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Curtains Drawn by Shaggyboy


The writing of this story is in direct relation with an almost pathological need to materialize a series of events that I experienced starting at the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic. What follows is true in almost every detail, and recounts real events that I, Shaggyboy, experienced. For an earlier account, read "King and Pup."

Curtains Drawn
It was early March, and I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico, contemplating leaving in a hurry. The world was closing down as the virus raged across East Asia, Europe and into the United States. The port of San Juan was closed, and I noticed less and less flights arriving and leaving the island. When word reached me that the virus was detected in this small and isolated space, I left.
I enjoyed island life, as did my hair. I was 25 years old, and the sun, salt and wind gave a certain vibrancy to it that is hard to achieve once removed from those elements. My hair is typically straight with the exception of the back which slightly curls when it grows out. It’s a medium-brown and was long enough to pass my eyes and cover my ears. When exposed to the Caribbean, it suddenly had the capacity to hold slight waves and look more alive than ever. I loved that, as I was trying to grow it long and give in to the 90’s curtains fad that was taking over the fashion of men’s hair.
Back home in the northern United States, one would have thought that the imminent lockdown would have provided a perfect opportunity to continue growing it. The barbers were quickly closed, and my job was made possible entirely online. I was single, shaggy, and isolated. My curtain style was coming in fantastically. It looked great, styled relatively easily (when it wanted to), though not as nicely as it did in the Caribbean.
Quarantine hit. Time passed oh so slowly. Use your time wisely, I told myself, and don’t think about haircuts. That seemed easy enough, but there was the problem of the Oster 76 Classic that sat under my sink. I hadn’t had a haircut in several months, and my last trip to the barbershop was only a maintenance trim to help shape the style. Yet the purpose of hair seemed less and less reasonable as the days dragged on. I was home all day, taking frequent walks with my dog, who got the best out of the lockdown. I saw myself every single day in the mirror and wondered why I didn’t just cut it short.
I began to think about this obsessively. If I actually did decide to cut it, just how short did I want it? There was plenty of length to play with. I could try different styles, an undercut, or something else. I figured I could cut just enough to satisfy the urge, then allow it to grow again without losing too much time. Yet, what would my skills allow? Did I want it shaggy still, needing an hour to dry after the shower and to only look good when it decided to? One thought persisted in my mind: It had been a fair amount of time since I had a buzzcut. Would that be it? Would I run the clippers all over my head? I knew I liked how a #3 buzz looked… or should I do what I really wanted, and buzz it as close as possible?
This question nagged me persistently. There was no reason not to, no reason to hold on to the dream of growing it long. My urges were often just so strong, and adding the isolation, the availability… just how easy it would be, and just how long it had been. It was, as it always has been, the question of battling my own urges, fighting against an innate part of my brain and sexual code which required that I have to contemplate cutting it very short, and either resisting or giving in. It is a struggle between looking good and feeling good- the stylish long look- or looking fine and feeling amazing- the buzzcut.
The quarantine dragged on. Days became weeks. Although every single day I humored that I would cut or trim my own hair, I always decided against it. No rush. Yet with persistent consideration and the engulfing loneliness and boredom, looking at myself in the mirror, I had finally decided that I was going to buzz my hair short again, for the first time in a long time. No more long hair, no more curtains. It had to go. My heart pounded wildly in my chest at the resolution to do it. But when would I? Certainly not now! I wasn’t ready. Couldn’t be ready. I would wait until the time was right, of course.
I took my plight to the hair fetish community, where knowing who you can talk to can help you solidify decisions you’ve already made for yourself. I was met with respect and kindness from people I had established amicable relationships with, hyping me up to make my desires become reality, and for some, their own desires. It was as if something in my mind shifted. The long hair that I favored so much had become bothersome, irritating, unruly and quite a nuisance. I wanted it gone.
It took more than a week for me to work up the nerve, or for my nerves to be worked up enough by this new irritant. I frequently visited that voice in my head, that submissive power which constantly called to me, commanded me, and ensured that I was a slave to my own erotic desires. Then came a day, a day like dozens before it, another day of isolation and the potential that I listened to that voice. At last, the voice had chiseled away at my will power, and I could resist it no more. I decided that I would do it that very evening. It had to be just right. My hair had been growing for over 8 months, and I didn’t want that time wasted. I took my dashboard phone mount from my car so I could attach my phone to the mirror and immortalize the death of my curtains.
***
When evening came, I cleaned the bathroom, brought out the scissors, and neatly arranged the clipper guards in numerical order. I’ve always struggled with choosing a clipper to enjoy. I had both my Wahl Chrome clippers, which hummed a sweet sexual tune, one that I found delightful. Then there was the brute, the Oster 76, a 000 blade of hard sharp metal and what sounds like a roaring engine when it runs, such power and precision, such a nearly irresistible machine, no matter how much it lacks in versatility. I had decided I would start with the Wahl, unsure exactly what cut I would do, but I set up the Oster too, just in case.
I felt very submissive. I had longed for a Master. A force to dictate how my hair would be and buzz it whenever he felt. But I didn’t have that. I only had my urges, my crumbled will power, and two pairs of well-maintained clippers with the power to completely eliminate my long hair. I was submitting to myself, or a version of myself which dominates the other. Every day, little by little I inched closer to giving power to that voice inside my head that controlled my urges, until this moment where I yielded fully, with every intention to listen to everything it told me to do. No more could I, Shaggy, maintain that façade, a long-haired young man who preferred himself that way. The fetishist within me had conquered, and so I fashioned a chain collar around my neck as a symbol of that submission and prepared to succumb completely.
Standing in the mirror, shirtless and collared, I excitedly prepared to get to work. I wanted to do a mohawk first. I grabbed a comb and put in a side-part with it, leaving the 4-5 inches of hair on one side exposed, and the even longer hair on top cascading down one side of my face. Taking up the Wahl and snapping on the #2 guard and closing the taper for the shortest cut, I listened to the clipper hum to life. Was I really going to do this? I knew I could stop myself right there. Obey your urges. I looked myself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and pressed the clipper to the base of my sideburn. I felt it vibrating delicately against my cheek. Breathe in, move the clippers up my sideburn, breathe out, chunks of long hair fell into the sink. With that first exhilarating pass of the clippers, I would now need to do a complete haircut, one way or another.
There was little pause. Another swipe in the same spot, then another and another, then at last all the way up to the part that I had made. With each bit that fell, more hair seemed to replace it. I persisted, swipe after swipe until my ear was exposed for the first time in months, and until the hair was cut close and even on the side all the way to the crown of my head. The sink was already full of hair, and I had only just begun. I could see the hair at the back of my head, curling up as it usually did, begging to be next. With pleasure I tilted my head forward and placed the clipper at the back of my neck and ran up to behind my ear. A large chunk of hair hit my shoulder. I did this again and again until all of those taunting loose curls were cut off, and one side of my head was evenly cut with the #2, leaving enough for the mohawk in the back. I grabbed the scissors and started to cut larger chunks of long hair that lay over the newly clean side, preparing for a neat mohawk.
And so, I had done it, the first step in a potential transformation. Months of hair growth was just cut off my head, and it was clear that the curtains style was no longer an option. Tingles of regret bounced around in my chest, but a type of regret that the intensity of the situation quelled with the growing satisfaction of indulgence. I would have to fight the impulse to feel regret just as I had been fighting the impulse to cut my hair, until that point. The tumult of inner conflict momentarily departed, and I assessed my developing haircut.
The new look was coming along, but it just didn’t look like I took the sides high enough. I placed the clippers at the far edge of my forehead, dangerously close to the top, and ran them straight back, a thick strip of long hair falling down my back onto the floor, the line of the part completely eliminated. I nervously noted that the last pass of the clippers looked a bit high, but the pleasure was the payoff. I picked up the comb again and brushed the top back over, making a part in the other side. I repeated the process, more and more chunks of long hair filling the sink and my floor, those curls in the back that I always thought looked cute, buzzed off.
I picked up the hand mirror and admired the somewhat sloppy long mohawk and decided on cleaning it up and maybe even walking away with the new style. I cleaned up the back, but knew the top was too long, especially the fringe. I messed up my hair with my free hand, watching it flop around, playing with how it could style. I took the comb again and parted it on to the left, the long hair on top dangling past my eye and surprisingly to my mid ear. Taking up the scissors again, I placed them just above my eyebrow and snipped the bangs. Inches came off. As they fell, I continued around my head at that height until the parted hair sat neatly an inch above the ear.
It looked good. I could live with this cut. I got to feel the clippers, and still keep some long hair. I was aesthetically satisfied. The top was nearly entirely untouched by clippers, the long hair only trimmed by a few inches. It was a much wider mohawk than a traditional one and keeping this style would not cost me the rest of my length. The ability to assuage my aforementioned regret by keeping the style comforted me, but the reality was that it looked a bit sloppy. I could try to make it cleaner, neater, and have fun doing it. Or I could stop here.
But why stop now? Obey your urges. Almost impulsively, contemplation disappeared as I took up the mirror and the clippers and began buzzing the back of the mohawk off. First the tail came off, then higher. It only took seconds for the whole back to be gone. I didn’t want to be attached to the cut, or how much I liked it. My back and sides were completely liberated from the long hair that hid them. I couldn’t resist running my hand up the back of my head, feeling the fresh cut hair bristle against my palm and fingers. I couldn’t stop here. I needed more.
I then combed my bangs straight forward, as there was still a great deal of long strands. I trimmed them evenly at eye level, then combed it to the side again. With the back and sides completely buzzed down now, and the top trimmed more substantially, I now had a fair looking undercut. The #2 on the undercut was good, very sharp, and tidy. But the #2 on the sides left me desiring more, something fresher with more of a stubble feel. I removed the #2 guard from the Wahl and replaced it with a #1, making sure the taper lever was closed tight for the closest cut possible. I quickly ran it up the sides, all the way up to the high part that I previously made in my hair. In little time, I had had a tightly buzzed undercut.
As I ran a hand through my hair again, the curtains were fighting for dominance over the side-part. The middle part emerging on its own as the longer hair on top naturally fell back into place. A middle part undercut was not an ideal look. Do I really want to retrain my hair to sit in a new direction? My subconscious master chimed in again: You are a slave to you urges. Obey your urges. I combed my hair forward again, for the second time. Mid forehead this time, I took the scissors and snipped my fringe straight across.
My entire life, I had wanted to do that. It was completely exhilarating. So much so that I couldn’t stop. I grabbed a handful of long hair from the top of my head and just snipped it off. Cutting more and more off by the handful, easily slicing through with the scissors, lock after lock the long hair was cut down to an assortment of short lengths, an inch here, 2 inches there. I snipped the fringe even shorter. Then shorter again. I glided the scissors across my head close to the scalp and snipped, letting them cut anything they could find however short they wanted to. The fringe called me back, again. I placed the open scissors all the way to the top of my forehead this time. Obey your urges. I pulled the scissors closed, taking of the rest of the fringe. My face was opened up from forehead to chin, a zigzag of blunt hairs about a half an inch long.
I came to realize my own destructive potential, and the penalty of such strong urges. Conflict emerged again as I saw myself with those sharp scissors, and the damage I had done. It took so long for those bangs to grow out, and only seconds to cut them off. Such power was thrilling, and the opportunity to cause more damage was one I could not pass on. Raising the open scissors to my head again, making sure they were even closer to my scalp, I glided them across the top, snipping as I went. Massive chunks still fell, even when it seemed there wasn’t much left to butcher. Taunted by what was left of the bangs, I cut them as close as possible to the hairline. Nothing felt better in all of my life than taking all of that long hair off with scissors. It was a good thing I had clippers to clean up the damage.
I looked insane. My hair was short and patchy. I was grinning like a madman. Only a minute before, my hair was long. I knew that if it came to this, I would not take it shorter than a #3, but there were some patches from the scissors that caused concern. I took a deep breath, coming down slowly from this moment of ecstasy to assess damage control. I figured a #4 guard would be enough to even out the top. I pressed the clippers against my forehead and pushed back, buzzing the top of my head down to an almost even 1/2 inch. The #4 did well, though there were some areas where the scissors had indeed cut closer.
I took a second to stare at myself… I had a buzzcut. I almost couldn’t believe it. I loved how the close-cropped hair looked. But something was off. I realized that I had cut one of the sides higher than the other with the initial #1. Much higher. I would need to make that more even. I put the #1 guard back on and took the right side high enough to match the left, but it was clear that the height actually ran into the top of my head, as I feared, and would be very hard to blend. I knew the best route, and the most fun, would be to cut the entire thing with the #1. So, the top would have to go shorter. Obey your urges. I pressed the #1 to my head and buzzed the top with it. Pass after pass, my hair was cut to a velvety stubble.
I was done. Seeing my appearance, I was pleased with my work. I felt such an amazing sense of relief and pleasure looking at my buzzed head and the large pile of long hair on the floor and in the sink. I scanned the whole area with pleasure, from the used guards to the scissors, to the… unused Oster 76. I felt a lump form in my throat, and that tick in my brain that was dominating me. I wanted to use that clipper, but the only thing left to cut would be with its bare #000 blade, taking off what little remained of my hair. So, obedient that I am, I plugged it in.
One would not think that there would be a very big difference between a #1 and a #000. I revved it up, the power of the Oster in my hand, and I pressed the cold metal to my head and began to buzz the hair down to visibly nothing. Even then, with nothing but 1/8 of an inch left, hair still fell. I watched my hairline almost disappear as I used the fierce Oster all over my head, my scalp white against my (somewhat) tan neck and face. I took a towel to wipe off the excess hair and was surprised when it just stuck to my head like Velcro. The internal strife that had filled me with doubts had gone with the rest of my hair, to be swept up and thrown into the garbage.
***
Disbelief conquered me, momentarily, as I soaked in my changed appearance, the long hair lying all over the floor and filling the sink. With the task complete, reality eased itself back into my mind, and I realized fully what had happened. I had freely given away control to something primal, something impulsive, a part of me that always nags, pokes, and pesters. Yet, in exchange, I received pure elation, ecstasy, and relief. With my hair completely cut to stubble, that power released me from its inescapable grasp, and went silent.
I felt good. I wanted to share it. I wanted to post a few pictures on the fetish sites and showcase what had happened, the triumph of pleasure and the fall of will power. I snapped a few pictures and posted them for the eyes of the fetish community. With that, I unlocked the chain collar that was fastened around my neck. I was released, completely and wholly satisfied. My hair was the shortest it had ever been.
In the shower, feeling the hot water on my scalp was an entirely new and wonderful sensation. I liked seeing the small clumps of hair pool at me feet and wash away. It felt ceremonial, washing away a former sense of self and entirely replacing it with something that required a new variety of confidence and ownership. My hair grows slow, and it would be short for a long time. Even longer if that power comes back and repossesses me.
After I was clean and dry, even as my blood was still flowing vibrantly through my body in continued excitement, the late hour brought me to bed. On my phone, messages of support and probing flooded in. The fetish community shared my eagerness, but more so those who patiently supported my indecision during the preceding weeks. Between small chats, from mundane and creepy to respectful and pleasant, one particular message caught me off guard. It was, at first, an ecstatic reaction to my transformation. I appreciated the enthusiasm. It was followed by being questioned as to why I didn’t just take it completely smooth.
The truth is that I hadn’t thought about it. Those urges that I followed so obediently, so diligently, never called on me to do so. I just wasn’t into it. However, I was already as close as possible to my head being completely smooth. Even though there wouldn’t be a better chance, I was already showered, comfortable, and happy. I decided against it. That same person countered my denial with a monetary offer, a sum that was indeed a temptation. I had a razor; I had shaving cream. I ran my hand across my fresh stubble as I considered it.
The answer was no. I was happy and comfortable. I did all that I was needing to do. But he raised his offer. I calculated that the difference in length would be no more than a day or two of growing. I was getting butterflies in my stomach. Was I going to accept this offer and shave my head smooth? I didn’t want to do it really, but that amplified the thrill… the decision was ultimately to say yes, that I would do it. The money was transferred quickly, and just like that, I was back in front of the mirror preparing the tools to cut my hair.
I did not wear my collar this time. These were not entirely my urges commanding me, although I did enjoy the premise conceptually. Shirtless, I lathered my head completely in shaving cream. Once completely covered in white foam, I placed the razor on the top of my head and ran it forward, slowly, and gently. After a couple of times doing this, my white scalp shined through even strips where the razor took the foam away, and what was left of my hair. Strip after strip I razor shaved the hair down smooth until all of the shaving cream was rinsed down the sink with what remained of my buzzcut. As it was my first time, I nicked the scalp in a couple of places but cleaned it appropriately.
I followed with another application of shaving cream. Once again, I lathered my head completely and set the razor to work. This time, I ran it against the grain of the hair, making sure to take every piece of hair off completely. The razor made a scraping sound as it passed over my scalp and erased all that came in its path. All it left behind was a glistening smoothness, an even more stark and bold image than the #000 buzz.
I was impressed with the feeling, and surprised that I actually liked it. There was a certain pleasure in being bald that was, until then, unknown to me. Bald, I was bald. Wow. I couldn’t believe it. All that was left was my short beard and eyebrows. My face shape seemed to change entirely, and I was once again transformed. Another shower brought an even more delicate experience, as I had to turn the water from hot to warm. My scalp was tender and reactive, unlike anything I’ve ever felt. At last, after an evening of extreme elation, I went to bed. Where the night before I had long hair in my face, that night I felt the cool side of the pillow in full effect for the first time as it rubbed my freshly shaved scalp, a chill reminder of the risk and bounty of succumbing to your urges.

Post-script:
This story is a very vulnerable telling, but one that I think resonates with many readers who sexualize haircuts, particularly their own. Maybe, it isn’t always a matter of internal struggle, but for many it is. I often wonder why it is/has to be a struggle at all. Are we so bogged down by social pressure? Or are we just combating our own aesthetic desires with our more sensual needs? And they are needs, no? We can’t simply ignore them and there is no chance of them going away. I present it in the telling of this experience I truthfully had as an entity of its own agency, though this is not sincerely the case.
These desires are innate parts of our being. They are in the fabric of our individual psychologies and the best we can do is enjoy them. We can, and sometimes should resist them, but never to our detriment. I write this in June of 2021. My hair is still buzzed short (more stories to come), but I regret nothing, even as I crave long hair again.




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