THE HORSESHOE INCIDENT: A Bruno DeLuca T by Bzzcutlover

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THE HORSESHOE INCIDENT: A Bruno DeLuca Tragedy


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I. The Glory

Bruno DeLuca was not a man. He was a myth with biceps. A living statue forged from sweat, steel, and suspiciously expensive hair serums.

His body turned heads. But his hair stopped traffic.

Long, black, and cascading down his back like a silken waterfall at midnight, Bruno’s hair was his pride. It was brushed three times a day, massaged with argan oil by hand, and trimmed monthly under moonlight by a specialist flown in from Milan.

To Bruno, hair was not fashion. It was religion.

Women complimented it. Men envied it. Birds sometimes mistook it for a nest. He didn’t mind. He even insured it for five figures.

But deep within Bruno’s sculpted chest beat a nervous, panicky heart.

Despite the muscles and hair and perfect jawline, he had crippling social anxiety. Public speaking? Nightmares. Dating? Impossible. Even ordering a latte made him break into stress sweats.

He had tried everything — breathing exercises, therapy apps, guided meditation playlists narrated by Australian monks. Nothing stuck.

Until one night…


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II. The Hypno Temptation

It was 3:11 AM. Bruno sat in darkness, wrapped in two blankets, doom-scrolling through Instagram and wondering if he could survive another wedding season alone.

An ad popped up:

> "FEARLESS IN A FLASH! Clinical Hypnosis with Results You Can Feel!"
Dr. Hypna — Healing Minds, Shaping Men.



He clicked.

The page looked legit. Testimonials raved about transformed lives. Photos of smiling clients, all holding scissors and giving thumbs-up.

He was too tired, too desperate. He booked a session.


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III. The Office of No Return

Her name was Dr. Hypna, and her office felt like a magician’s lair.

Velvet curtains. Incense smoke curling in the corners. And a strange silence, like the room was holding its breath.

She greeted him with a calm smile. "Bruno. I’ve been expecting you."

Something in her voice echoed. She guided him to a red leather chair, the kind barbers used in old noir films.

"You don’t fear people," she cooed. "You fear yourself. But I can fix that. All we have to do… is lighten your mind. And sometimes… your head."

He blinked. "What?"

But she was already swinging a pendant in front of him — spiraling gold, catching the light.

"Just relax…"

And he did.


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IV. The Scissors Begin

"Let’s begin with the weight," she whispered.

She handed him a pair of old steel scissors, cool and heavy. His hand gripped them on instinct.

"Snip… just a little," she encouraged.

He raised his trembling hand and reached for his bangs.

One small strand.

Snip.

A few glossy hairs floated down. He stared.

Then another.

Snip.

She clapped slowly. "Wonderful. Now again. Bigger."

Bruno’s trance-addled mind obeyed. He grabbed a thick lock from just above his ear.

Snip.

It fell into his lap with a faint thud.

He breathed heavily. Something inside him twisted. He wasn’t sure if it was fear… or release.

Again.

Snip.
Snip.
Snip.

Long strands of once-glorious mane dropped in tufts onto his chest and thighs. His shoulders were littered with what used to be the envy of every gym in town.

She circled him like a priestess. "You’re shedding your old self, Bruno. Be bold. Be free."


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V. The Clippers Roar

He didn’t remember her handing him the clippers, but suddenly they were in his hand.

Buzzing.

Vibrating.

Alive.

Dr. Hypna leaned close and whispered in his ear:

> "Leave the sides. Shave the top. That’s power. That’s the horseshoe."



"No…" he murmured.

But the buzzing grew louder. His hand rose, guided by invisible strings.

BZZZZZZZT.

The clippers sank into the center of his scalp, slicing through the short remains of the scissor cuts. He gasped. A swath of pale, untouched skin appeared where once was hair.

BZZZZZZT.

Again, now to the right. A bald trench carved across his crown.

BZZZZZT.

Another line. Sweat ran down his temple.

"You’re doing great," she said, almost lovingly. "Let the dome shine. Keep the sides. Embrace the ring of wisdom."

His face was frozen in shock. He couldn’t stop.

The top of his head was soon clean, smooth, bald — glistening under her overhead light like a half-polished cue ball.

But the sides? They remained untouched. Flowing down, curling softly around his ears, framing his face like a mocking halo.

A horseshoe.

A crown of regret.


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VI. The Aftermath

Bruno stumbled out into the daylight. The air hit his freshly shaven scalp like ice. Strangers stared. Some pointed. A man laughed.

He tried to make it to his car without crying. Failed.

At home, he collapsed on the floor in front of his full-length mirror.

There he was.

A body carved from marble.

A face made for billboards.

And sitting atop it all… a horrifying half-circle of shame.

Bald dome. Long sides. The hair equivalent of a cosmic joke.

His Instagram followers dropped. His gym buddies sent "you okay bro?" messages. His shampoo ad deal got canceled.

For days, he avoided mirrors. Wore beanies. Cried in the shower — what was left of his hair clogging the drain like ghosts of his past confidence.

Worse still, in the silence of night, he still heard her voice:

> "Leave the sides. That’s power."

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