Rox
Jinns have always been nothing but trouble. These mythical devils assume human forms and are among us and the people we see and interact with everyday. The issue with Jinns is that they are irresistibly attracted to thick, long, black hair. The thicker the hair, the longer, the more attractive it is to a Jinn. Jinns will go great lengths to satisfy their desires and urges when it concerns this hair. It would not be so problematic if they were easily satisfied by the sight or touch of the hair- a Jinn will want to possess the hair- and will do unspeakable things to a woman to get hold of her hair forever.
Such an incident is why I will never be able to grow my hair again. Here is my experience with Jinns.
My name is Monica, and I’m a 25-year-old woman with a penchant for flaunting what I once had. I was blessed with hair that flowed like a river of nightfall—those dark, rich locks- my crown, my glory, and the bane of my existence. It’s strange how something so beautiful could bring forth such horror.
I took immense pride in caring for my hair. Hours spent in salons, bottles of oil massaged into my scalp, and a small fortune dedicated to products that promised to keep it lustrous and full of life. It was more than just a part of me; it was a symbol of my femininity and an asset that turned heads wherever I went. The smell of freshly shampooed hair would waft through the college corridors, leaving a trail of whispers and glances. It was thick and black, and hung down just past my waist, and I flaunted it proudly.
My favorite way to style it was in a thick, tight braid that fell like a rope down my back. The weight of it was comforting, a constant reminder of my beauty and uniqueness. The act of tying it was almost meditative for me. I’d start at the crown, weaving the strands with precision, feeling the tension build as I brought each one under control. The sound of the hairbrush gliding through my hair, the occasional snapping of a gum band as I secured it, and the gentle tug as I pulled my hair taut—these were sweet symphonies.
But with beauty comes danger, and I had always known the risks of having hair that drew such attention. I had never allowed a pair of scissors or clippers near my head, not even for a trim. The very sight of them sent a cold shiver down my spine. The thought of losing even an inch of my hair was unbearable.
I am an orphan, raised by my stepmother. She was the woman who made me grow and love my hair like I do today. As she passed away, she made me promise her I would never chop my hair.
Four years have passed since then, and I’m now a student at the prestigious St. Sebastian’s College. My hair remains the center of my identity. It’s grown even longer and shinier, thanks to all the love I had given it.
It was during my sophomore year when I first heard the whispers of jinns. They were just stories at first, myths shared in hushed tones during moonlit nights in the dorm. I listened with skepticism, my hand reflexively moving to protect my braid as my dorm-mates recounted tales of women whose hair had been stolen by these malevolent spirits.
Dismissing the whispers as mere folklore, I continued flaunting my hair with pride. But as the stories grew more frequent and the stares from men more intense, a shiver of doubt began to creep into the corners of my mind. What if there was some truth to these ancient warnings?
Enter John, a new student who transferred into my class. At first glance, he was nothing out of the ordinary—tall, with a lanky frame and a mop of unruly hair. To everyone else, he was just another face in the crowd, but to me, his presence felt like a silent alarm. He had a habit of looking at me with a peculiar intensity, his eyes often lingering on my hair.
John’s gaze was unwavering, and it made me uncomfortable. Every time he’d pass by me, his eyes would follow the sway of my braid. I tried to ignore it, telling myself that it was just a harmless crush, but the way his hand twitched when he walked behind me, the way he’d lean in closer than necessary when we talked, convinced me that his fascination with my hair was more than just admiration.
One day, as I was leaving the library, John “accidentally” bumped into me, his hand reaching out as if to steady me. But instead of supporting my elbow, his fingers grabbed the end of my braid, giving it a sharp yank. I gasped in pain, turning to glare at him. He showed innocence, his eyes wide with shock. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his hand lingering in the air near my hair. “I didn’t mean to…”
From that day, the incidents grew bolder. I caught him staring at me during lectures, his eyes tracing the path of my braid as it swung with every gesture I made.
And then, one fateful evening, I met Sahana Madam. She was a new humanities lecturer, a woman whose beauty seemed almost ageless despite her 45 years. Her figure was a symphony of curves, a figure that could make any man drop his jaws. She walked with a confidence that was unmatched, her hips swaying with each step she took. Her attire was always impeccable—beautiful silk sarees that exposed just enough of her waist to make heads turn.
What truly set her apart was her hair. It was longer, thicker, and more lustrous than mine—a waterfall that cascaded down her back. Every time she moved, it shimmered and shined. Her hair was a spectacle and I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy. Sahana Madam always wore her hair in a tight bun. The bun was so large and heavy, it looked like a small blackhole attached to her head.
One afternoon, during a particularly engaging lecture, she bent over to pick up a piece of chalk she accidentally dropped. As she did so, the pins holding her bun in place fell, and her hair tumbled out. The classroom went silent, the only sound the soft thud of her hair as it fell on the floor. The students gasped and stared, their eyes wide with wonder. The way her hair shone in the light, the way it moved as she tried to gather it back into a bun—it was tantalizing.
John, who had been watching me with a hunger in his eyes that I had grown all too familiar with, turned to look at her. The change was instant. His gaze shifted from me to Sahana Madam, and he was hooked. I could see his eyes light up with the same greed that had haunted me for weeks.
One evening, after class, I decided to visit Sahana to clarify a few points about our upcoming assignment.
It was late and the building was deserted. Her office was at the end of the corridor, the last room on the left. As I, I noticed that her door was ajar, a faint light spilling out. As I got closer, a sound grew clearer—a soft, rhythmic rubbing, accompanied by low moans. My first instinct was to flee, but curiosity and fear rooted me to the spot. What could be happening in there?
I leaned against the door-frame, my eyes peering into the room. Sahana Madam was slumped in her chair, unconscious. John was there, his eyes gleaming with lust.
He had his hands in her hair, weaving his fingers through the silky strands, his penis erect and pointed at her head. With a sinister smile, he pushed his penis into her bun. It was as if the very essence of the jinn’s legend had come to life before my eyes.
John’s grunts grew louder as he pulled at her hair with increasing ferocity. Sahana Madam remained unconscious, her head lolling from side to side. John began to braid her hair, with the violence of an animal. His fingers dug into her scalp, pulling and grabbing at her locks with brutality, as her head was yanked about from side to side- unaware of the pain she was being put through.
All of a sudden, I slipped and fell into the room, crashing my way in through the door with a loud thud. I had been discovered. The minute John saw me, his face distorted into an evil concoction of lust and violence- I lay there, gripping my braid protectively, as I feared what my fate would be. And that is all I could remember.
When I woke up, I was in a room that was dimly lit. Panic set in. As I tried to move, I fumbled to discover that I was tied up in a cross. My hands and legs were bound by cold metal bounds, and I couldn’t move an inch. The walls were adorned with ancient tapestries depicting scenes of jinns in various stages of ecstasy and power, their hands entwined in the hair of their helpless female subjects.
I began to scream for help.
The door creaked open with a bang. John strode in, as he dragged a struggling Sahana by her braid. The once proud and graceful woman was now a pitiful figure, her head forced up by the brutal pull on her hair. Her hands and legs were tied, similar to mine. Sahana’s body was completely naked. A gag in her mouth stifled any sound she tried to make, except her desperate whimpers of pain. She looked at me with a plea for rescue.
Tying Sahana to a chair, he revealed a shaving blade, glistening in the dim light. The sight of it sent a wave of terror through my body, as I struggled to free myself from my bonds. Sahana’s eyes widened with horror, as what she feared so much was now becoming reality.
John approached her, his eyes never leaving her scalp. With a disturbing fondness, he began to stroke her hair part with his thumb, tracing the line of her hair follicles. He leaned in, and sniffed her head.The scent of her scalp—a potent mix of the fruity shampoo she used and the stinky scent sweat.
With steady hands, John picked up the shaving blade. He carefully placed it on Sahana’s hair part, and began shaving her head. I was too mortified to scream as the sound of the metal blade raking Sahana’s head filled the room. Krrrrr-ch. Sahana’s eyes watered, and she jerked back, trying to escape the blade. John’s grip on her braid tightened, and he yanked her head forward. Her once majestic hair fell away, revealing her bare scalp. John’s strokes grew more aggressive with each strand he severed. Her cries of pain were muffled by the gag, but the pain of the shearing was clear.
Soon, Sahana was completely bald. Her scalp looked so pale and exposed, so naked. John admired the fallen braid. He then turned to me, his face twisted with an evil smile. I was going to suffer a similar fate. John approached me slowly and ripped my clothes off, his eyes never leaving my hair- dangling helplessly from where I was tied up. He pulled my braid away from my face, and then, began to lick my hairline with his tongue. He took a section of my braid and put it in his mouth. He began to chew, the sound of his teeth grinding through my braid just like the crunch of dry leaves.
With the same blade that had stripped Sahana of her pride, John got started on me. I could feel the cold metal razor pressed against my scalp. I shut my eyes tightly anticipating what was to come. I whimpered in pain as the blade began scraping my scalp bald. He was being even more brutal with me, scraping away each area of my scalp multiple times, intensifying the pain. With every stroke of his razor, the stinging sensation was followed by a cool breeze I could feel on my head. As he severed the last of my hair from my head, John leaned in and licked the freshly shaved skin. I was helpless.
John had both Sahana’s and my braids in his possession, now. They lay coiled on the floor like two snakes at his feet. He picked them up and held them out in front of him, stroking them with a perverted fondness. He twirled them around his fingers, feeling their texture, smelling them deeply, licking and chewing on them.
He then brought out a fluorescent cream from his bag. It was a vile smelling concoction that filled the room with a scent very pungent, and a sickly green color. Without any warning, he grabbed a handful of that cream and began rubbing it onto Sahana’s bald head. She wailed in pain, the now soaked gag stifling her cries. When he did the same to me, I screamed in pain as a burning sensation from the cream bit my scalp.
“It’s a potion,” John said, his voice a low growl, “It’ll keep your scalp from ever growing hair again.”
He kicked us out into the cold, open night, and disappeared. We never heard or saw of John again. What happened to our braids, the very essence of femininity, I never knew.
Sahana and I returned to college a week later, our heads bald and our hearts heavy. The cruelty of John’s act had not only stripped us of our hair but also of the very identities we had cultivated proudly. Students pointed and stared, their eyes full of amusement and malice. Once-admiring glances had transformed into taunts and sneers.
We felt humiliated beyond words as we walked down the corridors. Sahana tried to maintain her dignity, but the pain in her eyes was clear to see. She had lost more than just her hair; she had lost her power in the classroom, the respect of her colleagues, and the admiration of her students. The whispers grew to murmurs, and the murmurs grew to accusations. They said she had been caught in an affair with a student and had been punished for her indiscretion.
To this day, I am completely bald. And Sahana does not have a single strand that has grown out of her head.
Jinns have always been nothing but trouble.
