The Barber grins. "Creative, huh? I like that. OK, kid. Get ready for a wild ride."
He starts cutting your hair, a snip here and snip there. You feel your clothes get tight, and then stretch. You are now wearing a plain T-shirt and jeans, looking about 8 years old. But your blonde hair is darker and your face is different. He picks up a bottle and squirts some dark liquid in his palm and starts to rub it into your hair. You are startled to see it change to a bright copper red, and start to curl up. In another minute it is a tangle mop, and your skin goes pale and develops a heavy pattern of freckles. You are getting older again, now ten or so, your front teeth becoming prominent and a bit crooked. Your nose gets upturned, your ears get bigger. You were a handsome boy as Mikey, but this new face is definitely heading for homely. The scissors come back out and he snips here and there. Your T-shirt is getting dark and coarse, longer and dirty. Watching the mirror, you are fascinated to see your forehead start to drop, your brows becoming heavier. You look to be 12 or 13 now, coarse-featured and dull-eyed. You look stupid, your mouth hanging partly open to reveal scummy buck teeth. Your hair is getting matted, with bits of straw in it, and streaks of dirt appear on your face. You shift uncomfortably as your genitals enlarge and push against your thighs, and look down to see that your T-shirt has become a long, homespun tunic that is your only clothing. Your feet are nearly black with filth, and there is a stink of unwashed boy, and then animal smells. Finally, the barber steps back. "There you go. Fifteen, hung like a horse, lean and strong, healthy. You are a stableboy, stupid enough to enjoy mucking stalls and taking care of beasts. It will be some time before I show up in 1700s Scotland to give you a chance for a new cut."
You blink, but before you can say anything, you are looking at the back end of a large horse instead of a mirror. Confused, you look around and see that you are in a large, crude stable. There are many horses here, and you realize you are holding a wooden muck rake. It is your job to clean the stalls. And so you do. The work is constant and steady, and you find satisfaction in making the stalls clean. At the end of the day, you strip and hang your dirty tunic up to air out and flop down in a corner of an empty stall. You are tired, but content. Weird. You remember being Mikey, and the life you had before. But this feels right. Your hand finds your heavy foreskin and you spend a long and pleasurable time emptying the massive testicles. You drift off to sleep, sticky and sweaty and happy.