The boss by Baldbearded

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The weekend passed like a slow, heavy storm. The boss remained in his small house, consumed by thoughts that wouldn’t quiet. The memory of the fishing trip replayed on a loop—Jonathan’s laughter, the horrified gasps of his coworkers, and his toupee, dangling absurdly from the fishing line before being reeled in like a trophy.

He hadn’t dared step outside, not even to grab the mail. Instead, he spent most of the weekend pacing, running his hand over the fringe of hair around the sides and back of his head. Without the toupee, it was glaringly obvious just how little hair he actually had.

On Saturday night, as he sat in the dim glow of his living room, his mind drifted back to high school—a time when his hair loss had first started. He was only 16 when the thinning began, small patches appearing on his crown and his temples creeping back ever so slightly.

It didn’t take long for the taunts to start. Fellow students teased him relentlessly, calling him "old man" and joking that he looked like a teacher instead of a classmate. By senior year, his hairline had receded dramatically, and the crown of his head had become noticeably sparse. He remembered standing at graduation, feeling utterly exposed under the glaring sun, his balding head glistening for everyone to see.

College offered no reprieve. By the time he turned 20, he was fully bald on top, with only a thin horseshoe of hair remaining. He couldn’t bear the stares and whispers anymore. That was when he bought his first toupee.

It wasn’t perfect—too thick and too dark for someone his age—but it was enough to restore a sense of confidence. For the next 20 years, the toupee became his shield, a way to hide his insecurity and project an image of authority. But now, at 40, that shield had been stripped away in the most humiliating manner possible.

By Sunday night, he could no longer avoid the mirror. Standing in his bathroom, he stared at himself under the harsh fluorescent light. The fringe looked pathetic, thin and uneven. The bald crown in the middle gleamed mockingly.

It was time.

Monday morning, he woke earlier than usual. For the first time in years, he decided not to pretend, not to patch himself up with artificial solutions. Instead of heading straight to the office, he drove to the barbershop on Main Street—a place he’d never visited, despite passing it every day.

The little shop was empty except for the barber, a middle-aged man with a full, neatly trimmed beard and a kind demeanor. He looked up from his newspaper as the boss entered, offering a welcoming smile.

"Morning. How can I help you?"

The boss hesitated, then removed his hat, revealing the glaring contrast of his bald crown and scraggly fringe. He cleared his throat. "I need this gone. All of it."

The barber’s smile didn’t falter. He nodded and gestured to the chair. "Have a seat."

The boss settled in, feeling the smooth leather beneath him. The barber draped a cape over his shoulders and adjusted it snugly around his neck.

As the clippers roared to life, the boss braced himself. The first pass of the clippers up the back of his head sent a chill through him—not just from the cool air hitting newly exposed skin, but from the finality of the gesture.

The barber worked efficiently, the clippers buzzing as they stripped away the remnants of his hair. With each stroke, the boss felt lighter, as though shedding more than just hair.

When the clippers stopped, the barber wrapped a steaming towel around his head, letting the warmth soothe his skin. Then came the razor—its precise strokes scraping away the last traces of stubble, leaving his scalp smooth and bare.

The barber stepped back, inspecting his work. "There you go," he said, a note of pride in his voice. "Completely clean."

The boss stared at himself in the mirror. The bald head was striking, and though it left him feeling exposed, it also carried a strange sense of liberation. His beard, left untouched at his request, stood out now more than ever—a sharp contrast to the smooth scalp.

"Thanks," the boss murmured, standing to pay.

The barber nodded. "You wear it well. Own it."

Walking into the office later that morning, he felt every eye on him. The whispers started almost immediately, hushed voices carrying over the hum of computers and ringing phones.

"Did you see the boss?"
"He’s totally bald now!"
"Think he’s keeping the beard?"

The boss didn’t falter. He walked steadily to his office, ignoring the curious and amused glances. He had spent years cultivating an image of authority, hiding his insecurities behind a polished façade. Today, he would face the consequences of stripping that away.

Inside his office, he closed the door and took a deep breath. The desk phone sat waiting, but he didn’t need it this time. He stood, walked to the door, and called out into the main room.

"Jonathan," he said, his voice firm but not sharp. "Can I see you for a moment?"

The room fell silent. Jonathan, seated at his desk, looked up. His beard was fuller now, a rich auburn frame for his calm but piercing gaze.

Jonathan rose and walked to the office, his steps deliberate. He entered without a word, standing tall in front of the desk. The boss gestured to the chair opposite him.

"Please, sit."

Jonathan sat but didn’t relax. He crossed his arms, his expression neutral but watchful.

The boss leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. "I owe you an apology," he began, his voice quieter than usual. "What I did to you—pressuring you to shave your beard—was wrong. I thought it was harmless, a joke. But I realize now it wasn’t funny. It was cruel."

Jonathan said nothing, waiting.

The boss continued, his tone steady but tinged with regret. "I didn’t think about what that beard meant to you, about how personal it was. And then, well…" He ran a hand over his freshly shaved scalp. "Let’s just say I’ve had some time to reflect."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"And I was wrong," the boss admitted. "I disrespected you, and I disrespected myself by hiding behind this…" He gestured to his bald head. "Illusion. I’m sorry, Jonathan. Truly."

Jonathan studied him for a moment, his expression softening. "I appreciate the apology," he said finally. "But respect is earned, not given. Let’s see if your actions match your words."

The boss nodded, the weight of Jonathan’s words settling on him. "Fair enough. I’ll prove it."

Jonathan stood, pausing at the door. He turned back, a small smile breaking through his stoic demeanor. "The bald look suits you," he said.

The boss chuckled, rubbing his scalp. "Thanks. Your beard’s looking great, by the way."

Jonathan grinned. "I know."

As the door closed behind him, the boss leaned back in his chair, staring at his reflection in the office window. It was strange, seeing himself so exposed, but also freeing.

For the first time in years, he felt like he could finally start being honest—with his team, with Jonathan, and most importantly, with himself.

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