Hair Today, Gun Tomorrow
by AstroGirl
Jarvik hated wasting time in a barber's chair, but by the time his ship docked at the space station after a four-month deep space construction job, his fringe was falling into his eyes and impairing his ability to work. Not to mention making him look like some kind of long-haired nancy. And the one time he'd tried to cut it himself with a straight razor, the results... had not been good.
So the first thing he did, after the obligatory few manly beers at the bar nearest the docking station, was to look up a barber. Unfortunately, the station directory didn't list one. What it did list was a "beautician." Jarvik winced. But, seeing no practical alternative, he puffed out his chest, squared his shoulders in a fashion that would declare to the world that he was not the sort of man who habitually went about frequenting "beauticians," and made his way to the salon.
The "beautician," an odd-looking, gnome-like man, was fussing over a blonde woman when he entered. She appeared to be in the middle of a long story about some kind of "trading run," the diminutive man nodding and making interested-sounding noises every so often.
Jarvik snorted. Trading, indeed. There were reasons so many women became traders. It wasn't that different an activity from shopping, when you came down to it. Nothing like winning what you desired in noble conquest, or building it with your own bare hands. He felt a moment of deep pity for the hairdresser, reduced to waiting on women and pretending to welcome their inane prattle. It passed quickly, though, to be replaced with irritation as he realized the fellow hadn't even acknowledged his presence.
"I'm here for a haircut," he said, in his best assertive, no-nonsense tone.
The man -- if he were even worthy of that name -- looked up at last, a little surprised. "Oh, hello. I didna see you there. If you'll have a seat, I'll be with ye in a minute." He smiled and reached for a hair dryer.
Jarvik did not take a seat, but crossed his arms and snorted derisively as he watched the beautician carefully fit the device over the woman's hair. "You won't use that machine on me."
The beautician looked up. "Oh? Just here for a shave, then, are ye? Perhaps a manicure?"
Jarvik ran a hand over his face, feeling the carefully cultivated stubble, designed to declare to the world that he was a man, not a woman or some pink-cheeked boy, then glanced down at his fingernails. "Manicure?" he sneered. "This is the dirt of honest labor on my hands. I'm not ashamed of it!" There was, in fact, very little actual dirt on them, honest or otherwise, as most of Jarvik's work was done in space gloves, but he figured the statement could stand as a sort of... What was the word? Metaphor. Yes, that was it. "Besides," he continued, "You've probably got a machine for that, too, don't you?"
"Umm... Yes?" ventured the man.
"A true man doesn't rely on machines. A true man does his own work, with his own hands, and calls no machine master. But I suppose that, if you understood that, understood what it really means to be a man, you wouldn't be here, doing this." He glanced around the hair salon, taking in all its disgusting trappings of femininity with a frown.
"Eh?" The fellow looked completely befuddled now. "I don't call it 'master.' I call it a hair dryer."
The woman rolled her eyes. "Ignore him, Jarriere. He's just talking to hear himself talk. I know the type."
Jarvik's eyes immediately snapped onto the woman's face, then roved downwards, noticing for the first time that she was very beautiful. "You're very beautiful," he said, not being one for keeping that sort of sentiment to himself.
"And you're very annoying," she responded. "Go away."
Ah, she was playing hard to get. Jarvik liked it when they did that. Sex was never as much fun without the thrill of the chase. "Honestly, woman," he said. "I don't know how you stand it. All these cold sterile machines, with only emasculated wretches to operate them..."
"Hey!" yelped the hairdresser -- Jarriere, apparently -- but Jarvik ignored him.
"Don't you long for the feeling of fingers -- strong, manly fingers -- running through your hair? The sensual feel of washing in a mountain stream and drying in the warmth of the sun as it caresses your naked body?"
The woman laughed at him. She actually had the effrontery to laugh at him! "That has to be the single worst chat-up line I've ever heard!"
Clearly, she had spent too much time here, among these machines and effeminate, cringing beauticians. Clearly, she needed to be taught a lesson, needed a man like Jarvik to put her back in touch with the primitive. As what's-his-name gently lifted the dryer from her head, Jarvik stepped forward and seized her arm. "Now, listen, woman," he began in what he was quite confident was an arousingly masculine snarl.
The woman started to yank her arm away, and Jarvik tightened his grip. From somewhere that seemed both a very long way away and directly behind his ears, there was a loud "thunk." Inexplicable pain blossomed inside his head, and he found himself slipping to the floor.
"The lady said she wasna interested," he heard, dimly, before everything want black.
Jenna looked down at the slumped body of the macho idiot who'd tried to pick her up. "He's not dead, is he?"
"Nah. Just unconscious. I know exactly how hard ta hit." Jarriere smiled at her. "He's no' the first such I've had in here. He'll wake up eventually with a sore head, and perhaps think twice about assaultin' the next lassie."
"Mmm," said Jenna. "I wish. But his kind never seem to learn." Suddenly, a wicked smile crossed her face. "Maybe if the lesson were a little more personal..."
Jarriere smiled back. "What didja have in mind?"
It was difficult to drag Jarvik out of the salon and into the corridor -- he had the weight of a gorilla as well as the personality of one -- but they could hardly leave him in there. Who knew what kind of destructive rage he might get into when he woke up and found that he'd been given the very latest in fashionable Betafarlian hairstyles?
Jenna surveyed his slumped form with great satisfaction. "You know, I think the pink suits him."
"Aye," said Jarriere. "Very fetching."
Jenna leant over and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He blushed. "What was that for?"
"For not being him." She prodded Jarvik with her toe and grinned. "You know, you're kind of fetching, yourself."
"I am?" His wrinkled, rather endearingly mobile face lit up with a huge smile.
"You are." She linked her arm through his. "Come on. I'll buy you dinner." Her voice took on a teasing note. "If it won't wound your male pride to accept, that is."
He shook his head, still grinning, and they walked off together down the hallway. "You know," she said thoughtfully after a while, "He was right about one thing. You are wasted in this job."
"I am?"
"Mmm. Look at you. You're brilliant at what you do, an excellent listener, capable of taking down a man twice your size with one well-placed blow... You ought to be, I don't know, personal beautician and bodyguard to the Supreme Commander or something."
"Hmm," he said. "What a very interestin' thought..."