More Than a Train Journey
by Chris Creemer
Author's note: It has been a while since I sent a story to SlickVille but thank you to all have written to me coaxing more writing... Here we go... Be warned ... This story does contain adult themes.
Let me start by explaining. I am studying senior year chemistry at one of those large and rather anonymous universities in the countryside.
Like most of the students (and I suspect the lecturers) I escape back to the city for each semester break and often at weekends.
Remember this is not the 1960s when university was about fun, protest, and longhair — these days it seems to be about study, job offers, and money.
Anyway, I digress. Most Tuesdays — as I don't have any lectures on Mondays — I arrive at the train station at some ungodly hour to catch my 5:43 a.m. train.
The train is often surprisingly busy, mainly because as well as serving the university it is also an inter-city service and business people wanting to be in some other city by nine a.m. need to catch it. Sometimes it is difficult to get a seat, but at least I change trains about halfway and never have problems getting a seat to myself.
This particular morning in early spring, even though it was still dark, there was not the chill wind that seems to often blast the platform. The train finally arrived at the platform and I and my fellow travellers piled on, each intent on getting our favorite seat. It is funny how we become so proprietary about seats on trains.
As I clambered into my normal spot against a window a businessman in a suit, briefcase and Blackberry sat down beside me. I muttered to myself. I would not be able to spread out as I would like.
The train began to pull out of the station and I drifted gently off to sleep. I had two hours before I needed to switch trains.
I woke with a bit of a jolt and found that my neighbor had fallen asleep on my shoulder.
I was aware of a sweet perfume smell and of how his hair was glistening in the light. His immaculate businessman's haircut was greased into place and not a hair was out of place.
He awoke and smiled a half smile.
"Sorry buddy. It is early..."
I smiled back and said, "It's ok bud. It sure is early."
As I spoke he ran his hand through his hair grooming the few misplaced hairs back into place.
He laughed, "Can't stand looking messy."
"Oh!" I said, "My hair is always a mess... never seem to get around to getting it cut" — feeling slightly guilty of my appearance.
"That is easy to fix. Your heading to Brenton U aren't you? If you are, there is a barber at the station where you change trains."
I laughed again, "Sure buddy but..." I was unable to scramble for a response.
"We can get you tidied up pretty quickly!"
Maybe because I was half asleep or maybe some other reason but I smiled in agreement.
Almost then the announcement came, "This train is now approaching Clinton Heath. Change at Clinton Heath for the Brenton and Lowchester services."
As I gathered my bag and the book I had been intending to read, he opened his briefcase and after folding his newspaper, carefully placed it inside.
I spied a small red tub. "Emergency supply," he laughed holding up a tub emblazoned with the name "Brylcreem."
He placed the tub back in his case and snapped it shut with a firm click.
The train glided to a halt. The sun streaming in through the windows shone on his shiny greased hair. For the first time I really looked at him. He must have been in his late thirties with jet black hair and strangely deep green eyes. His crisp white shirt and dark suit setting off his square jaw.
I stood up and as I did so did he. "You should have 45 minutes or so before your train?"
"Yes." I nodded.
"Great... plenty of time for a cleanup!"
"Umm I don't know..." I stumbled as I moved past him into the corridor.
"Of course you do," he said as he followed me off the train — rather unexpectedly at least from my point of view.
"Come on buddy... Joe's Barbershop is just there," he said pointing to a group of small shops at the end of the platform.
Somehow — and to this day I don't know why — I allowed myself to be dragged or was it pushed along the platform.
He pushed open the door. A bell tinkled as he did so. A thousand childhood memories returned of trips to the barber with my dad. That perfume of lather and old magazines greeted me.
"Hi Joe!" he greeted the owner, an elderly short rather rotund and bald man who looked to be in his late 60s. He was the very model of an old style barber.
"Hello Mr. Greenwood. Needing a trim?"
"No Joe it is my buddy here who needs a trim. Cleanup him up properly for us will you?"
The old barber smiled almost knowingly somehow.
He pointed the chair. "Take a seat young man."
My head was spinning as I sat down. I couldn't work this out. Was it the idea of getting a haircut ... surely not ... was it the words "clean him up" or "young man ", was it that "Mr Greenwood" had simply taken control?
The soft leather chair felt well used but comfortable.
How many men had sat here to be "cleaned up" I wondered?
"Joe will give you a makeover buddy. You won't know yourself!" Greenwood said with a grin.
The barber threw a light blue cape around me, fixed it after placing paper tissue around my neck.
He spun the chair so I could not see the mirror that lined one side of the shop above his basin.
Joe stood in front of me and picking up a comb said, "Quite a mop you have there son!" as he combed my rather unruly dark brown hair into a rough parted style.
My heart was racing as I heard the buzz of clippers. The old barber grabbed the top of my head firmly and pushed my head forward. I felt the cold metal on my neck and the vibration as the clippers sheared my hair. He tilted my head to the side and continued around the sides. My hair began falling on the cape. Large swathes of hair fell lightly on the cape or onto the floor.
My mind drifted as the barber sheared my unruly locks.
I was taking deep breaths. I couldn't really understand how this had happened but strange feelings and memories pervaded. There were memories of my childhood and of my father, of sitting at the barber while my father had his haircut and sitting in the chair as he directed the barber on how my hair was to be cut. I was like that boy again.
Next came a spray bottle with water. Joe wet my hair lightly and then with well practiced hands, scissors, and comb began snipping and trimming the hair on my head.
I felt strange stirrings. Stirring I could not understand.
Mr. Greenwood sat opposite, smiling and watching intently. I caught his eye. "Enjoying this son?" he said knowingly.
I smiled nervously at his comment. "I thought so," he responded.
The barber continued snipping and combing, stopping every so often to add more water.
Then he put down the scissors and comb, stood back and said, "Short enough on the sides Mr. Greenwood?"
I wanted to scream out "YES!!!!" but my voice seemed frozen as Mr. Greenwood spoke.
"Not bad Joe but a bit higher on the back and sides. We want you very tidy don't we son?"
I couldn't believe it as I haltingly uttered the word "Yes."
The barber grabbed the clippers and once more I felt the metal against my skin as more hair was sheared from my head.
"Much better Joe, perhaps a bit more...a good 2 inches above the ears I think."
I was terrified. How would I face my buddies? I would be so out of place amongst them now.
The old barber fussed and trimmed and yet more hair fell onto the floor. Then putting the clippers down he looked to Mr. Greenwood who nodded approval.
I heard water running behind me and felt warm lather being applied to my neck and above my ears. And then came the inevitable scraping of the razor. The barber scraped high above my collar and ears cleaning away more than a few hairs. He was cleaning away any resistance.
A quick wipe of a towel and the last remnants of foam and hair were cleaned away from my neck and ears.
"It looks so much better now son. Joe, he needs a good dollop of grease to finish!"
It was inevitable. I was to be greased. I would have shiny slicked hair. I would be like my father. It dawned on me why this all seemed so irresistible.
The barber swung the chair. For the first time I could see my new haircut.
I looked like a man from the 1950s. I very short parted style haircut. My neck and ears bereft of hair.
The barber applied yet more water from the spray. He opened a tub of haircreem and grabbed a large dollop of white creem. The room filled with the sweet perfume I had smelt in the train. The perfume immersed my senses.
"Grease him well. He wants to be greased... don't you son. You need it badly don't you. You MUST be greased!" said Mr. Greenwood.
"Yes.... Mr Greenwood." I heard myself say deferentially. It was the first time I had called him by name.
I felt the old barber's warm hands massaging the smooth white stuff into my hair. It oozed through his fingers as he massaged it deep into my hair. He took another dollop and added it to my already grease-laden hair.
Mr Greenwood smiled. "You are being greased son! It makes you feel so good to be greased doesn't it? You will always be greased now won't you son. What do you NEED son?"
"I need to be greased Mr. Greenwood," I said softly.
"What did you say son? Speak up so Joe can hear you!" Mr. Greenwood commanded.
"I need to be greased Mr. Greenwood." I said once more.
"You heard him Joe. He needs to be greased. Another dollop should do him fine!"
"Sure Mr Greenwood." The barber said, grabbing another dollop of the white perfumed creem from the tub.
Once more I felt his fingers massaging the haircreem into my newly shorn hair.
I looked in the mirror. My hair was shining, gleaming with the grease.
The barber grabbed a comb and after a light spray of water combed my hair into an immaculate parting, my hair swept back in a conservative business style.
"It looks good doesn't it son?" Mr. Greenwood said smiling at me.
"Yes Mr. Greenwood," I replied, my heart racing and my hands shaking under the cape.
The stirring I had felt earlier now fully realized.
"You are greased now boy! You needed to be greased didn't you boy???" Mr. Greenwood asked commandingly.
"Yes, Mr. Greenwood. I needed to be GREASED!"
"Good boy!" he said with a smile.
What are you boy?"
"I AM GREASED SIR!"
He smiled.
I felt on fire all over. I did not really understand it. But the feeling was real.
"Now son you need to pay Joe for you haircut. You know that don't you son."
"Yes Mr. Greenwood."
As I spoke I noticed the old barber has changed the sign on the shop door to CLOSED and was pulling down the shades over the shop window.
I understood its meaning.
The barber removed the cape as I stared at the mirror. I barely recognized myself. My hair was two inches above my ears, my neck naked with a straight parting down the right side of my head.
My hair shone in the shop lights. The grease held my hair perfectly in place. I was greased now.
Mr. Greenwood stood up. He began undoing his belt as he did so.
The barber turned to me. He was also undoing the belt of his trousers as he did.
I knew I would pay for my haircut now......
"Boy what are you boy?" the barber said as he looked at my well creamed hair.
"I AM GREASED SIR!"
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