The Price of Being Desired by Julian

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The bus stopped in the middle of a dusty road. The young man got off with his light backpack, still carrying the excitement of someone starting an adventure. He was barely nineteen, with the air of someone who believed the whole world could open up before him. His hair, thick and abundant, fell gracefully over his forehead; on top, about eight centimeters he could shape with his hands; on the sides and back, a little shorter, five centimeters framing his youthful, attractive face.

He had arrived in a remote corner of Eastern Europe thanks to an exchange program: he would work on a farm in return for food and shelter. He didn’t speak the language, but he trusted that smiles and gestures would be enough to make himself understood.

In the camp where the workers stayed, the conditions were rustic, though the boy embraced them with enthusiasm. He shared meals and long workdays with silent men, hardened by life in the fields. Life seemed simple, almost monotonous, until he saw her.

The foreman’s daughter appeared one afternoon, carrying water for the laborers. She was eighteen or nineteen, with light-colored eyes and a way of walking that drew attention without her trying. When she looked at him, she paused a second longer than necessary, and he responded with a faint smile. The rebellious fringe falling over his forehead seemed to fascinate her. From that moment on, chance encounters repeated: an exchange of glances, a timid greeting, a shared laugh at a crossroads.

The foreman, a man with rough hands and a fierce temper, soon noticed the spark. He flew into a rage and sent the boy far away, to the hardest work—cutting brush at the edges of the farm, where he couldn’t cross paths with his daughter. The boy obeyed without fully understanding, but deep down, he didn’t care: he wasn’t looking for love in that place, much less with a girl.

She, on the other hand, thought of him constantly. One afternoon, unable to contain herself, she confessed her feelings to the cook. "I love him," she murmured, cheeks flushed. "He’s so handsome… but what kills me most is his hair, it’s perfect." The cook listened in silence, wiping her hands on her apron. She knew that if those words reached the foreman’s ears, they would bring a storm.

And the storm was not long in coming.

The cook wasted no time in telling the foreman. Not out of malice, but with the practical logic of country women: better he hear it from her than from another mouth. The man listened with clenched lips and hard eyes. The news ignited him like an ember in the wind.
—So she’s in love with his hair, is she? —he spat with rage—. His hair!
He slammed his fist on the table and the cups rattled. The daughter, innocent and stubborn, denied everything, but the flush of her cheeks betrayed her. The foreman swore he would put an end to that fascination, at the root.

That was when the cook, trying to calm him, slipped her idea in. With a serene voice, almost as if she were suggesting a home remedy, she said:
—If what the girl sees in him is his mane, the solution is simple. Bring the barber from town. A good cut, and you’ll see how she stops looking at him the same way.

The foreman thought for a moment. The idea seemed so obvious he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. He struck the table with a sharp blow and ordered the barber to be brought the next day.

The boy, unaware of the conspiracy, finished his day in the fields. He returned tired, sweaty, his shirt clinging to his body. He barely managed to eat before being summoned to the barn. There awaited the foreman, the cook, and, to his surprise, the daughter, standing in a corner. There was also an older man with a leather case that betrayed his trade: the town barber.

—If you want to keep working here, there are rules you must follow —growled the foreman, arms crossed—. It’s hot, and we can’t have unkempt boys on the farm.

The young man froze. He looked at the daughter, who avoided his gaze, then at the barber, who was already laying out his tools: scissors, combs, and a machine that gleamed under the yellowish light of the lamp.

—Just a trim —added the cook with a reassuring smile—. Don’t worry, it won’t be much.

They set a chair in the middle of the barn. The boy, confused but with no real way to refuse, sat down. The barber draped a white cloth over his shoulders and fastened it firmly around his neck. The click of the clasp sent a shiver down his spine.

He didn’t know that moment would mark the beginning of his humiliation.

The boy swallowed hard, uncomfortable under the cape pressing at his neck. He felt the barn’s heat, the smell of hay, and the grease of the tools. He lifted his eyes and dared to ask:
—Is this really necessary? I… I usually take care of my hair myself. There’s no need to trouble anyone.

The foreman shot him a withering look.
—Things are done here the way I say.
The cook stepped in with a gentler tone, as if trying to ease the tension:
—Come now, son, don’t make that face. Just a little, so you’ll feel fresher in this heat. It’ll be ready in a moment.
The barber, who had been trimming the men of the village for years, nodded with a brief smile as he pulled out the metal comb and made it clink against the scissors.
—It’ll be quick, you’ll see.
The daughter, in her corner, watched in silence. Her hands squeezed together, as if afraid someone might notice the emotion running through her. Seeing the boy’s hair fall over his forehead, she couldn’t help but murmur almost to herself:
—It looks so nice on him that way…
The foreman heard her and struck the ground with his boot.
—Silence! —he thundered—. What you’re here to do is watch and learn.
The young man turned his face toward her, looking for some explanation, but the girl had already lowered her head, ashamed.
The barber ran the comb over the top, lifting the thick hair, and let it fall again.
—This boy’s got good hair —he said, more to himself than to the others.
The electric buzz filled the air as he switched on the clippers. The young man felt a shiver run all the way down his back.
The barber switched the machine off and set it on the table. He took out the large steel scissors, opening and closing them in the air, producing a dry snap that made the boy flinch.
—Let’s start on top —he said casually—. Just a trim, right?
The cook smiled and nodded.
—Yes, yes, just enough so it won’t bother him.
The barber slipped the comb through the locks at the crown, lifting the thick tuft of hair. The lamp’s light filtered through the brown strands, falling softly over the comb. With a steady motion, the scissors closed and the first lock fell onto the white cape. The boy stiffened, feeling the weight of his hair lessen.
The barber showed with his fingers the length he had cut: barely a couple of centimeters.
—Is this all right? —he asked.
The cook observed him carefully, tilting her head.
—A little more —she said calmly—. A bit less than half.
The barber nodded without protest. He combed upward again, this time lifting a wider section. The scissors gleamed for an instant and closed firmly: snip, snip, snip. The longer locks began to fall and slide down the white cloth until they piled up in his lap.
The young man bit his lips. Each cut felt like an invisible blow. With every lock that fell, he felt a part of himself slipping away. His hair, his pride, the thing he had so often arranged with his hands in front of the mirror to feel attractive, now lay dead on the cloth.
—That’s better, like that —the cook remarked, watching as the top began to lose volume.
The barber continued his work, lifting sections, trimming with precision. Cool air began to filter through the gaps in the now uneven mane, leaving the boy’s forehead more and more exposed.
The foreman’s daughter watched him with a mixture of fascination and surprise. At first she smiled, thinking that the trim would only enhance the beauty that so drew her to him. But little by little the smile faded, and her eyes darkened as she saw the abundant hair she adored turn into a simpler, plainer cut.
The barber held up a new lock between his fingers, cut straight and much shorter than the rest.
—Will this do now? —he asked again.
The cook narrowed her eyes.
—Yes… but make sure the top isn’t left longer than the sides. We’ll even it out as we go.
The young man, hearing those words, opened his eyes in panic.
—What? But it’s already so short!
The foreman gave him a sharp slap on the shoulder, forcing him to stay still.
—Quiet and let him work.

The barber kept cutting, lock after lock. The metallic sound of the scissors filled the barn, accompanied by the soft drag of the comb pulling through the hair. And with each pass, the image of the handsome, confident young man blurred a little more.
The barber lowered his gaze to the sides. With the comb he lifted strands from the temples to the nape, separating the dense hair that fell like curtains. Each section seemed more voluminous than the last, and the young man felt his face becoming more evident, more exposed, as the barber brought the scissors closer.
—Just a little here too —the cook said, with the same calm as before.
The barber nodded and began to cut. Each snap of the scissors was a dull blow to the young man. The hair fell onto the cape and scattered across the barn floor, forming little piles he never would have imagined. What had once covered his forehead was now opening up; what had framed his face, the sides, was being reduced centimeter by centimeter.
The young man closed his eyes for a moment, trying to mentally hold on to the image that was slipping away. The heat of the barn, the daughter’s gaze, and the foreman’s firmness kept him still. Each lock that fell seemed to strip him of more than hair: it was his pride, his youth, his sense of control over how he wanted to look.
The barber now moved to the back. He lifted thick locks, combing them upward and showing them to the cook.
—Will this be all right? —he asked, seeking approval.
—A little more —she instructed, without raising her voice, as if simply guiding a routine task—. Make it even with the sides and top.
The barber cut again, slowly, with precision, while the young man felt the nape being opened all the way to the skin. Each stroke of the scissors left a clean trail: locks that once fell freely were now transformed into a much more austere cut. The sensation of freshness mixed with a tingle of humiliation: he could not believe that his hair, which he had always cared for so meticulously, was disappearing before his eyes.
The foreman’s daughter now watched with parted lips. At first, the transformation had seemed harmless, even attractive. But as the cut progressed, the volume diminished and the style vanished. Her expression shifted slowly from fascination to surprise and then to disappointment.
—Shorter… shorter —the cook whispered, barely moving her head toward the barber.
The young man opened his eyes, unable to understand how "just a trim" had turned into the near total loss of his mane. His heart pounded, each snip of the scissors echoing in his chest, while the white cape around him filled with locks that reminded him of what he was leaving behind.
The barber set the scissors aside for a moment and shook off the strands that still clung to the comb. He stepped back to observe his work.
The young man, beneath the white cape, breathed deeply, his eyes fixed on the floor littered with hair. What had once been an abundant, flexible mane, able to be shaped into endless styles, was now reduced to an even, shapeless cut. Barely two centimeters of hair covered his head, just enough to keep it uniform, but far too little to style in any way.
There was no longer volume on top: the fringe that used to fall rebelliously over his forehead had vanished, turned into uneven tufts that barely rose a few millimeters. The sides, which once framed his features, had almost completely disappeared; the transition line toward the crown was abrupt, harsh, without style.
The boy lifted his gaze, searching for his reflection somewhere, but all he found were the eyes of those watching him. The foreman’s daughter looked at him with a confused expression, as if trying to recognize in that clumsy cut the young man she had once been drawn to. The cook, however, nodded with satisfaction: the mane had been reduced to something bland, incapable of attracting glances.
The barber ran his palm over the top, leaving the hair standing up.
—It’s already short. —His tone was neutral, almost professional—. There’s not much more to do with scissors.
The young man swallowed hard, feeling his head light, almost naked. Impossible to style, impossible to hide behind his hair as he used to. He leaned forward slightly, waiting for it all to end.
But the cook leaned toward the barber and, in a calm yet firm voice, added:
—Good. Now, the sideburns.
The boy’s heart skipped a beat.
The barber leaned to one side of the boy and combed down the right sideburn. The strand fell straight, well defined, reaching almost halfway down the ear.
—We’ll trim it straight here —the barber said, pointing with the scissors right at the natural spot, where any client would have asked for it.
The young man, still silent, thought that at least there the cut would look normal, a detail that would give him back some dignity.
But the cook shook her head.
—Higher.

The barber looked at her in surprise.
—More? A centimeter, maybe?
She raised her hand and, with her finger, marked half a centimeter from the beginning of the ear.
—Here. I want it nice and short, almost nothing.
The young man’s mouth flew open.
—No! That’s not normal anymore, it’s… it’s too much.
The foreman placed a heavy hand on his shoulder and forced him to stay still.
—I said it will be done as ordered.
The barber sighed and combed the sideburn straight again between his fingers. With a firm gesture, he placed the scissors at the spot she had indicated and closed the metal blades. Snip. The entire lock fell onto the white cape, leaving a harsh, high line that barely covered half a centimeter of skin next to the ear.
The boy felt the blood rush to his face. The bare skin shone where hair had once been, and the contrast seemed unbearable.
The barber combed down the left sideburn.
—The same here? —he asked.
—Exactly —the cook confirmed coldly.
The young man turned his head slightly, desperate, but the foreman held him firmly. The barber repeated the operation: comb, scissors, and a sharp cut that erased the second sideburn, leaving only a tiny edge.
The result was brutal. The young man’s face, once framed by long sideburns that made him look older, was now exposed and defenseless, like that of a punished child. The foreman’s daughter lowered her gaze; the attraction she had once felt for that perfect face faltered, and that only deepened the boy’s humiliation.
He pressed his lips together, feeling the cold air brush the freshly exposed skin. His heart pounded, and each fallen lock was like a cruel reminder that there was no turning back.
The cook, satisfied, stepped back to take in the whole picture.
—Good. Now the nape.
The barber positioned himself behind the boy and combed firmly from the crown downward, pressing the hair of the nape flat against the skin. The young man closed his eyes for a moment: that was the part he cherished most. He had always loved how the hair fell naturally at the base of his neck, giving continuity to his mane.
The barber lifted a lock with his fingers and pointed with the scissors at the natural hairline, right where the growth ended.
—I’ll mark it straight here, as it’s usually done.
The young man sighed with relief. At least that would give him a normal, discreet look.
But the cook quickly intervened.
—No. Much higher.
The barber arched an eyebrow.
—How much higher?
She came closer and, with her finger, pointed almost three centimeters above the natural line, right in the middle of the nape.
—Up to here. I want it looking very clean.
The young man jerked his head sharply.
—That’s too much! No one wears the nape that high… you’ll leave me looking like a—
The foreman dug his fingers into the boy’s shoulders, pressing hard.
—Still.
The barber did not argue further. He combed the hair of the nape down, smoothing it against the skin, and placed the scissors at the line the cook had marked. With a quick movement, he cut straight across from side to side. Snip, snip, snip.
The thick locks fell onto the cape and slid to the floor. The barn’s air brushed against the newly exposed skin, and the young man felt a shiver run down his back.
The barber trimmed the edges, moving higher each time, cleaning with precision until the nape was completely bare, with a high, straight line that utterly broke the harmony of the cut.
The young man breathed in ragged gasps. He had never seen himself like this. His neck, once hidden beneath a natural line of hair, was now bare, vulnerable. He felt as if everyone could see his humiliation etched into the pale skin of his nape.
The foreman’s daughter watched in silence, biting her lip. The sight of the boy, so changed, began to erase the idealized image she had once held of him. The charm of his hair, that detail which had sparked her fascination, now lay in locks scattered across the barn floor.
The cook crossed her arms, satisfied.
—That’s better. Much better.
The young man, his throat dry, could barely whisper:
—Please… enough already.
But the barber wasn’t finished.

The barber set the scissors aside and pulled from his case a small bristle brush and a metal tin. He whipped up lather with circular motions, filling the barn air with the sharp scent of cheap soap. The young man opened his eyes in surprise.
—What… what are you going to do? —he asked, his voice barely audible.
The cook answered without hesitation:
—Shave. The sideburns and the nape must be left perfectly clean.
The barber leaned in and, with the damp brush, began spreading the fresh lather over the freshly trimmed sideburns. The boy trembled: the sensation was cold, sticky, and made him acutely aware of how bare his face looked without its frame of hair. The white foam stood out like a humiliating mark on his brown skin.
Then the barber laid the razor against the leather strop and sharpened it with slow strokes, rasp-rasp-rasp. The metallic sound filled the silence and froze the boy’s blood.
—Easy —murmured the foreman, though his grip tightened.
The barber placed the razor at the base of the right sideburn and, with a steady movement, slid it upward, leaving behind a strip of perfectly smooth skin. The boy held his breath. Another pass, and the foam with tiny hairs clung to the blade. The sideburn was gone completely, replaced by a gleaming patch of bare skin.
The cook nodded, satisfied:
—Good. Now the other.
The procedure was repeated on the left sideburn. Each stroke of the razor erased more of his former appearance, turning him into someone unrecognizable.
Then came the nape. The barber firmly tilted the boy’s head forward. The young man felt the tickle of the brush as the lather was spread along the unnaturally high line that had already been imposed on him. The cold ran through his whole body.
The razor touched the skin and descended with a clean cut, scraping until it left the flesh bare and smooth. The harsh sound of the blade shaving contrasted with the expectant silence of the barn. Stroke after stroke, the barber erased every trace of hair until the nape was completely shiny, white, and vulnerable.
Humiliated, the boy didn’t dare lift his gaze. The used foam slid down his neck like stains of defeat.
The cook smiled with triumph:
—Now it’s right. Much better.
The foreman’s daughter stared wide-eyed. This was no longer the young man she had fallen for: before her was someone different, with bare neck and temples, marked like just another laborer, stripped of the beauty that had fascinated her.
The barber, while wiping the razor on a cloth, leaned toward the cook.
—If you want it even cleaner… I can carve a high arch above the ears. That way I’ll connect the nape line with the sideburns. It’ll look… impeccable.
The boy lifted his head in horror.
—What? No, that’s not necessary!
But the cook didn’t hesitate for a second:
—Do it. Leave nothing untidy.
The barber picked up the brush again and, with careful strokes, spread foam just above each ear, going much higher than the boy would ever have thought possible. The cold skin was covered in white, tracing the arc about to be cut.
With the same calm as signing his name on paper, he set the razor at the right temple and began carving the contour. The blade moved in a perfect semicircle above the ear, erasing at the root any trace of hair. The foam fell in clumps, leaving behind a pale, smooth strip that joined with the freshly shaved sideburn.
—No… no, please… —the boy whispered, squeezing his eyes shut.
The barber leaned left and repeated the arc over the other ear. When he was done, he stepped back a little to observe the work: the boy’s head now displayed two gleaming patches, like white wounds cutting across his profile.
The cook nodded, pleased:
—Much better. That way there’s no doubt: clean and orderly.
The girl, in silence, felt her enchantment slipping away like water through her fingers. That face she had so admired was now hemmed in by bare skin, as though someone had forcibly erased the most beautiful lines of a drawing.
The boy lowered his gaze, a knot tightening in his throat. Never in his life had he felt so exposed.
In a corner of the barn hung an old mirror, cracked diagonally, nailed to the wall. The barber, satisfied with the shaved arc, gently turned the chair so the boy could see himself.
The young man reluctantly lifted his eyes, and as soon as he caught his reflection, the air stuck in his chest.
The hair he had cared for so much, the pride he had always combed proudly, no longer existed. In its place was an uneven mat, barely two centimeters long, impossible to style, ringed by lines of bare skin that drew an unnatural outline around his ears and nape.

He lifted a trembling hand to his temple, touched the freshly shaved arch, and immediately pulled his fingers back as if burned.
Tears burst out without permission. First discreet, then uncontrollable, until his sobs filled the heavy silence of the barn.
The foreman, who until then had watched in silence, stepped forward and let out a harsh laugh.
—Crying? Over a simple haircut? —he spat with contempt—. If that makes you cry, then you haven’t seen anything yet.
He leaned over him, voice full of threat:
—If you want a real reason to cry… let the barber shear him properly.
The boy stared at him in terror through the mirror, realizing that what he had suffered until that moment was only the beginning.
The foreman stood tall, arms crossed, his word absolute.
The cook, who until then had directed the scene with firm, calculated authority, faltered. She lowered her gaze to the floor, then to the boy drowning in tears, and finally to the barber, who waited for instructions.
—I don’t know if it’s necessary to go that far… —she murmured, raising a handkerchief to her lips—. He’s already quite changed. Look at him now—no one would recognize him.
The barber nodded, as if that too was his opinion. He let the scissors rest on the table and wiped his razor in silence.
The boy, clinging to hope, raised pleading eyes to her. For the first time, he believed that the very woman who had begun his disgrace might stop it.
The foreman snorted harshly.
—So you’re softening now? —he reproached—. Weren’t you the one who said his vanity had to be stripped from the root?
The cook pressed the handkerchief in her hands, hesitating a moment longer. The daughter, from her corner, watched the scene with her eyes fixed on the boy, shattered before the mirror. Her enchantment seemed to break in real time.
At last, the cook sighed with a weary gesture, as if resigning herself to inevitable fate.
—Very well… —she said, barely audible—. Bring out the machine.
The young man shuddered at those words. It was as if the ground had opened beneath him. Hope drained from him at once, leaving him naked and vulnerable before the decision of others.
The barber, who until then had worked calmly with scissors and razor, bent toward his leather case. He unfastened the straps deliberately, like one revealing a heavy secret. The boy could not look away: each movement was a prelude to what was coming.
From among the tools, the barber drew out a heavy metal clipper, old-fashioned, with a black cord coiled like a snake. He held it in his hand a moment, weighing it, before plugging it into an improvised socket on the barn wall.
The silence broke with a harsh, steady buzz.
The machine vibrated in his hand, and the barber tested it in the air, letting it hum close to the boy’s ear without touching him yet. The noise echoed against the wooden ceiling like a swarm.
The young man swallowed hard, tears still fresh on his cheeks. The cracked old mirror before him reflected a childish face, devastated by fear, with hair already reduced to a length impossible to style. And now, the threat of losing even that.
The barber switched the machine off a moment, clipped a metal guard onto the blade with a precise click. Then he turned it on again.
—This way it’ll be more even —he explained flatly, as if speaking of a wheat field that had to be mown.
The foreman smiled with satisfaction. The cook pressed her lips together and turned her eyes away, though she said nothing.
The daughter, in silence, watched with a mixture of fascination and bewilderment.
Meanwhile, the boy felt the buzz of the machine seep into his chest, rattling with every heartbeat. His breathing grew short, uneven, as if the clippers were already stealing his air before touching his skin.
The barber snapped the 1½ guard onto the blade with a click and, before touching him, combed through the right side: he brushed from the erased sideburn up to the crown, stretching what was left—barely two centimeters—so there’d be no surprises. The buzz filled the barn; he brought the clippers to the temple, just below the shaved arch of the ear, and pressed the flat base against the skin.
First pass: bottom to top, slow, firm. The clippers climbed until they grazed the white border of the arch, and the whole side fell from two centimeters to about 4.5 millimeters in a single sweep. The boy felt the air strike directly against his skin; he saw a dark strip fall, tangle on the cape, and then drop to the floor. The sound changed pitch as it bit denser hair, then left behind an even field, rough to the touch, with no chance of styling.

The barber returned to the starting point, pressed the clippers flat against the skin, and moved upward, overlapping half a centimeter so no lines would remain. With his left hand he stretched the skin in front of the ear, while with his right he guided the machine—flat at the start, tilting slightly near the arch so the edge would stay crisp, as if the outline had been drawn with a ruler. The boy swallowed hard as the blade kissed the limit of shaved skin: no refuge left; short stubble against bare flesh.
—Like this —the barber said, focused—.

He crossed to the rear of the same side. He placed the clippers at the unnaturally high—already shaved—nape and pushed them upward in vertical strokes two fingers wide. Each ascent stopped just short of the crown, leaving a rough transition with the top still at 2 cm. The cook tilted her head as she looked.
—Go a little higher. Let there be no difference between side and top.

The barber flicked his wrist slightly at the end of each pass to "blend," but obediently drove higher into the side: the 1½ guard was already biting at temple height, flattening the profile of the skull. The young man stifled a sob; he felt the cold tingle where only moments ago there had been volume. In the mirror he saw a broad, uniform, matte strip that threw his face into harsh light, the erased sideburn now standing out like a white lash-mark.

He moved to the left side. Methodical repetition: hand comb to straighten, steady placement beneath the arch, slow upward climb, millimetric overlaps. The sound was constant, almost hypnotic; each advancing line left behind a short carpet with no direction possible. As the machine neared the shaved arch, the barber tilted it by half a degree to lick away the edge of dry foam still clinging there, and the blade picked up tiny hairs that crackled like salt.
—Higher —the cook insisted, pointing at a faint shadow of transition.

The barber obeyed and erased the last ridge. The sides stood uniform at ~4.5 mm, clean up to the shaved arches and the bare nape. The result was severe: a tiny cap on top, sheer walls on the sides, and a white border framing it all. The foreman’s daughter, speechless, watched as the boy’s magnetism crumbled with every pass; no play left, no fringe, no flattering shadow.

The young man drew a trembling breath. The mirror reflected a head with no escape, conquered by the clippers: sides and back at 1½, harsh, and the top still longer but ridiculous, impossible to style.
—We go on —the cook said, this time without hesitation—. Even out the top.

The boy squeezed his eyes shut, throat tightening.
—Please! —he begged, voice broken—. No… no more! Enough! Leave me like this!

The cook looked at him calmly, almost cold, unblinking.
—It’s fine for now —she said softly, yet without yielding—. We’ll just even the top, nothing more.
—No! —the young man shrieked, lifting his hands, pleading with every fiber of his being—. Please! Look what you’re doing to me! I don’t want this! Don’t do it!

The foreman stepped toward him and struck the floor with his boot, sharp and commanding.
—Silence! —he barked—. Cry if you must, but you won’t stop this.

The barber, steady behind him, laid a light hand on his shoulder to hold him down.
—Easy… —he murmured, though the tone offered no comfort—. Just a little more, then it’s done.

The boy whimpered, tears streaking his cheeks, his head trembling under the pressure of hands and machine. Each plea seemed to vanish into emptiness; neither cook nor barber showed the slightest compassion. His voice broke, but no one listened: the only reply was the constant buzz of the clippers at his side, and the cold shadow of the cook evaluating every lock that remained.

He felt trapped, defenseless. Every attempt to pull away was useless. His hair, his pride, his image… all in the hands of others, and nothing he could do to save it.
—Please! —he whispered once more, nearly defeated, eyes locked on the mirror, watching the irreversible transformation of his reflection—. No… no more!

The foreman barked out a dry, cruel laugh:
—You cry over nothing, boy. If you want a real reason to lament… let him be shorn properly.

The young man swallowed hard, unable to speak. He knew the threat was real and that the moment he dreaded most was about to arrive.

The barber fitted a shorter guard to the machine this time: a #2 (~6 mm), enough to bring the top down to match the sides already shaved to 1½. The buzz deepened, filling the barn and reverberating in the boy’s bones.
—Ready —the cook said—. Let’s even out the top.

The young man shut his eyes, trembling. Every fiber of his being begged them to stop, but the firmness of the cook and the foreman left no doubt: there was no escape.
The barber pressed the clippers to the crown, and the first pass was slow, almost ceremonial. From the forehead to the back, the blades sheared lock after lock, leaving a uniform trail of hair reduced to just a few millimeters. Each pass crackled with tufts dropping onto the white cape, a cruel reminder of what the boy was losing.
—No… please… —he whispered, his voice broken, as the machine climbed slowly backward—. That’s enough!
But the cook remained motionless, evaluating, her silence reinforcing the inevitability of the cut.
—Continue —she ordered coldly.

The barber moved to another section, just behind the crown. He combed the strands upward, stretched them between his fingers, and clipped them with precision. Each lock fell onto the cape like a dark rain. The boy felt the barn’s heat mixing with the machine’s cold touch, a constant reminder of his helplessness.
The buzzing was almost hypnotic, and the mirror reflected a head made unrecognizable: volume gone, sides even at 4.5 mm, nape and sideburns completely shaved, and now the top reduced to a bare minimum. The hair he had once treasured, that he shaped with pride and care, no longer existed.
—Please! —he cried this time, a broken thread of a voice—. No more!
The foreman stepped forward, smiling cruelly.
—Want something to really cry about? This isn’t over yet…

The barber carried on, section after section, each tuft submitted to the blades, until the crown was even with the sides—no volume, no grace, no possibility of styling. The transformation was total: from a handsome young man with thick, flexible hair to someone unrecognizable, humiliated down to the last detail.
With tears mixed with sweat, the boy looked at his reflection one last time. His mane was gone; his face was framed by bare skin and cropped stubble, strictly aligned. The mirror gave back an image that felt almost foreign: vulnerable, stripped, completely at the mercy of others.
The barber switched off the machine and set it aside. The buzzing died, leaving behind a silence that seemed louder than before. The boy sat still, breath ragged, hands trembling on his thighs. Every part of his head had been transformed: sides and nape shaved, sideburns erased, arches over the ears high and clean, and the crown clipped down to just a few rigid millimeters.
He looked at the mirror and saw no one he recognized. His hair, his pride, his visible identity, was gone. Only an exposed, small, vulnerable head remained, traced by white lines that carved an almost artificial outline over his features. His sobbing had stopped out of exhaustion, but the knot in his throat lingered, and a shiver ran down his back.

The foreman’s daughter slowly lowered her gaze. At first, she had felt fascination for that face and its mane, but now the sight stripped it of all appeal. Her lips parted slightly, confusion mixing with a quiet disappointment. She said nothing; she simply stepped aside, unable to look at him directly.
The cook, on the other hand, smiled with contained satisfaction. She crossed her arms and assessed the final work.
—Now yes —she said calmly, looking at the boy—. Now it’s fine. Nothing remains of his vanity.
The foreman stepped closer and struck the boy’s shoulder with a dry blow, firm, as if to remind him who held control.
—Look, boy —he said harshly—. This is what happens when someone thinks he’s better than the rest. Cry if you want, but now… you’ve nothing left to show off.

The young man bowed his head, feeling the weight of humiliation settle into every fiber of his being. The mane he had loved and cared for so carefully was gone, and with it went the security and pride that had accompanied him since adolescence.
The barn remained silent, broken only by the faint rustle of the cape and the echo of his thoughts. Everyone present seemed to take in the transformation, knowing that the boy would never see himself the same way again. Vulnerable, exposed, defeated, he rose slowly, brushing the cropped sides, the shaved nape, the arches above his ears with his fingertips. Each touch was a reminder of what he had lost, and that there would be no refuge in his hair anymore.

That afternoon, the boy returned to the barracks with slow steps. He walked as though every glance from the other workers pierced him. And so it was: the moment he pushed the door open, conversations paused. All eyes turned to him. Some smiled with malice, others with surprise; no one failed to notice the change.
One of the laborers, a hardened older man, let out a dry laugh.
—Well, well! —he said, pointing to his head—. Looks like they finally made you one of us.
The boy felt the blood rush to his face. He raised a hand to try and cover the shaved nape, but it was useless: there was no lock to hide, no volume to disguise. His skin was bare.

He dropped onto the cot, avoiding the reflection in the small window. Outside, the summer heat pressed on, but he felt cold. He ran his fingers again and again over the brutally short sides, trying to convince himself it was only hair, that it would grow back. But what hurt wasn’t just the loss: it was the brutal, unjust, humiliating way it had been taken from him.
In the main house, the foreman’s daughter watched from the window as the boy crossed the yard. A pang of pity stabbed her chest, but at the same time she felt something dim inside: the attraction, the ideal, the fascination for that foreign boy. Now she saw only weakness and defeat. She lowered the curtain and stepped away, confused and sad.
The cook, meanwhile, smiled with satisfaction as she scrubbed a pot. She murmured softly to herself:
—The problem’s solved.
The foreman, sitting on the porch with a pipe between his lips, watched everything in silence. He exhaled smoke slowly and muttered harshly:
—He’d better learn… There’s no place for vanity here.

The boy, alone on his cot, closed his eyes and felt a strange emptiness. For the first time in a long while, he had nothing to shield him from others’ judgment. Not even his own reflection.

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