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Owen 5 part. by Chovanec

Excuse my weak English, it's not my mother tongue. I'm describing a story I've heard. I recommend reading the previous sections.
My name is Zaan and in 1975 I was 14 years old. I've been going to lower school last year. My best friend's name is Owen, 16 years old, and a year ago he stepped up to a state weekly boarding school for poor and abandoned children.
When my mother was taken to the hospital and my father was still on the move, the authorities placed me temporarily in a year-round boarding school at a lower level. I have had short hair since I started boarding school. My father takes me home on a pass every Sunday so we can go visit my mother in the hospital.
The worst thing that could have happened to me. After 5 weeks, my mother died in the hospital. After her funeral, I learned that my stay at the boarding school would be extended for several years and, like other students of the year-round boarding school, I would be able to get a visit or go on a pass only once a month. The world collapsed completely, so I planned to run away from school.
One day after the party, I escaped through the cellars and stepped out of the locked building through the cellar window. To my surprise, a servant educator was already waiting for me there and took me back to the building.
The new school principal was a military officer in the past and introduced tough military discipline at the school. After my failed escape, the principal called my father to school to tell him about my behavior. I know it's hard for me, boy, the director said, but he committed a gross offense and must be punished. He will be banned from visiting and going for 3 months. My father then said goodbye to me with words so that I could endure the fact that we would go on holiday together during the holidays.
After my father left, the director warned me that if I tried to run again, he would secure me to enter the Military School, where I would receive proper training. Then the educator took me to the shower and ordered me to take off my panties. In his hand I noticed old mechanical hair clippers. I knelt in front of him and he cut my hair. When I saw what my hair had done to me, I almost petrified. I looked more like a plucked and not a haircut. I looked like a prisoner of concentration camp.
At the start of the school, I had to stand by the headmaster without a beret. I was like a deterrent to those who wanted to try to escape. At the same time, I was publicly handed over 5 pieces of black cards to the barber. I knew what it would mean, but better than what I had done now with my hair.
For the first time, I was looking forward to Saturday, which came out to visit Pablo's barber shop. My classmates were waiting for a haircut on top # 2 and the rest # 000000. When we arrived at the barber shop, the educator challenged me to be the first in the barber's chair and handed the barber my black card. The barber took the finest scissors he had and began to cut my hair from my neck and ended up on my forehead. I saw my first white stripe in the middle of my head. He did it slowly and indulged in humiliating me. When there was only a fine stubble on my head, maybe 1/250 inches applied foam to my head which he began to scrape off and my head remained completely bare. He didn't leave a single hair on it. When he had finished his work and removed the sail from me, I bowed my head. The barber made sure his slap on his bare neck was painful. When tears welled up in my eyes. I thanked myself and wanted to go to the barber shop. But the educator built me ​​in a barber shop so that all the students waiting to be cut could see me. I should have been a frightening case.
Upon arriving at the boarding school, I went to see my smooth shaved head. There were still red barber fingerprints on his neck. I still have 4 black cards left to complete a humiliating shave of the head of barely grown 1/4 inch of hair.
I was looking forward to when my father would be able to come to me and I wanted to complain about being humiliatedly punished, but in the end I never told him anything about it because I was ashamed to admit it. After the school year, however, my father changed jobs and I was free to leave boarding school.

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