Stepfather

The Stepfather

She sat quietly at the desk in her room, studying for a geometry exam. Math was not easy for her and it took all of her concentration to understand the formulas. A lock of her mid-back length hair was twisted around her finger. The more frustrated she was with the problem, the tighter she twisted the chocolate-colored lock. She never noticed her door open.

Her stepfather was standing there, glaring at her twisted lock. The nervous habit irritated him beyond belief and he had threatened many times to cut her hair off if she didn’t stop. Her mom had always been there to calm him down, but tonight she was at a meeting.

“What in hell have I told you about that?’ he said, breaking the silence.

Startled by the interruption, she jumped, knocking her book off the desk. Untangling her finger from her hair, she bent to get her book, not knowing what to say.

“Well,” he continued, “what have I repeatedly said about that infernal hair-twisting of yours?”

“Not to do it,” she stammered.

“Or what?” he replied.

“Or you would cut my hair.”

“Exactly. Now, get up from that desk. In the hall closet is my barber kit. Bring it to me now. I believe that we have an appointment for a cutting.” His anger was mounting. She’d seen it many times with her mom, hearing his voice get low and stern when he was seriously mad. His voice had never been as menacing as it was just then.

She started to object, then got up from the chair. Maybe he’ll only cut off the lock I was twisting, she thought. But deep down she knew she was in for more than that.

His voice interrupted her racing thoughts. “The longer you take, the longer the haircut will last,” he growled.

She ran down the hall to the closet and he watched from the door of her room. He was between her and the stairs, so there was no possible escape. Opening the door to the closet, she saw the barber kit right where it always was. She saw it every time she got a towel for her bath and its presence had taunted her for the many months of her mother’s marriage. It was heavy in her hands as she pulled it from the shelf.

“You must really want it short,” he teased, knowing now that he was going to be able to do what he had desired since first dating her mother. It had only taken him a month to get the scissors into the hair of his now-wife. First he cut bangs into her long thick hair. Then layers a few weeks later. It was now bobbed with a clipped nape. Her hair had been glorious… medium brown with golden lights. Just below her shoulders. But her daughter’s hair. That was something. A perfectly straight sheet of glistening chocolate, so thick that the meticulously trimmed ends were an inch deep.

The barber kit was heavy in her hands as she handed it to him. “Now get in your room,” he ordered. “Put the chair in front of the mirror. I want you to see what your bad habits have gotten you. And take off your shirt. For as much as it cost, I don’t want hair all over it.”

“Can’t you cape me with a towel?” she pleaded.

“That depends. Do you want a crew cut?” He was taking far too much pleasure in tormenting her.

“No… I just don’t want you to see…” she stammered.

“What? Your fifteen year old breasts that rarely see a bra?” He laughed at her. “What I want to see is these scissors in your hair, or maybe those clippers. In fact, why don’t you plug them in? NOW!”

Tears were welling up in her eyes as she plugged in the Osters. They continued as she removed her shirt and sat, bare breasted in front of the large mirror in her room. Her face was pale and her body trembled, a fact which didn’t go unnoticed by her stepfather.

“Trembling with excitement, I see.” He clicked the scissors in the air over her head, then leaning down to whisper in her ear he said, “You are going to learn to love this. Be sure you watch every snip.”

His stepdaughter was seated before him, in her own room. He had forced her to bring him the instruments of her own torment. She had been made to plug in the clippers and to sit, bare-breasted in front of the mirror. She trembled in anticipation and fear. But he had put down the scissors and had instead picked up her brush. With long even strokes, he brushed the deep brown mass. From crown to nape, then over her shoulders to the middle of her back. Ten strokes. Then twenty. Then he stopped.

She had almost been lulled into security from the brushing, but when it stopped, the fear returned. She hugged her chest and looked away from the mirror.

“Oh no,” her stepfather said as he turned her face back to the mirror. “You need to watch every cut. Each lock as it falls to the floor.”

And with that, he selected a lock. The very one that she had twisted from her earlier frustration with math. The scissors were in his hand, opened around the lock he held. “If I cut right here,” indicating a spot at mid-cheek with the cool blades, “you won’t be able to twist it very much. Or maybe, if I slide the scissors up here to the top of your ears, it will be too short to twist at all.”

The scissors closed with a seemingly deafening grinding sound. The lock was severed and, for the first time since grade school, her ear showed. Coming around in front of her, he knelt down and looked in her eyes. There was nothing there. Then he took the shorn lock and brushed it across her bare nipple. Her eyes reacted and he knew what was coming next.

Lock after lock was shorn away. Each one cut slowly and deliberately. With every lock, she seemed to relax in the chair. It took twenty minutes to crop off the last of her long locks. The result was an uneven crop. Some locks were three inches, with others barely one. Then the scissors were put down.

“Any comments?” he asked.

She shook her head no, her eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. And then she saw the clippers in his hand.

“Apparently this isn’t short enough for you. So how about helping me select a guard? A number 3 will give you a nice short brush of hair. Or maybe you really want no guard at all? How about a headshave? And then maybe a shaved pussy, like your mother.”

From behind them both a new reflection was added to the mirror. Her mother… too late to save her.

“Honey, you’ve asked Dad to give you a haircut! Oh, and it’s going to be really short! And did I hear you say something about taking it all off down there too? You will love it!”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her mom wasn’t mad. Not mad that her stepfather had cropped off hair that she had been growing since childhood. Not mad that he was looking at her bare breasts. Not mad that he would soon lay her on her own bed and shave her pussy bare.

She picked up a guard… the #2. Her mom took it from her and to her husband said, “Do you mind if I take the first few swipes?” The clippers buzzed in her hand as she pushed her daughter’s head forward so that her chin touched her chest. The clippers whirred at the nape, then growled as they were pushed up through the once amazing mane. Stopping at the crown, her mother said, “This is going to so cute. A shaved back pixie I think. With some fringed bangs and sideburns brushed onto your face.”

She didn’t remember the end of the cut or her mother lathering her mons for her stepfather to shave until many years later. Her therapist gave her this understanding through hypnosis. Her own daughters’ hair was safe… for the time being.

 

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