The Greaser Challenge - Ch. 01

[Author's note. This was my first attempt at writing a long story focused primarily on a male haircutting kink. Men's hair, aesthetically, psychologically and culturally, features very heavily so be warned if it's not your thing which, admittedly, it probably isn't.

Even so, despite its niche subject matter, the story covers a lot of more mainstream kink themes like domination and submission, transformation, humiliation and control. Male sexuality is present throughout but there's no sex between the main characters. Thanks for reading, should you choose to do so! - HF]

The Greaser Challenge - Episode One - First Broadcast from the GoldenState TV Studios, Friday 3rd October, 1958

I

The bright studio lights flickered to life over the set of 'The Greaser Challenge', the latest offering from GoldenState TV. The network was infamous for shaking up the staid world of 1950s TV game shows and 'The Greaser Challenge' promised to be no exception.

GoldenState TV had emerged in the late 1940s and its unconventional programming, partly inspired by the unsavoury antics of frathouse hazing, had proven to be as controversial as it was popular. The network's wealthy, thirtysomething backer, who had initially financed the entire operation out of his own pocket, had allegedly made his fortune in the emerging oil fields around Inglewood, to the east of downtown Los Angeles, and now he had cash to burn.

Oil slicks in the ground were one of his interests but he had other, more niche predilections and he was more than happy to pay big bucks to see them acted out in front of the TV cameras. And in the seedy backstreets of Venice Beach he'd quickly realized that if you offered a handsome man enough money he would agree to do almost anything.

The audience murmured with barely-suppressed anticipation as it awaited the start of the new show's pilot episode, eager to witness the competition unfold. As the spectators took their seats, their eyes were drawn to the layout of the studio, each area carefully constructed to accommodate the three upcoming challenges.

To the right was a set designed to resemble a 1950s college library. Its dark oak bookcases were filled with leather-bound tomes, the wooden desks adorned with brass lamps with green glass shades. On the opposite side of the studio was a makeshift garage with three, red Ford Thunderbirds resting on hydraulic jacks, the front wheels suspended in the air. But it was in the middle of the studio that the real interest lay: a low platform bathed in a sickly green light - the Forfeit Station.

The Forfeit Station was dressed as a traditional barbershop and at its center were three barber's chairs. All three chairs were facing out towards the audience and were upholstered in crimson leather, the chairs' chrome fittings glinting under the overhead spotlights. A white barber's cape was casually folded over the back of each chair, waiting to be draped around any of the three contestants who were unfortunate enough to find themselves sat in the Forfeit Station as the show progressed.

Behind the chairs was a long faux marble countertop with three large white porcelain basins set into it. Behind each sink was a tall mirror. On top of the counter was an assortment of traditional men's grooming and barbering accessories: straight razors, scissors, combs in jars of blue Barbicide and several sets of Wahl hair clippers. There were small bottles of hair oil, pots of brilliantine, tubes of Brylcreem and tins of greasy pomade, now softened to the consistency of warm butter under the hot studio lights. There were white towels, boxes of bleaching powder, hair dyes and even depilatory creams.

Strips of white paper were neatly folded and stacked next to a hot wax machine. Stood at the opposite end of the counter was another machine that produced hot shaving foam.

The air in the studio was heavy with the scent of musky cologne, hair tonic and sheer expectation. This was the first episode of an unorthodox new game show and no-one in the audience quite knew what to expect.

The announcer's voice boomed over the studio speakers:

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to 'The Greaser Challenge'! Get ready for an electrifying showdown as our contestants vie for the title of ultimate greaser and the chance to win a big cash prize!"

As the announcer's voice echoed through the studio, the camera panned over to the back of the set where four figures were waiting behind a silver, sequined curtain to make their entrance.

"First up," the announcer continued, "we have Luca Barbieri. With his slicked-back pompadour and effortless charm, Luca's got the looks and the style to make waves in tonight's competition!"

Luca smiled confidently at the cheering crowd as he made his way onto the stage.

He was 27, a 6ft-tall Italian-American dressed in a slightly faded black leather jacket and white T-shirt. His blue denim jeans were cuffed at the bottom and on his feet were brown leather boots. He looked the very embodiment of the stereotypical greaser. Close your eyes and think of a handsome greaser in 1958 and that was Luca.

Luca possessed all the striking features of his Italian ancestry: the tanned complexion; the square jawline covered with the lightest trace of dark stubble; the thick, straight eyebrows forming two black lines above his almost coal-dark eyes. He was by any measure a magnificent specimen of virile manhood, blessed with the sort of charismatic good looks that charmed everyone he met, male or female.

But Luca's crowning glory was his glorious head of jet-black hair, meticulously sculpted into a classic pompadour. Using handfuls of pomade, the sides had been slicked back and combed up so that the greasy hair crested on top of Luca's head in an obsidian wave. The heavy, long forelock at the front was pulled forward so that it dangled over his forehead to a point just past his eyebrows.

In the blaze of the studio lights, each grease-soaked strand shimmered with healthy, oil-drenched vitality, a living testament to Luca's dedication to his hair, to his self-image and to his greaser identity. For Luca, his pompadour was more than just a haircut: it was a form of self-expression, a tangible representation of his unwavering allegiance to the greaser community!

With each visit to the barber, with each application of the oiliest, greasiest, stickiest pomade, he'd nurtured his pompadour into a magnificent, meticulous masterpiece, lavishing upon it as much care and attention as any other of his most cherished possessions. He reveled in the tactile slipperiness of his hair beneath his fingertips, of the gorgeous masculine scent of the exotic pomade that hung like a fragrant cloud around his beautiful head.

Luca had first coaxed his hair into a pompadour a decade earlier, as a 17-year-old when he'd just started to explore his greaser identity, and it had been his proud signature look ever since. He was deeply attached to his hairstyle, both literally and figuratively.

As the audience admired the sheer beauty of Luca and his oil-slicked hair, they couldn't help but ask themselves the question: why would this handsome man risk a dramatic, possibly shocking makeover in one of the Stylist's three chairs?

The answer was simple: Tommy Paul. Tommy was Luca's biggest rival in the greaser community and the former beau of Luca's current girl, Lisa. Tommy had never forgiven Luca for taking his place in Lisa's affections and now he wanted revenge.

As news of this innovative new TV game show began to filter through LA's greaser community, Tommy was determined to bait Luca into appearing as a contestant. And it had worked. Luca accepted the challenge, determined to prove himself not only to Tommy but also to Lisa and the rest of the LA greasers.

The stakes couldn't be higher and the potential consequences of losing were dire. Not only would Luca face the humiliation of defeat in front of his own people, his rival, and especially his girl, but he would also risk the destruction of his carefully-crafted identity, symbolized by his beloved pompadour. Failure on the show would be seen as a reflection of inadequacy and weakness, as a sort of emasculation.

Of course Lisa had tried to talk him out of it. She knew the almost totemic role that Luca's haircut played in his life. Last night, as they had made love, she'd tried to imagine what he would look like, sat in a barber's chair as his precious hair was casually hacked off or transformed into something humiliatingly absurd. As his passionate thrusts had grown more urgent, and as he came inside her, she'd wondered what he would look like totally bald, and as she imagined how his shorn head would feel, his scalp prickling with the shortest of stubble under her fingertips, she gasped aloud and came herself.

But Lisa's pleas were to no avail. Luca was determined to appear on the show, to win the cash prize and to triumph over Tommy Paul.

Luca knew that Lisa was somewhere in the audience, watching, hoping, but as he glanced towards the three barber's chairs at the Forfeit Station, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd made the right decision after all...

The announcer's voice came through the speakers once again: "Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our second intrepid contestant: Mr Tommy Paul!"

At 28 and over 6ft in height, Luca's great rival cut an impressive figure as he pushed his way through the curtain and onto the set. Tommy wore a brown leather jacket with black patches on the elbows. The slightly-fitted cut of the jacket emphasized what was obviously a very buff physique with wide shoulders tapering down to a slim waist. Beneath the jacket was a bright blue gingham shirt left unbuttoned at the collar. A pair of faded blue Levi's with a red handkerchief stuffed into one of the shirt pockets and some mud-flecked motorbike boots completed the look.

As he stepped onto 'The Greaser Challenge' set, the studio lights illuminated his perfectly styled hair, drawing attention to the defining feature of his image: a jelly roll haircut.

Slicked straight back over the top of his scalp and then combed up at the sides, the saturated hair on the crown and front of Tommy's handsome head was artfully curled over and pulled forward to form a thick 'roll', like the trunk of an elephant, held together by a potent combination of grease and oil. The lush hair on the back of his head was styled into an immaculate D. A.

The heavily-greased 'trunk' hanging low over his forehead bounced slightly with every step Tommy took, like it had a life of its own. Although his hair, like his thick eyebrows, was naturally light brown, the oil made it look several shades darker.

Tommy's brown jelly roll contrasted spectacularly with Luca's glossy black pomp. Both haircuts had their similarities, true, but when next to each other they looked very different. The pompadour seemed almost conservative compared to the outlandish curled trunk of the jelly roll.

Consumed with jealousy ever since Lisa had left him for Luca, Tommy wanted nothing but revenge. Luca had initially refused to pick up the gauntlet thrown down by Tommy: to prove his greaser credentials by appearing as a contestant on GoldenState's new game show. Then Luca had challenged him back, agreeing to participate himself but only if Tommy agreed to appear as another contestant.

Tommy had thought about it long and hard. He'd had no intention of appearing on the show. Why would he risk his beautiful haircut or his carefully-curated self-image? He loved his look, he adored his treasured hair and he appreciated what it said about him as a person and as a man. The jelly roll was his pride and joy, the product of years of careful styling and barbering.

The thought of putting that beloved hair in the firing line, into the hands of this 'Stylist' guy, who sounded like a total maniac from what he heard backstage... of having his jelly roll destroyed in front of a live audience! Just the thought of it had sent waves of revulsion through him.

And then he thought of Lisa and Luca, and especially of Luca. This was his opportunity to prove to Lisa that he was the better man, the superior greaser, more deserving of her than Luca ever was. When Lisa saw Luca defeated, Tommy just knew she'd come running back to him. He just knew it.

Winning 'The Greaser Challenge' would not only elevate Tommy's status within the greaser community but also serve as a personal triumph over Luca, proving once and for all who was the Alpha greaser. But above all Tommy thought of Luca's glorious, shining black pompadour, the embodiment of his identity as a man and as a greaser.

After Luca had issued his own counter-challenge, Tommy had spent many long, hot and sweaty nights fantasizing about Luca's pompadour, about how much he craved to see it dismantled, degraded and transformed into something grotesque while all the world watched and laughed. To his own shock, he'd even found himself growing aroused as he considered the multitude of ways that Luca's pomp could be irreversibly wrecked; and in those most private moments, despite his horror at his own body's responses, he'd reached between his legs as he lay in bed and frantically masturbated to completion.

And so he had accepted Luca's challenge and now the two of them, bitterest rivals, were going to settle their differences in the most public way possible, in front of a studio audience and on national television. One thing was utterly inevitable, either Tommy or Luca, maybe even both, was going to leave the studio that night with their prized greaser haircut radically transformed.

The audience barely had time to process the appearance of these two handsome greasers on stage before the announcer was introducing the third of the episode's four contestants.

"Please welcome Mr Tyler Goldenhead! With his suave demeanor and effortless charm, Tyler's sure to turn heads and capture hearts tonight!"

Tyler, at 32, exuded an air of urbane sophistication as he stepped onto the set of 'The Greaser Challenge', especially compared with the more earthy presence of Luca and Tommy. Tyler didn't even own a pair of jeans, let alone a leather jacket or motorbike boots.

He wore a fitted pair of sand-colored, straight-leg trousers with brown leather shoes and white socks. His crisp, white corporate shirt was pressed to perfection and around his neck was a narrow black tie that hung almost down to his waist. Undeniably attractive and athletic, with blue eyes and a clean-shaven face, Tyler Goldenhead was impeccably groomed, a consequence of his high-profile role in a well-known firm of LA accountants. He knew how to take care of himself and how to present himself in the most favorable light.

Tyler's thick blond hair was slicked straight back from his hairline to the nape of his neck, flat against his scalp, with copious dollops of Brylcreem. It resembled a greasy, golden swimming cap, each strand stuck obediently in place to form a seamless, oily barrier that hugged the contours of his head. Neatly tapered at the back with high cut arches around his ears, the hair pressed against his skull like a second skin.

He loved Brylcreem. He loved the slightly acidic, citric smell of Brylcreem. He loved the creamy, greasy texture of Brylcreem. And he loved the ritual of putting Brylcreem into his hair and repeatedly gliding a comb through it, front to back, like a sharp knife through silk, coating every single blond strand from its root to its tip.

Tyler's love for Brylcreem was almost fetishistic. His oiled haircut was a style he'd been cultivating for the last ten years, even since he'd joined Witter, Witter & Grabb as a junior from college. The rigorously slicked-back hair wasn't just a hairstyle. It was a profound reflection of his character: discipline, control, and a relentless pursuit of perfection. The sleek elegance of his hair spoke volumes about his commitment to excellence in all aspects of his life.

For Tyler, his hair wasn't only something to style: it was a source of confidence and self-assurance. Like almost nothing else, it made him feel like a man. His slicked-back hair crowning his handsome face was more than just a tonsorial statement or a personal choice: it was a visual manifestation of his values, aspirations, and unwavering determination to succeed at everything he attempted.

And he was prepared to put it all on the line in the biggest gamble of his life.

For Tyler, the decision to risk his impeccable appearance on 'The Greaser Challenge' stemmed from a deeply-personal motivation. Despite his striking good looks, Tyler harbored a secret insecurity that nibbled at the foundation of his confidence. Behind his charismatic facade lay a profound sense of inadequacy, a lingering doubt that he really was more than just a handsome face with a slicked-back haircut. Even though he had attained a senior role at Witter, Witter & Grabb, he still felt like an imposter, constantly questioning whether he truly deserved the admiration and rewards he received.

In entering the competition, Tyler saw an opportunity to confront his inner demons head-on and prove to himself, and the watching world, that he was more than just his good looks. By risking his male beauty and exposing himself to the possibility of ridicule and humiliation, Tyler hoped to exorcise the doubts that constantly gnawed at him. If he could triumph over this, he figured, then he could triumph over anything.

Although he wasn't a greaser or a member of the greaser community, Tyler had applied to appear on the show and, to his surprise, had been accepted. It seemed that his lavish use of Brylcreem had been enough for him to qualify. And he was determined to win. It would demonstrate to himself that he was capable, competent, and deserving of success, and the prize would be so much sweeter given the consequences should he lose.

For Tyler it was all or nothing. Either he would emerge as the victor or he would sit in the barber's chair and watch as his carefully-constructed self-image was stripped away, confirming the loser that lurked underneath.

The announcer cleared his throat: "And last but certainly not least, we have Mr Ryan Monroe. With his classic good looks and irresistible appeal, has Ryan got what it takes to steal the show?"

Ryan's appearance instantly drew unsolicited gasps of admiration from everyone in the studio, male and female alike. At 25 years old and working as a real estate agent around Bel Air and Beverly Glen, Ryan possessed the sort of striking good looks that rivaled those of many Hollywood heart-throbs.

Ryan wore an immaculate, perfectly tailored, dark blue suit, with a white shirt, a narrow, pale pink silk tie, black socks and black, patent leather dress shoes. His fitted clothes just emphasized the taut and toned athleticism of his body. With an infectious smile, dark-brown eyes, dark eyebrows and a sort indefinable magnetic charm - Ryan had it all. His gorgeous executive contour hairstyle glistened in the spotlights overhead, a masterpiece of precision barbering. With a severe side parting and meticulously styled top, the haircut was evidence of a highly-refined taste in male grooming.

Ryan's dark hair had been slathered in lavender-scented brilliantine before being combed straight back from his hairline to the nape of his neck. Then a parting had been carefully picked out, the hair below the parting slicked back, past his ear, and pressed flat to the side of his head. The hair above the parting had been dragged by the comb at a right angle, directly over the top of his dome, forming a combover, where it had been lightly pressed and smoothed onto his scalp with a gentle touch of the palm of the hand. The hair at the front was then plucked up by the comb and elevated, moulded backwards slightly, to form a little quiff or bumper.

It would've been a very beautiful haircut on any man. On Ryan it looked outstanding, and he knew it. As an adornment to his already masculine attractiveness, the slick executive contour could hardly be bettered. It was a perfect combination of the perfect man matched with the perfect hairstyle.

However, beneath that shining helmet of brilliantined hair, there was a thrilling fear of what might happen if his prized haircut was faced with destruction. To outsiders, Ryan's decision to become a contestant on 'The Greaser Challenge' seemed inexplicable. He had a well-paid job and so the $10,000 prize money wasn't necessarily a motivating factor. But his gloriously greased hair was a defining characteristic. Why would he want to risk having it removed, and in potentially the most humiliating and public way possible?

Like Tyler, although he wasn't a greaser, the grease in Ryan's hair combined with his handsome face, was enough to get him the green light of acceptance by the show's producers. But Ryan's decision to throw himself into the high-stakes world of 'The Greaser Challenge' was driven by his insatiable thirst for adrenaline-fueled thrills. Despite his polished exterior and buttoned-down demeanor, beneath the surface polish and brilliantined haircut, Ryan was an adrenaline junkie, always chasing the next rush and the next adventure.

The prospect of risking his beloved executive contour on national television sent shivers of anticipation down Ryan's spine, from the top of his head to the very root of his cock. The idea of stepping into the unknown, of facing the uncertain outcome of the challenges ahead, set his pulse racing and his balls tingling. He craved the adrenaline rush of uncertainty, the exhilaration of pushing himself to the limit and beyond, especially as he knew what the cost of failure would be. But the potential disaster that might await him in one of the Stylist's red leather chairs just made the adrenaline kick even more intense.

The thought of losing his treasured, immaculate haircut, along with his polished and professional image in front of the television cameras, in full view of his friends, his colleagues, his clients, sent a surge of the most exquisite erotic fear coursing through his veins. Ryan felt his cock throb and flex in response, even as his stomach lurched, and not for the first time in his life he appreciated the jockstrap keeping his evident arousal away from the public gaze.

In Ryan's mind, 'The Greaser Challenge' wasn't just a game show, it was the ultimate adrenaline-fueled adventure. With each passing moment, his excitement, and his erection, only grew.

Luca, Tommy, Tyler and Ryan - the first four contestants on the first episode of 'The Greaser Challenge'. Only one could win the $10,000 prize. The other three would face a makeover that they would never forget.

II

The announcer's voice filled the studio once more.

"Welcome to the most exciting game show of the year where greased men put their greased hair on the line for a chance to win a big cash prize! Our four hot and hairy contestants will go head-to-head in a series of hair-raising challenges. Only one of them can win. The losers will face the transformation of a lifetime courtesy of our resident Stylist!"

The audience erupted into waves of cheers and applause obviously eager to witness the high-stakes drama unfold before their eyes.

After the four contestants had made their entrance, they were ushered towards the part of the set dressed as a College Library, each guy going to stand behind one of four podiums which were placed in a line facing out towards the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Stylist!"

There, seated in the first of the three empty red barber chairs and under the glow of a solitary spotlight, was the Stylist.

He lounged casually in the chair, his legs apart, his hands hanging languidly over the ends of the armrests. An ironic smirk played across his lips as he waved to the crowd. He then turned in the chair and waved to the group of four contestants: Luca, Tommy, Tyler and Ryan.

The Stylist was around 35 years old and was dressed in a traditional white barber's smock that had been perfectly tailored to emphasize what was obviously a sculpted physique. Muscular without being bulky, he wore white trousers with black, patent leather shoes. His face was clean-shaven apart from a perfectly-groomed, thick, black handlebar mustache that occupied the whole of his upper lip. The dark tips of the mustache had been waxed into sharp points adding a slightly sinister but undeniably masculine aspect to his appearance. His oiled black hair was parted on the left, neatly tapered at the nape and combed diagonally back across the top of his head to form a classic, if slightly anachronistic, 'Valentino' style.

In a former life he could've been a boxer or even a wrestler, and maybe he had been. Now he lived alone in a large, expensive condo on Washington Avenue in Santa Monica. At some point he'd received extensive training in the art of men's hair removal but, other than that, very little was known about him beyond the obvious enjoyment he derived in altering another man's appearance, usually in an extreme, dramatic and unexpected way.

The Stylist had a hard-on for haircut humiliation and when it came to specializing in tonsorial torment, no one did it better.

Luca looked over at him, his mind conjuring up lurid images of his beloved pompadour being mercilessly hacked away and reduced to a skinned shadow of its former glory. His fingers instinctively reaching up protectively to lightly pat the sleek mound of jellied black hair piled up on top of his head.

As the spotlight fell upon the Stylist, Tommy Paul experienced a similar sense of unease. A rivulet of sweat slowly trickled down the back of his neck as he looked across at the man who held the power to ruin his glorious greased haircut with a single swipe of the clippers. He glanced over at Luca who was fingering the top of his thick pomp. He imagined Luca sat in one of those red leather chairs, in front of the studio audience, powerless to resist as the Stylist lay waste to all that sumptuous, greased black hair...

Tyler could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his lips dry lips as he looked nervously towards the Stylist, the man who might hold the fate of his golden locks in his hands, the man who could destroy his prized hair and deliver a devastating blow to his already fragile self-confidence. Tyler shuddered at the thought of it.

Ryan stood there, conflicted. The prospect of having his gorgeous, brilliantined executive contour fall victim to the Stylist's razor-sharp shears filled him with dread. In his imagination he saw the humiliating spectacle that awaited him, his once-proud haircut reduced to ruin, mangled beyond all recognition. His stomach roiled with the horror of it.

But for Ryan, amidst all that fear and uncertainty, was a more perverse allure and an undeniable erotic thrill. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like an illegal drug. What if he did lose? What if he actually did find himself in one of those chairs facing the inevitable destruction of his hair? In front of the cameras?

As Ryan's eager erection pressed against the tight confines of his jockstrap, it was all he could do not to close his eyes and moan out loud.

"Ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake," the announcer declared in a serious tone. "The Stylist isn't just here to trim a few split ends."

The Stylist's grin widened at the announcer's words.

"With free rein to wield his shears and clippers anyway he wants," the announcer continued, "he can turn a prized pompadour into a travesty, a sleek slick-back into a catastrophe, the perfect quiff into a wasteland of follicular devastation!"

The Stylist nodded in agreement, his lips turning up into a cocky grin as he swiveled in the chair and theatrically gestured towards the array of barbering implements laid out on the counter behind him, implements that threatened to wreak havoc on even the most carefully-coiffed hairdo.

"He can even target a man's most prized fur. The manly mustaches! The sensational sideburns! The thickest of eyebrows! The full treatment!"

The audience clapped in delight, energized by the prospect of seeing some serious transformations take place. This was a novelty for them and they were determined to enjoy every moment of it.

As the announcer's words hung in the air, a palpable sense of disquiet settled over the contestants stood behind their podiums as they too contemplated the Stylist's formidable arsenal of grooming accessories.

In the world of 'The Greaser Challenge,' no hair, or ego, was safe from the Stylist's heavy touch and the show was about to begin.