Forced Head Shaving of Hoodlums by Hamed Bezani

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This story is based partly on true events, partly on imagination.

The shop was barely fifteen square meters, a cramped little slice of concrete and mirrors tucked away on the edge of the city, right where the asphalt of the main road started to fray into the outskirts of a dusty settlement. It smelled of cheap talcum powder, strong tobacco, and the metallic tang of old clippers. Above us was a single room where we crashed at night, a space just large enough for two narrow beds and a few crates of stolen gear. We didn't have much, but we had the street, and the street knew us.

"Look at this mess," Javad continued, his voice raspy, gesturing toward the client's hairline. He adjusted the leather cuff on his wrist, the studs digging slightly into his skin. We both stood there, two lean, long-limbed silhouettes in the mirror, wearing skinny, low-cut blue jeans that clung to our flat asses and thin legs like a second skin. We looked like we belonged in a street fight or a getaway car, not fussing over a haircut, but that was the hustle.

But the pride didn't last. A few days ago, a job in a nearby village went sideways. Me, Javad, and two other associates thought we could shake down a few locals for a "protection fee," but the villagers had a different plan. They didn't call the police immediately they waited until we were cornered, then handed us over to the local precinct like sacks of flour. When we walked into that station, it was already a zoo. About forty of usall the same breed of street-trash and low-lifeswere lined up in five ragged rows. The air was thick with the smell of fear and cheap cigarettes.

The precinct chief was a squat, fleshy man who moved like a boulder and spoke like a thunderstorm. He climbed onto a half-meter concrete dais, looming over us despite his height, his eyes scanning our rows of defiant faces with pure disgust. He spent ten minutes shredding our dignity, calling us parasites and street-scum, his voice echoing off the damp walls. Then came the ultimatum. He looked at the same clock he'd been glancing at since he walked in and declared that in two hours, when he returned to inspect the lines, he didn't want to see a single follicle of black hair on any of our heads. "Sanding-paper smooth," he barked, "zeroes across the board. If I see one stray hair, you'll wish you were still in the village."

We started shouting, a chorus of desperation. We weren't just fighting for hair we were fighting for the hours of grooming, the expensive waxes, and the gels that held our crests in a rigid, defiant architecture. The officers didn't listen. They split us into four groups and shoved us into the backs of oversized trucks. Then they ran those clippers over our skulls like they were mowing a damn lawn. No mercy, no pause, just zzzzt-zzzzt-zzzzt tearing through, not giving a single f about our begging. We screamed, we pleaded, we swore at them nothing. By the time they threw us into the holding cell, we looked like flies.

In that cramped cell we practically rolled over each other, skinny young thugs with the heads of convicts, writhing like worms in a jar. There was no room to move, so we just pressed and rubbed against each other.o

Two days later, we were kicked out of that place with a shove and a sneer. Now, we're back in the shop, the masters of the shears, but we're walking around with heads as rough as sandpaper. It's a joke, really. We spend our days sculpting the hair of boys our own age who stroll in with those soft, straight locks and polished looks.

As I worked on a young man today, the contrast hit me hard. He was pretty and his hair like silk under my fingers. As I combed through his fringe, my hand lingered a second too long, feeling the softness of his hair against my calloused palm. I could see Javad watching from the corner, his eyes drifting to the boy's nape. We didn't say anything, but there was a sudden, heavy tension in the room.

"Hold still, you little prick, or I'll give you a landing strip right down the middle," I muttered, though there was no real heat in it. I stepped in closer, the fabric of my pants straining against my thighs as I maneuvered around the chair. As I worked the clippers, the boy's hairthick, soft, and smelling of some expensive shampoofell in heavy clumps onto the nylon cape. It was a crime, really, how someone could have hair like that while we were standing here with skulls as smooth and rough as sandpaper.

I couldn't help it as I tilted his head, my fingers lingered for a second too long on the nape of his neck. The skin was porcelain, a stark contrast to the calloused, scarred hands I used to hold him. Beside me, Javad had gone quiet, his eyes locked on the kid in the mirror. He was leaning against the wall, one leg crossed over the other, his long frame draped in that lean, hungry way we both had. He noticed the way I was touching the kid, and a slow, knowing grin spread across his face.

I stepped back and flicked the cape away with a sharp, practiced snap, the nylon echoing in the silence of the shop. The boy stood up, oblivious to the storm brewing between us, and reached up to shake his head. As he did, the remaining loose strands of his hair danced and swayed, shimmering under the flickering fluorescent light. The sight of itthat effortless, fluid motion of silk against skinsent a fresh jolt through me. It was a cruel reminder of everything we had lost in those trucks, a visceral contrast to the raw, sandpaper friction of our own bald skulls. Javad didn't blink he just stood there, his chest rising and falling, mesmerized by the way the boy moved.

The kid paid in silence, his voice barely a whisper as he thanked us, and then he stepped out into the dusty heat of the settlement. The moment the door clicked shut, the air in the shop seemed to vanish. We were left alone in that fifteen-square-meter concrete box, the smell of expensive shampoo still hanging in the air like a taunt.

"The shop's dead for the day," Javad announced, his voice sounding hollow in the sudden silence. He didn't wait for me to answer before he reached over and flipped the heavy iron switch, plunging the shop into a dim, grey twilight.

We stood there in the sudden twilight, the silence thick as dust. I lifted a hand and dragged my palm over the back of my skull, the stiff stubble scratching against my skin like sandpaper, raw and familiar. Javad's eyes tracked the motion, and then he stepped close and ran his own fingers over my headslow, deliberate, tracing the rough contour like he was reading braille. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face, and I felt my own lips curl to match. "That was fun," I said, my voice low in the gloom. "The little f***er didn't even know what he did to us." Javad laughed, a low, dirty sound. "F***," he said, shaking his head. "I wish we could take him up to the attic with us tonight." The words hung in the dim air, and I let them settle, my fingers still working the stubble at the back of my skull. In my head I was already running through the faces of the boys who'd walk in tomorrow with their soft, straight locks and polished lookswondering which one would be next, whose nape I'd get to touch. Javad watched me think, that grin still hooked on his face. Then I let my other hand drift down and pressed my palm against the hard, aching bulge straining the fly of my skinny jeans. "So," I said, still scratching the back of my head, still grinning like a wolf, "how the hell are we supposed to drain this now?" He barked out a laugh and jerked his chin toward the ceiling. Above us, the attic waited. We went up without another word.

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