Becoming a man by Undercuts

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I was 14 years old when I first fell in love with my manbun. It was my sense of pride, my entire personality since I was young. I would care for it every day for hours, and I loved it. I still remember how I managed to convince my mother to let me have a bun in the first place.

It all started when I was around 10 years old. I had long hair, and I always loved it. I would tie it up in a ponytail or a braid, but I always wanted something different. One day, I saw a picture of a man with a bun, and I was fascinated. I immediately knew that was what I wanted to have. However, my mother didn't like the idea. She thought it was too feminine for a boy, and she didn't want me to be teased at school.

I kept begging her, showing her pictures of men with buns, telling her how cool and trendy it was. Finally, after weeks of convincing, she gave in. She took me to a hair salon, and we talked to the stylist about how we wanted it. The stylist was a bit hesitant at first, but we convinced her, and I was thrilled when I saw myself in the mirror.

From that day on, my manbun was my everything. I would spend hours every day caring for it, making sure it was perfect. I loved how it made me stand out, how it made me feel unique. My friends at school thought it was cool, and I felt proud every time someone complimented me on it.

However, my happiness didn't last long. One day, my mother went on a trip for the weekend, and I decided to take matters into my own hands. I found my father's set of clippers and decided to search for a tutorial on how to give myself a top knot. I carefully followed each instruction, and I was left with a perfect top-knot. I was so happy and excited to show it to my friends.

But when my mother returned, she was beyond angry. She felt betrayed and disappointed in me. She said that I was too old for such a girly hairstyle, and I needed to become more masculine. I didn't understand why she couldn't see how much my manbun meant to me.

One day, after school, my mother dragged me to a women's salon and told the stylist that she wanted to make me look like a boy. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I watched the stylist take her clippers and shave away my sense of pride and joy. She left me with a bald haircut, razor-bald all over, and this was what I had to maintain until I was in college.

Every day after that, my mother would drag me into the bathroom and run #0000 clippers and a razor over my bald head. She never regretted her decision and never felt sorry for me, even when I would ask to grow it out every single day in the bathroom.

I missed my manbun so much. It was a part of me, a part of who I was. But now, I had to hide that part of me, pretend like I was someone I wasn't. It wasn't until years later that I finally grew my hair out again, and I was finally able to express myself the way I wanted to.

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