The buzz of the clippers, warm and vibrating against the back of his neck
was been disarmingly normal, although the cool breezes that the soft brush
flicking away the shavings had sent around his ears was - odd. But this -
whatever this was - this was much less pleasant, and only the presence of a
snarky Spike was keeping him from yelping and whining. That and the risk of
annoying Karl. Annoying Karl would be a bad thing. Apart from the multiple
things he had clamped to Xander's head, Karl stretched out the salon's
uniform black t-shirt far more than either of the women had, and in far
less attractive ways. He'd apparently had to cut the sleeves off entirely
to make room for his biceps.
Letting him approach with a cutthroat razor had been a real battle between trust and the sheer embarrassment factor of fleeing the room wearing a robe and a shaving cream beard. While he'd seemed thoughtful and calm to the point of placid when considering what to do to Xander's scalp, who knew what he might do if his artistry was questioned?
And really, it was too late in the day to try and salvage his honor, anyway, so he may as well try and enjoy the ride. At least that was the plan. Once he'd got past the whole Hugh Hefner feeling of drinking cappuccino and picking at tiny open sandwiches while surrounded by buxom women and dressed only in a robe, he'd taken a long moment to stare at his reflection and think Oz-like thoughts. Now though, Oz-like calm was rapidly fraying around the edges, replaced with a constant stream of pulls and pinches, and weird oozing sensations.
The clock in the mirror was clearly possessed. That's the only possible explanation for why it had taken at least an hour to move on 15 minutes. Some sort of demon hairdresser clock. And it's just plain disconcerting to be listening to Spike's commentary, but only see one half of the conversation. Karl: solid, thoughtful seeming Karl, seemed more than happy to be carrying out a critique of various fashion trends while making eye contact in the mirror with the invisible man. And, you know, lets not argue with the guy who seems to be wielding welding tools near your scalp . The arm rests of the leather and chrome chair were going to have nail marks though.
Trying to bring his concentration to bear on anything *but* that definitely odd oozing feeling, Xander tuned in on the conversation, only to realize that at some point Spike had stopped being in it.
"Em? Spike?"
He tried to look round, only to freeze again, with new pulling and pinching sensations plus extra free skull clamping courtesy of Karl's strong fingers.
"I'm sorry Xander - if you can just keep your head still for a few more minutes."
"Sure - sorry - where did Spike go?"
"He didn't say - Kit will know if he's left the salon though, so don't you worry."
Xander returned to trying to think of the Oz - seemed appropriate for hair pain, although somehow, you've got to hope that dye was less painful than this. Karl rumbled on, talking mainly to himself, and throwing out odd lines to Xander, that left the young man entirely uncertain if he was meant to answer or not. He was just not going to think about the possibility of being asked where he was going on vacation this year, or if he needed anything for the weekend. If his ears were hearing any such thing then clearly they were lying to him and should be ignored.
Shutting the door of 'his' treatment room behind him, Xander opened up the glossy card shopping bag that he'd been given so he could get dressed again. Opened it, and stared blankly for a moment at its contents. He opened the door again, and called down the corridor:
"Lizzie? Lizzie - I think you gave me the wrong bag."
Looking up from the clipboard she and Kit were discussing over the reception counter, she looked worried for a section, and came back over to take a look at the bag's contents again.
"There aren't my clothes - there should be a plaid shirt."
Grinning a little, Lizzie interrupted
"Oh - no - these aren't the clothes you were wearing earlier - we've got those here for you - these are your clothes for tonight? For the gig? Didn't he say? Oh - I'm sorry. Spike asked me to pick out a couple of outfits for you, to go with your new look for the evening - I hope I've got the sizes right and everything. - Whatever you don't want, just pop back in the bag and I'll return it - no problems"
"Oh. OK."
What else could he say? Sometimes it's just not worth fighting the weird - if his undead roommate wanted to give him a makeover, who was he to complain? Costume party. Just think of it as dressing up - you're seven hours away from anyone who knows you and hasn't seen you in paper underwear with a waxing strip stuck to your butt. You can put on some clothes and go out for the evening in fancy dress.
Shutting the door again, Xander took the bag over to the central seat, and shook out its contents for a closer look. There was no way in hell he was going to get into those jeans, 5% lycra or not, and skin tight denim might work on a certain vampire, but not a good look for the breathing. Tucking them back in the bag, he reached for the next item - a soft black bowling shirt. Tossing that across the back of the chair in a 'to try on' pile, Xander continued to sort. PVC t-shirt - back in the bag. Black and red kilt - *so* back in the bag. Baggy looking black cargo pants - to try on. T- shirt with some sort of circuit board on the front - to try on. That left a small pile of silver jewelry, and a couple of pouches. Deciding to leave the accesorising for later, Xander shucked the robe, and promptly realized there was no underwear in the bag. //Well, it's those pants or nothing, so I guess it won't hurt to go commando trying them on//
They were made of some sot of silky synthetic fabric, shiny, black, with clear plastic piping outlining the patch pocket on one leg, and forming a band around the other thigh. Pulling them on over his newly hairless skin was a weird sensation - not quite like anything, but making him so aware of his skin, of where he ended and fabric and air began caressing him. They sat tight and slightly lower on the hips than he was used to, then became fuller, flowing down to pool around his feet - odd, but surprisingly comfortable. Turning back to the chair to try on the two tops reminded him, not unpleasantly, that the cool satin fabric was moving across smooth sensitized skin all the way up his legs.
Shaking his head slightly, he picked up the circuit t-shirt. Tugging it on over his head merely proved two things. His first few weeks on the site really had bulked up his biceps - enough to make the piping around the shirtsleeves distinctly uncomfortable. And secondly, that there was no way he was wearing a shirt cut that short and skimpy. Which left him with the bowling shirt. Still fiddling with the last button, Xander walked over to the full-length mirror and examined the effect. He stared at himself for a long moment. He hardly recognized the man in front of him. Standing a little straighter Xander stared himself in the eye a moment before looking over his reflection top to bottom once again.
Staring in mirrors wasn't something he was overly familiar with - a quick check on the way out of the door to make sure he didn't have toothpaste on his mouth was more his style. But this stranger facing him, he didn't know quite how to feel about. He looked - good. The soft trousers draped smoothly, highlighting muscles and length in his legs, and seeming somehow elegant. And the shirt sort of worked. Narrow cut, with sleek lines he'd never have picked out for himself, and sheer panels where the pleated part of a dress shirt would be, for which he would definitely have put it back on the rack if he'd been shopping. But short and skimpy, and shiny and strapy were both right out, and Xander wasn't actually hating the new wardrobe - sort of went with the whole new look.
Blunt painted nails reached up to touch the hair - soft buzzy fuzz at the back of his neck and then still shaggy on the top. But shaggy with style, snipped and brushed and blown so it fell forwards, framing his face. And with burgundy and crimson tufts - wefts Karl had called them - worked in, so he looked like he'd dyed sections of hair, lining up tiger stripes around his cheekbones, covering his ears, and making his eyes look oddly large. Hard to believe they were only temporary, but there was a bottle of surgical spirit and a dropper on the reception desk with his name on it, so he could take them out and go home safely. Because he so couldn't go back to Sunnydale, where there were friends he'd grown up with and people he went to work with every day looking like this. But, at a good safe distance from every day life, Xander was starting to think that maybe it wasn't such a hardship to be going to this gig after all. 'Course the company was leaving something to be desired, but, hell, fancy dress and a bit of role play; he could play the glamorous club guy for the night.
Taking a final look, Xander nodded to himself, and only needed to take one deep breath before opening the door, looking for Lizzie, who was right outside, waiting for him.
"Hey there handsome - you find something you like?"
Wow - blushing was probably going to clash with the new hair color.
"Erm - yeah - you think this works?"
"You look great - everything fit ok then? - Hmm - just need the finishing touches, and you'll be all set"
Letting him approach with a cutthroat razor had been a real battle between trust and the sheer embarrassment factor of fleeing the room wearing a robe and a shaving cream beard. While he'd seemed thoughtful and calm to the point of placid when considering what to do to Xander's scalp, who knew what he might do if his artistry was questioned?
And really, it was too late in the day to try and salvage his honor, anyway, so he may as well try and enjoy the ride. At least that was the plan. Once he'd got past the whole Hugh Hefner feeling of drinking cappuccino and picking at tiny open sandwiches while surrounded by buxom women and dressed only in a robe, he'd taken a long moment to stare at his reflection and think Oz-like thoughts. Now though, Oz-like calm was rapidly fraying around the edges, replaced with a constant stream of pulls and pinches, and weird oozing sensations.
The clock in the mirror was clearly possessed. That's the only possible explanation for why it had taken at least an hour to move on 15 minutes. Some sort of demon hairdresser clock. And it's just plain disconcerting to be listening to Spike's commentary, but only see one half of the conversation. Karl: solid, thoughtful seeming Karl, seemed more than happy to be carrying out a critique of various fashion trends while making eye contact in the mirror with the invisible man. And, you know, lets not argue with the guy who seems to be wielding welding tools near your scalp . The arm rests of the leather and chrome chair were going to have nail marks though.
Trying to bring his concentration to bear on anything *but* that definitely odd oozing feeling, Xander tuned in on the conversation, only to realize that at some point Spike had stopped being in it.
"Em? Spike?"
He tried to look round, only to freeze again, with new pulling and pinching sensations plus extra free skull clamping courtesy of Karl's strong fingers.
"I'm sorry Xander - if you can just keep your head still for a few more minutes."
"Sure - sorry - where did Spike go?"
"He didn't say - Kit will know if he's left the salon though, so don't you worry."
Xander returned to trying to think of the Oz - seemed appropriate for hair pain, although somehow, you've got to hope that dye was less painful than this. Karl rumbled on, talking mainly to himself, and throwing out odd lines to Xander, that left the young man entirely uncertain if he was meant to answer or not. He was just not going to think about the possibility of being asked where he was going on vacation this year, or if he needed anything for the weekend. If his ears were hearing any such thing then clearly they were lying to him and should be ignored.
Shutting the door of 'his' treatment room behind him, Xander opened up the glossy card shopping bag that he'd been given so he could get dressed again. Opened it, and stared blankly for a moment at its contents. He opened the door again, and called down the corridor:
"Lizzie? Lizzie - I think you gave me the wrong bag."
Looking up from the clipboard she and Kit were discussing over the reception counter, she looked worried for a section, and came back over to take a look at the bag's contents again.
"There aren't my clothes - there should be a plaid shirt."
Grinning a little, Lizzie interrupted
"Oh - no - these aren't the clothes you were wearing earlier - we've got those here for you - these are your clothes for tonight? For the gig? Didn't he say? Oh - I'm sorry. Spike asked me to pick out a couple of outfits for you, to go with your new look for the evening - I hope I've got the sizes right and everything. - Whatever you don't want, just pop back in the bag and I'll return it - no problems"
"Oh. OK."
What else could he say? Sometimes it's just not worth fighting the weird - if his undead roommate wanted to give him a makeover, who was he to complain? Costume party. Just think of it as dressing up - you're seven hours away from anyone who knows you and hasn't seen you in paper underwear with a waxing strip stuck to your butt. You can put on some clothes and go out for the evening in fancy dress.
Shutting the door again, Xander took the bag over to the central seat, and shook out its contents for a closer look. There was no way in hell he was going to get into those jeans, 5% lycra or not, and skin tight denim might work on a certain vampire, but not a good look for the breathing. Tucking them back in the bag, he reached for the next item - a soft black bowling shirt. Tossing that across the back of the chair in a 'to try on' pile, Xander continued to sort. PVC t-shirt - back in the bag. Black and red kilt - *so* back in the bag. Baggy looking black cargo pants - to try on. T- shirt with some sort of circuit board on the front - to try on. That left a small pile of silver jewelry, and a couple of pouches. Deciding to leave the accesorising for later, Xander shucked the robe, and promptly realized there was no underwear in the bag. //Well, it's those pants or nothing, so I guess it won't hurt to go commando trying them on//
They were made of some sot of silky synthetic fabric, shiny, black, with clear plastic piping outlining the patch pocket on one leg, and forming a band around the other thigh. Pulling them on over his newly hairless skin was a weird sensation - not quite like anything, but making him so aware of his skin, of where he ended and fabric and air began caressing him. They sat tight and slightly lower on the hips than he was used to, then became fuller, flowing down to pool around his feet - odd, but surprisingly comfortable. Turning back to the chair to try on the two tops reminded him, not unpleasantly, that the cool satin fabric was moving across smooth sensitized skin all the way up his legs.
Shaking his head slightly, he picked up the circuit t-shirt. Tugging it on over his head merely proved two things. His first few weeks on the site really had bulked up his biceps - enough to make the piping around the shirtsleeves distinctly uncomfortable. And secondly, that there was no way he was wearing a shirt cut that short and skimpy. Which left him with the bowling shirt. Still fiddling with the last button, Xander walked over to the full-length mirror and examined the effect. He stared at himself for a long moment. He hardly recognized the man in front of him. Standing a little straighter Xander stared himself in the eye a moment before looking over his reflection top to bottom once again.
Staring in mirrors wasn't something he was overly familiar with - a quick check on the way out of the door to make sure he didn't have toothpaste on his mouth was more his style. But this stranger facing him, he didn't know quite how to feel about. He looked - good. The soft trousers draped smoothly, highlighting muscles and length in his legs, and seeming somehow elegant. And the shirt sort of worked. Narrow cut, with sleek lines he'd never have picked out for himself, and sheer panels where the pleated part of a dress shirt would be, for which he would definitely have put it back on the rack if he'd been shopping. But short and skimpy, and shiny and strapy were both right out, and Xander wasn't actually hating the new wardrobe - sort of went with the whole new look.
Blunt painted nails reached up to touch the hair - soft buzzy fuzz at the back of his neck and then still shaggy on the top. But shaggy with style, snipped and brushed and blown so it fell forwards, framing his face. And with burgundy and crimson tufts - wefts Karl had called them - worked in, so he looked like he'd dyed sections of hair, lining up tiger stripes around his cheekbones, covering his ears, and making his eyes look oddly large. Hard to believe they were only temporary, but there was a bottle of surgical spirit and a dropper on the reception desk with his name on it, so he could take them out and go home safely. Because he so couldn't go back to Sunnydale, where there were friends he'd grown up with and people he went to work with every day looking like this. But, at a good safe distance from every day life, Xander was starting to think that maybe it wasn't such a hardship to be going to this gig after all. 'Course the company was leaving something to be desired, but, hell, fancy dress and a bit of role play; he could play the glamorous club guy for the night.
Taking a final look, Xander nodded to himself, and only needed to take one deep breath before opening the door, looking for Lizzie, who was right outside, waiting for him.
"Hey there handsome - you find something you like?"
Wow - blushing was probably going to clash with the new hair color.
"Erm - yeah - you think this works?"
"You look great - everything fit ok then? - Hmm - just need the finishing touches, and you'll be all set"