Fiction with consequences

Fiction with consequences

Chapter 1: The Haircut Ritual

Neil ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair as he stared into the bathroom mirror. It was his pride and joy—a mane so dense that it often drew comments from strangers. Friends joked about how lucky he was to have such thick hair, barbers always made remarks about its volume, and every time he got a haircut, there was that moment when he’d watch the thick tufts fall to the floor, his heart racing just a little. He didn’t know why, but it always fascinated him—the sight, the sound, the loss of control.

He’d been going to Gail’s barbershop for nearly two years now. At first, it had been an accident—he’d walked in on a whim when his regular place had been too busy. But from the very first visit, he’d felt something different. Gail was young, confident, and had a sharp sense of humor. She was also beautiful, in a way that made him nervous but also intrigued. Her presence had an effortless dominance to it, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

The first time she cut his hair, she’d ignored his request for a light trim and instead took the sides down shorter than he expected. Not too extreme, but enough that he had noticed the difference immediately. When he’d hesitated before paying, brushing his fingers against the much-shorter sides of his head, she had smirked at him in the mirror.

“What’s the matter? Too short for you?”

Her teasing had sent a thrill down his spine. He’d shrugged it off, pretending to be indifferent. But as he left the shop, he kept running his hands over the shorter sides, feeling the contrast between the length on top and the closely cropped hair at his temples.

He kept coming back after that. Every time, Gail pushed it just a little further—taking off more than he asked for, tapering the back higher, suggesting new styles with a playful smirk. And every time, he told himself he didn’t mind, that he liked the way she did it. The truth was, he loved it.

Neil had always been fascinated by haircuts. He couldn’t explain it to anyone, not without sounding weird. It wasn’t just about looking good—it was about the feeling of loss, the transformation, the lack of control. He spent late nights scrolling through haircut videos, watching barbers sheer away thick locks, listening to the hum of clippers against a scalp. He imagined what it would be like to have his own hair cut that short, to wake up one day and suddenly be losing it all to male pattern baldness (MPB).

But he could never bring himself to do anything too extreme. He told himself it was about looking professional, about not wanting to regret a drastic decision. But deep down, he knew the truth—he was too scared to give up control.

Gail, however, was a problem. She had a way of nudging him, of making him accept things he hadn’t planned. She made suggestions in a voice that left little room for argument, watching him carefully in the mirror as he nodded, always a little too compliant. He wasn’t sure why he listened to her so easily. Maybe it was her confidence. Maybe it was the way she smirked when he hesitated.

Maybe it was because he wanted her to take control.

Neil checked his watch as he stepped out of his car. He was due for a haircut, and he already knew how the visit would go. Gail would greet him with that knowing smile, and she’d probably ignore his request for “just a trim” like she always did. But that was part of the game now, wasn’t it?

He opened the door to the barbershop, the little bell jingling above him.

Gail was standing at the counter, finishing up with a customer’s payment. She looked up, and her eyes flicked over him with the usual amusement.

“There’s my favorite client,” she said, her lips quirking into a smirk. “Back again for another round?”

Neil chuckled, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah, just a cleanup.”

Gail tilted her head. “Just a cleanup? You sure? I was thinking maybe it’s time to change things up.”

Neil laughed, but there was something in her voice that made him pause. He had heard this kind of teasing before, but this time it felt different—sharper, more deliberate.

She nodded toward the chair. “Go on, have a seat.”

Neil hesitated only a moment before stepping forward, lowering himself into the barber’s chair. The leather was cool against his arms as he rested them on the chair’s frame.

Gail snapped the cape around his neck, pulling it snug. “So,” she said, running a comb through his thick hair, “still wanting to keep it long on top?”

Neil nodded. “Yeah, just clean up the sides. You know how I like it.”

“Oh, I know exactly how you like it.”

Something about the way she said that sent a chill through him. He met her gaze in the mirror, but she was already reaching for the clippers.

The familiar buzz filled the air. The vibration of the machine sent a subtle shiver down his spine as she placed it against the side of his head, pushing up with practiced ease.

As the first strands fell, Neil felt that familiar thrill. He loved this moment, even if he’d never admit it. The moment of surrender. The moment of loss.

 

Chapter 2: Neil’s Obsession

Neil’s fascination with hair had been with him for as long as he could remember. It wasn’t something he talked about, not even with his closest friends. There was no easy way to explain it, no casual way to slip it into conversation. Hey, by the way, I get ridiculously turned on by haircuts—especially ones where the guy loses a lot more than he bargained for.

That wasn’t exactly dinner-table conversation.

So he kept it to himself.

Late at night, when he was alone in his apartment, he’d scroll through videos of barbers taking the clippers to thick, healthy hair. He would watch in fascination as long, full locks tumbled to the floor, as the client’s expression shifted—sometimes amused, sometimes horrified, sometimes frozen in nervous anticipation. The sound of the clippers buzzing, the sight of the transformation, the sheer loss—it all sent a thrill through him.

And yet, no matter how many times he watched those videos, no matter how much he fantasized about a drastic transformation, he could never bring himself to go through with it.

He liked his hair too much. He loved the way it framed his face, the way people complimented its thickness. He enjoyed the idea of losing it—but in reality? That was too much. Too extreme. He wanted to control the game, to feel the loss without committing to anything permanent.

That was why he kept going back to Gail.

She was his perfect temptation—always pushing him slightly past his comfort zone but never outright forcing anything drastic. She played with his limits, nudging him toward shorter styles in a way that felt natural, inevitable.

And he let her.

At first, it was just a little shorter on the sides. A half-inch less than he’d asked for, then an inch. The first time she took the clippers to his nape, tapering it higher than usual, he had almost said something. But she had smiled at him in the mirror and run her fingers through the remaining length, telling him how much better it looked.

So he had said nothing.

With each visit, the contrast between the top and the sides grew more pronounced. The top remained thick and full, but the sides kept creeping shorter. She introduced him to skin fades, to high tapers, to a look that edged toward something modern, something riskier.

He always acted surprised, but deep down, he loved it.

It was a game—a slow, calculated descent into shorter styles. But it was his game.

Or so he thought.

 

Chapter 3: Neil’s Fiction

The fantasies weren’t enough to stay locked in his mind. They needed an outlet.

Neil had started writing haircut-themed fiction years ago, first as a casual experiment and then as something more. At first, it was just a way to explore his fascination in a private, controlled way—something he could shape exactly how he wanted, free from judgment.

It had begun with a few short stories, simple scenarios about barbers pushing their clients a little shorter than expected. Nothing too drastic. A barber leaving the top just a bit shorter than the client had asked. A hesitant man getting persuaded into a slightly riskier cut. Just enough tension to scratch the itch.

But as time went on, the stories became more elaborate, more extreme.

Neil found himself going further each time, pushing the scenarios into realms of helplessness, control, and inevitability. His stories were filled with dominant barberettes taking the lead, guiding reluctant men into shorter and shorter styles. Sometimes, they were subtle about it, coaxing their clients into accepting a buzzcut or a high-and-tight. Other times, they were more forceful, strapping them into the chair, running clippers over their heads without warning, buzzing them down or shaving them bald before they could protest.

It was the power dynamic that fascinated him—the loss of control, the irreversible nature of a drastic cut. A transformation that couldn’t be undone, forced upon someone who only realized too late that there was no way back.

And Gail had made her way into those stories.

Not at first—he had resisted that temptation. It felt too personal, too risky. But after enough visits, after enough of her smirks and her teasing remarks, he couldn’t help himself. He had started writing her into the scenarios, giving her the same sharp wit and the same knack for taking control.

The more he wrote, the more the details bled into his work.

Her confident smirk. The way she teased her clients just enough to fluster them. The way she subtly pushed them toward something shorter than they had asked for.

The Gail in his stories was bold, playful, but ultimately ruthless. She knew what her clients really wanted, even if they didn’t admit it. And she had no problem taking them all the way down to a buzzcut, a shaved head—even bald.

She would stand behind them, clippers buzzing in her hand, a knowing look in her eyes. She would watch them squirm in the chair as she took off more and more, ignoring their weak protests. She would laugh at their expressions of shock as the first big clumps of hair tumbled down their capes.

Sometimes, his fictional clients didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.

He wrote about men sitting down for a simple trim, only for Gail to start shaving a clean path down the center of their heads. By the time they processed what was happening, she would be holding them in place, tilting their heads forward, shearing away every last bit of hair until there was nothing left but bare skin.

The fantasy was intoxicating.

Neil poured his deepest desires into those stories, never thinking that anyone in real life would ever find them. He posted them anonymously on niche forums, under a username that seemed harmless enough: NeilSmith90.

A reference to his favorite NFL player with a shared first name, and the number on the guy’s jersey.

It wasn’t exactly a cryptic alias, but it felt safe.

He never thought anyone would connect it back to him.

Never thought she would find them.

But he was very, very wrong.

 

Chapter 4: Gail Discovers the Truth in the Fiction

Gail wasn’t much of an internet person.

She ran a barbershop, spent her evenings at the gym or with friends, and didn’t spend much time scrolling through forums or indulging in online communities. But every now and then, when she was bored, she liked to poke around.

One night, purely by accident, she stumbled across something that caught her attention.

She had been searching for haircut inspiration, looking for new styles to introduce at the shop, when a peculiar link appeared in her search results.

It was a story—a work of fiction posted to a haircut fetish forum.

Gail clicked on it out of curiosity.

The first thing she noticed was the name.

Gail.

Her eyes narrowed. That was weird. She wasn’t exactly a common fictional character name.

Then she started reading.

It was about a barberette—a woman who ignored her clients’ requests, who pushed them toward more extreme styles, who dominated them in the chair.

By the time she got to the part where this Gail was forcibly shaving a client bald, a slow, amused smile spread across her lips.

She leaned back in her chair, rereading certain parts, picking up on the details. The shop’s description was eerily similar to hers. The way she teased her clients, the way she nudged them into shorter cuts—it was all too familiar.

And then she saw the username.

NeilSmith90.

Her mind started connecting the dots. His love of the NFL.

Neil. Neil.

She thought about the way he always hesitated before agreeing to her suggestions. The way he stared at himself in the mirror after every cut, like he was simultaneously aroused and horrified. The way he never actually complained when she went shorter than he asked.

Gail smirked.

So that’s what this was about.

Neil had a thing for haircuts. And not just any haircuts—forced haircuts.

And he had been coming to her shop for months, secretly indulging in his own little fetish, using her as inspiration for his fantasies.

She tapped her fingers against her desk, rereading the story again, this time with new understanding.

Oh, Neil.

He had no idea she had found this.

And that meant she had all the power.

A slow grin stretched across her face as an idea began to form.

If he wanted to write about being forced into a haircut, she would give him exactly what he wanted.

Only this time, it wouldn’t be fiction.

It would be real.

And she couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized what she had planned.

 

Chapter 5: The Set-Up

Neil had been looking forward to his next visit to Gail’s shop. After all, it had been a few weeks since his last cut, and his hair had grown in thicker than ever. He liked the ritual of it—walking into her shop, settling into the chair, feeling the weight of her gaze as she decided what to do with him.

But when he arrived late that afternoon, the place was busy.

Gail glanced up from her station, clippers in hand, and gave him an apologetic smirk. “Bit of a rush today, Neil,” she said. “Come back in about thirty minutes?”

He nodded, pretending not to be disappointed. It was a minor inconvenience, nothing more.

So he wandered aimlessly around the mall.

He glanced at his reflection in passing storefronts, brushing a hand through his thick, dark hair. He imagined how Gail would shape it this time, whether she’d take the sides a little shorter again. Would she smirk and say, “Trust me, it’ll look better this way” before making the decision for him? He wasn’t sure why that thought sent a thrill through him.

After some time had passed, he returned to Gail’s shop, expecting the usual routine.

But when he got there, the shop was empty.

Gail was just finishing up for the day. The last customer was gone, and the door was already flipped to CLOSED.

She met his eyes, then gave him a knowing smile. “Perfect timing,” she said, stepping toward the door. Before he could react, she flipped the deadbolt shut and pulled down the blinds.

Something about it sent a flicker of unease through him.

“You, uh—closing up?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said cheerfully. “But I’ve got time for one last cut.”

Neil hesitated for a fraction of a second. Something about the way she was looking at him, the way she was standing between him and the door… It felt different.

But then he shook it off. This was Gail. The same Gail who always teased him, always pushed him a little shorter than he expected, but never more than he could handle.

Still, his pulse was quicker than usual as he walked toward the chair and sat down.

She draped the cape around him, fastening it snugly at the back of his neck, then ran her fingers through his thick hair.

“Man,” she said, letting out a low whistle. “You’ve got so much of it.”

Neil gave a small chuckle. “Yeah, I know.”

She tilted his head slightly, inspecting him with a critical eye. “You know, Neil… I was thinking. You’re in your late twenties, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah?”

She smirked, picking up a comb and running it through his hair, lifting sections. “Maybe it’s time to move past the whole boyish look.”

Neil frowned slightly. “Boyish?”

She tilted her head as if considering. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s a great head of hair. But you could pull off something a little more… mature. Something more distinguished.”

Neil opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, he heard the familiar click of clippers being switched on.

He swallowed.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Gail asked lightly, pressing a steady hand to the back of his head.

Neil hesitated for half a second. This was the exact type of moment he had written about in his stories—when the barberette nudged the client into something he didn’t quite ask for, something just beyond his comfort zone.

But this was real.

Still, the excitement of the unknown, of not fully being in control, sent an involuntary thrill through him.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I trust you.”

Gail smiled. “Good boy.”

With that, she brought the clippers to his temple and pushed them up.

The first pass sent a long strip of hair tumbling to the cape.

Neil expected her to take it shorter, but he was surprised when she pulled the clippers away after just one pass. He glanced at the mirror. The sides were now a neat, uniform #3—longer than she usually went.

He frowned slightly. “That’s… longer than you normally do.”

“Mm-hmm,” Gail hummed, continuing her work. “Just making sure you get used to a more balanced look.”

Neil didn’t understand what she meant, but he let her continue.

As she buzzed away more of the sides, he felt himself settling into the rhythm of it—the quiet buzz of the clippers, the gentle tug of her fingers in his hair. He even started to relax, letting his arms rest on the chair.

That’s when he felt something cold snap around his wrist.

His eyes widened.

Before he could react, he felt it again—click.

Both wrists were now locked firmly to the chair’s armrests.

Neil jerked against them instinctively. “Wha—Gail?”

She stepped back, holding up the small key in her hand, twirling it between her fingers. A slow smile spread across her lips.

“Gotcha,” she said softly.

Neil’s stomach dropped.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was sharp with confusion, with a flicker of something else—nervousness, anticipation, a spark of something he didn’t fully understand yet.

Gail just laughed.

“Oh, Neil,” she said, circling around him. She placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “I told you—I think it’s time for a more mature look.”

Something about the way she said it made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

She moved around to face him, resting her hands on her hips. Her expression was playful, but there was something else in it now—something more deliberate.

She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering to a teasing whisper.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find your little stories?”

Neil’s heart stopped.

Every bit of color drained from his face. His breath caught in his throat.

His pulse hammered.

No.

No. No, no, no.

Gail laughed at his stunned silence, stepping back with an almost triumphant expression.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I found them, Neil. Every single one. The ones where you wrote about me pushing men into haircuts they didn’t want. The ones where I forced them into my chair and took them down shorter than they ever imagined.” She tapped a finger to her chin. “There were quite a few bald ones, too. Very specific ones.”

Neil’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

His brain was scrambling for something—anything—to say.

She knew.

She knew everything.

He was strapped to her chair, completely vulnerable, and she knew.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked,” Gail teased, tilting her head. “You wrote all that stuff on the internet and thought no one would ever connect the dots? NeilSmith90—seriously?” She snorted. “Not exactly subtle, sweetheart.”

Neil’s entire body was hot with humiliation. His fingers curled into fists against the armrests, but the cuffs kept him from moving.

His breathing was shallow.

This couldn’t be happening.

This was impossible.

“Gail,” he said hoarsely, trying to force some steadiness into his voice, “I—look, it was just fiction, okay? Just… stories. It’s not real. I wasn’t—”

Gail cut him off with a slow shake of her head, smiling down at him like he was adorable.

“Oh, Neil,” she said sweetly. “I know.”

Then she picked up the clippers again.

“And that’s why,” she murmured, flicking them on with a quiet buzz, “we’re going to make one of those stories come true.”

Neil’s breath hitched.

His heart was pounding.

This was real.

And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

 

Chapter 6: The Haircut – Part 1

Neil struggled against the cuffs, his wrists straining against the cold metal.

“What the hell, Gail?” His voice was tight, teetering between anger and something dangerously close to fear. “What are you doing?”

Gail just chuckled, her eyes glinting with amusement. She was enjoying this.

“Oh, Neil,” she said, shaking her head like he was being ridiculous. “You already know, don’t you?”

His stomach dropped at the quiet hum of the clippers switching on.

Click. Buzzzzz.

The sound sent a chill down his spine.

His stories had always been about control—losing it, giving it up, having it taken away. But this?

This was real.

“Gail—seriously,” he tried again, voice sharper now, more desperate. “Just let me go. This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, but it’s hilarious,” she countered, bringing the clippers closer.

He flinched as she pressed a steady hand to the top of his head, tilting it just how she wanted.

“I— I like my hair,” he said weakly.

Gail laughed, a low, teasing sound.

“Then why write all those stories?” she asked, her tone so mocking, so damn smug.

Neil opened his mouth, then closed it.

Why did he?

The words had poured out of him, over and over again, in so many variations. His stories had been filled with forceful, commanding barbers and barbers who knew better, who ignored their clients’ weak protests and made the choice for them.

And yet, here he was—living the very thing he had fantasized about—and he hated it.

Didn’t he?

Before he could come up with a response, he felt the first pass of the clippers right down the middle of his head.

Oh, God.

His breath hitched as a long strip of his thick, dark hair tumbled down, landing in his lap.

The mirror reflected the damage instantly—a pale, shorn path cut straight through his formerly long top, reduced to a barely-there stubble.

1/8 of an inch.

Neil’s entire body tensed.

“Gail,” he said, voice sharper now, more urgent. “Stop. Just—”

She ignored him completely, guiding the clippers methodically across the top of his head.

This isn’t happening.

Each swipe sent more hair falling to the cape, pooling around him like dark ink on white fabric.

In his stories, the barbers always had a reason. A justification, no matter how thin. But this?

He still had 3/8” on the sides and back—this wasn’t a normal buzzcut.

This wasn’t even how his stories went.

“What—” His voice wavered. “What are you doing?”

Gail just hummed to herself, running her fingers through the short bristles left behind. “You’ll find out,” she said lightly.

That wasn’t reassuring at all.

Neil clenched his jaw as she continued. He tried to move his head away, but her grip was firm, fingers pressing into his scalp with just enough force to keep him in place.

The clippers buzzed across the last strip of longer hair, and then…

It was done.

Neil’s chest rose and fell in sharp breaths as he stared at his reflection.

It’s not that bad, he told himself.

An eighth of an inch wasn’t bald. Sure, it was way shorter than he’d ever gone before, but hair grew back. He’d have to even it out at home.

He swallowed hard, doing the mental calculations.

It would take months—probably a full year—to grow back to anything close to his old style. But at least—at least—he wasn’t bald like in some of his stories.

He exhaled slowly, trying to push down the humiliation twisting in his gut.

Gail caught the look on his face and smirked.

“Ah, acceptance,” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

Neil forced himself to nod. “Yeah. Whatever. You had your fun.”

Gail’s smirk widened.

“Oh, Neil,” she murmured. “We’re not done yet.”

Neil’s entire body went rigid.

She walked over to the counter, opening a small drawer.

Neil craned his neck, trying to see what she was grabbing.

When she turned back around, he felt his stomach drop.

Wax.

And an epilator.

She let the moment hang, her eyes locked onto his as she held the items up deliberately, waiting for him to realize.

His heart stopped.

“Gail,” he said, voice suddenly hoarse.

She grinned.

“You won’t be completely bald,” she assured him, her tone mockingly sweet. “Well… not exactly.”

She paused.

Letting the horror sink in.

Neil’s breath came in short, sharp bursts.

He yanked at the cuffs, but they didn’t budge.

This can’t be happening.

Gail leaned in, her voice a whisper in his ear.

“Let’s make this better than one of your stories.“

And then she reached for his scalp.

 

Chapter 7: The Haircut – Part 2

Neil’s breathing was ragged, his pulse hammering in his ears. His wrists ached from pulling against the handcuffs, but no amount of struggling helped.

The top of his head was buzzed down to stubble, and now—now—Gail was holding a tub of wax like she had all the time in the world.

His stomach twisted.

“What—” His voice came out hoarse. “What are you doing? Why isn’t my buzzcut even? What’s the wax for?”

Gail smirked, slowly, deliberately opening the wax container.

Neil swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady. “Gail, come on. You’ve had your fun.”

“Oh, Neil.” She sighed, almost mockingly sweet. “Don’t play dumb. You wanted this.”

His blood turned to ice.

“What?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t find your little stories?”

His entire body went stiff.

Gail dipped her fingers into the warm wax, spreading it between her fingers as she watched his reaction carefully.

“I know you’ve always wanted to try out male pattern baldness, even if you won’t admit it,” she said casually. “I read the stories, Neil.”

A wave of humiliation crashed over him.

“No. I—” He stammered, shaking his head violently. “That’s not— It’s just fiction—”

“Sure, sure,” she teased, stepping closer. “Just fiction.” She tilted her head. “But you always write about me taking clients shorter than they want. So… I’m just following the script.”

Neil’s breathing quickened.

“Gail,” he tried again, voice nearly pleading.

But she was already pressing the first layer of wax onto the top of his head.

The warmth spread across his scalp in a slow, thick coating.

Neil flinched, his fingers twitching against the arms of the chair.

Gail was taking her time, smoothing the wax over his already too-short hair with careful precision.

Another layer.

Then another.

The slow, almost ritualistic pace was worse than if she’d just yanked it off immediately.

Neil sat there, helpless, waiting for the inevitable pain.

The moment stretched.

And stretched.

His breathing hitched.

“Gail, what are you—”

RIP.

The first strip came off fast and brutal, tearing away the tiny stubble at the root.

Neil gasped, pain exploding across his scalp.

Before he could even process it—

RIP.

Another strip.

He jerked in the chair, his wrists straining against the cuffs, but there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Hair—his hair—was gone. Not just cut, but ripped away completely, leaving nothing but smooth, raw skin behind.

Gail was grinning, her fingers tracing over the freshly waxed skin. “Mm,” she mused, “not bad.”

Neil’s stomach churned.

There were still patches of stubble left, spots where the wax hadn’t caught all of it. His once-thick hair had been reduced to a sparse, uneven mess across the top of his head.

Gail sighed theatrically, admiring her work. “It’s not perfect,” she said.

Neil swallowed against the tightness in his throat.

“Gail,” he tried, voice hoarse, but she was already turning away.

She walked over to the counter, grabbed something, and—

Click.

A mechanical whirring sound filled the room.

Neil’s breath caught.

The epilator.

His entire body tensed as she walked back toward him, the tiny, spinning tweezers glinting in the light.

“Let’s finish the job,” she murmured.

“Gail, no—”

But she was already pressing the device against his scalp.

Whirrrrrrrrrr.

Neil shuddered as it ripped out the remaining stubble, hair-by-hair, leaving nothing behind.

The pain was sharp, persistent, not as fast as waxing but just as brutal.

Tears pricked his eyes.

The epilator moved with purpose, erasing every last trace of stubble, shaping his hairline into something eerily natural—a perfectly smooth bald crown, tapering into the slightly longer, still-buzzed 3/8” hair at the sides and back.

By the time she was finished, Neil was breathing hard, his scalp stinging.

Gail stepped back, admiring her work.

“Oh, that is beautiful,” she said, tracing a finger over the bare skin.

Neil couldn’t move.

He couldn’t think.

His reflection in the mirror was unrecognizable.

He wasn’t just shaved.

He was balding.

Artificially bald.

His entire top was gone, completely smooth, while the sides and back were left at a neat, natural buzz—making it look like he was genuinely balding in a classic male pattern baldness shape.

It was horrifying.

And humiliating.

And—God help him—something deep inside him felt a twisted spark of arousal.

His breath shuddered.

“No quick fix for this one,” Gail teased, rubbing a hand over his bare scalp. “You’re stuck like this for months.”

Neil squeezed his eyes shut.

What if it doesn’t grow back properly?

What if I actually start balding for real?

He tried to push those thoughts away—but he couldn’t stop the sick mix of humiliation, arousal, and pure panic twisting in his gut.

And he was still handcuffed.

Still stuck in the chair.

Still helpless.

Gail ran her hand over his bare scalp again, slower this time, savoring it.

Neil sat there, shaking, breathing uneven, his whole body locked in stunned silence.

Then, finally—

Click.

The handcuffs came undone.

His hands were free.

He lifted a shaking hand, hesitated—then finally, hesitantly, touched the smooth, exposed skin on the top of his head.

A beat of silence.

Then another.

Neil’s fingers trembled against his scalp.

And then, finally—

The realization sank in.

There was no going back.

 

Chapter 8: Aftermath

Neil sat frozen in the chair, his fingers still hovering over the bare, tingling skin of his scalp.

His mind was struggling to process what had just happened.

The stinging sensation from the waxing and epilator was still fresh, a constant reminder that this wasn’t some surreal dream—it was real.

His top was bald. Completely hairless.

The sides and back still had a dusting of buzzed hair, making the artificial male pattern baldness effect even more humiliatingly realistic.

Gail, standing behind him, looked proud of her work.

She chuckled, arms crossed as she admired her creation. “So… how do you like your little fantasy, Neil?”

His throat was dry.

“I never—” His voice cracked. “I never wanted this.”

Gail rolled her eyes, her smirk never faltering. “Oh, I think you’re wrong.” She tilted her head, stepping closer, letting her fingers glide over his freshly waxed scalp.

Neil flinched, the sensation alien and too intimate.

“You wrote about it so much,” she purred. “All those stories. The reluctant clients. The dominant barberettes.” Her fingers traced the edge of where the smooth, bald skin met the still-buzzed sides. “And now you got to live it.”

Neil’s stomach twisted.

“Not like this,” he muttered.

Gail giggled, pressing her palm against his bare crown and rubbing firmly.

“Oh, Neil. Dominating barberettes always know best.”

Neil swallowed hard.

His reflection in the mirror looked wrong—as if he were staring at a stranger’s head, someone older, someone who had been balding for years.

The pale, irritated skin on top of his scalp, still tinged red from the waxing, made it painfully obvious that this wasn’t natural.

That someone had taken his hair.

That Gail had taken it.

A small consolation was that the redness would fade in a few hours.

The real problem was that the hair wouldn’t come back for months.

His jaw tightened as he stared at the stark contrast between his bare crown and the buzzed sides.

He gritted his teeth, his mind racing for a solution.

Maybe he could shave the rest?

Take it all down to the skin, at least make it an even, full bald shave instead of this halfway nightmare?

Before he could voice the thought, Gail laughed.

“Thinking of shaving it all off?” she teased, clearly reading his mind.

Neil met her gaze in the mirror, unable to deny it.

She smirked. “Go ahead.”

His pulse sped up.

“But just so you know,” she continued, tilting his chin slightly with one finger, “even if you take a razor to it, you’ll still have a shadow of follicles on the sides and back. And guess what?” Her voice dropped to a mocking whisper.

“Not on top.”

Neil felt lightheaded.

She was right.

Even if he shaved everything down, the follicle pattern would still be there. The contrast. The illusion of natural balding.

There was no escaping it.

His hands clenched into fists.

Gail sighed dramatically, running her fingers over his scalp again.

“Maybe I’ll freshen it up for you in a few months’ time,” she mused. “Wouldn’t want that stubble growing back too soon, would we?”

Neil’s stomach dropped.

She wouldn’t.

Would she?

Gail met his gaze in the mirror, her smirk widening.

“I think I’ll keep you bald on top for as long as I please.”

Neil felt like the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

He slowly stood up from the chair, his knees a little weak, and turned to face her.

His pale scalp tingled, the exposed skin hypersensitive to the air around him.

His reflection loomed behind him—undeniable proof of what had just happened.

As he stared at himself in the mirror, realization settled deep in his gut.

He was living his own fantasy.

And his own nightmare.

Except now—

He no longer had a choice.