A Lockdown Scalping by Herr Cutt

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The sunlight seeped through the gaps in the dusty blinds, casting fragmented patterns across the worn hardwood floor. Each beam seemed to spotlight the tension that hung heavy in the room. Uncle Bruno, my new stepfather of just six months, stood imposingly beside a perching stool he'd placed deliberately in the center. His bald head gleamed under the muted light, adding to his intimidating presence. Bruno was a macho figure—broad-shouldered, with muscles straining against his tight polo shirt, and wearing shorts that revealed his powerful, athletic legs. His physique was impressive, a testament to his dedication to physical fitness and discipline. He had the air of someone who took pride in his appearance and expected the same from those around him.

"Sit down," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. I hesitated for a moment, my blond hair falling messily over my eyes. "Now," he emphasized, his gaze piercing. Reluctantly, I moved toward the stool. As I settled onto it, he draped the sheet around me with a brusque efficiency, the scent of mothballs enveloping me. The floral patterns on the fabric felt out of place, almost mocking in their faded cheerfulness.

"Remember to address me properly," Uncle Bruno said sharply. "Yes, sir," I replied, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. Calling him 'sir' was a new mandate, one he enforced with steely persistence. At 17, I bristled under his strict rules, but the lockdown had confined us all, amplifying his need for control.

The laptop on the side table chimed, and the screen flickered to life. Joe's rugged face appeared—a retired barber with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense expression. "Good afternoon," he said curtly. "You must be the young man in need of a haircut."

I offered a meek nod. "Yes, sir."

"Speak up," Uncle Bruno interjected. "Answer properly when you're spoken to."

"Yes, sir," I repeated, louder this time.

"Very well," Joe continued. "Bruno, let's begin. Make sure he's sitting up straight. Posture is important."

Uncle Bruno tapped my back sharply. "Straighten up."

I adjusted myself, the wooden seat uncomfortable beneath me. Joe leaned closer to his camera. "First, dampen the hair slightly. It makes it easier to manage."

Uncle Bruno produced a spray bottle and misted my hair without warning. The cold droplets trickled down my neck. "Hold still," he admonished.

"Now, comb it out to remove any knots," Joe instructed.

Uncle Bruno combed through my hair with methodical strokes, each tug feeling more invasive than the last. "Your hair is quite long," Joe observed. "We'll need to take off a good amount to make it respectable."

"That's the idea," Uncle Bruno replied. "He needs to look presentable."

I clenched my fists beneath the cape, feeling a mix of anger and helplessness. My stepsisters had giggled about this earlier, clearly knowing Uncle Bruno's plans before I did. The isolation of lockdown was bad enough without feeling ambushed in my own home.

"Pick up the scissors," Joe directed. "We'll start with the top. Take about three inches off."

Uncle Bruno lifted the scissors—old but well-kept, their blades sharp and gleaming. He grabbed a section of my hair between his fingers and made the first cut. The sound of the blades slicing through was unsettlingly final. Locks of blond hair tumbled to the floor.

"Good," Joe nodded. "Continue evenly across the top."

Each snip echoed in the quiet room. Uncle Bruno worked with a focused intensity, following Joe's instructions to the letter. "Chin up," he ordered, tilting my head. "Don't slouch."

I stared straight ahead, fixing my eyes on a spot on the wall where the paint was peeling, trying to dissociate from the moment.

"Now the sides," Joe said. "Use the hand clippers since the electric ones are hard to come by these days."

Uncle Bruno picked up the antique-looking clippers. They were heavy and cold, a relic from another era. "Keep your head still," he commanded.

The clippers pressed against my temple, the mechanical 'snick-snick' as they closed over strands of hair was unnerving. They pulled at my scalp with each squeeze. "It would be easier with electric clippers," Uncle Bruno muttered.

"Manual clippers do the job just fine if you know how to use them," Joe retorted. "Make sure you're going against the grain."

He moved methodically, the clippers tracing precise paths over my head. More hair joined the growing pile on the floor. "Ear to shoulder," Joe instructed. "Clean lines."

Uncle Bruno adjusted the angle, pressing the clippers closer. "This is how a young man should look," he commented. "Disciplined."

I felt a flush of frustration. My hair had been one of the few things I could still control. Now, that autonomy was being stripped away, one snip at a time.

"Time for the finishing touches," Joe declared. "Do you have the foil-headed razor?"

"Yes," Uncle Bruno replied, reaching for it.

"Careful with this part," Joe warned. "You need to stretch the skin slightly and use smooth strokes."

Uncle Bruno tilted my head again. "Hold very still."

The razor glided over my skin, leaving a path of stark smoothness. The sensation was both chilling and strangely hypnotic. He worked meticulously around my neck and ears, erasing any trace of stray hairs.

At that moment, my stepsisters burst into the room, their eyes wide with curiosity. "Dad, why are you cutting his hair so short?" one of them asked, her voice a mix of concern and intrigue.

"This is none of your concern," Uncle Bruno snapped. "Go back to your room."

"But it looks so harsh," the other chimed in.

"He needs a firm hand, a fatherly influence," Uncle Bruno explained sternly. "A manly role model."

"Out. Now," Joe added, his tone brooking no dissent. The girls scurried out, their footsteps quickly fading.

Uncle Bruno set down the razor and picked up a large, unused paintbrush. The bristles were soft but firm as he brushed along my neck and shoulders, sweeping away the remnants of the haircut. It felt oddly ceremonial, as if he were wiping away the last bits of resistance.

"Now, I'll powder your head and neck to finish up," Uncle Bruno said, his tone authoritative. He applied a generous amount of talcum powder, the coolness contrasting with the warmth of my skin.

Joe's voice came through sternly, "Stand up straight, boy. And remember, you're to follow every instruction from Bruno without question."

"Make sure to clean up this mess," Uncle Bruno ordered. "And remember, no showers until morning. One shower per day is all you're allowed."

"Yes, sir," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

Uncle Bruno turned back to the screen. "Joe, this boy has been nothing but trouble since he moved in. He needs to learn discipline and respect."

Joe nodded. "I can see that. A firm hand is exactly what he needs."

"He's been lazy, disrespectful, and ungrateful," Uncle Bruno continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "But under my roof, he'll learn to follow the rules. And to ensure he remembers, we'll do the same this time next week to keep his hair short."

"Good," Joe said. "He needs to understand that discipline is non-negotiable."

Uncle Bruno left the room without another word, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. I stood alone amidst the scattered piles of blond hair—echoes of the person I used to be. The room felt colder, the silence more profound.

I retrieved the dustpan and broom from the closet and began sweeping up the fragments of myself littered across the floor. Each stroke gathered pieces of my identity that had been shed under the guise of respectability.

As I cleaned, I couldn't shake the feeling of being an outsider in my own life. Six months under Uncle Bruno's roof, and the confines of lockdown only tightened his grip. My stepsisters floated through the house with whispers and giggles, seemingly untouched by his harshness.

Finished with the cleaning, I retreated to my room. The sanctuary I had tried to maintain now felt invaded. I approached the mirror cautiously. The reflection staring back was almost unrecognizable. The severe cut accentuated features I'd never paid much attention to—the sharpness of my jaw, the intensity in my eyes.

I ran a hand over my head, the short bristles prickling against my palm. This was more than a haircut; it was a statement—a silent assertion of control by a man who demanded to be called 'sir.'

Sinking onto my bed, I gazed out the window. The world outside was still, the usual bustle replaced by an eerie quiet. The pandemic had turned everything upside down, but inside this house, another storm brewed.

Maybe it was time to reclaim pieces of myself in small, quiet ways. I eyed the sketchbook peeking out from beneath a pile of textbooks. Drawing had always been an escape, a way to express what words couldn't. Perhaps tonight I'd let the pencil flow, capturing emotions that needed release.

The distant sound of laughter floated up from downstairs—my stepsisters, oblivious or indifferent. I took a deep breath, resolving that while I might have to adhere to Uncle Bruno's rules on the surface, my inner world was still mine to cultivate.

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Funny how a single event can peel back layers you didn't even know were there, isn't it? Moments like these can be tough, but they also have a way of clarifying what's important. Sometimes,

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