Forced headshave stories 2026 Ep2 - Headshave lesson

Well, here I sit waiting for mother. For the first time the bathroom seems larger than ever. She has told me more times than I can remember, “Do NOT put your hair in your mouth. If you continue to eat your hair I will be forced to cut it OFF,” she commanded in her strong but motherly voice. I’ve been doing it for so long and nothing was done to me, so why now? Looking up from where I was sitting, I saw mom bring a tall stool. She placed it in front of the large mirror—the one dad uses to watch himself when he performs his own morning shaving routine. Pointing to the stool she told me, “Get yourself comfortable, young lady. I will be back with the clippers.” I climbed up, looking at my long locks in the mirror for what I feared was the last time. When she returned, she didn't just have clippers. She put down a can of shaving cream and a straight razor. My heart sank. This wasn't just going to be a haircut; this was going to be a total headshave. “Well, young lady… You were warned. Maybe when your friends see you as a baldgirl, you will finally learn,” she said, plugging in the clippers. I looked at her, almost in tears. When the clippers hummed to life, she called out, “John, do you have anything to say to Annie before I shave her head?” Dad stuck his head in. “I thought a short cut would be enough, but maybe she needs this to learn. Do it, honey.” I couldn’t believe it. I was about to be transformed into a bald recruit. She placed her hand on my head, forcing me to watch. “You’re going to watch your scalp being shaved until your bare skin is visible to everyone.” The clippers plowed through my hair, landing heavy clumps on the floor. I watched in horror as I became progressively more bald. When the buzzing stopped, she didn't put me down. Instead, she lathered my stubbly scalp with thick, white shaving cream. Using the straight razor with practiced precision, she began the final stage of the headshave. I felt the cold steel against my skin, scraping away the remnants of my identity. She moved the blade in slow, steady strokes, ensuring she didn't miss a single spot. “You’ll be a completely bald girl by the time I’m done,” she whispered. She worked until she had achieved a perfectly smooth shaved head. She rinsed the razor and rubbed her hand over my scalp, checking for any missed patches. Finding it perfectly bald and sleek, she wiped away the excess foam with a towel. “Go downstairs,” mom said. “Ask your father if I got your head smooth enough.” I slid off the stool, feeling the air hit my naked scalp for the first time. Downstairs, my brother’s laughter was deafening. Dad hugged me, rubbing my smooth shaved head. “I’ve never felt anything so smooth,” he remarked. “You really are bald, Annie.” Now I’m here in my room, a 15-year-old baldgirl, wondering how I'll ever show my face at school. My head is smooth, my hair is gone, and I don't even have any fringe left to chew on for my anxiety.