Running back home after that physically grueling workout with Sir, you hop in the shower and clean your sweaty and exhausted body. Your muscles ache all over, but you can also tell that they're pumped in a way you haven't seen in years. Setting your alarm for 0400 hours, you climb into bed wincing as your muscles groan in agony.
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BEEP BEEP BEEP
Groaning out of annoyance, you reach your arm over and shut off your alarm. Climbing out of bed and still feeling sore, your walk over to your closet. Swinging the doors open, you pull out an olive drab tank top, a matching pair of olive wool trousers, and the black boots. You sit down in the chair positioned in the corner of your bedroom and begin tying the laces tight against your feet. After this, you grab a cloth belt in a matching olive shade and thread it through the loops of your trousers. Before tightening the belt, though, you tuck the tank top loosely into your pants. Looking at yourself in the mirror attached to your closet door, you notice that you do look a soldier—apart from, of course, your skinny figure and long hair. "Thankfully Sir will be fixing one of those things in just a little bit," you think to yourself as your turn away from the mirror. Usually you wouldn't go out in public with just the tank top on, but you are feeling a bit more confident with your pumped muscles, and the fact that no one is out this early helps, too. You stuff your keys and wallet into your pockets and head out the door.
The early morning cool hits your exposed arms, sending a shiver through your body, but you continue walking to the surplus store. As you get closer, you notice a few of the other guys that were there yesterday for the workout are also walking to the surplus store as well. Interestingly, they are all wearing the exact same outfit as you, complete with the tank top tucked in and olive drab get-up. You quicken your pace to catch up to a guy walking in front of you, and join in walking beside him.
"Hey, man," you say to the guy, who you notice also has a head of long hair like you, "Do you know why all these guys are heading to the surplus store, too?"
"No idea," he responds. "Also, why are we all wearing the same thing? This is just what I felt like wearing today." He gestures to the five other guys who are getting closer to you as the door to the surplus store nears. You shrug, and open the door to the surplus store as the other six guys follow you in. The surplus store looks normal, but you all hear Sir's voice booming from upstairs in his loft as you walk in.
"All of you, get up here STAT!"
"Sir, yes, sir!" The seven men, you included, shout out in unison. You don't know why you shouted that out, and judging by the faces of the other guys standing around you, neither do they. You lead the group in ascending the stairs up to Sir's loft, and once you reach the top, you see Sir standing beside a barber's chair. In his hand he holds a pair of heavy-duty clippers attached to a hose, probably to suck any loose hair up.
"Get in a line, recruits," Sir says as he grabs the cape that had been resting on the back of the chair. Being at the front of the group, you become the first person in line. Looking behind you, it seems like you seven have a lot in common. With your matching tank tops, you can see that you're all pretty skinny. You must all have jobs that don't require any physical labor. Additionally, everyone has pretty unruly hair. You, of course, didn't bother doing anything with your hair this morning because you knew you'd be getting a haircut, but some of the other guys have wild curls or long waves that must've also gotten in the way during yesterday's workout. You also notice that you are all around the same height, 6'0, to be exact. Your observations are interrupted by Sir, who clears his throat and begins to speak.
"I know many of you came here today for a haircut, but I am here to give you much more than that."
"What is he talking about," you think as you uncomfortably shuffle at the front of the line.
"Over the past week, you have all wandered into the surplus store—not out of coincidence, or luck—but of interest. More specifically, an interest in the armed forces. Now, none of you are part of our country's great armed forces, but you will be soon. After your hair cuts, you will be fresh, Army-recruits ready to begin your 10 weeks of basic training."
You stand slack-jawed as Sir finishes his speech. You hear murmuring from behind you. An Army recruit? You never signed up for this. You have a job, responsibilities! You can't just get up and join the Army. You have to leave before—"
"Have a seat, Recruit 1," Sir says to you while gesturing toward the waiting chair.
You don't want to join the Army. Sure, you've always been interested in joining the military. The comradery, the hyper-masculinity of it—something you've felt detached from sitting at your computer day after day—the muscles you earn through hard work, and the financial benefits. But you went to college, got a degree, and started your career. You justified that the military would rob you of four or five of the best years of your life. But to your disappointment, these past few years have sucked. No girlfriend, a shitty job, and no time for anything fun. You feel like a failure and don't know what to do about it. It's not like the Army would even take you now—you're too old, right?
"Recruit 1, take a seat, now."
Feeling that weird impulse again, you speak instinctively, "Sir, yes, sir." Seemingly on its own, your body walks to the chair and sits down. Facing the other men standing in line, you see their looks of fear and confusion. "What is this man talking about," the thought written over all of their faces.
Sir drapes the cape over you and attaches it in the back. "Welcome to boot camp, Recruit 1," Sir says as he powers the clippers to life and drags them across the center of your head. You see clumps of hair fall past your vision as a warm sensation envelops you. Under the cape, your body begins to regress in age as more of your hair comes off, going from the mature yet skinny body of a 32 year old down more and more until settling at your new age of 18. You remain 6'0, but your 18-year old body looks even skinnier than before. Your legs are like chopsticks and your arms, too. You have an inward moment of panic as you see the other men standing in line stare at you in shock. Unbeknownst to you, your face has lost the hardness of adulthood caused by stress and aging and has returned to the youthfulness of days gone by. You are objectively handsome, with a symmetrical nose, bright green eyes, and a square chin. You calm down as another wave of warmth washes over your body. Your skin begins to change shades, going from your pallid pale—a consequence of your office job and lack of time spent outdoors—to a healthy tan characteristic of an 18-year old that played sports and spent time outside. After cleaning up the area around your ears, Sir, brushes your bare scalp off and grabs a handheld mirror. He holds it in front of you, allowing yourself to see the new you. A face you haven't seen in over a decade looks back at you in shock. Your face is free of the fine lines that once covered it. Your long hair is gone—replaced by a close shave all around.
"An induction cut," Sir chimes in, "Looks good on you, Recruit 1." Sir takes the mirror and sets it down. "And last but not least," Sir says as he turns back toward you, "Your dog tags." He takes the dog tags and clips the beaded silver necklace around your neck. Feeling the cool metal brush against your neck, you also feel a sort of permanence about your new condition. Sir has marked you. Looking at one of the two dog tags that know brushes against your chest, you see it says:
RECRUIT 1
DATE OF ENLISTMENT 10/07/2021
AGE: 18 (FORMERLY 32)
RACE: CAUCASION
PRIOR OCCUPATION: SALESMAN
Sir pats you on the back and tells you to stand over to the side.
"Sir, yes, sir!" you cry out. Your new voice is much more youthful: clear and without any harshness. You walk over and stand with your back to the wall. The other men stare at you in fear, and most them have tear marks running down their faces. You feel like you should probably cry, too. Your life as you knew it is over. You're 18 years old again, and you're having to join the military. But, something deep inside is preventing you from crying. Maybe, just maybe, you're grateful for this fresh start. You stand in a position that feels very military-like as Sir calls for Recruit 2 to take a seat.