The Bo-Peep Society of Hackinsaw
Allison hated moving. Every time she would get settled into a new town, something would happen, and her husband would be transferred. They had moved three times in the past five years, and she had just about had enough.
“You promised that we wouldn’t have to move again.” Allison accused, and Jack announced his most recent promotion.
“Would you rather that I pass up the extra twenty thousand a year I’ll be making at this new plant?” Jack asked her.
Allison steamed, because she knew she couldn’t. They hadn’t been struggling by any means, but an extra twenty thousand a year would make all the difference. “No, of course not. It’s just so much work for me.” She complained.
“Well, you’ll be happy to know that this time the company is sending packers. All you need to do is sit back and direct them.” He promised.
“Really?” Suddenly the prospect of tearing up house, and setting up elsewhere wasn’t quite as daunting.
And, so, after finding the house they really liked, they once again, picked up stakes and moved some thirteen hundred miles west.
Now, Allison had gotten used to living in a fairly urban environment, and when Jack had shown her the town where they’d be living, she knew it would take some getting used to. Why, the largest shop in town was the grocery store, and that wasn’t more than five aisles of nothing but the basics.
Still, it was difficult to argue with the large raise, so Allison supposed she would make the best of it.
She hadn’t been unpacking for more than a few minutes, before the doorbell rang. Thinking it was a delivery of some sort, she was surprised to find three older women standing on the stoop.
“Welcome to Hackinsaw.” The three said, almost in unison. They all wore the same jet white hairstyle, curled tightly to their heads, and appeared, at least through the screen door, to be in their sixties.
Allison smiled and opened the door, whereupon, all three women let themselves inside. It was then that she realized that although their hairstyles would indicate differently, not a one could have been a day older than thirty-five. “Hello.”
“You must be Jack Bridger’s wife.” The one said, assuming.
“Yes, I’m Allison Bridger.” She smiled, taking the casserole that the one held out for her.
“Well, I’m Mrs. Thomas Bond, and this is Mrs. Edward Wills and Mrs. Frederick Barnes.” The woman smiled, raising an eyebrow to the others.
Allison thought it very strange the women referred to themselves in such formal terms. She had never gone by Mrs. Jack Bridger in her entire life, but she supposed that is exactly how these women must think of her. Allison figured it must be a local custom and went along with it.
“Thank you, so much. Would you like to sit down? I’m afraid…
“Oh, no thank you, Mrs. Jack Bridger. We just wanted to stop by and bid you welcome. I trust we will see you at the town meeting, this Friday?” Mrs. Thomas Bond asked.
“I hadn’t heard about it,” Allison admitted. “If we have time, with all this unpacking…”
“Oh, I do so hope you do, Mrs. Jack Bridger.” Mrs. Edward Wills sighed. “You should stop by my shop, and we can do something about your hair.”
“My hair?” Allison questioned.
“How old are you?” Questioned Mrs. Thomas Bond.
“Why, I’m thirty-one,” Allison responded, reticently.
“Thirty-one, and Mrs. Jack Bridger still wears her hair like a schoolgirl.” Mrs. Frederick Barnes chortled.
“Now, just a minute. I happen to like my hair this way.” Allison ran a hand over her auburn locks, which came to rest at the middle of her back.
“It won’t do, I’m afraid, Mrs. Jack Bridger.” Mrs. Edward Wills scolded, mildly. “You will find that we can be harsh at times, but we expect some level of respect from you. You’re a gimmer, so some allowances can be made.” She led the women to the door. “I’ll pencil you in for tomorrow morning, nine o’clock?” She raised her eyebrow, following the others through the door.
“What the hell was that all about?” Allison sighed out loud. Looking up at herself in the large mirror that Jack had just hung over the mantle, she admired her auburn hair. Jack had always said it was what set her apart from the blondes and the brunettes. She would have to speak to him when he arrived home that evening.
Allison heard the garage door close and waited for her husband to appear through the door into the den. The man who appeared looked nothing like her Jack. When he left that morning, he sported his usual flouncy blonde comb-over, which fell well over his ears, and onto his collar in the back. The man she was facing looked like he just joined the marines.
“Jack?” Allison grinned. “What on earth happened to your hair?” She ran a hand up the sides, only to discover that there was no hair there at all. In fact, the sides and the back had been shaved right down to the skin. To top it off, the only hair remaining on his head sat in a horseshoe no longer than a quarter-inch in length.
“Apparently, there’s a rather strict dress code at the plant, and being a senior director didn’t seem to exempt me from the obligatory haircut.” Jack winced, as he saw himself in the mirror. “A bunch of the other guys took me into town under the guise of lunch, and promptly escorted me into the local barbershop.”
“Jesus, Jack. You’re practically bald.” Allison giggled.
“I don’t suppose the welcoming committee stopped by today, did they?” He asked.
“As a matter of fact, they did. They brought this casserole we’re about to eat.” Allison answered. “They also had something to say about my hair.” Allison frowned. “The one lady even had the audacity to arrange an appointment for me at her salon.”
“Maybe, for now, for appearance’s sake, we should just go along, Allison. This town is a bit weird, and I don’t think scoffing at their local customs is the right way to begin our time here.” Jack said, almost as though he had been instructed.
“And what’s with the ‘Mrs. Jack Bridger’?” She asked.
“Yeah, I noticed that too. My secretary is Mrs. Gerald Walker. I have no idea what her first name is.” He mused, shaking his head.
“I’m not sure I want to say here, Jack.” She spat, staring at her husband’s bald head.
“Well, it’s a little late for that.” Her husband said, running his hand up the back of his razored head. “Besides, I think the haircut is growing on me.”
“Well, I didn’t marry G.I. Joe, but I suppose I’ll just have to get used to your head being peeled like a grape.” She ran her hands up the sides of his head, giving him a kiss in the process.
“So, I suppose you want me to keep the appointment with Mrs. Edward Wills?” Allison moaned. “I thought you liked my hair.”
“I love your hair, sweetie. It’s just, well… these people have their ways, and if we’re going to fit in here, we might need to make a few adjustments.” He ran his hands down the length of her auburn mane. “Besides, it’s only hair, after all.” He shrugged. “At least that’s what I kept telling myself at the barbershop, this afternoon.”
The following morning, Allison made her way to the salon. She had a bad feeling about the whole thing, but if Jack could do it, surely whatever they had planned for her, couldn’t be any worse. She looked up at the sign and grinned. “Will’s Shearing?” She said aloud, put off by the inference. “What am I getting myself into?”
Allison pushed through the door to the small salon and was immediately overcome with the smell of perming solution. The acrid sulphury scent hung in the air like fog. Allison looked around and seemed to be the only person in the shop. “Hello?”
“Ah, good morning. You must be Mrs. Jack Bridger.” The older woman smiled.
“That’s me.” Allison went along.
“My name is Mrs. Mary Horsept.” She held out her hand, and Allison took it in a firm shake. She noticed right away that she used her own name, rather than taking that of her husband.
“I’m new in town, so I’m just getting used to the customs.” Allison sighed.
“It all must seem so different to you. I understand. When Horris and I moved here, God rest his soul, it took a little while, but you’ll get used to it, just like we did.”
Allison figured that because she was a widow, she was allowed to use her own name. The woman directed Allison into one of the styling chairs and wrapped a long cape around her.
“So, Mrs. Edward Wills said that she would like you to get the standard newcomer’s do.” She pointed out.
“Newcomer’s do?” Allison questioned. “What’s that?”
“We like to call it The Lambchop. You’ll see soon enough, dearie.” The white-haired woman grabbed some rather large scissors from the counter and approached Allison.
“I hope you’re not going to cut too much.” Allison fretted.
“You leave it up to me, Mrs. Jack Bridger. We’ll have you all fixed up in no time at all.”
Allison was shocked when the woman held out a hank of her treasured hair and lopped it off only a couple of inches from her scalp. Each time another handful of her tresses were casually dropped to the floor, her mouth fell open a little bit farther.
“We’ll just get rid of the bulk here, then I can get started.” The woman said, as if nothing could be more normal. Meanwhile, Allison was in shock. She tried to say something, anything, but she was so stunned by what was happening that words escaped her.
When the woman finally put down the shears, all that remained of Allison’s once glorious auburn mane was a two-inch crop that stood out from her head at odd angles. All around the chair was the evidence of the slaughter. Allison looked down in disbelief. Her beautiful hair was all but gone.
While Allison was surveying the damage, Mrs. Mary Horsept had been mixing up something in a small bowl. Allison was brought back from the haze by the sharp smell of the mixture. As her hair was being painted with the stuff, Allison finally managed a few words.
“What is that stuff? It smells awful.” She managed.
“Oh, this is our lamb’s wool.” She explained, slathering Allison’s head with a thick coating of the caustic paste. “All the young ladies would love it, but we save it for the newcomers.” She said, excitedly. “You’re going to love it.”
Allison watched in horror as the liquid slowly brightened, taking her hair along with it. Over the course of fifty minutes, she watched as her lovely auburn color was leached away, leaving what appeared to be jet white strands. Passing the time, the older woman swept up Allison’s long hair from the floor, depositing it into a lidded bin in the corner. Allison could help but shed a tear as it all disappeared like so much garbage.
Mrs. Mary Horspet then used a squeeze bottle to add something to the already shocking process. “This is the best part, honey.”
The liquid seemed to meld into the already frothy mixture, suddenly going from white to a very soft pink. Allison’s heart sank as she realized what color her hair might be when all this was done. She remembered the women who had visited, all sporting the jet white hairdo’s. It seemed that she was about to join their ranks.
Allison was walked over to a sink and laid back over the edge while the older woman washed out the mixture. The warm water felt wonderful, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened.
Back in front of the mirror, Allison got her first look at the color of her hair. All she could think about was a girl’s baby blanket, her hair now the softest shade of little girl pink.
“Don’t you just love it?” Mrs. Mary Horsept gushed, running her fingers through the ragged crop. “Now we’ll work on those lovely lamb’s curls.”
‘Lamb’s curls!’ Allison screamed inwardly. What on earth was this woman doing to her hair. First, she hacks it all off, then bleaches the daylights out of it, highlights it with baby pink, and now she wants to do God knows what to it. Allison almost jumped out of the chair when she saw the small red perming rods, being set down next to her.
Instead, respecting her husband’s wishes, she sat silently as what was left of her hair was rolled into impossibly tight bundles that clung to her scalp like little pink and red leaches. It was a hideous sight.
The awful stuff that her head was doused with next was like nothing she had ever smelt. Rotten eggs and vinegar were all she could think of as the stuff sank into her remaining hair, causing her scalp to itch and burn slightly.
A plastic cap was placed over her head, as if that might actually hide what was happening underneath. It was just awful, and for a moment, all Allison wanted to do was run back to the city and pretend none of this ever happened. To hell with the twenty-thousand-dollar raise.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the cap was removed and the chemicals washed out of her hair. Then it was back to the chair where another chemical was applied. This seemed unending, and Allison was almost at the end of her rope.
“Now, will get these rods out and rinse out the neutralizer, dearie.” The woman said, sympathetically. “I know you’re not used to this, but you are going to look adorable. I promise.”
As the rods were pulled from her hair, Allison realized just how tight the curls were going to be. All two inches of her hair sprung back tightly against her scalp, giving her what could only be described as a pink fuzzball. The shape of Allison’s head was clearly outlined by the hair. All Allison could do was gawk at her own reflection.
Once dried, Mrs. Mary Horsept began to pick at the curls with a comb, teasing out the tightly wound ringlets into a ball. “Now, let’s get you trimmed up, and we’ll call it done. What do you say?”
What could Allison say? Her identity had been completely robbed from her. All she could think of was a toy she had as a child; a pink monkey with a fuzzy head and large pink ears. She loved the toy, and took it everywhere until it mysteriously disappeared. Well, it was back, only she was the monkey now.
When Allison heard the hair clippers come to life, she nearly died. What more could this woman do to her. But as the machine roared up the back of her head she realized that her ordeal was far from over. Little pink curls tumbled off the cape as the older woman wielded the clippers, tapering the perm to the specified shape suitable for a newcomer lamb.
As she worked her way to the sides, Allison realized the damage they were doing. The bare metal blades were taking the already humiliating curls off at the root, exposing not only her scalp but her rather protuberant ears she had always tried to hide as a teenager.
“Oh, look at those lovely pink ears, and to think you’ve been hiding them under all that hair. You won’t miss a bit of gossip with those, honey.” The woman chortled. As if things couldn’t be made any worse, she spread lather over the sides and back of her head, shaving away anything left by the cruel clipper blades.
Allison stared in stunned horror as the baby pink perm was shaped into the oblong ball that mimicked the curve of her skull. Nothing she could have said would have expressed the humiliation she was feeling at that moment.
“I’ve taken it right down on the back and sides, honey.” She mused.
Allison reached up, reminded starkly of how her husband’s head felt as she caressed it the night before. Hers was just as smooth, the razor having meted out the final blow, the ultimate finish to her degrading makeunder.
She looked into the mirror as the woman held up a small handheld, the back taken up even higher than the sides. A small dimple was shaved out at the center looking suspiciously like a baby’s bottom, and certainly deliberately fashioned. ‘How humiliating.’ Allison wept inside.
For a long moment, she sat and stared at herself in the mirror, the humiliation so intense that she was unable to explain the moisture between her thighs. How could she be excited over this? ‘I look like that damned pink monkey, ears and all!’ The voice screamed in her head. Allison was beside herself. How could something this disastrous be arousing? She thought back to her husband’s apparent acceptance of his own tonsuring. Could this be what he was feeling as well?
“Well, little lamb, you’re all sheared and ready for pasture.” Mrs. Mary Horsept sighed, running her hand over the excruciatingly tight ball of curls. “We’ve got you on a rather strict weekly appointment schedule, for now, Mrs. Jack Bridger. The sides and the back will need to be shaved, and that cute little dimple maintained.”
“How long will I…” Allison hesitated breathlessly, trying to cope with her throbbing clitoris, and the mystery of why she was so aroused. “… do I have to keep it like this?”
“Oh, that’s up to Mrs. Thomas Bond. She’s the Bellweather of the flock.” She woman instructed.
“The flock?” Allison managed.
“Well, didn’t anyone tell you, honey?” Mrs. Mary Horsept chided. “Why, you’re a shearling now, my dear… a shearling in the Bo-Peep Society.”
Allison paid the woman the exorbitant sum of one hundred thirty dollars and walked out, no longer the proud confident woman she had been a few hours before. People she passed seemed to look down on her, as though her hairstyle was some sort of social marker.
Once in the safety of her car, Allison looked up the term, her sex vibrating as she read the description. ‘Shearling: A young sheep, freshly shorn, between its first and second shearing.’
Somehow, the idea of being referred to as an animal seemed to generate the most humiliating, but exquisitely arousing sensations. She reached up and felt the smooth cleft that separated the lobes of her curls, extending very nearly to her crown.
Allison threw the car into drive and steered her way back to the lovely county house she and her husband had purchased. When she pulled into the driveway, she was surprised to find Jack’s car there.
Running inside, she was eager to show him her transformation. Would he be as excited as she was?
“Well, the guys told me it would be a drastic change, but… wow,” Jack exclaimed as he noticed how different his wife now looked. He ran his hand up the back and sides of her head, his fingertips unable to penetrate the tightly wound orb of pink curls crowning Allison’s head. “They shaved you, just like they did me.” He sighed.
“Is it that bad?” Allison pouted.
“Bad? God no. I love it. I mean, it’s a bit of a drop in social standing for you. You know that right?” He asked.
“I got that impression,” Allison admitted.
“Tom said that as a fresh shearling, you pretty much have to do what any of them asks, for a while.” Jack pointed out.
“Them?” Allison queried.
“The Bo-Peeps, Allison. Their word is law, as far as you’re concerned.” Jack said, admiring the baby rump dimple the boys said she’d be sporting, running his fingers into the deeply shaved slot that climbed high onto his wife’s head.
“Really? Even over yours?” She asked, provocatively.
“From what they say.” Jack handed her a small booklet. She tossed it onto the kitchen table, taking her husband’s hand and running it up between her open thighs, and into her pantied pussy. He felt the wetness and knew she was hooked already. As she dragged Jack into the bedroom, she glanced down at the small pamphlet and wondered what her future might hold.
The Bo-Peep Society
A Shearling’s Guide