THE INTERVENTION

THE INTERVENTION

BY RUGTOPPER

Vinny did not expect to find anything in his mailbox at work. He did not he know why he bothered looking in it. He had been an inter-office courier at Payton Publishing for three years. No one ever sent him messages; he was never invited out for a drink after work; and, no one even bothered to say hello to him in the halls as he made his rounds. Finding a handwritten note in his box was a shock. He was even more shocked to read that he was invited to watch a football game with some of the executives from the eighth floor this weekend. He hated going to the eighth floor. All the male executives would give him strange looks. They were looks he was not used to getting. They were looks of pity, but not in a condescending sort of way. It was a look of pity that you see someone give another human being when you know that that someone is about to help that human being. Regardless, it did not make Vinny feel comfortable. When he left the eighth floor, he always felt like he was about to be the next big project for the local Junior League to take on to make them feel good about themselves. He had no idea how wrong he was. He had no idea just how good he was going to feel about himself.

Vinny went to eighth floor, as instructed in the note. He waited outside Mr. Reynolds' office. Albert Reynolds was a tough man to size up. He was not the type of man you would see going to a football game, much less hosting a football party. He was more the type who might sing with the local chamber ensemble on a Tuesday night, and play golf on Saturday afternoon. Mr. Reynolds came out of his office with a big grin on his face. He was a slight man, maybe 5'7", if that tall; very trim with no facial hair. Aside from his height, his most striking feature was his fiery strawberry blond hair. At 43, he was still very youthful looking with his ruddy complexion and the flaming head of hair.

"Here are the directions to my house, Vinny. I hope you don't have any trouble finding the place. There are only going to be six of guys there, plus you."

"Should I bring anything, Mr. Reynolds?" Vinny asked.

"Well, Vinny, first call me Al. Second, if you want to you can bring some chips. The other guys are bringing the rest of the food. I'll be in charge of the grill out back."

Thanks, Mister . . . ah, Al."

"No, problem. See you Saturday at noon."

"Sure."

All week, Vinny looked forward to the weekend. Also, he noticed that the guys on the eighth floor looked at him differently. He wasn't sure what kind of look this was. Still, when they saw him, they did at least speak to him. That was the best change.

Saturday finally came. Vinny showed up at Al's house right at noon. He could hear the TV when he got out his truck. He grabbed the grocery bags and headed toward the front door. Before he even got to the porch, the door opened. It was Mr. Pierce. Perfect Pierce they called him. He once recalled a book that had had 10,000 copies printed because of a punctuation mistake on the last page of the book. He was not one to mess with at all.

"Hey, Vinny, glad you're here." Mr. Pierce said as he took the bags out of Vinny's hands.

"Hi, Mr. Pierce.

"Now, Vinny, we're away from work. Just call me Derek."

"Okay, Derek." Vinny replied.

"I think you know all the other guys here," Derek said as Vinny made his way through the door.

Yes, Vinny knew all of the men. After a quick survey of the room, he also knew why he might be there. He didn't really make the connection when Al gave him the directions, or even when Derek, with his stark-white preppy hairdo, greeted him at the door. Now he knew. There sitting in front of the giant screen television were the other four men from the eighth floor. All six were clothed in their khaki slacks, typical golf shirts and their obvious toupees. Here Vinny was in his blue jeans, faded t-shirt, tennis shoes, and ratty black hair. Now he knew that something was up.

Derek closed and locked the door. Al got up from his chair and came to shake Vinny's hand. Vinny was led over to the sofa.

One of the guys turned off the television.

"Now, Vinny, I bet you're wondering why we asked you here. Especially when you think we haven't even had anything to do with you all these years."

"Well, it is kind of odd, don't you think?" Vinny asked, as he ran his hands over his messy hair with the V-shaped hairline.

All the men just looked at each other and then at Vinny.

"Vinny, we want to help you. We think you're a great guy. We know you've been waiting for job to open up in editing. You've seen people come and go. You've even been overlooked twice. Most men would have left, but you've stuck it out. We appreciate that more than you know. But we can't help you until you decide that you need help. We need to know that you are willing to do what it takes to improve yourself for the job that you want."

"Look, uh, Mr. Steel, is it? I just came to watch the game. Yes, I'd like to move into editing. Yes, I'd like to remain in the publishing business. I've got time. It's been three years since I finished grad school. I've had a lot of offers, but not with a smaller publishing company like yours. I like what Peyton produces. I like their style. I like the fact that they really want to publish local authors."

"Yes, it is Mr. Steel, but you can call me Gene. We like what we see, but only in your resume, Vinny. There is plenty of room for improvement in so many areas of your life. We just want to help you, that’s all."

"Vinny, let me just cut to the chase. The way you present yourself on paper is suburb. The way you present yourself in public is another story. That is what we want to change." 

"Look, Al, let me make myself clear. I don't need your pity that each of gives me every day at work. I certainly don't need some sort of intervention to help me make it in the publishing world."

"True, Vinny, but believe me when I say that the publishing world is not busting down any doors to find the next best editor. It is a closed field. Everything is focused on the next author, the next bestseller. No one cares about editors or proofreaders. They are a dime a dozen. What I'm trying to tell you is that, as you are now, you will never stand out. There is nothing in your appearance that says, 'yes, I am a professional.' It says 'look at me, a man in his thirties who can barely make ends meet, who can't dress himself, and who is losing his hair.'"

"So, it comes down to that, does it? My hair. Is that what this is all about? This is rich. A room full of men in rugs giving me a lecture on hair loss. This day just gets odder and odder."

"Alright, Vinny. So what. So, we happen to wear toupees. The alternative is what you are quickly moving toward. We have all been there. We all know what will happen. We see what you do. We see you try to hide it at work. We see you use a lot of product to make the front look fuller. You brush down the sides to hide that growing V at your temples. We even see you slap on that awful ball cap when you get into your truck everyday when you leave. Is that how you want to live, Vinny? Are you prepared for what happens next?"

Up until this point Vinny and Al had been the only two involved in this exchange. Suddenly, Mr. Cappato spoke up. He was Italian, just like Vinny.

"Vinny, you and I are a lot alike. We both come from big Italian families. We both know how hard it is to be the one in the family who is losing his hair. Look at me Vinny. I was your age when all my thick, black hair started going down the drain." With that, Mr. Cappato reached his hand up to his full, coal black pompadour, and took it off. There sat Mr. Cappato with just a narrow rim of dyed black hair over his ears and across the back of his head.

Vinny just sat there in shock, speechless.

"This is where you are headed. Look at me, Vinny. Let me help you. Let us help you." Mr. Cappato pleaded.

"What, now all of you are going to take turns showing me your bald heads?" Vinny asked.

"We just might, but first I think we need to do something else."

That was Mr. Peyton, Jr., the boss’s son. He had the fakest head of brown hair you have ever seen. It did not even match the course salt-n-pepper hair on the back and sides. He didn't even bother to dye it to match.

"Vinny, I think you need to go to the bathroom and wash out all that product. I think you really need to see just what little you have up there."

"I think you might just need to make me, Junior." With that Vinny jumped up and snatched off Mr. Peyton's toupee. Not only did it reveal his bald pate, but it also revealed where his tan line stopped and his pasty scalp started.

"Well, I think that is enough childishness for one day." said Al. "Boys, I think Vincent here needs a bit of help. Please escort him to my barbershop in the basement."

When Al said this, two security guards from the building came in from the other room and lifted Vinny off the ground. One of the other executives, who had remained silent to this point, produced a large needle.

"This will make things easier, Vincent." said the executive with the tightly-curled wig.

Vinny found himself half awake in a barber's chair, strapped down and wearing only his teal-colored bikini briefs, surrounded by the six men. All of them were now totally bald. Their wigs and toupees were lined up in front of Vinny on stands just staring at him. One of the security guards was now dressed in a white barber's uniform. Vinny's hair was dripping wet. All of the black-colored mousse and fiber thickeners had been washed out. Gone was all the darkened powder used to hide his nearly hairless crown. Vinny just looked at himself for the first time. Then he looked at the men in the mirror. Lastly, he looked at the six Styrofoam heads staring at him.

With slurred speech, Vinny managed to say, "you're right, guys, I need help. I know if I ever want to advance to the eighth floor, I have to change my look. I've been denying it for over ten years now. I need to improve my image. I want a full head of hair like you guys. Mr. Cappato, I do want to look like you."

"Call me, Carmine, Son. I think that would be the best thing."

"Rex, go get a wig just like Carmine's out of the closet for Vinny here." Al told the barber.

While Rex was gone, the other security guard, now in full barber's gear came and began prepping Vinny.

Vinny's head was shaved until there was just a shadow left. Vinny was given two more shots. With this he passed out. Hours later, he awoke in the chair with a stiff neck. He was still hung over, but managed to open his eyes. In the mirror was this guy with eyes like his, who had a totally hairless, shiny dome. Rex was behind him mopping the floor. The smell was worse than a locker room. He knew that smell. He didn't need to think about what had happened while he had been out. The other barber came back into the room. He rubbed Vinny head with a clear liquid. This was cool and cleansing. It also completely removed the shine on his scalp. While the barber was doing this, Vinny noticed that there was only one wig stand in front of him. On it was a thick, black wig. The barber took this off the stand, applied tape to the underside and put it on Vinny's head. He pressed hard so the tape would adhere. He turned Vinny to the side and started combing and cutting. Next, he got out a steamer and started styling the wig. While Vinny was still groggy, Phil turned Vinny toward the mirror. Suddenly, Vinny was wide awake. Now he really recognized himself. This was the Vinny from high school. This was the cool Vinny that every girl and boy wanted to sleep with.

All six executives filed into the room. They were wearing their toupees and wigs.

"Vinny," Al said, "We have a change of clothes for you upstairs. We've recorded the game, if you want to watch it with us. Also, you are expected in my office on Monday morning to discuss your new position as a copy editor. Are we clear?"

Vinny nodded as Rex and Phil helped him up. Mr. Cappato helped Vinny up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Vinny put on his new casual clothes while Carmine watched and occasionally helped. Several hours later they eventually emerged from the guest bedroom each brushing down the back of his hair. The weekend turned out better than he had hoped. Vinny never watched the game, but spent the rest of the weekend with Carmine. Monday morning a whole new world began.

THE END

Love your stories. Excellent writing.

Thank you. I wrote mainly because I can't find anything that stokes the flames of my unusual fetish.

I Hate Butterscotch

By Rugtopper

I was beyond excited.  After making every excuse imaginable to see my dentist whenever I could over the years, Dr. Goldstein finally asked me out to dinner.  Yes, I guess I could have been bold and asked him myself, but he is at least 25 years older than me.  I have had a crush on him since I was a teenager.  He is so handsome and dapper.  He also has something else that most anyone, male or female, would find off-putting.  He wears a toupee.  It's not high quality in any way.  It doesn't even match the color of his real hair. You see, I have this bizarre problem:  I have a fetish for toupees.  Every time I'm in that dentist's chair, I get so turned on just staring at Dr. Goldstein's hard, fake hairline.  His toupee is a deep chestnut brown, very thick and full, with a traditional left-sided part.  The thing that makes it stand out is the upsweep off the forehead.  There are far better hairpieces on the market that he could have purchased, but for whatever reasons he went with a less-than-perfect facsimile of human hair.  I have never said anything to him about it, although I have wanted to.  

The night finally arrived.  I had changed my mind nine times over what to wear.  I knew he was taking me to a very upscale restaurant, so I knew I needed to wear a suit.  I had debated which of the three I owned to wear, and decided to wear the dark navy; then, there was the decision about the tie.  I had many in my collection that had belonged to older male relatives who had passed on.  Twenty minutes before he arrived, I finally decided on a bright floral.  My shirt was crisp and white.  My undershirt was taut across my pecs and clearly apparent underneath.  I had decided to wear these silly silk pink boxer shorts with red and white hearts on them - just in case.  I had gone all-in with garters for my socks.  I had worn them since college.  A fraternity brother had gotten me into them.

Dr. Goldstein arrived on time looking handsome as ever in a dark charcoal suit.  Like me, his shirt was crisp and white, but thicker than mine.  Still, I could see the faint outline of the scoop of his a-shirt.  I knew he had more traditional leanings in apparel.  When I opened my front door, my voice caught in my throat.  The way the porch light seemed to magnify the artificiality of his hairpiece took my breath away.  I didn't want to go to the restaurant.  I just wanted him in my bed with his hair on my dresser.  Still, I managed to find my voice and greet him.

"Good evening, Dr. Goldstein."

"None of that 'doctor' stuff tonight, Chris.  Please call me Jake.  Now, are you ready?  That restaurant won't hold our reservation."

"Sure, of course."

I'll skip over the dinner conversation.  It was pleasant, but pedestrian.  The food was excellent.  I thought that I had been fairly successful in avoiding staring at his hair, but I guess I failed because as we got to dessert and coffee Jake put his fork down and looked directly into my eyes.

"Uh, Chris, is there something wrong with my hair?  You keep staring at it."

I immediately crossed my legs and said, "I am so sorry, Jake.  I didn't mean to stare, or embarrass you.  I never would want to do that."

"Then why do you keep staring at it?  You seem to do it all the time, especially when you're in the chair for your checkups."

"I apologize, Jake.  It's just that . . . Never mind.  I can't say."

"Of course you can, Chris.  I've known you since you were 12.  You can tell me anything."

"Okay.  Uhm . . .  I don't want to embarrass you or hurt your feelings."

"You won't, Chris.  Now, just say it."

I took a sip of my coffee.  It tasted very bitter, so I added another spoonful of sugar and took another sip.  "Okay.  Jake, I really love your hair.  I think it is so beautiful.  There, I finally said it out loud".  After I said that, I tightened my crossed legs even more to keep what little I had from popping up.

At first, Jake got this slightly shocked look on his face, then he seemed to blush.

"You didn't hurt my feelings at all Chris.  In fact, I'm quite flattered.  But, I'm also somewhat embarrassed."

"I'm so sorry, Jake.  Now I'm embarrassed for upsetting you." I took another sip of coffee.

"Chris, I'm not upset, but I am a little embarrassed.  You see, this is very difficult for a man to admit, but I actually wear a toupee."

I crossed my legs even tighter, forcing my nuts to roll up inside myself!  I tried to keep a pleasant look on my face, but I was so excited.  I was also suddenly flushed and slightly dizzy.

"It looks great," I lied to him.  Actually, it looked great for someone with my issues, but it looked bad for someone who is trying to convince the world that his hair is real.

"I had to start wearing one when I was in college.  A lot of men are embarrassed about losing their hair, especially at a young age.  Are you okay, Chris?  You don't look well." What I tried to say was, 'I feel fine if a bit warm'.  What came out was some sort of incoherent gibberish.  After that, I think I passed out, but I really don't remember.

The next thing I do recall was the acrid smell of burning hair, and a coolness on my knees.  I slowly opened my eyes.  I was sitting in a huge barber's chair with a clear cape covering me, yet I could see my undergarments!  What was going on?  I looked up and saw my reflection in a huge mirror.  There was a husky man standing behind me.  He had the most exquisite black pompadour, clearly a full wig.  He was holding a tiny pen with a cord attached.  He kept touching the top of my head with it.  Each time he did, I felt a slight tinge and smelled burning hair - my hair.  There was only stubble on the top, but the rest of my hair on the back and sides had been trimmed very short.  I tried to talk, but was unable to utter a word.  In front of the mirror was a shallow ledge.  There were two styrofoam wig heads with a very dark ginger toupee on each.  At first I tried to think who I'd like to see wearing them.  As my mind cleared more and more, I realized that those toupees were for me.  As this reality became clear, I saw Jake via the mirror walking toward me.  

"Oh, good.  I'm glad you are finally waking up, Chris.  You know, I love the cute boxer shorts you wore just for me.  Still, it's a waste of all that silk to cover that little dicklet of yours.  I bet you sit down to pee.  Still, it's good to know you have some traditional leanings in your choice of apparel."

"What's going on, Jake?" It sounded somewhat slurred.  I must have still been hung over from whatever was in that bitter coffee.

The husky barber continued to denude my scalp while Jake spoke.

"Chris, you are very intelligent.  I think you have figured it out.  I am flattered by your schoolboy crush.  I even found the story you wrote about me.  Now, don't look so startled.  I recognized myself in the story immediately, even if you did change my name.  You see, Chris, you were very chatty a few months ago during that extraction surgery.  Afterwards, with Antonio's professional skills, I decided to help you become the mature man you have longed to be.  I think you need to know what it's like to have everyone stare at your hair all the time."

As Jake finished talking, he took a step back.  Antonio took one of the toupees off the styrofoam head and applied four pieces of tape to the underside.  Two of the pieces of tape were curved.  They were placed at the front and back of the hairpiece.  On the sides were placed two straight strips.  Antonio quickly placed the toupee on my head.  The perimeter was rather stiff.  The tape immediately stuck to my scalp.  When Antonio had my new hair on my head, I felt the curved tape in back adhere just above my occipital bone. I knew then that I was forever going to be a Norwood Six male patterned bald man in a rug. I could feel the light mesh foundation of the center of the toupee against my smooth, sensitive bald head.  The toupee was thick and full with a fixed left-sided part.  The texture was smoother than my own hair.  The contrast between my flat brown hair and what had been taped to my head was stark to say the least.  Antonio began trimming my new, fake hair with scissors. He used a small handheld steamer in the front. Suddenly I could tell he was giving me the same up-sweep that Jake's toupee had. I realized that apart from the color, I had the same model toupee as Jake did. The laser wand Antonio had earlier used had killed the hair on the top of my head. It has also destroyed the hair at my temples. Without that, it was even more glaringly obvious what I had on my head. My little dicklet decided to do a happy dance. I was enjoying my new look without a thought about the day-to-day life experiences I would certainly encounter.

I was mesmerized, humiliated, vulnerable, and thrilled all the same time.  I was also a little upset.

"It's butterscotch," I blurted out.  "I hate butterscotch."

"I know Chris.  You told me after that surgery as the nitrogen oxide was wearing off.  You told many, many things.  You told me about your crush you have had for me, and you told me one other thing."

As Antonio finished styling my new hair, Jake walked up behind me, leaned down beside my ear, and whispered, "you have a great toupee, Chris, but it's still just a cheap toupee."

The End

Lovely!