The Haircut Story Site

Brother Dominates by @@@@aaannhh

The streets of Mumbai were waking up, rickshaws rattling along narrow lanes, vendors calling out their wares. Inside a small apartment in the heart of the city, Vivaan sat on the edge of his bed, nervously tugging at the long strands of hair that brushed over his collar and fell across his eyes. He was thirteen now, and his birthday was just around the corner, but excitement had no place in his mind today.
"Vivaan! Get up. We’re going to the barber," Varun’s voice rang from the hallway, calm but firm, leaving no room for delay or protest.
Vivaan groaned. "Do I really have to go today?" he mumbled, his fingers entwined in the thick locks that fell over his neck and ears.
Varun appeared at the door, arms crossed. His presence was imposing, commanding. "Yes. I decide when it’s time for your haircut. Today is the day, and that’s final. Come on."
With a sigh of resignation, Vivaan followed. The ride to the neighborhood barber shop was silent, except for the hum of the bike engine and the occasional honk from the busy Mumbai streets. Vivaan tried to smooth his hair with his hands, but the strands slipped through his fingers. He had always thought hair gave him some sense of freedom—something to cling to. But under Varun’s watchful eye, that freedom was an illusion.
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They entered the barber shop. The smell of talcum powder and shaving cream filled the air. The barber, an elderly man with practiced hands, looked up and greeted Varun.
Varun sat first. "Sides tight, top long, keep it simple," he instructed. "Bas simple trip aur upar ka 5�"6 inch rakhna," he added in Hindi. The barber nodded, lifting the clippers with precision. Within minutes, Varun’s sides were trimmed, the top left long, the style sharp and neat. Varun’s satisfaction was subtle but unmistakable as he ran a hand over the top of his hair, adjusting it just so.
Then came Vivaan. His stomach twisted as Varun gestured for him to sit. Vivaan’s hair now fell thick and heavy over his forehead, brushing his eyes and covering his neck.
"I—I just want it short… not too short," Vivaan whispered, voice trembling slightly.
Varun’s eyes narrowed. "No. Tumhare liye main decide karunga. Abhi cut hoga," he said firmly. Vivaan’s protests were ignored.
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The barber began with the sides.
"Guard 1 first," Varun instructed. The clippers buzzed to life, moving steadily along Vivaan’s thick hair. Strands fell in streams, some brushing his ears, some landing on the cape, dark and glossy. Vivaan flinched at each snip, feeling the heavy hair vanish under the mechanical rhythm.
When the sides were trimmed, Varun leaned over. "Ab 0.5 kar do," he said. The clippers moved closer to the scalp. Hair spiraled down in thin ribbons, piling on the floor. Vivaan’s fingers itched to stop the fall, but he was powerless.
Next came the lather. Smooth, cool foam coated his scalp as the barber prepared the razor. Varun watched silently, commanding presence like always. With careful strokes, the sides were shaved bald. The smoothness against Vivaan’s skin was startling, the clumps of thick hair brushing against his ears and shoulders.
Finally, the top. The barber combed it forward, sprayed water, and began trimming. Vivaan’s thick top hair fell in glossy sheets, tumbling over the cape and occasionally onto his lap. Scissors cut rhythmically, each falling strand a reminder of Varun’s dominance.
"Top 0.5, leave only a small fringe," Varun instructed. The barber followed immediately, reducing the remaining hair while leaving a tiny fringe at Vivaan’s forehead. Strands fell in thick waves, covering the cape beneath him.
Vivaan sat frozen, brushing the final stray strands from his shoulders, his fingers trembling slightly. The haircut was more than a trim—it was a lesson, discipline, and authority all in one.

A FEW DAYS LATER
Inside the living room, their parents watched Varun, a mixture of pride and admiration in their eyes.
"Varun, you’ve always been the one to make us proud," his father said, smiling. "In school, sports, everything—you’re the example. And now, we trust you to guide Vivaan as well."
His mother nodded, eyes soft but firm. "From now on, everything—his pocket money, school, even haircuts—you’ll be in charge. Whatever you decide for him, we support. You are his in-charge in every way."
Varun’s lips curved into a faint smile, a mixture of satisfaction and authority. "I understand. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he becomes responsible. No more mistakes."
Vivaan’s heart sank. Authority over him in every aspect of life? He felt a twinge of fear mixed with helplessness. He barely had time to react before Varun left for the salon.
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Varun’s Salon Visit
At The Royale Salon, Varun settled into the chair. "Textured Pompadour with Fade today," he told the stylist in a calm, precise voice. Scissors, clippers, and combs moved expertly. Strands of Varun’s hair fell smoothly to the floor. By the time he was finished, his sides were clean, the top textured and voluminous, styled with perfect precision.
Outside, Vivaan tugged at his thick hair nervously, imagining the ritual that awaited him. When Varun returned, his hair looking flawless, it was time for Vivaan to face the barber.
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Vivaan’s Ritual Haircut
The old neighborhood barber shop smelled of talcum powder and shaving cream. Vivaan sank into the chair, thick hair brushing his shoulders. The cape was draped over him, trapping long strands beneath.
Without instructions, the barber began, and Varun’s voice guided the rhythm:
• Sides �" Guard 1: Buzzing clippers moved steadily, thick strands falling like dark ribbons. Some brushed ears and neck, sliding over the cape. Vivaan flinched at each snip, feeling powerless.
• Sides �" 0.5: The clippers moved closer to the scalp. Hair spiraled down in soft, glossy ribbons. The contrast between the long hair and new length was sharp.
• Shaved Sides Bald: Lathered foam coated the scalp. The razor moved smoothly, gliding over the skin, removing all remaining strands. Hair fell heavily, thick and soft, onto the cape, brushing Vivaan’s shoulders.
• Top Combed Forward: Water sprayed over the thick top, combed forward. Scissors cut in steady rhythm, each falling strand a visible lesson in obedience.
• Top �" 0.5, Fringe Left: Clippers reduced the top to 0.5 while leaving a minimal fringe at the forehead. Strands fell in spirals over the cape. Vivaan tugged lightly at the short fringe, feeling the weight of lost hair and lost freedom.
• Final Adjustment: Varun leaned over, inspecting every strand. "Perfect," he said. The fringe aligned with the shaved sides, neat, disciplined, and precise.
Vivaan’s thick hair was gone. Weeks of growth vanished under scissors and razor, replaced with the sharp precision that Varun demanded. His heart pounded. This haircut was more than grooming—it was control.
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At Home
When they returned, Varun’s parents noticed immediately. The old familiarity of the ritual—the precision, the obedience—was visible.
The shaved sides and minimal fringe marked Vivaan as someone under complete authority.
Varun glanced at his younger brother. "Remember, pocket money, school work, haircuts, everything. I decide. You follow," he said calmly
Vivaan swallowed hard, fingers brushing the short fringe. He understood fully now: Varun was in charge of everything. Every decision, every choice, every strand of hair would belong to his elder brother from now on.

A FEW DAYS LATER
The monsoon had finally given way to clear skies over Mumbai. The streets sparkled after the rain, and a gentle breeze carried the smell of wet earth and jasmine from nearby gardens. Vivaan had let his hair grow long over the past weeks, brushing his collar and falling over his ears. He looked at himself in the mirror, brushing the thick waves from his eyes, imagining that for once, he could attend the upcoming school cultural day without the familiar ritual of humiliation.
He was wrong.
Varun had already made the plan. "Vivaan, your hair is long enough. We go to the barber first," he said, voice calm but commanding. "I will not tolerate neglect anymore. Today, you will look disciplined."
Vivaan felt a twinge of unease. Six weeks of growth, long, soft hair that he had almost grown fond of, would disappear today. But the words in Varun’s tone left no room for protest.
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Varun’s Salon First
As always, Varun visited The Royale Salon first. He had chosen a Modern Quiff Fade with Textured Top, a hairstyle sleek enough to make an impression at the school event. The stylist worked meticulously, cutting, combing, spraying, and shaping every strand. Each falling hair was brushed to the floor with precision, a visual reminder of Varun’s control and refinement.
Vivaan waited outside, his fingers running repeatedly through his thick hair. He imagined, just for a moment, the freedom of long locks swaying as he walked to school, and then reality returned like a weight on his chest.
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Vivaan’s Ritual Haircut
The neighborhood barber shop smelled of talcum powder and shaving foam. Vivaan settled into the chair, heavy strands spilling over the cape, brushing his shoulders and collar. He sat silently, anticipating the relentless process he had endured so many times before.
The barber, without instruction, began. Varun’s voice was calm but firm:
• Sides �" Guard 1: The clippers buzzed to life. Thick strands fell in glossy streams, brushing ears and shoulders. Vivaan flinched at the sensation of each lock falling, feeling the weight of obedience settle on his shoulders.
• Sides �" 0.5: The clippers moved closer to the scalp. Hair spiraled down in thin ribbons, landing softly on the cape. Vivaan tried to tug lightly at the strands, but his hands felt powerless.
• Shaved Sides Bald: Lathered foam coated his scalp. The razor glided smoothly, removing the remaining hair. Thick clumps fell in spirals, brushing his neck and shoulders. Vivaan swallowed hard, catching each lock in his hands before it fell.
• Top Combed Forward: The barber combed Vivaan’s top forward, spraying water to manage the thick mass. Scissors cut in rhythmic precision. Strands tumbled in glossy waves, falling onto the cape in a steady cascade. Vivaan’s fingers brushed them helplessly, the feeling of losing his hair tangible with every lock.
• Top �" 0.5, Fringe Left: Clippers reduced the top to 0.5, leaving only a tiny fringe across his forehead. Each falling strand emphasized his submission, the contrast of shaved sides and minimal top stark against the long hair he had imagined keeping.
• Final Adjustment: Varun leaned close, fingers guiding the fringe into perfect alignment. "Now you look disciplined. Perfect for the event," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

In the Classroom
As the cultural day began, Vivaan’s hair drew attention. Every time he moved, the sharp contrast between shaved sides and the small fringe reminded him and others of the meticulous discipline enforced by Varun. His classmates whispered quietly, some teasing, some just staring. Vivaan realized, yet again, that no amount of imagined freedom or long hair could withstand Varun’s carefully executed control.

The days in Mumbai had settled into a rhythm, but for Vivaan, every routine was dictated by one person—Varun. His hair, thick and fast-growing, had started to fall past his collar again. He had just returned from school, and while he imagined a few days of freedom, he knew Varun would not allow it.
"Vivaan, stop playing with your hair. You know what this means," Varun said, standing in the doorway with his hands crossed over his chest.
Vivaan froze. "Do I really have to go today?"
Varun’s lips curled slightly. "You know the rules. When your hair grows long enough, it is haircut time. Now get ready."
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Varun’s Salon First
As usual, Varun visited The Royale Salon first. He had chosen a Slick Side-Part with Low Fade, a hairstyle both sharp and sophisticated. The stylist worked meticulously, cutting, combing, and shaping every strand, spraying water and styling product to perfect the textured top. Hair fell smoothly to the floor, a visual demonstration of precision and elegance.
Vivaan waited outside, fingers running through his thick, long hair. He tried to imagine a day when he could escape this ritual, but the reality of Varun’s control was inescapable.
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Vivaan’s Turn at the Barber Shop
The old neighborhood barber shop smelled familiar—talc, shaving foam, and the subtle scent of aftershave. Vivaan sank into the chair, heavy strands spilling over the cape, brushing shoulders and neck. He sat silently, the memory of previous haircuts tightening his stomach.
Varun, standing beside him, guided the barber in his calm, commanding tone:
• Sides �" Guard 1: Buzzing clippers trimmed the sides first. Thick strands fell in ribbons over Vivaan’s ears and shoulders. He flinched with each snip, feeling the weight of obedience pressing down.
• Sides �" 0.5: The clippers moved closer, spiraling hair down in thin, glossy streams. Vivaan’s fingers itched to stop the falling locks, but he remained frozen, aware of Varun’s watchful gaze.
• Shaved Sides Bald: Lather coated the scalp. The razor moved smoothly, removing all remaining strands. Hair fell in thick clumps, landing softly on the cape, brushing his neck and shoulders.
• Top Combed Forward: Water sprayed, combed forward, and scissors cut in steady rhythm. Each lock tumbled down, glossy and heavy, brushing his fingers as they fell.
• Top �" 0.5, Fringe Left: Clippers reduced the top to 0.5 while leaving a tiny fringe across his forehead. Each falling strand reinforced the dominance Varun had over him, the contrast of shaved sides and minimal fringe sharp and inescapable.
• Final Adjustment: Varun leaned over, fingers arranging the fringe with perfection. "Now you look disciplined. Ready for school," he said, voice calm but commanding.
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Days Between Haircuts
For the next few weeks, Vivaan moved through his routine under Varun’s watch. His hair, thick and fast-growing, gradually brushed the collar, teasing the thought of temporary freedom. Yet he knew the haircut ritual was inevitable. Every time he reached for a comb or ran his fingers through his hair, he remembered the precise rhythm of scissors and clippers, the weight of the falling strands, and Varun’s controlling presence.
Even at school, classmates noticed the sharpness of his hairstyle, the shaved sides and minimal fringe. Whispers followed him down the hallways. He tugged at the fringe nervously, aware that every strand was a mark of obedience.
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Culmination
As the next haircut approached, the anticipation filled Vivaan with a mixture of dread and resignation. He knew it was only a matter of days until the ritual began again—Varun’s calm, unyielding authority would ensure it. The haircuts were not just grooming; they were discipline, control, and submission in their purest form, and Vivaan could not escape them.
The School Competition
It had been nearly a month since Vivaan’s last haircut, and his thick hair had grown to brush his collar and cover his ears. He ran his fingers through the mass, feeling its weight, thinking he might finally attend the upcoming inter-school quiz looking decent, confident even. But Varun had already decided otherwise.
"Vivaan, your hair is too long," Varun said, voice calm but commanding. "We don’t want you looking sloppy at the competition. Today, you get the haircut. No arguments."
Vivaan’s stomach tightened. "But it’s long… and I was—"
"No. Enough excuses. Let’s go," Varun interrupted, already heading toward the bike.
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Varun’s Salon First
As always, Varun visited The Royale Salon first. Today he chose a Textured Pompadour with Low Fade, a look both modern and sophisticated. The stylist worked meticulously, combing, spraying water, trimming, and shaping each strand of hair. Every lock that fell to the floor seemed to mark Varun’s elegance and authority. Vivaan sat outside, nervously tugging at his thick hair, aware that his own fate awaited him just beyond the salon door.
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Vivaan’s Ritual Haircut
Once Varun’s haircut was complete, they walked to the old neighborhood barber shop. Vivaan sank into the chair, thick hair brushing the cape, sliding over his ears and collar. His fingers fidgeted helplessly as the barber prepared his tools.
Varun’s voice directed the rhythm:
• Sides �" Guard 1: The clippers buzzed to life. Thick, glossy strands fell in rhythmic streams, brushing Vivaan’s ears and neck. Each snip made his heart pound; each lock falling emphasized his helplessness.
• Sides �" 0.5: The clippers moved closer to the scalp. Hair spiraled down in thin, heavy ribbons. Vivaan’s fingers twitched at the sensation, brushing the falling strands, unable to stop them.
• Shaved Sides Bald: Lathered foam coated the scalp. The razor glided smoothly, removing all remaining strands. Thick clumps fell relentlessly onto the cape, brushing Vivaan’s shoulders. He flinched with every pass, realizing the sides would never regain their previous length.
• Top Combed Forward: Water sprayed over the dense top, combed forward, and the scissors moved in precise, rhythmic strokes. Hair fell like waterfalls onto the cape, some strands brushing Vivaan’s fingers. He tried to hold a lock, but more fell in its place.
• Top �" 0.5, Fringe Left: Clippers reduced the top to 0.5 while leaving a tiny fringe at the forehead. The thick, heavy strands fell in spirals, covering the cape completely. Vivaan tugged lightly at the fringe, feeling the weight of submission, the sharp contrast of shaved sides and minimal fringe glaring against the remnants of his long hair.
• Final Adjustment: Varun leaned over, inspecting every strand. "Perfect," he said. His fingers brushed the fringe, aligning it with the shaved sides. Vivaan’s head felt light, stripped of the thick, protective layers he had grown used to.
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At the Competition
During the quiz, Vivaan’s hair brushed his forehead occasionally. He tugged at the fringe, a nervous habit he had developed over the months of repeated haircuts. Every flick of hair reminded him of Varun’s authority, the strict rhythm of scissors and clippers, and the discipline enforced through his appearance.
Even in the midst of competition, he could not escape the lessons embedded in each haircut: obedience, control, and submission. The thick hair he had once cherished was now gone, replaced with precision and authority enforced by his elder brother.
Family Gathering
The weekend had arrived, and with it a large family gathering at Vivaan and Varun’s home. Relatives were coming over for a cousin’s wedding reception, and as always, Varun had a plan. He had observed Vivaan’s hair over the past month—it had grown thick, long, and unruly, brushing his collar and falling over his ears.
"Vivaan, your hair is too long for a family gathering," Varun said calmly but firmly. "We cannot have you looking messy in front of everyone. Today, you get the haircut. And no excuses."
Vivaan’s stomach twisted. He had almost forgotten how long his hair had grown, and he had imagined attending the gathering looking neat, maybe even a little stylish. But Varun’s decision was final.
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Varun’s Salon Visit
As always, Varun visited The Royale Salon first. He had chosen a Modern Side-Swept Pompadour with Low Fade, a style sharp and elegant, perfect for impressing relatives. The stylist worked meticulously, combing, spraying water, trimming, and shaping every strand of hair. Varun’s hair fell smoothly to the floor in controlled precision, each lock a visual symbol of his authority and sophistication.
Outside, Vivaan sat nervously, running his fingers through his thick, long hair. He tried to imagine a day where he could escape the barber’s chair, but the moment passed quickly as Varun returned, looking immaculate, his hair perfectly styled.
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Vivaan’s Ritual Haircut
At the neighborhood barber shop, the familiar smell of talcum powder and shaving foam enveloped Vivaan as he sank into the chair. His thick hair spilled over the cape, brushing shoulders and neck. He braced himself, knowing exactly what was coming.
Varun’s calm voice directed every step:
• Sides �" Guard 1: Buzzing clippers moved along the sides, trimming thick strands. Hair fell in heavy ribbons over ears and shoulders. Vivaan flinched at every snip, feeling the power of obedience pressing down.
• Sides �" 0.5: The clippers moved closer to the scalp. Thick, glossy hair spiraled down in streams, landing softly on the cape. Each lock falling emphasized the lack of control Vivaan had.
• Shaved Sides Bald: Lather coated his scalp. The razor moved smoothly, removing remaining hair. Thick clumps fell continuously, brushing his shoulders and neck. Vivaan swallowed hard, catching some strands in his hands, but more replaced them immediately.
• Top Combed Forward: Water sprayed over the dense top. The barber combed it forward, scissors moving rhythmically. Hair fell in glossy waves, brushing Vivaan’s fingers helplessly.
• Top �" 0.5, Fringe Left: Clippers reduced the top to 0.5 while leaving a minimal fringe at the forehead. Strands fell in soft spirals, covering the cape. The sharp contrast of shaved sides and short fringe was impossible to ignore.
• Final Adjustment: Varun leaned over, brushing the fringe into perfect alignment. "Perfect. You will look disciplined in front of family," he said firmly.
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At the Family Gathering
When Vivaan returned home, his head felt light, stripped of the thick, protective layers he had grown attached to. The shaved sides and precise fringe made him conspicuous among the crowd. Cousins, aunts, and uncles noticed immediately. Whispers followed him as he walked into the hall.
Varun, looking impeccable in his Modern Side-Swept Pompadour, led Vivaan to the gathering, confident and composed. Every glance Vivaan received reminded him of the haircut ritual, the weight of obedience, and the control Varun exercised over every aspect of his life.
Even during the celebration, Vivaan tugged at the minimal fringe, a nervous habit developed over months of repeated haircuts. Every glance in the mirror, every falling strand during past haircuts, flashed in his mind. He realized that his appearance, carefully controlled and disciplined, was now fully visible to the world.
Six months had passed since Varun had been out of Mumbai. During that time, Vivaan’s thick hair had grown wildly, tangling over his ears, brushing past his collar, and falling across his forehead. He had imagined freedom, long hair giving him a rare sense of control—but that illusion vanished the moment Varun returned.
As Varun entered the house, his eyes fell on Vivaan’s school report card lying on the table. His jaw tightened. "Vivaan! These grades… and look at your hair—it’s completely out of control!"
Vivaan stammered, "I… I tried, Varun…"
Before he could finish, Varun delivered a tight slap across Vivaan’s cheek. Then he grabbed a fistful of his long hair. Vivaan instinctively clutched Varun’s leg, trying to stop him. Another sharp slap forced him upright.
"Stop crying and move! Every strand of your hair is under my control! Today, you learn discipline!"
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At the Barber Shop
Vivaan sank into the chair, thick hair spilling over the cape, brushing his shoulders and ears. His heart raced. Varun leaned over him and instructed the barber in Hindi:
"Bhaiya, scissors se poore baalon ko kaat do—itna ki comb bhi na lagana pade! Samjhe?"
The barber nodded. "Ji bhaiya, samajh gaye. Shuru karte hain."
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Scissors Phase �" All Over
Snap! Snap! The first lock fell from the back, sliding down Vivaan’s shoulders. Snip! Snap! The right side was next, strands falling like thick, glossy ribbons. Then the left side, heavy locks spiraling down. Finally, the top was cut, long strands cascading onto the cape.
Vivaan tried to tug at his hair, grabbing Varun’s leg, pleading, "Varun… please… not so short!"
Varun delivered tight slaps repeatedly, dragging him upright
Snap! Snap! The scissors continued relentlessly until the hair was short everywhere, impossible to comb.
The barber paused and asked in Hindi, "Bhaiya, abhi thik hai kya?"
Varun’s voice was sharp: "Nahi! Ab isse takla aur chikna kar do! Lather lagao aur razor se shave karo, baar-baar, poore sir ke upar, tab tak jab tak perfectly chikna na ho!"
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Razor Phase �" Multiple Passes, All Over
The barber applied thick lather to Vivaan’s head.
"Ab razor se poore sir ko shave karte hain—peeche, daayein side, baayein side aur top. Dhyaan se,
Shhhhk… shhhhk… The razor scraped along the back, hair spiraling down in glossy streams.
Vivaan whimpered, trying to flinch.
Varun grabbed a fistful of hair. Slap! Slap! Slap! Tears streaked his cheeks.
Shhhhk… shhhhk… shhhhk… The right side was shaved repeatedly, then the left side, finally the top, each pass leaving the scalp completely bare and chikna. Hair fell in thick, heavy spirals onto the cape.
Water sprayed over the scalp, combed forward, and the razor went over stubborn strands multiple times. Even the fringe at the forehead was shaved until perfectly chikna.
Varun’s hand struck him again. Tight slap! "Cry all you want! No excuses! Discipline comes first!"
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Aftermath
Every lock of hair had fallen—snip by snip, scrape by scrape. Vivaan’s head was completely nanga, smooth to the touch, and trembling. He ran his hands over the chikna scalp, feeling the unfamiliar sensation of total submission.
Varun stood over him, calm, authoritative, satisfied. "You resisted, you cried, you begged—but discipline is above all. Samjhe?"
Vivaan could only nod. Every snip, every shave, every slap had been a lesson—each strand, each razor stroke a symbol of dominance, authority, and preparation for life.
Years later, he would remember the sound of every snip, every scrape, every thick lock falling, and finally realize Varun had always been right.
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