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Beauty Parlor Nightmare

I miss getting my haircut at the barbers. Getting my hair cut by a woman makes me feel like I'm a woman. Maybe I'm just old fashioned, but I think women who work in salons either don't like guys—or don't like me. Whatever. I avoided them for a long time. But now my hair is too long for a guy, so it's got to go. That's what I told them, right up front. "No prob," they said, "we'll fix you up." I should've been more specific. They gave me something fruity to drink and when I woke up the place was empty; just me and two salon ladies.

Oh yeah, and my hair was blonde. For the record, it wasn't when I came in. One of the women was young and pretty, but wore a perpetual frown that made her look tired. The other might've been pretty once, but not anymore. I asked them what the hell was going on. "Such language for a young lady," the older one said. "What would your mother think?" I demanded to know why they dyed my hair; the 'young lady' comment zipped by unnoticed. "Like the streaks?" The young woman ran a brush through my newly golden mane. "Sweetie, you were born to be blonde." She used a hand mirror to show me the back of my head: a gorgeous blonde fall that would've made any woman proud. They'd even layered and permed the ends into a luscious cascade of loose curls. I told them that it looked great, but it made me look like a girl—at least from the back.

What the hell were they thinking? "You let us worry about that." I thought about putting it in a ponytail, but even that would look feminine. I figured that the safest thing would be to cut most of it off myself and get some other salon to clean up the mess. That was when they showed me the gun. The older woman pointed it at me, then sat in the next chair over. Her manicured hand never wavered. "Makeover time," the young woman said. Her grin was definitely unfriendly. She prepped my face with depilatory cream, then added base makeup and highlights. She plucked my eyebrows to the point of vanishing. My eyes she etched with dark lines and beige shadows, and finished off with as much black mascara as my helpless lashes could carry. My chin quivered as she contoured my lips. She showed me the business end of a tube of crimson lipstick, blotted the result and stepped back. "She's done."

They told me to stand up and strip down. The gun didn't give me much choice. My clothes went right in the garbage. I stood there, naked to the world, but the real obscenity was in the mirror: that lovely female head atop my scrawny male body. Handed panty hose, I turned my back and rolled it up my legs, as instructed. They helped me into a bra, padded it generously, added a half-slip, and floated a silky camisole over my head. I could barely breathe: according to the mirror, there were now three women in the room. I stepped into midnight pumps, then a little black dress that didn't quite reach my knees. The young woman zipped me up, lifting my hair to let the zipper reach the top. That colour, she said loudly, was a wonderful contrast to my lovely blonde hair. I nodded slowly. For once, I couldn't disagree. They made me pose me in the mirror and act like I enjoyed what they'd done. The older lady handed me a purse. "Here's your wallet and stuff. Get out." The younger one pushed me out the door, then leaned in and whispered, "The webcam was behind the mirror. Smile, you're on YouTube." The look on my face made her laugh. "Free advertising," the older one said with a shrug. The door shut and the wind flung hair in my face. I almost cried. I really miss barbers!