The Ghost Barber

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My business partner and I went to assess the abandoned girls’ school’s value that night. We bought it at auction for a crazy low price. He wanted to go at night to see if it had a squatter problem. Big abandoned properties like that usually had issues with squatters. He’s a big man, so he never worried about trouble. Me? I’m a small woman, barely 5 feet tall and 100 pounds, with a head full of wild red curls, so I carried a gun whenever I accompanied him during one of these nighttime assessments. In case, there was trouble. Not that it helped me during our trip to the school.

We separated about a half hour into our walk-through of the property. I wasn’t too worried. Again, we’ve done this before. I just focused on taking pictures and looking out for trouble. Every inch of that place was trashed. Except for the barbershop. When I walked into that barbershop, everyone looked clean and new. Including the straight razors on the counter. There was a sign over the sink that said, menacingly, “Bad Girls Get The Razor Here, And You’re A Bad Girl If You’re Here”. As I read it, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was a small man in a long white coat with a shiny bald head and no eyebrows.

“That means you too, bitch,” he said, taking my phone.

Hypnotized by his intensely blue eyes, I allowed him to strip me bare. He scoffed at my small breasts. Even pinching my nipples. All my clothing, including my purse, where I kept my gun and my phone, went in the trash. Then he bent me over the counter. Tears streamed down my face as he proceeded to beat my ass bright red with a wooden hairbrush. Once he finished spanking me, he sat me down in his barber’s chair, strapping me down with leather straps that cut into my wrists and ankles.

“Thank you for letting me indulge in that bit of foreplay, it has been so long since I had a new girl in my chair,” he said, picking up those old-fashion hand clippers, “I needed to have a little fun before I got to work on this unruly mane.”

With that, he plunged those torturous clippers into my curls. I felt like a sheep being sheared by a very efficient shepherd. Within minutes, all my wonderful red hair was on the floor. Like trash. He, however, wasn’t finished with me. He lathered up my scalp and my eyebrows, which I had just got tinted that morning. And then he used his straight razor to shave me as a bald as cueball. He took time to sharpen it first. After he gave my scalp a vigorous rub with a clean white towel, he oiled it, so that it gleamed under the harsh lights of his shop.

He freed me from the chair. Then he pointed to the broom in the corner. My face red from the humiliation of being shaved bald, I swept up my fallen curls and put them in the trash. With a sadistic gleam in his eyes, he presented me with a school girl uniform in my size with no panties.

“Go get dressed, baldie,” he said, smacking my bald head, “the other girls are waiting.”

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