Three Branded Women

Three Branded Women – Vam

The Bosnian crisis had reached a new plateau, a so-called “ceasefire” and hostage exchange was in effect. We, the Princess Patricia Light Artillery, were posted between the Serbs, Croats and the Bosnian Muslims. We had made ourselves at home in this little corner of Balkan hell and had even started to make the forward base look like a little bit of Canada. We were all eagerly awaiting transfer orders, back to Lahr, Germany and ultimately back home to CFB Calgary. It wasn’t the war that was bothering most of the guys, it was the boredom, broken only briefly by outbursts of fire from the hills. The fire was not intended to kill us, just to keep us awake and aware that there was a war going on all around us. Our captain wanted to maintain military spit and polish and a high level of readiness. Captain Weldon was a real son of a bitch when it came to appearances, in fact we were the most military looking unit in the UN Command.

My job was to keep the company looking military, the captain reminded me on a daily basis. I am Corporal “Clip” Johannsen, the company barber. Every enlisted man had to keep his hair cut to military length, even the women in the company regularly had their time in the chair. Although they were given standard military cuts, their hair was cut to a maximum length of 1″ on top and shaved sides and back, just like the men. That’s how I got my nickname, “Clip”, all I ever used was clippers, no scissors, shears, just as the boys used to say, ” buzz to the fuzz”.

The war had moved closer to our position overnight. We could hear and see incoming artillery all around us. The Bosnian forest surrounding the camp was full of Serbs and Muslims were carrying the wounded back from the front which now stretched from Sarajevo to the Croat border. The Muslim forces were taking heavy losses, we were sending our medic out to the woods to help them get the wounded out of the Serbian onslaught.

I was on perimeter guard duty when I saw two UN blue jeeps coming towards the camp. The officers in the first jeep were Muslim and were with Captain Weldon. I snapped to attention and gave the captain a salute. He returned the salute and said, “It’s Clip, right?”

I responded, “Yes sir.”

The captain replied, “You do a good job in the barbershop. Come to my quarters as soon as you finish your patrol.”

I gave the captain a salute and replied, “Yes, Sir.”

The captain kept his own head shaven bald and did it himself, it was rumored, with a straight razor. I thought to myself, what did he want with me, the barber? The second jeep approached. There were three women and two Muslim officers and a Muslim policeman from the village. The women were all between 18 and 25 or so, very well dressed and even wearing makeup, rare in a war zone.

As they drove up the policeman asked in broken English, “Where is you ja-el?”

I was trying to make out what he said when one of the officers said, “Jail, these are for jail, prostitutes.”

I understood what the officer was looking for. I replied very slowly, “Guardhouse?”

The officer and the policeman said, “Da, guardhouse.”

I told the driver to follow the first jeep to the center of the compound and the guardhouse was next to the officers’ quarters. The women in the back kept their eyes down, obviously afraid of upsetting their captors. The women and the guards went up the track to the compound.

I finished my tour about 1300 hours and went immediately to the captain’s quarters as he had ordered. I knocked on the door and stood at attention.

“Corporal Johannsen, sir.”

“Come in, Johannsen.” The captain was sitting at his desk with the Muslim officer who rode into camp with him earlier. “Clip, this is Captain Clarovic, he’s the Bosnian commander and he has a special duty for you.”

“For me, Sir?”

“Yes, you Corporal. You saw those women who came into the compound, well they’re whores, that’s right, whores. The Bosnians want them transferred to their jail in Sarajevo, but they have no woman to cut their hair,” The captain explained. “According to Islamic law men do not touch women’s hair and there are no women available to do the job. The Bosnians are adamant they want these women shaven bald and taken back to the town to be paraded through the streets for all the men, particularly his own troops to see, before they go to jail. Well, Clip do you think that you’re up to the job?”

“Yes Sir.” I remembered that I had always gotten a sort of perverse pleasure from cutting women’s hair going back to my first days at barber school back in Montreal.

Captain Weldon said, “Remember, this is an important local issue. These people hate these women because they don’t care who they’re screwing: Serbs, Croats, even Canadians. We have to put these whores out of business before somebody starts a clap epidemic.”

The Muslim officer chimed in, “They are traitors to our cause and our nation and they must be treated as traitors, the people must see their shame.”

Captain Weldon said, “Go over to the barbershop and the guards will bring the whores to you one at a time, we’ll take pictures there and when you’re finished we’ll let Captain Clarovic take his prisoners to Sarajevo.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll take care of them for you sir.”

“That will be all, Corporal.”

“Yes, Sir,” I replied and turned to the door.

I remembered seeing an old movie made in the 50’s about 5 women Yugoslavian women who screwed one Nazi officer and had their heads shaven by partisans, it was called Five Branded Women. Now I was going to be in the sequel, I thought. What a war story! I saw the women being led out of the guardhouse as I was entering the tent that we used as barbershop. I had all my tools assembled: shears, clippers and my straight razor in case I needed it. The Muslim policeman and the other Muslim officer came into the tent first.

The policeman said, “My friend, did your captain explain what must be done?”

“Yes, I know what to do,” I replied.

“We have to show our people that we won’t tolerate traitors,” said the officer. “These whores know what is going to happen, they know they must pay the consequences, in Sarajevo they will be in prison until the end of the war, but the village people here must get some satisfaction.” I held up the straight razor to show them that I understood. They said, “Da” in unison and smiles came across their broad Slavic faces.

Then the guard brought in the first woman accompanied by the base photographer, carrying a clipboard and his camera on a tripod. The photographer who ordinarily did battlefield photos and counted corpses, said, “Hey, Clip, this time I’m doing live models, the Muslims want before and after mug shots. I wish I had taken some pictures of these babes in action, could have made a porn flick here.” Then he said, “I can see the movie now, Bosnian Beauties Bust Balls. Give me a minute to get set up, here.”

The Muslim guard wrote “DRAJNA SUKOVA” in bold letters with a black marker pen on the clipboard, then he ordered her in Serbian to hold the card under her chin. The photographer took a face shot, then a right profile. Then I said, “We’re ready here,” and pointed to the chair. Drajna had blond hair that hung about 5″ past her shoulders and ample breasts. The guard said something to her in Serbian and she got into the chair. I said, “Do you speak English?” to which she replied, “A little.” Then I said, “You know what I have to do?”

The Muslim guard said, “She knows, take your time, make sure she sees everything.”

I clipped the cape around her slender white neck and lifted her hair from the back of the chair. Then I coiled the long hair around my hand, held it firm at the nape and with a single stroke of the shears, I let 15″ fall to the floor. Drajna seeing her blond hair fall to the floor started to sob. The guard looked on watching my every move with fascination.

Then I gathered more hair together on the left side of her head and sheared it off at scalp level. Then to the right side. I kept cutting with scissors and shears until I reduced most of her blond hair to a length of about 1″ or so. Then I turned on the clippers removed the guard so that I could shave down to the scalp. I motioned to the guard to hold her still before I pressed the clippers to her neck. The guard complied and held her trembling body in the chair, while I held her shorn head to her breast. Then when the clippers made contact with her neck, she let out a scream. I let go of her head for a moment and she raised her head looked in the mirror and started writhing uncontrollably. I hurriedly shaved the remaining hair from her scalp, each lock falling down into her lap brought forth another scream. I made pass after pass with my clippers until the guard stood back and inspected the work. I had not used the straight razor, but my clippers had achieved the same effect. I had shaven her head bald, she was transfixed on the mirror. I had never done that before, what a rush! Then the guard literally lifted the screaming woman out of the chair, held the clipboard up in front of her and motioned to the photographer, who snapped the “after” shot, before leading the woman out of the tent.

The guard then hastily wrote “SONYA KRADIK” on the clipboard. Sonya was a brunette, with the saddest brown eyes I had ever seen. She looked like she was about 18, she had a slim build, but like so many Balkan women, very full breasts. She was very scared, when the photographer asked her to hold up the clipboard, she held it upside-down. She knew what was happening because of the mountains of blond hair on the floor. The guard said, “This one no English,” then he said something to her in Serbian, she immediately started to cry and got into the chair.

Sonya had a single braid that hung down halfway to her butt. She watched me assemble my tools, like watching a dentist getting ready for an extraction. I could see the terror in her eyes as the welled up with big tears. I wrapped her in the cape, lifted her braid and clipped it off at the base of her neck with the clippers, freeing the thick brown hair beneath it. Then I held the braid up to the approval of the guard, who applauded, the I handed it to him and said, “Souvenir.” Then I started clipping away all the locks that were freed from the braid. Sonya was sobbing, she had resigned herself to her fate and offered no resistance. In fact she bent her head unconsciously to the clippers making my job much easier. Back and forth and from the forehead to the nape. Slowly I shaved her head bald. Again the guard voiced his approval, cheering as I removed the last brown shadow from her head. Then I brushed off the fallen hair, held up the clipboard in front of Sonya and turned the chair to the camera.

“Clip, one to go.”

The guard left the shop for a minute before returning with my last “customer” and wrote “TATIANA ZELCOPOVIC” on the clipboard. Tatiana looked the part, she was dressed like any hooker you would see in Montreal or Toronto: over-made up, a mini skirt that showed off her big thighs and even a good part of her butt and dyed red hair, cut into a out-dated shag cut from the mid-80’s. Tatiana was a real whore, not just a poor girl who had fallen like the first two, she was one tough cookie. After the photographer got his “before” shot she got into the chair. Then she said, ” O.K., I know what’s happening, just be quick.”

I obliged by grabbing my clippers and saying, “O.K. let’s do it!”

Tatiana looked at the guard and said, “I want to get this over with. Next week it could be your daughter here in this chair.”

The guard bristled, and said, “Shave this bitch good!”

I decided to forgo the shears and scissors and attacked her head with my clippers. I held her head down and ran the clippers all the way across her head from nape to crown, letting all the severed locks fall onto her lap. I measured each stroke for maximum efficiency, back to front, behind her ears and across the crown. I followed each stroke gradually taking the last vestiges of hair down to her scalp. As more and more white scalp appeared, the smile on the guard grew, until I finished the final strokes. I was so turned on by the haircuts that afternoon, I kept thinking to myself. I brushed the fallen hair off Tatiana’s shoulders before holding up the clipboard for the “after” pictures. I could not help but admire my work. Three before and after pictures: Drajna, who looked like a wet cocker spaniel, blond hair drooping into her eyes, then after, strong blue eyes and a perfectly rounded bald skull that gave her a futuristic beauty like something from Star Trek. Sonya, the waif, whose big brown eyes and long brown hair were captivating, in spite of her youth, and after her brown eyes looked like saucers filled with tears, her brown mane reduced to a shadow. Finally Tatiana, the professional: her teased, dyed hair falling lanky to her shoulders, her smeared make up and mascara from the tears she had hidden so well during her ordeal, and after her white head looked like a perfect sphere, no imperfections, her face still had the haggard look that belied her profession.

As I put my tools away, the guard was met by Captain Clarovic, who inspected the girls before having the guard handcuff them for their parade through the village. Captain Clarovic came over to the tent, gave me a snappy salute and said, “Thank you and your captain, you did a great job. Now when our women see these whores they will know that traitors get what they deserve.”

 

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