Big Mistake by Acorn

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Zubair was an 18-year old boy with a medium build and attractive Pakistani features. His brown-black hair looked okayish and went well with his face, but he had always dreamed of having gorgeous, glossy shining locks like the ones he saw some men with. He had sported relatively short hair for most of his life, but over the past few months he had been growing them out. To his disappointment, his hair looked nothing like he wanted and instead grew harder and harder to manage. One day, just as he was about to give up and return to his older, shorter hairstyle, one of his classmates, Ali, walked in with amazing, glossy hair. Ali was the son of a well-known businessman and he came from a very rich family. Zubair was shocked since his hair had never looked that gorgeous before, but today its texture, volume and overall look had completely changed. Looking at the way Ali’s fringe fell across his brows down to his nose and the sides smoothly hanging over his ears, he felt a twinge of jealousy, but his curiosity was greater so he went over to ask Ali about it.

"Hey, your hair looks great!"

"Yeah, I’ve been getting compliments all day."

There was a detached sense of pride in his response.

"How did you get it to look like that? I’ve been growing mine out for a while and I can’t seem to style it right no matter how hard I try."

"I got a keratin treatment at the new salon, it cost a lot but I think it was absolutely worth it."

Zubair felt his jealousy growing, especially considering the smugness with which Ali answered his question. He was also somewhat upset since he was pretty sure he would not be able to afford the treatment even with the pocket money he had saved up. Still, he decided to go ask around at the salon, just in case it was within reach.
He was amazed when he entered the new salon, the flashy interiors, the uniformed stylists and the general professional atmosphere was unlike anything he had experienced at a barbershop before. The receptionist welcomed him with a warm smile and asked how she could assist him. Zubair hesitated for a moment, feeling slightly out of place in the upscale salon, but he gathered his courage and inquired about the keratin treatment that Ali had mentioned. The receptionist explained the process in detail, emphasising the benefits of smooth, glossy hair that would be easy to manage. As she listed the prices, Zubair's heart sank - it was indeed far beyond his budget. He thanked the receptionist and promptly left.

He spent that night tossing and turning, trying to come up with ways to save up the money, or earn it somehow but he couldn’t think of anything. Suddenly, he came up with a scheme that would allow him to get the money all at once, but it was very risky and he was unsure if he would be able to get away with it.
The next evening, as his father came back from work he timidly approached him. "Hey Dad, I wanted to talk to you about something important," Zubair said, trying to keep his voice steady. His father briefly looked up from his newspaper. "What is it, son?" he replied, gesturing for Zubair to continue. While shuffling his feet, he sheepishly said, "Well… the school is arranging a field trip for the seniors and it’s kind of expensive, but I really want to go…" His father raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "A field trip, huh? How much are we talking about?" Zubair hesitated for a moment before revealing the inflated amount he had concocted in his mind. His father's eyes widened in surprise. "That is quite a hefty sum, but I suppose this is a special opportunity for you. Let me see what I can do to help make it happen." Relief flooded through Zubair as his father promised to look into it. However, as he watched his father retreat to his study, he started feeling incredibly nervous and a little guilty. But as the image of himself sitting in one of those swivel chairs, getting pampered with a keratin treatment, his fears melted away and he sauntered off to his room, feeling proud of himself for pulling the scheme off.

The next Saturday, he told his parents he was going on the field trip but instead he took a trip to the salon. Before leaving, he also told them that he was sleeping over at a friend’s house that night and told them that his hairstylist Aunt was over so he might get a trim there before returning. As he settled into the chair, he couldn't help but feel a mixture of excitement and guilt. The stylist worked their magic, applying the treatment to Zubair's hair with precision and care. The salon was abuzz with activity - laughter, hairdryers humming, and the sound of scissors snipping through the air. When the treatment was finally complete, Zubair gazed at his reflection in awe. His hair was transformed - smooth, glossy, and effortlessly stylish. He couldn't stop running his fingers through it, revelling in the softness and shine. As he returned home the next day, his parents were shocked to see his new hair. They bombarded him with questions about where he got the treatment done and how much it cost, to which he responded calmly, claiming his friend’s aunt did it for free as a favour. Nonchalantly, he returned to his room.
It had been two weeks since the treatment and the effects of it had really set in. The hair lost their synthetic, treated look and adopted a natural sheen. Now they were almost perfectly straight, but had enough texture and body so that instead of lying flat, they scattered across face, making his already striking features even more defined. His bangs had also grown out so that he could wear them in a stylish way, parted to the left, often obscuring his eyes, just for him to run his hands through them. The sides laid perfectly across his ears, covering them in a thick shiny curtain. And the back was entirely below his collar too, cascading smoothly over his nape. He had been loving the attention he was getting at school, but what he enjoyed even more was playing with his hair and styling and brushing them. He had all but forgotten his lie to his parents.

Eventually, the consequences of his actions caught up with him. His mother found the receipt for the hair treatment hidden in his pants pocket. She told his father about it and he was furious. That evening, when he returned from a friend’s house, he found his parents sitting at the table silently. His heart sank as he realised they must have found out about the salon visit. His father's face was expressionless but he knew that this was the calm before the storm. "Zubair, we need to talk," his father began, his voice heavy with disapproval. "We found the receipt for the keratin treatment. Why did you lie to us?" Zubair felt a lump form in his throat as he struggled to find the right words. "I-I'm sorry, I just really wanted to have nice hair like Ali and I thought..." His voice trailed off as his father's expression hardened. "You thought what? That lying and deceiving us was the way to go about it? Do you have any idea how much that treatment cost? And you lied about where you got it done too?" His father’s anger only grew, and Zubair knew that he was going to be taught a lesson.

His father dragged him out of the house, pulling him by his hair, as he angrily whispered, "You think you’re so smart, trying to trick us and take advantage of our trust? Well, I’m going to make sure you regret it." He struggled against his father, but he knew it was a futile fight. With a strong grip on his hair, his father nudged him along the road, and they went down a lane that Zubair had never been to before. It was surrounded by seedy shops and strange people and Zubair’s nervousness turned to fear. Onlookers cast curious glances at him across the darkening street, wondering why he was being yanked by his hair and what would happen next. Normally, Zubair would be mortified by such public humiliation, but he was too consumed with thoughts of what was to come. Finally, his father stopped outside a very dingy barbershop carved into the side of the street with a single lightbulb that hung in the middle glowing through the dilapidated windows.
As Zubair realised what was about to happen, the panic truly set in. He began struggling against his father, trying to negotiate, requesting any other punishment possible. But his father only grew angrier and more impatient with each one of his pleas. Finally, he lost his patience. "Stop struggling! You’re getting the punishment I have decided for you." he growled, pushing his son towards the entrance of the barbershop. The sign above the barbershop read "Salim's Barber" in faded letters, and Zubair's heart sank even further at the sight of the rundown establishment. His father pushed him inside roughly, causing a small bell to jingle overhead as they entered.

The barbershop was small, cramped, and in desperate need of repair. The walls and floors were dirty and covered in grime and hair clippings, with peeling paint and scuffed surfaces. The few chairs for customers were worn and stained, and the mirrors were streaky and dusty. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, old hair products, and something unidentifiable that made Zubair's nose wrinkle. It was a musky, musty scent that seemed to cling to everything in the barbershop. He imagined the clientele of the barbershop: rough-looking men with unkempt beards and shaggy hair, who would probably eye him with suspicion. Zubair's eyes flitted to the barber, Salim, a repulsive man with calloused hands and a malevolent look that unsettled him further. As he approached them, Zubair could smell a mixture of sweat and cheap aftershave, a pungent and overpowering combination.

Zubair pleaded one last time, but his father did not even acknowledge him and spoke directly to Salim in Urdu. He grumbled "Yeh mera ladka, Zubair, aaj iske baal katne hai." (This is my son Zubair, his hair is to be cut today) to which Salim replied, "Bilkul ji, iske lambe baalon ko kaatne ki sakht zaroorat hai." (Of course, his long hair desperately needs to be cut off) Salim could tell that Zubair was here against his will but he proceeded, deferring completely to his father’s wishes. He led him to a chair and Zubair reluctantly sat down, realising that his fate was cemented. The chairs were hard and uncomfortable, with frayed edges that pricked at Zubair's skin when he sat down. The floor beneath his feet felt sticky and unclean, making him squirm in discomfort.

First, Salim applied a piece of tissue to Zubair’s neck, carefully lifting up the thick tresses at the nape so that they did not get caught. Then he began to wrap a worn-out, dusty cape around Zubair, and he tied it very tightly around his neck. He began dragging a cheap, green, plastic comb through his hair as Zubair looked at them for the final few moments. Salim thought, despite his general dislike of longer hair on boys and of the bratty personality Zubair exuded, that his hair was amazingly smooth, thick and glossy; indeed one of the best heads of hair he had ever gotten to cut. Then, he picked up the spray bottle and began to wet his hair. After a few spritzes, asked in a resigned tone "Kya karein?" (What is to be done?) Zubair’s father, with a sense of finality said, "Iska pura tind kar do, seedhe ustre se." (Shave him completely bald, directly with a straight razor). The barber simply nodded.

Zubair felt a sinking feeling of dread in his stomach, he knew a haircut was impending, but not a head shave - this punishment had become way more serious than he could have ever imagined. He tried to protest, but just as he was about to say something, the barber pushed his head down so that his chin touched his chest. Zubair knew then that his protests were not going to change his father’s mind and there was no point in trying, so he straightened his back and glimpsed at his damp hair in the mirror. His father remarked "Usse idhar ghumao, mujhe dekhna hai." (Turn him this way, I want to watch.) Zubair felt the chair slowly turn and he was now facing his father, he couldn’t even watch his transformation anymore. Salim began spraying more water, and lightly massaging his head with the other hand to make sure the hair was wet properly. After drenching the hair, he brought the comb out again and slicked all his hair back once, then combed it all forward, before massaging some more. Zubair lightly trembled in the chair as he heard the barber fitting the blade in the straight razor, but tried to remain resolute. Then he felt the barber’s fingers splitting his cowlick.

The first scrape of the straight razor felt jarring, Zubair was mortified as he felt the razor shaved down from his cowlick, clearing a path across the back of the head. Soft scraping sounds filled his ears as he felt the weight of shorn wet locks beginning to collect on his shoulders. The barber continued and finished shaving the back of the head. Then, he created a parting to the right and shaved off all the hair on that side of his head. Zubair felt his ears and nape being exposed for the first time in over a year. The bald areas of his head were also starting to feel really cool. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a few pieces of hair falling onto the cape. They collected in his lap, and he was forced to stare directly at them. The sight of his long locks lying lifeless in his lap was too much for him to handle and he began lightly crying. Fortunately his father did not seem to notice, but Salim noticed a teardrop running across his left cheek. Salim then created the opposite parting, to the left, and shaved off all the hair below it, moving in straight, deft strokes down to his ears and sideburn. After this, he brushed Zubair down and all the hair that had collected on his shoulders pooled in his lap. He was amazed by the amount of hair he had, but watching them in his lap like that made him really sad. Then all that was left was the top. He wet the top once again, letting the fringe hang across Zubair’s face like a thick curtain, obscuring his vision which gave him at least a little comfort. Then he began shaving from back to front, while bending his head down. Zubair watched as huge chunks of his hair rained down into his lap, until finally all that was left was the fringe. Salim turned his face upwards so that he could get at the thick fringe more easily and as the fringe began coming off, Zubair truly began to feel bald. It was a feeling that he could not stand. Salim spent some more time manoeuvring his head around and getting rid of stray hairs. His bony, calloused fingers felt all the more offensive to Zubair’s freshly bare head. He then picked up a dirty rag from the counter and used it to wipe his head down, making sure it shone even by the dim light of the solitary bulb.

Finally, Salim took the cape off, letting Zubair’s masses of hair crash to the grimy floor and dusted him off a final time. Then he turned the chair around. Zubair was left staring at his reflection in the smudged mirror, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He was unrecognisable, his head now completely bald where there used to be a thick mane of hair. The image staring back at him was like a stranger, vulnerable and exposed. His head felt strangely light without the weight of his long hair, and the cool air against his freshly shaven scalp sent shivers down his spine. His father nodded in approval, satisfied with the drastic transformation of his son.
Salim stood back to admire his work, a smug expression on his face as he watched Zubair struggle to come to terms with his new appearance. Zubair fought back tears, feeling the weight of his lost locks like a heavy burden on his shoulders. As he reluctantly got up from the uncomfortable chair, the cold air on his newly bare scalp made him shiver. Zubair tentatively raised a hand to touch his bald head, still in disbelief at the drastic change forced upon him. He felt the smoothness of his freshly shaven head as his fingers made contact with his scalp, so different from the thick strands of hair he was used to. Salim gave him a hand mirror, and Zubair turned it this way and that, trying to come to terms with his new appearance. His father's stern voice broke through his thoughts, "This is what happens when you defy me, Zubair. A man's strength lies in his obedience and respect for his elders. You will wear your bald head as a reminder of the consequences of disobedience." Zubair’s fingers ghosted over his smooth scalp, feeling the prickling sensation of the newly shaven skin. Zubair’s father ran his hands over Zubair's head with a sense of force, as if asserting his dominance and reminding his son of his place. Zubair could feel the roughness of his father's skin against the smoothness of his freshly shaven head. Satisfied with his inspection, he profusely thanked the barber for setting his son straight, and paid him leaving a big tip.

As he left the barbershop, the cool breeze seemed to mock his naked head, sending a chill down his spine.The walk was cold and silent, both father and son hurt and angered. Zubair couldn't bear to look at his reflection in any nearby windows, unable to come to terms with the stranger staring back at him. As they reached their doorstep, Zubair hesitated before crossing the threshold. With a heavy heart, he finally stepped inside their home, and rushed straight to his bedroom. Zubair stood in front of the mirror, his reflection staring back at him with accusing eyes. His hand kept reaching up to touch his bald head, feeling the stubble that had replaced his once luscious locks.

(*Explicit content warning*, continue below)

Zubair stared at his reflection, the anger and shame warring inside him. His normally handsome face was now hardened by the events of the day, and his eyes flashed with a newfound fire. As he undid his pants and let them fall to the floor, he couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of arousal mixed with his humiliation.
Heavy breaths escaped his lips as he reached for his bare cock, already half-hard from the thoughts of what had just transpired. His fingers traced along its length, feeling the veins pulsing beneath the skin as he grew more turned on by the second.
Zubair's mind raced as he imagined his father's rough hands on his head, the stark contrast of his soft skin against the stubble of his shaved head. His father's voice echoed in his ears, reminding him of his place, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was what his father wanted all along.
Zubair's hand tightened around his cock, his grip firm as he began to stroke himself. His heart pounded in his chest, his body betraying him with a mix of fear and arousal. His eyes never left the reflection in the mirror, and he could see the pain and shame etched into his expression.
As he moved faster, his breathing became ragged, and his body shook with each thrust. The mixture of emotions coursing through him intensified. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the pleasure building up inside him.
With a final, desperate thrust, he let out a guttural groan, his release flooding his hand as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His body shuddered, and he gasped for air, panting heavily. As he wiped his hand dry, he took one last look at his reflection before turning off the light.

(*Continue here*)

Zubair was dreading facing everyone at school but most of all the judgmental Ali, who still had his gorgeous long hair. The next day, Zubair shuffled to school, his newly bald head turning heads as he passed by. His father had warned him not to cover it, to flaunt it as a symbol of his defiance against him. As he entered the classroom, whispers and snickers erupted from his classmates. Zubair's heart raced, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He could feel the heat of their gaze scorching him, and he knew that today would be worse than any day he had endured before.
As expected, Ali was the first to approach Zubair, smirking as he looked at Zubair's bald head. "Hey, Zubs, what's up with the new look?" he asked, smiling slyly. Zubair's face burned with humiliation, and he knew he couldn't escape the judgement of his peers and so he decided to stay quiet. Ali continued to smirk, cockily running his hands through his long hair to make Zubair jealous. Brimming with fury, Zubair's mind raced with thoughts of revenge against Ali. He blamed him for the entire situation; after all, it was his bragging that started this entire problem. Zubair was determined to make him pay. His heart pounded in his chest as he plotted his next move, fueled by the searing anger that consumed him.


This was my first time writing a story! Let me know if I should write a second part (with revenge on Ali of course) in the comments.

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