surprise, as, on any hard surface you would hear his shoes clacking as he walked. People would look up and stare. Now this was me too. Though, to be honest people would stare anyway given what a 16 year old boy was wearing, but this would mean they'd get an audible alert.

We travelled in silence to the office. I was reflecting to the last half hour. It was really bad. the only saving grace was there was no-one I knew was there to see me.

We arrived. I got out the car. I took a couple of steps, still trying to get used to both the slippery soles of my shoes and the noise they made. My uncle strided off towards the door. I followed him into the office, both off us clattering down the polished wood floors in our polished brogue shoes. Everyone instinctively looked up. With that racket, who could blame them, and also I guess in heralded the arrival of the boss. Many pairs of eyeballs stared at me.

We reached the corner and he pointed to a desk as part of a group of 4 "this is yours, take a seat" now this is Sally, Daniel and Mark. And this is Alexander" I said hi to each of them. Sally was probably 60 and I knew to be my uncles secretary. Daniel was around my uncles age and I found out was office manager, while Mark was a graduate who had joined the firm the previous summer. 

"Make yourself comfortable, and we'll talk through your induction shortly" I sat down, and Mark sat next to me did a bit of small talk, and we got onto the fact I'd just left school. "was it public school? by any chance?" Mark asked. I said no and asked why he'd said that. "Well, it's just based on your outfit, I can only imagine that someone from public school might have clobber like that!" I explained that my uncle had had a guiding hand in the outfit. "Ahh, that explains it - I'm surprised you got away with that hair in that case" I queried this "well he made me get my hair cut shorter because he said it looked too messy." I looked at Mark's hair it wasn't long but it just about reached the collar of the shirt he was wearing, and just above his eyebrows, brushed to the side. He looked a bit surfer-like. "I love my hair, so there's no way I'm cutting it" I said.

The morning went quite quickly. Everyone was friendly. I took my jacket off as soon as I could, as all the other men were just wearing open shirts, so I felt over dressed (as well as being downed in a sea of turd-coloured clothing).

It got to 12.30 and my uncle said "right, grab your jacket, we're going out." I grabbed it and clicked along behind him. He turned round "well put your jacket on then" which I did while trying to keep up with him as we headed to the car. 

We parked up and headed to an open doorway, and I found myself in a barbershop. My uncle had a few words of greeting and then pointed to me "This is Alexander. He needs smartening up, as we discussed" I was told to take my jacket off and sit straight in the chair. 

I said I just wanted a light trim, as I was being caped up, but the barber patted me on the shoulder and told me to just relax, as my uncle had already sorted everything.

My hair was about a maximum of about 10 inches long at the front, and maybe 4 or 5 inches at the back - it was all swept back in quite a loose, bohemian style that I loved. I really didn't want to loose that style.

Before I could say another word the barber had his clippers in his hand and with a comb he was pulling out my hair from the side of my head about an inch or so and then cutting off the remaining hair. Massive long stands of hair were falling to the ground. This was years' of growth. "I really want to keep the length on top" I blurted out. The barber just smiled vaguely. This combing and clipping continued round the back and to the other side of my head, so that the hair on the sides was now drastically shorter, though still a little bit shaggy, and just nestled on the top of my ears. It was already way shorter than I would like. He then started on the top though this time leaving maybe 3-4 inches of length. I was devastated. He then dragged the comb down my head causing a slight pain on my head, and leaving a very precise parting down the left side of my head, as he combed the hair carefully to each side.

This done, he now turned back to the sides and using his comb, he now angled it downwards and swiped more hair off the side of my head. This time about half an inch of hair fell, and I could soon see that he was leaving shorter hair of only about an eighth of an inch at the bottom and blending upwards to maybe half an inch higher up, and progressing round my head once more. He then took a smaller razor and went round my ears and then also cut a line across the top of my sideburns, and I could feel him carving a line across the back of my head.

On the side of the brand new part he then continued with clipper and comb taking the length of all of the hair to the part line progressively longer, but the maximum length still only being about three quarters of an inch. Then across the top of my head he did some snipping with the scissors but with only very small specks of hair flying off. He then went around the upper sides blending the shorter sides with the longer length. This was all looking very short.

Finally, he then brushed down the long hair at the front and cut across my forehead at a diagonal, leaving long hair by the part which hung just above my eyebrow and finishing near the top of my head on the right side of my face. 

Suddenly the chair was tilted back and shaving foam slapped on my face. My little facial hair was quickly removed, and I could feel him shaving off my entire sideburns. On being returned upright, I could see that my face looked very pale following the removal of my attempts at facial hair - while the hair on my head made me look like some sort of preppy American Highschooler with the side part hanging loosely over my forehead. The barber took some gel in his hands and ran it through my hair working outwards from the part line. He then took the hair at the front of my head and flicked it upwards and to the side creating a small ridge. 

"Done" he announced proudly. My uncle stood up "excellent, now Alexander looks like a man you'd be proud to walk beside. Excellent work."

The barber showed me the back, which was a short blocked taper, where less than an hour before had been my beautiful mane. My neck was so pale! I saw what was a very standard business man's haircut. I guess it's exactly what my uncle would choose. In fact, it was just a shorter version of his haircut really. We definitely had matching side partings now. It was too grim for words. But he was the boss.

Back at the office, I felt even more embarrassment and we both clacked through the office, and me - not just a vision in brown, but now with my short business man's haircut. On sitting down, Mark whistled "that's some haircut you got there. Thought there was no way you were cutting it?" "Well my uncle made me realise that shorter hair is easier to manage when you've got a job." Neither of us bought that - it was blatantly obvious from the style of what was on my head that only one person had had any input into my new conservative haircut, and my new outfit, and it wasn't me.

Back at the house, my aunt was thrilled with my cut, and said how I looked like my uncle when he was younger!

I took my jacket off and sat down. I undid my top button, and started untying my shoes as my uncle jumped in - "we don't take out ties or shoes off until we retire to bed", he admonished me. I grudgingly re-tied. 

"Now, I've a treat for you - as a working man, you deserve a treat, and I'd like you to join me in a pipe." Now, he smoked regularly, but I had no interested - and in fact, I hated even the smell. I'd never smoked, and didn't want to. I politely declined.

He opened his drawer next to his seat and took out two pipes. One was newly boxed, he passed that one to me. I unwrapped it. He showed me how to roll tobacco and pack a pipe. He gave me a tobacco pouch, and lighter. Mine to keep he said. He then lit my pipe for me and put it in my mouth "now breath it" I tried not to breath in much, but even the little I did made me cough. "and again" I tried and coughed more. We continued this for about 20 minutes until the nicotine was making me feel faint. It certainly wasn't a treat.

By the end of week one I was hating it. The daily outfit remained identical, other than alternating between tweed blazers, shirts and ties, all in earthy shades. And he kept making me persevere with the pipe. I was coughing less but really didn't like it, and I now stank of tobacco.

I'd been getting on well with Mark - I think he felt sorry for me, and invited me out on Saturday with my mates. My uncle was happy to agree. I explained I'd like to wear my own clothes, but my uncle couldn't understand it - if you have good quality smart clothes available, why would you want to wear lesser clothes. And also all my old clothes had mysteriously disappeared. This wasn't a new work wardrobe. This was my only wardrobe.

Mark smirked when I entered the pub - "do you ever not dress like a grandad" he said.

We had a company away day which included some drinks afterwards. A couple of the guys said they were going for a cigarette, and my uncle said we'd join them. He got his pipe out and nodded to me. I shook my head, but he gave me THE look. I grudgingly got my pipe out. We lit up. Mark looked at me with disbelief. I could understand it. Here I was dressed in brown tweed, with the geekiest haircut and smoking a pipe. I was a lost cause.

[davesbigwhirlwind]

Maturing Fast - Part 3

My dad made clear I would be punished for breaking the rules, but I wouldn't receive the punishment until the weekend - and that the severity of the punishment would depend on me not breaking ANY further rules in the meantime. I had to act - and look - like an angel. Literally. Monday night was awful. I wasn't allowed to watch TV or even change out of my uniform. Instead my dad showed me how to bull my shoes. 2 hours later and my already ridiculously shiny shoes were now reflecting my face in them. Grim. Tuesday morning and I was watched like a hawk as I was instructed on what to do. More pomade on my hair. slick it further back. Create a bounce in the quiff at the front. Put your glasses on. Make sure your tie is straight.... I sighed my reflection today hadn't improved any from yesterday. Today my parents were taking no chances - my mum dropped me off right at the school gate much to the delight of my mates. There was no opportunity to try and alter my appearance before anyone saw me, and the derision was so much worse than yesterday. Everyone was loving that this once trendy guy in front of them had been totally transformed into a four-eyed, side-parted, formally attired, nerd, who was without doubt the most conservatively dressed person in the school. Even a couple of the teachers were commenting on my very sudden dramatic change in appearance - and I'm sure I caught at least a couple of them smirking. My form teacher told me that my mum had been in touch - if there was so much as a hair out of place on my head, then this was going to be reported immediately back to my parents and I knew the consequences. The week continued like this, with the kids trying to wind me up more and more - they'd take my glasses or scuff my shoes, or see what they could get to stick in my greasy hair. But each day I was forced to turn up looking like the class joke. It was so clear that no-one in their right mind would choose to look like this, and I was now clearly under the thumb of someone much older and draconian. My appearance was no longer down to me, it was dictated by someone who thought it was a good idea to look like a 1950s throwback. My relationship with my group of mates quickly became more distanced. I wasn't allowed to hang out with them after school, and even trying to play a proper game of football was difficult in these shoes with the slippery soles and rigid construction - but ultimately, they just didn't want to hang out with a nerd. And it was clear to all, that, despite all my years of being a normal, relatively trendy guy, now counted for nothing - and my haircut acting as clearly as a light up sign placed on top of my head - I was - suddenly and totally - a nerd. I was trapped in formality. By Friday afternoon I was just looking forward to the break from the humiliation. My dad met me at the school gates and told me we were going to get some weekend clothes for me. This didn't sound good. At the shops my dad guided me round. First stop was for some check shirts in a variety of shades of creams and blues. Next stop was trousers. Some green twill trousers, blue corduroys and then a pair of fawn trousers were all selected - as if I'd wear any of this stuff? I was so frustrated. Then to cap it all off, a brown tweed jacket was added to the pile. This was like something out of an old-fashioned country magazine photoshoot. No one dressed like this. Despite my protests the items were all bought. Then it was a return to the shoe shop where a pair of very sensible brown brogues were purchased. My grandad owned a very similar pair. As did my dad. That figured.

Back home the bombshell hit me - all my old clothes had been removed. I asked where they'd gone, and was told it didn't matter - I wouldn't need them now. The old clothes weren't appropriate. I went to bed totally dejected, and absolutely exhausted. What would I need to do in order to get back control of how I look? I was woken on the Saturday morning with a call that we were going out shortly, and I was to get ready. The normal routine followed. Shower. Pomade. Comb. It was like a military process, but I did it as I just didn't want the hassle. I was broken after the week's taunts, and being haunted by the image of the boy with the slick side parting, goofy clothes and monstrous glasses. Going through to the bedroom my prescribed outfit had been set out. cream check shirt. Blue cords. Brown socks. Brown brogues. I started negotiating. Pleading. What if one of my friends saw me? Surely I'd been through enough? I'd already had to ensure the forced new look at school, surely I deserved a break. And this is the 90s, not the 70s - parents don't dictate what their children wear. My dad told me that, especially as I had yet to have my punishment I'd better do what I was told or else. I got dressed. It was horrible. The heavy cords made my legs feel weird and hot, and the brogues were really heavy and clumpy, while the shirt was the ugliest, most out-dated thing I'd ever seen. "And why aren't you wearing your glasses? You must always wear your glasses now. You need them, and they really suit you - they complement your look perfectly. You are now a formally dressed young man, and your hair and your glasses are part of that now. This is who you are. " No. Just no. Nothing about how I looked suited me. It suited an old age pensioner, not a teenager!!! The tweed jacket was thrust at me. I put it on. Yet again defeated, humiliated and angry. I looked in the mirror. The outfit looked just like one my dad would wear. That was the point, I guess - humiliation, but how long would it go on for? We were soon outside the barber again. "Time to smarten you up again" my dad said. I was bemused, as my hair hadn't had a chance to grow since the butchering of a week ago. As we went in, the barber was clearly equally bemused - though I wasn't sure if that was fully because of the lack of time since my last visit or my extreme new look. He commented how mature I looked. Yuck. My dad said that I had had some trouble earlier in the week with keeping my hair in order, so he wanted to sort it out. The barber asked if he was thinking a crewcut - "2 all over is no maintenance" was his suggestion. However my dad said no -"to be honest, if his behaviour doesn't improve, he'll be lucky not to be shaved to the bone, but for now, he's still getting use to having a more formal look, and I've made allowances for that - though I'll tolerate no more rule breaking - but I do think the side parting really suits his new look, and he'll soon grow to appreciate it. It just needs to be a bit shorter so that he can't muss it up, but so it still sits smartly and lies down as it should, especially while his hair gets used to growing in a side part." Tha barber said "ok, well how about we start with a number 2 on the back and sides and see how we go from there?" My dad agreed. How could my hair get any shorter? I already had less than about a fifth of the hair of almost anyone else in the school had. I was soon caped up - and then the barber lifted the heavy glasses off my face. The room went a bit blurry. It was amazing how quickly my eyes had adjusted to needing the glasses. Soon there was vibrating at the side of my face. The blade made its way up my head before the barber flicked outwards as he got near to the front hairline. I could just make out a dark fuzz that was left in the place of the hair. This continued around my head as the barber pushed my head forwards and ran the clippers tight up the back of my head. It was the first time I'd ever had clippers used on my head, and the vibration through my skull wasn't pleasant. Especially as it made it abundantly clear that this was going to be a really short haircut. "How's it looking?" the barber asked once he'd completed the other side. "I definitely think shorter at the bottom" my dad answered - "I'm thinking only the merest hint of hair around the hairline and then blending smoothly up to the hair at the top" I'd run out of any disbelief that things couldn't get any worse. I felt I must surely be in some sort of hellish dream that I would wake up from. The barber nodded and took the guard off the clippers. The bare blade was then run a good half inch up the side of my head. Then at the back I could feel the clippers running much higher. The skin on my head was getting really hot. Different guards and levers were then used as he worked over and over the sides of my head as he inched higher and higher. He then took his comb and started blending the top of my hair with the now skinned sides. Any remaining bulk of hair on the sides of my head had been removed leaving just a like pelt before joining the, now - in comparison - relatively long hair on the top. My dad confirmed the sides were looking much better, so discussion turned as to what to do on the top. "As the part is so far over to the side, I think we just thin it out on that side, as the hair is already much shorter now, and it's just the right length to lie down. While on the other side, I can take it a bit shorter at the front if you want - maybe down another half inch, though then it won't be long enough to flip over at the front, but it will just have to lie straight across his head, as I'll thin it out more as well, so it will have no choice but to follow the part. That was agreed and soon the thinning shears were thrashing through my hair, and then the little hair that was left at the front was brushed down once more and then cut again at the stupid angle, but this time starting about a third of the way up my forehead, rather than at my eye. He then worked around the edges with a straight razor removing the tiny hairs that had replaced the hair that I had been left with the previous week, creating once more a smart freshly-barbered edge around my head. He then once more shaved in the part line on my head, and then placed the razor at the very top of my ear and scraping downwards, removing the small tab of hair that signposted where my once glorious sideburns had been. He explained that it made more sense to remove this hair altogether, given that as I now wear glasses it looks much smarter to have the hair stop at the level of the arm of my glasses. I thought it all looked totally ridiculous. The required dollop of pomade was then vigorously applied and then a comb was used to put everything into place - however, where as last time there had been a flourish where a small wave was created across the top of my head and through the quiff at the front, this time the comb was just dragged tightly across my head creating straight lines running perpendicular from the horrid white part line that was shaved into my skull. The barber handed me my glasses and my head swam into focus. It was much worse than before. My head now looked even smaller. My face looked gaunt, while the little hair that was remaining on the top of my head was plastered down - reminding me of how an old man might have his hair fixed to try and cover his bald spot. Only I was 15 not 75. The glasses on my face now looked even larger, and were the main defining feature now, and were exactly what the balding pensioner who has my haircut would choose to wear. Then I moved my head to the side and gasped. There was a big band of white skin glowing half way up my head with only the lightest stubble which then blended lightly into the little hair that was left on top of my head. No one at school had short hair. Razor cuts were only for people in the military. The barber showed me the back - it was even worse with a sea of pale white scalp rising three quarters of the way up my head before any sort of length of hair was allowed to grow. And now devoid of hair it highlighted the strange shape of my skull that jutted out at the back. It was a freak show. My dad was delighted - "that will be much easier for him to keep, and to be honest, is probably a good cut for him to keep now summer is coming" I shot him evils. The barber commented how nice it was to see a father taking such an interest in making sure his son was properly turned out. The barber suggested that if I wanted to keep this military horror of a haircut, then I should come back every 2 weeks to ensure it didn't get too bushy and the skinned sides remained visible. My dad enthusiastically nodded. With the shorter, smartest haircut any young guy would hate to wear, and clothes that only an old man could think were wearable, it surely couldn’t get any worse - but would my parent ever listen to compromise?

[davesbigwhirlwind]

Maturing Fast - Part 2

I spent the weekend dreading what Monday would bring. I'd spent the weekend trying to find ways to hide the extreme nerdiness of the haircut that had been inflicted on me. As much as I pulled on strands of hair or tried to brush it in different ways, it was impossible to stop the hair from showing what it was - a very short, very old fashioned, very tragic haircut.

Early on Monday, I was woken by my dad and sent to have a shower. When I came out my uniform had been set out for me. I put on the underwear and shirt and coarse, heavy, unfashionably cut trousers but begged for some leniency to be able to wear my trainers - this fell on deaf ears, and the shiny formal shoes soon restricted my feet and were tightly tied. A school tie was then fastened around my neck enveloping my whole body in formality that felt so alien. I was then directed back to the bathroom, as my dad said "right, let's get this hair sorted." I looked in the mirror. My now whispy, lame hair clung to my head having no real option but to lie down either side of the artificial parting that the barber had so helpfully carved into my head. It looked so bad. Tragic. It bore no resemblance to the glorious hair that had been on my head just days before. My dad opened the bathroom cabinet. My heart sank yet further (which, by this point I thought was already at rock bottom). He pulled out a jar of pomade that he used on his own hair. "You'll be using this each day to keep your hair looking smart". I started begging for a reprieve from this final step in transforming me into a full on 15 year old bank manager. The begging failed. A large dollop of pomade was worked through my hair as my dad showed me how to style it using a comb, and creating the small wave at the front. I stared in the mirror. The bathroom light shone on my now darkened, sleek hair that showed up every ridge of hair that the comb had created through the gentle wave of the executive hairstyle. The bleak part line running down my head making me look like a total geek, while the lack of volume of hair and the loss of my sideburns made my head look so small and weedy. I was too nervous to eat breakfast. So my dad took the opportunity to run through some rules that my parents had thoughtfully created. I was to wear the full uniform all day at school. If I were to mess up my hair or uniform, there would be consequences, and if I wanted to stop being grounded, I'd better adhere. I was to be polite and courteous to all...and so the rules went on. I was also told that one of my parents would drop me off at school and pick me up each day to make sure I didn't get into trouble. I had no choice but to agree. Finally my mum stuck the final knife in - "and you'll wear these" as she handed me the glasses that had been bought for me 18 months earlier, which I did badly need but had been far too vain to wear. I started to protest but my mum gave me her look, and I knew better than to argue further.

I put on the glasses. They weighed down my face, acting as another reminder (as if I needed it) of how geeky I now looked. They were big gold aviator style glasses with thick lenses that shrunk my eyes. While these had been fairly fashionable a couple of years ago, fashion had moved on to smaller round glasses, and even those with worse eyesight had far thinner lenses than these. Only a boy who didn't care about style - or, more often, older men - wore these now. My dad handed me my blazer. I grudgingly put it on. "You look really good" he said as he led me over to the long mirror to have a look. I really didn't want to look. It was like a real life horror story. I looked up and there was the strange boy-man looking at me who looked horrified. Scared. With my glasses on it felt like the reality was even bigger. Here was an exceptionally nerdy looking boy who looked like he's trying to go under-cover as some sort of city executive but blatantly being just a child. Then it hit me, my mature teenage look had been stripped away. Where as people might have previously thought of me as maybe being 16 or 17, I now looked much younger and like I was auditioning to be a child in the royal family - even Prince William who had previously had a style that could be classed as similar to my new look (though without all the grease, and quite a bit longer), now sported a more fashionable centre parting. I really was alone with this hairstyle and lack of fashion sense. My face now being devoid of all facial hair looked thin and pale, while my ears now stuck out, and my eyes looked weird being slightly obscured by the reflection in my glasses, and the shrinking of my eyes that they caused. This reflection was matched by the shine on my shoes and drew attention to the military crease of my dowdy trousers. But the biggest pity I felt was that for what sat on the top of my head. Even a lego head man - despite sharing the ridiculous conservative side parting - had more hair than was left on my head. And despite being made out of plastic, the lego man couldn't even begin to compete with the shine of my hair that was cruelly fashioned into a short slick joke of a haircut that I was going to have to endure for goodness knows how many weeks until it started to grow out. Even walking from the house to the car I felt exceptionally conspicuous with my enforced new look being shown off to the world. From the clomp of the soles of my formal shoes announcing my presence, to the sheen of my businessman's haircut displaying the sheer brutal outdated part and quiff that now defined me. The short drive to school was unbearable. My mum dropped me off at the end of the road, and reminded me to behave and follow the rules. I grunted and left the car. As soon as I was round the corner I ruffled up my hair as best I could. It still looked awful, but at least it looked a bit dishevelled, even though it was clear still a short haircut, but maybe not the side parting that my elders saw fit to inflict on me. I grab a baseball cap out of my bag which also contained my trainers which quickly got swapped for my horrific new shoes. The glasses and blazer got stuffed in the bag too, and the tie got loosened. I walked through the gates and ran straight into my friends. Straight away they clocked that my sideburns had disappeared. One of them grabbed my hat. There was a momentary hush before they all started laughing. Had I got hit by a lawnmower? Had something gone horrifically wrong that I now had a haircut so short but slightly longer in some places than others, and was that some sort of line running down my head...? These quips continued periodically through the day. It was bad, but it could have been worse. I walked out of school with my friends and walked straight into my dad who was waiting right outside. I took one look at him and saw his anger. I then remembered what I'd done. I definitely didn't look like I had when I'd left the house. Rules had been broken. I was for it now.

[davesbigwhirlwind]

Maturing Fast

The story of a teenage forced to entirely change his look entirely and conform to the style his parents decide for him (it's my first post of Tumblr, and possibly the first part of a longer story, so all comments welcomed).

As a teenager growing up in the mid-90s, I thought I was invincible - while I wasn't really bad, I did push boundaries, and would occasionally skip classes with my mates and had had a couple of warnings from the police. Jeans, tracksuits and trainers and my centre parted 'curtains' hairstyle hung down to cover the top of my ears and sat full at the back of my head down to my collar - this was my look, and I thought I looked so cool! It was just the start of spring break and I got caught with my mates for fighting another group of kids at the shopping centre, and the police got involved. My parents were furious, and I was instantly told that, as part of my punishment, I was grounded. I'd been given previous warnings about my behaviour, and I was told that things would change to ensure my behaviour improved. After 2 weeks of extreme boredom of not being able to leave the house, other than under the supervision of my parents, it got to the Saturday before school returned, and I was told by my dad we were going into town. They were still angry that I was letting them down, and so I knew better than to question this or push back. We found ourself outside the barber my dad went to - and which I had gone to until about 4 years previous. Many a standard boys short back and sides with a straight fringe had been administered to me here in the years before I was allowed to get a more fashionable haircut from a stylist. My dad turned to me, "right, listen up, you'll be getting a haircut of my choosing today, as it's become clear that you can't make sensible decisions on your own, and you need clearer guidance on what is acceptable, and how a responsible young man should act and look." I knew I had no really option on this so merely nodded and got directed in through the door to wait. 15 minutes later I was in the barber's chair. We'd covered the predictables - yes, I'd grown a lot in 4 years, and yes, the barber had never seen my hair so long. I knew better than to make any sarcastic comments, so merely nodded and awaited my fate, with growing nervousness. And here it came, as my dad told the barber "he's been getting himself into a bit of trouble of late, so me and his mum have decided he needs more direction and clarity to help support him make the right decisions - it's time for a change of style, I'm thinking something similar to how I wear my hair." I was horrified. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. My dad was in his forties. I was 15. How could it possibly be considered that his deeply unfashionable dad's hair style could be considered suitable for me?!? My dad's hair, peppered with grey, was a short back and sides - maybe half an inch on the back and sides, but then with a side part with the hair swept back to form a small quiff of hair to match with the other dull business men he worked with. Surely he just meant to make the hair a bit shorter, rather than to inflict a style that only a middle aged man could consider wearing - I was surely panicking unnecessarily? The barber nodded, "ok, so if we start with a short back and sides and then we can take it from there. Are we keeping the centre parting?" my dad jumped straight in to kill any hopes that I could retain anything like my current style: "no, he needs a proper mans haircut - side parted, short but with enough to sit nicely." With that the barber started combing out my hair and wetting it. He brushed it forward then put in a new part about a quarter of the way across my head. "how's that?" the barber asked. "No, I think a bit further over, just like mine" my dad responded. The barber raised his eyebrows slightly and moved the parting over so it sat over near the temple of my head. My dad nodded. This was looking horrific. The barber was quickly chopping away at hair. He cut tightly around the back and sides of my head, fully exposing my ears and neck. The bulk of my hair was quickly reduced around the sides to less than half an inch, and then getting progressively longer on the crown of my head, through to about 3 inches at the front, which was swept to the side, following a thrashing with the thinning shears. I thought that at least I could try and recreate my centre parted haircut at the front - even though it would be much shorter, I could salvage something of my dignity. The barber killed any hopes of this as he briefly brushed my hair forward, and working from the full length at the side where the part was, he then cut diagonally upwards through my fringe, so that at the other side of my forehead I had almost no fringe at all. I was horrified. This left me with no option at all other than to wear my hair to the side. He then blow-dried my hair, helping to train it to sit flat in the newly inflicted side parting. He then suggested to shave in the side parting to help me to make sure I kept a proper, straight parting, especially while my hair was getting used to it's new style. My dad readily agreed, further signing my death warrant on having any flexibility on my hairstyle whatsoever. He then used his razor and started to taper the back and sides of my already short hair. I thought it couldn't get any worse, but he then shaved off my entire sideburns, which were my best feature, having extended fully to the bottom of my ear lobe. I was reduced to the tiniest of tabs at the very top of my ears. I reflected on how ridiculous I looked as he trimmed around the hairline and dusted me off. I looked like a want-to-be junior librarian. "Pomade?" My dad nodded. My hair was suddenly plastered with grease and brushed carefully to either side of the bright white parting, while the front hair was carefully flicked over and brushed backwards. I was then shown the back which just looked like a very bland man's hairstyle, with my hair now being a dark, shiny brown rather than the dirty blond of my long-haired days. I looked even more stupid now - I looked like a little boy trying to be a business man. I was so upset. How could my dad do this to me? He looked so pleased with himself, he had a massive smile on his face as I went and sat on the row of seats. My dad was now in the chair getting his normal trim and, with pomade applied, had a very similar style to me - though his grey hair made it much less harsh than my dark hair really highlighting the businessman's hairstyle that now sat on my head. No-one at school had a style like this - yes some boys had shorter hair (especially the nerdy ones), but even they didn't have a side parting!!! As we left the shop my dad ruffled my hair (which did not move!) and said how proud he was of my behaviour, and that he hoped I would realise that this is just part of him and my mum helping to show me the right way to get ahead in life. I burst into tears. Anger and humiliation surged through my body as I screamed at him. To be fair to him, he was very calm but he explained that things needed to change, and that this was just part of the journey to me becoming a respectable man. He guided me down the road as he said we needed to buy some things for the start of the school term on Monday. In the shoe shop, he asked for a pair of black shoes for me - the man came back with a pair of waxy leather boat shoes. While my mates all wore trainers to school, I also saw that many of the kids wore these shoes, and while it was another frustration if I was made to wear these, it still wasn't anything bad compared to the haircut. However my dad shook his head and asked for a formal dress shoe. A pair of formal dress oxfords were put on my feet.  They were the shiniest shoes I'd ever seen, and so stiff and creaky, while the leather sole clomped on the floor as I walked down the shop in them. I highlighted they hurt my feet, but my dad was happy that I'd soon break them in, as I'd be wearing them every day - this was as bad as the haircut! We then went on to buy some new smart trousers and blazer to replace the jeans I'd previously worn to school. I was going to look like a junior funeral director. I wasn't sure how I was going to get through school on Monday, but I was hopeful that this punishment would soon pass. But my parent had other ideas, and little did I realise this was just the start of my journey to adulthood.