[Real] Promise by Julian

---

I’ve worn my hair longish for a couple of years, swearing I would never cut it too short again. But the truth is, my fetish never goes away: the more I hate the idea of being clipped down, the more aroused I get imagining it.

Now I’m in a particular situation: after three years on the market, there’s finally a serious buyer for our house in Mexico. I want the sale badly, but the stress is eating me alive. And then it hit me: if I bring my fetish into the mix, the whole burden feels lighter. If I make a radical promise, the tension turns into fuel.

So I decided to offer what hurts me most and excites me most at the same time: my hair. If the house sells this month, I will surrender again to the chair, the clippers, and the cut I both fear and crave.

The ritual

The plan is simple but cruel. First, I call an old-school barbershop, one of those places with no-frills barbers who only know how to cut the traditional way. I pretend to be don Anselmo, a boss who just hired a chauffeur:

"Listen, maestro, I need you to knock some pride out of this kid. His name is Andrés, but he looks more like the boss than the driver: long hair, preppy, fresh-looking. I want you to shear him properly, give him a classic short crop, the kind that makes him look like a real chauffeur."

The barber agrees right away: short crop, clippers tight on the sides and back, clean neckline, short and even on top.

The next day I show up, but now I’m Andrés. I sit down and the barber wastes no time:

"We’re giving you a short crop today, young man."

My heart pounds. I put on my best horrified face and protest:

"No, maestro, that’s way too short. I only wanted a trim."

The barber shrugs. "Orders are orders."

I pull out my phone and "call" don Anselmo. Nervously, I plead:
— "Sir, I’m here but the barber wants to cut it way too short. Can’t we do something lighter?"

The reply is firm, almost harsh:
— "Listen, Andrés, if you want the job, you obey. No trim. You’re getting a short crop, as I ordered. And I want you to tell the barber right now, out loud, exactly what I said."

Swallowing hard, I give in:
— "Yes, sir… I’ll tell him."

I turn to the barber, my voice trembling, and deliver the message like a condemned man repeating his sentence:

"He says to give me a short crop, to shave off the sideburns completely, and to square off the neckline two fingers higher."

The barber nods. "Understood."

Still on the line, Anselmo adds one last sting:
— "Good. And when it’s done, send me a photo so I can see you turned out the way I wanted."

I barely whisper:
— "Yes, sir."

The barber flicks on the clippers, presses them against my temple, and drives them upward. The buzz fills my ears as hair rains down in heavy clumps. Each pass strips me further, skin showing where hair once was. With every lock falling, shame mixes with desire, humiliation with excitement. I’m trapped, powerless, marked. Exactly as I’ve always fantasized.

The promise

If the house sells this month, there will be no escape: I will carry out this ritual to the very end. I will call as Anselmo, sit as Andrés, give the order out loud, and leave the barbershop clipped down to the brutal short crop I dread… and crave.

It will be my offering, my punishment, and my release. And in that contradiction lies the deepest pleasure.

---