Teaching the Teacher

Teaching the Teacher

Teaching the Teacher By J

In the dimly lit room, it was just me and her. All alone. And for once roles were reversed: I was the one with the power, the control and the knowledge of what was to come. I would teach her a lesson. I would finally teach the teacher.

I saw the effects of the tranquilizer begin to wear off, my prisoner stirring from her long induced reverie. A long, sharp powdered nose began to sniff her surroundings, drawing in the damp, mothball smells which filled the unused storage room and all its corners. As the dust entered her nostrils, her nose wiggled and her mouth sucked in air, in preparation for a sneeze. It was at that moment that she finally felt the ball gag in her mouth. Her tongue tried to move, feeling it choking her, inhibiting her. Her beady eyes flew open with a kind of fear that I cherished and would remember forever.

From the safety of a darkened corner, I smiled with glee, covering my mouth to hold back the bursts of laughter. After all I had endured in her hands, the sight of her futile struggle – pulling her reddened wrists apart to break the handcuffs, shuffling her bound feet – left me in pure ecstasy.

Carefully, I covered my head with a special motorcycle helmet and turned on the lighting system I had set up the night before. It was all planned, you see. Two bright bulbs shone directly into her eyes, blinding her. I stepped forward, my eyes fixed on her, and her hair, which shone under the harsh lighting.

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Here was my English teacher, finally to receive her just rewards. This, the woman who hated me from the beginning, ruined my English marks, ruined my tertiary and career aspirations forever. I had been cheated, I knew that.

My gloved fingers glided over the tray I had placed to her right, touching the instruments and sending shivers of anticipation up my spine. The metal glistened beautifully, urging me onwards.

With a low-pitched rumble, I addressed this villain. I let all my frustration out, my seething anger and warranted rage.

“You bitch. The time has come for you. You thought that you could get away with anything, didn’t you? That just because you were a teacher with unfulfilled dreams, it was all right to ruin your students’ lives. Well you were so wrong. And now, the end of your reign is nigh.”

It was her prized possession, undoubtedly. Unlike many other teachers, she had lacked the natural beauty, grace and charm they exuded. Her features were harsh, stern and uncompromising. Small beady eyes, a nose that so much resembled the crumbling structure of Michael Jackson and a shriveled, perpetually pursed mouth all evidence of her dictator-like nature. Her skin was over-powdered, over-made-up. We believed it hid an uneven, wrinkled complexion that would make her appear far older than her 40-plus age.

Yet she had something: long raven locks, with the shimmering luster of Snow White. It fell, ever so delicately, down to her waist, the ends curling up slightly about her bony hips. It has an indescribably irresistible texture, soft and smooth texture, enabling her to constantly flip this crowning glory over her shoulders, taunting everyone else with its magnificence. Well, not for long, I mused with delight.

I moved behind her, my teacher struggling in vain to follow my movements. Her eyes flew about wildly but her neck had been fastened to the chair.

I picked up the large, heavy shears lying on the tray. Slowly, I moved them towards her head. Then with an exaggerated gesture, I picked up a long lock and clipped it off, right against her scalp.

Nearly 4 feet of hair was grasped in my left hand. It was surprisingly heavy, for its soft appearance. I dangled it in front of my victim’s head, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum. Her fearful eyes followed its motion and her terrified screams were muffled by the gag. Yet this by no means hypnotized her. Rather she struggled hopelessly, very much aware of her punishment.

I rubbed the hair against her face, moving the entire silky length across her eyes and nose. It was then that she broke. A single tear flowed down her face, followed by a torrent of weeping. The full extent of my actions was by then clear, and she sat very still, shoulders slumped and despondent.

I reached for another silken tress, fascinated by the way the lighting made it shine even more than usual, more than I had ever imagined possible. This one, just above her right ear, I pulled tenderly forwards, in front of her face. Then with a large snip, I sheared it too, letting it fall like a feather towards the cold, cement floor.

With growing excitement, I became more zealous with my task. Haphazardly, I yanked locks here and there. I pulled the tresses upwards, forwards, to each side, wherever my hands felt like moving. Soon there was no length left to hack. Her head, apparently, had been nicely covered by her hair. For unlike many bald or closely clipped people, my teacher lacked the delicate bone structure or even shape. It was fitting considering her cheekbones or her hips but, all the same, rather shocking. The tufts of black hair stuck out unevenly from her scalp, now lacking the radiance they once possessed.

Once more I moved towards my prepared tray. This time I picked up a Braun shaver. I had no money to buy proper Oster clippers but I was sure my dad’s shaver would more or less do the trick. Luckily, her hair was fairly fine. In my hands, the shaver vibrated and shook slightly. No matter, I figured, I don’t really care if I do a bad job. Hehe, and it’s not like I’ll be devastated if I nick her with the shaver anyway.

With a deft stroke, I ran the shaver straight down the middle of her scalp. A white path emerged, stark in contrast to the black on either side. I had never, of course, seen a semi-shaved head up close. I never realised how white a freshly clipped scalp was. I continued, feverishly, until she had a completely denuded scalp. Turning off the shaver, I picked up the tiny bottle of Hair No More lying on the table. I “borrowed” this from my mum this morning, knowing well that its regrowth prevention would be used for a much greater good than the usual leg hair it worked on. I massaged it over her scalp. My gloved fingers slid easily over the smooth head.

Finally, I picked up all my tools and placed them in my red backpack. Sauntering, I slowly left the room, throwing one last glance in her direction. I decided not to let her free, it would be too dangerous for me. Sure, the entire school knowing that I was the victor would be glorious, but punishment I did not want to face. I left the door open, it was Monday tomorrow and a cleaner would find her. Everyone would see her, denuded, justly punished. Meanwhile, I walked out into the sunshine, my eyes adjusting to the light and my heart singing with joy. I won.


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