Peter Solarz
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@slick-inspection
All of those guys choosed one path: of conformity.
They all choosed to obey and submit to their master, to conform to their ideals, to be slicked and preppy.
Be like them and get your slicked hair! Be proud of being like them, just as they are proud of this choice.
He was happy to comply to his new schools grooming standards after watching the new student introductory video for a couple hours.
He found out she’d be performing in three months. The only nearby show. He needed to be there — no matter what.
At dinner, his dad’s friend offered him a job at his luxury restaurant. “Pays well. But the image has to be exceptional.”
The next morning, he was sent to a barber. His adored mop was gone in minutes, replaced by a sharp and short side part it had a shine he’d never worn before. With his forehead fully exposed, he felt weird. Too neat. Too polished. Like someone else.
Later, in the restaurant, he buttoned up the white shirt, tucked it tight, stepped into polished shoes. He looked at himself once in the mirror.
Three months.
Just three months.
He was not really sure why his new job had such a strict personal grooming code, but he didn't care. After watching the new employee training video it only felt right to be clean shaven, hair firmly parted and greased every day and of course a collared shirt. It felt good to please his new boss.
He's become a different person under his Owner's control.
His jeans and band shirts replaced with khakis and polos, even his flip flops are gone.
His hair short, so very short, and clean shaven each morning.
He's become a new man. His Owner's man.
Three stories in one day. Don't ask for more in a while 😮💨.
He’d chosen Robin for the party — harmless, easy, maybe even fun. Then Sir’s message came: Change of plans. I’ll pick you up.
By the time the horn sounded outside, the choice wasn’t his anymore.
They stopped at a vintage barbershop.
“Have a seat, son”. Sir’s hand settled on his shoulder. “Elvis will suit you better.”
Cold water hit his scalp, sharp as a shock. His messy Robin hair collapsed, tamed into silence. The clippers followed — steady, merciless. When the barber sculpted the gleaming pompadour, the boy in the mirror was gone.
Outside, Sir opened the trunk. A pink Elvis suit waited, bright and final.
He didn’t know when pretending stopped feeling like obedience.
The bathroom mirror reflected a stranger: slick hair, polished shoes, tie exact. Sir had demanded perfection. Today, the world would see it.
The phone vibrated in his pocket. “Send me a photo. I want to see you dressed properly.” He raised it to the mirror, framed himself perfectly, snapped the shot, and sent it — every detail feeling foreign, dictated, precise.
Before stepping out, he inhaled, exhaled, bracing for every glance. The slick hair, the perfect folds, the polished shoes — impossible to ignore. Out of place, exposed, yet he forced himself forward. Every whisper, every curious look, felt like a test.
Sir’s instructions came first he repeated to himself.
The newest servant is getting fitted for his uniform. Perfectly groomed, clean shaven, dresses sharply. Look how he blankly stares into the mirror. You can clearly see that his mind is empty and he is just waiting for commands.
Next stop the barbershop. His hair wasn’t a mess, it was at least out of his forehead and brushed but he needed something different.
He needed something that screamed groomed, clean, and good boy.
A high fade so that he has to go and sit on that chair every week combined with a sharp, slick side part that requires to be styled meticulously every morning.
He won't like it but he will comply.
I haven’t been able to find a picture that makes me want to write more stories about submission and slick or short hair.
Dm are open if you have a picture you would like to see over here in the future. 😁
Also feel free in general to send me a message.
“Don’t look so uneasy,” Sir said, his hands resting on the boy’s shoulders. “It’s a special day. You’ll be speaking in front of everyone — you should shine.”
“A bit more product than usual, do you remember last year with your dumb fringe” he murmured, meeting his reflection’s eyes. “That boy isn't you anymore today for your graduation speech, you’ll glow.”
Sir ran his palm slowly over the slicked surface, feeling the stiffness with approval.
“Now go,” he said quietly. “Put on your suit — it’s almost time.”
I haven’t been able to find a picture that makes me want to write more stories about submission and slick or short hair.
Dm are open if you have a picture you would like to see over here in the future. 😁
Also feel free in general to send me a message.
The instruments were already waiting on the coffee table — spray bottle, comb, pomade jar, stiff brush. His stomach dropped the moment he saw them. Sir didn’t explain, just gripped his shoulders and pushed him down into the chair.
The hiss of the spray bottle hit his ears, cold water running down his neck. The comb tore through his hair with sharp pulls, followed by thick pomade pressed in with rough, heavy hands. Sir forced every strand flat, dragging his head back and forth without pause until it gleamed, tight and slick.
When Sir finally stepped back, the boy was dismissed. He went straight to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The mirror stared back: his flowy, easy style was gone, replaced with a strict, glossy helmet of control. He touched it, fingers coming away greasy, and humiliation burned hot in his chest. Tomorrow, everyone would see him like this.
A knock at the door broke his spiral. Sir’s voice was calm but final: “Hope you like it. Learn to style it properly—because this is you now.”
It was just on the tip of his tongue, the top of his head, the last of his resistance dangling by a thread. Jason, formerly "Dirty J," had the fleeting sensation that he should be doing something, attempting some sort of rebellion as he was seated in the comfortable chair of the school barber. It was so exceptionally hard to think when your "little pecker" was knocking at the fly of your uniform shorts and a barber pole was swirling hypnotically from the wall above your chair.
"Jason," a formerly failed rapper whose affluent family grew tired of coasting on their dime, wasn't the most strong-willed young man. Most of the "boys" at Herbert Tumblebottom's Academy for Uncouth Boys weren't, but each had to be broken uniquely, in a way that malformed their new nerdy personality from the ashes of their former charismatic facade. Jason, for instance, had kept his head half-shaved and dyed gawdy colors, a misguided symbol of his supposed rebellion against societal norms.
Such silly notions were easily quashed under the experienced hand of the school barber, however, and after a few months' growth, the old steady hand was combing pomade into a tightly trimmed crop of plain-jane hair atop a beaming boy's head. As the slick styling wax settled into his former source of expression, Jason failed to stiffle a nasaly moan with the last brush of his newly managed hair. The final comb brushed those silly thoughts of resistance straight from the boy's head and into his pants with an unseemly spurt, stain unseen beneath the cumbersome apron.
"Th- th- thanks, sir!" he stammered in clumsily voiced gratitude .
The floor was littered with the boy’s hair, more than he ever thought he’d lose in one sitting.
As the cape loosened, Sir’s hand pressed firmly against the boy’s slicked crown, sliding slowly down to the freshly shaven sides. The touch was icy, deliberate, each finger dragging across pale skin, and the boy stiffened, flush with shame. He felt inspected, owned — his humiliation deepening with every calculated stroke.
Sir’s grip lingered, thumb forcing his head still as he spoke at last:
“Next time, you won’t waste as much time in the bathroom… or these walls will go higher.”
Sir hadn’t told him to go to the barbershop or to slick his hair back so precisely, but the boy thought Sir would appreciate it. Instead, Sir’s hand clamped brutally around his chin the moment he stepped into the room, forcing his head up. His neck strained as Sir twisted his face left, right, downward, then back again, jerking him into angles that hurt. The grip was merciless — not gentle inspection, but a hunt for imperfection. Every pull made his jaw ache, every silence stretched his panic further. He had wanted to please, but under Sir’s furious eyes he felt naked, exposed, certain he would be found lacking
It’s perfect,” Sir said at last, his fingers releasing him with deliberate slowness. “But next time…” he paused, his voice calm but edged with warning, “next time you’ll wait for my command. I won’t always be so forgiving.
Sir didn’t have to remind him to slick his hair this time; he did it by himself. The boy was learning, and Sir would praise him even call him a good boy.
He obeyed, but part of him still wished to resist.
You will comply no matter how hard you fight against the change.
