The Dream

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So, I used to have this recurring dream where these angry men would hold me down and pour something sticky in my shoulder-length curly black hair. I then would run to our local salon. Thea, the stylist that I always went to, would try to comb it out, but, due to the nature of the substance, she would need to get out her scissors. She would just keep cutting and cutting until I was left with just a halo of short curls. When I started to cry, Thea would get annoyed and pull out a pair of clippers. She would always say something like “I’ve always hated having to deal with your difficult mop” before she buzzed my head. Always without a guard. Sometimes, as a grand finale, she’d give me a spanking with a hair brush.

I loved those dreams. I’d always wake up from them soaking wet and needing to masturbate. One day, during an appointment with Thea, I decided to finally tell her about these dreams, though not about how arousing I found them. At that point, I didn’t really know her personally.

She smiled. “Do you want to shave your head?”

“No, of course not,” I said, starting to blush and wishing that I hadn’t shared, even as “just a joke”, “It’s just a weird dream that I occasionally have.”

“You don’t need to get crap in your hair first for me to shave it off.”

And, with that, she picked up a pair of clippers. Before I could object, she shaved a strip down the center of my head. I tried to stand up, only to have her push me down and tell me that I wasn’t fucking finished. Within minutes, I had a bristly two inch long crewcut (that exposed my big head and bigger ears) and all of my beautiful black curls were on the floor.

“See?” she said, rubbing my head, “No need.”

I started to tear up. “Why would you do that, Thea? Look at me.”

“You basically asked for this by telling me that story. I mean, was it longer in your dream?”

“No, it was shorter.”

Thea continued to rub my head. “Oh, did I give you the full cueball treatment and shaved you smooth with a razor for being a little shit to me?”

“Yes.”

Am I an idiot who could have walked away from what remained of her hair and dignity? An idiot who, in fact, agreed to an even worse fate? Well, folks, yes.

Thea popped the guard off her clippers and gave my head another buzz. It’s shocking how much hair even just two inches seems like when you’re about to be left with none. My remaining stubble was then covered with a hot white fluffy lather. As I sat very, very still, she shaved my head smooth with a straight razor. She rubbed off any remaining lather with a scratchy white towel. Afterwards, she patted my scalp with aftershave that stung.

“I’ve always dreamed of taking you from curly to cueball,” she said, giving my bare scalp a kiss before uncaping me.

When I went to grab my purse to pay her,eager to leave a salon full of people currently staring at me, she shook her head and told me to sweep up my hair. Red faced, I obeyed, tossing every last severed curl in the garbage.

Once I finished cleaning up my hair, my own hair, I reached for my purse again, only to have her bend me over her station. Oh, no, I thought, my eyes tearing up, I’m going to get my spanking. And, only when that happened, she let me go.

I managed to last a month before I made another appointment with Thea.

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