The Barber’s Line: The Beauty Queen

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I won Miss Harvest in 2019. I had just turned 21, and I was at the peak of my beauty. People would pass me on the street and be just taken by it, especially my natural bright red hair, which I had styled in long ringlets that just glazed my breasts.

So why did I get in the barber’s line? I went to the park for a Miss Harvest appearance. As I walked from my car to the bandstand, in four inch heels that sunk a little in the grass, I passed the barber’s line. I stopped to watch. As I watched all those people, waiting their turn to be humilated by him, everything started to feel so heavy. Including my beautiful hair. Without a thought to being late to my appearance, I got in line.

People recognized me, of course, so, when it came time for me to sit in the barber’s chair, they whipped out their phones. I made sure to wave as I took my seat.

The barber laughed as he removed my tiara. “Are you sure? You won’t be a beauty queen when I’m through. Just a foolish ugly bald creature.”

I nodded. At that point, I would have done anything to relieve the heaviness weighting me down. Still laughing at me, he took out his clippers. I gasped as they started to rip through my big curls. He started to laugh harder and continued to shear me. Most of my hair just ended up in a nearby trash can, but a few stray curls escaped and fell to the ground. I even saw a bird grab one for their nest. Once the last curl was off my head, I felt so much better. Tears of relief fell from my eyes, which ruined my makeup. The barber asked for makeup wipes. One of his newly shorn victims pulled them from her purse. He picked off my fake eyelashes and chucked them. Like most gingers, my natural eyelashes are very fine. I looked like I had none without falshies. Then he roughly scrubbed my face with the harsh smelling wipes. Once he was satisfied that there wasn’t any makeup on my face, he lathered up my scalp and eyebrows. And, with a few stokes of his razor, there wasn’t a single hair left on my head. After he wiped off the remaining lather, he made me stand up. He placed my tiara back on my bald head. It now fit so well that I didn’t feel it. It felt so light. Everything felt so light even as people laughed at me. Then he wrote “Miss Bald Cocksucker” over my “Miss Harvest” sash, which made me smile.

Smiling back, the barber said, “Just a foolish bald creature only good for sucking cocks now.”

They obviously took away my crown for what happened that day. My behavior broke about a dozen pageant rules. Including the morality ones. Also my hair was hiding a pair of big Jughead ears. People weren’t commenting on my beauty in the streets anymore. It doesn’t matter though. I still masturbate to the memory of walking on that bandstand, shaved bald and soaked in strangers’ cum. I felt as light as a feather.

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