Failure

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I came home from the city feeling dejected. I had yet another bad job interview. As I walked across the train station, thinking about what a failure I was, tears started to form in my eyes. Within minutes, I stared to bawl.

Then a husky woman’s voice said, “Be quiet, girl.”

It belonged to the woman who owned the same barbershop attached to the train station. I’ve seen her before. She was an attractive woman in her 40s who always wore 4 inch heels and her bleached hair in a severe bun. For a while, I just stared at her, still full of tears. Looking annoyed, she motioned for me to come over. Like a dumbass, I did.

She ran her long fingers through my thick wavy ligh brown lob. “How pretty you are,” she said, “let’s see if we can fix that.”

My breathing grew heavier. Part of me wanted to run, but part of me wanted her to debase me. I’ve spent so long making myself suffer, I thought, as she guided me into her chair, why not let someone else do it?

She made me look in the mirror as she caped me. Then she picked at my hair for awhile with a comb, making comments about how healthy and clean it was. After she had her fill of that game, she picked up her clippers, popped off the guard, and ran them down the center of my head. My tears started to flow harder as she proceeded to shave the top of my head and only the top of my head. The results? Male pattern baldness that was even less flattering on a woman.

Putting down the clippers, she asked, “Do you like?”

“No,” I said, through my tears.

She grinned. “Beg me to shave off the rest.”

So, humilated and left without a choice, I begged her to shave off the rest of my hair, which she did with glee. I didn’t really look much better with a buzzcut. My head was so big, and, well, I had a bit of a double chin. And a set of big flappy ears. When I looked in the mirror, the woman who looked back seemed defeated. She made me cry harder. This new ugliness, however, also stirred me. There was something arousing about having this beautiful, older woman strip me bare and leave me nothing.

The barberette gave me a stern look that made me squirm. Then she lathered up my scalp and eyebrows. I managed to stop crying when she took her Bic to my scalp and brows. Once she did one pass, she lathered me up again and did another pass. When she finally finished, she wiped off the excess lather.

“I’ve always wanted to do this to another woman,” she said, laughing, “I knew that you’d be the stupid bitch that would finally allow me.”

My humiliation, of course, wasn’t over. She insisted on using oil to bluff my scalp to a brilliant shine. I looked like an absolute freak. Then she put a leash on me and made me sit nearby, with the end of my leash tied to a chair, for the rest of the evening as she finished work. All the people coming home stared at the girl with the shiny bald head and no eyebrows tied up like a dog. A few even took pictures. I just had to sit there and take it. The barberette didn’t even allow me to go to the bathroom to relieve the growing agony between my legs.

When she finished work, she lead me, by the leash, out to her car and put me in the trunk. She tied my hands and feet, so I couldn’t touch myself. Then she slammed the trunk shut. It took us over an hour to reach our destination, a bar in the middle of nowhere.

And that’s when the true humiliation started!

I think that there’s video of it on the Internet. A bald, naked girl (me!) being passed around like a blunt by a rough crew of men and women. At sunrise, she dragged me from there, battered, bruised, and covered in cum. She hosed me off in the parking lot. Then she wrapped me in a blanket. I got to ride in the front seat this time.

Looking proud, she asked if I enjoyed myself, and I had to answer honestly.

“Yes,” I said, caressing my bald head.

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