Look At You, Cueball

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There was a girl at our high school with alopecia. She never wore a wig. Just a hat or scarf sometimes. All the kids called her Cueball. They also made a game of trying to slap her bald head or tug her big exposed ears. Except me. It’s not because I was a teenaged saint. Honestly, it was because I wished that I could be her. All those eyes. All those mean comments. All those hands on me. I wanted that. Every morning, I’d pull back my waist length red hair, trying to see what I’d look like bald. Especially since I had even bigger ears than her. I’d then masturbate furiously.

One day, I took a different route home from school. On my way home, I passed a small barbershop. Much to my surprise, I saw Cueball in the window. She sat behind the register, looking bored. On a whim, I decided to go in and say hi.

“Do you work here?” I asked.

She said, her eyes suspicious, “Yeah, my mom owns it. She’s the barber.”

When I commented on her suspicion, she said, “I mean, you’re not mean like the other kids, but you’re so pretty and popular. And you’ve never talked to me before. It’s surprising that you’d come here and talk to me. Did you come here on dare?”

“No,” I said, suddenly red in the face, “it’s because…well…”

A tall bald woman in a long white coat walked out from the back. Oh, I thought, that must be her mother. She smiled at me.

“It’s because she wants to be bald too,” she said, running her fingers through my long hair, which made me shudder, “which can be easily arranged.”

Cueball smiled. “Oh, I want to see that. Get in the chair, Rapunzel. Let’s get you shaved.” Then she pushed me towards it.

My mind blank from arousal, I obediently got into the chair. Cueball’s mother caped me tight. She then started combing my hair and sectioning it off into ponytails.

“My daughter always envied your beautiful red hair,” she said, picking up her clippers, “I’m glad that I’m able to get it for her to finally make the perfect wig.”

Cueball pointed her phone at me as her mother began to harvest my ponytails with her clippers. No guard. With each one that she took and piled on the counter like a trophy, I started breathing harder. Even though my new reflection in the mirror wasn’t pretty anymore. When the final one came off, I orgasmed, which made Cueball laugh.

“Who knew?” she said to her future audience.

Also laughing her mother wrapped my head in a warm towel. After a few minutes, she took it off and lathered up my scalp and eyebrows. Then she used her straight razor to shave me smooth. I looked like Cueball’s uglier twin.

Rubbing oil into my bald scalp and massaging it, the mother said, “Look at you, Cueball.” Then she encouraged her daughter to take a turn as well, which she happily did.

In my ear, she whispered, “I’m going to enjoy wearing your hair to school as you walk around being the bald freak.” Then she cupped my breasts through the cape.

“Please shave my vagina,” I said, shuddering from my continued arousal, “I want to be smooth from head to toe.”

She smacked my bald head. “Look at Cueball. Making demands.”

It’s been about a month since that happened. As promised, she now wears the wig made from my hair to school. She also started penciling in her eyebrows. People noticed her makeover. They also noticed my makeover too. Mine got a less positive reaction than hers. Especially when that humiliating video went viral. Honestly, I loved it. Remember? It’s what I wanted. Being eighteen, I could move out of my parents’ house and in with my new barber and her daughter to be their slave.