New Haircut

Yesterday I had an appointment with the devil.

At 6 PM sharp I strolled into the barbershop and sat down in the abnormally high but comfortable chair and locked eyes with the slightly worried face staring back at me in the mirror.

The satanic creature slithered up behind me and the scissors descended with all the fury of fire and brimstone upon my fragile crown.

I scrunched my eyes shut and sat there as the locks of brown hair dropped like falling angels around me.

So yeah, I'm not a big fan of haircuts, but yesterday I was forced to endure one.

Well, I survived my haircut yesterday and after coming home and showering (I hate those stupid little hairs that get trapped on the back of your neck and in your ears), I warily peered into the mirror again to assess the status of my new "do."

Final Status: Not too shabby.

It wasn't the best haircut in the world, but at least it didn't look like I got run over by a lawnmower, a look I often sported after most of my haircuts.

As I awoke this morning, I ran my hand through my newly shortened locks, thinking about how much better I looked now and how much tail I would be able to pull this weekend with my new stylish look (having a huge dick helps too).

My dreams of tail-pulling were solidified as I was walking to the bus stop this morning.

An older woman, probably about 45, who obviously took care of herself (read: great legs and a decent rack), was waiting down at the bus stop. As I strolled down to await public transportation, I glanced over in her direction to see if she was eyeing me, and sure enough, she couldn't have made it more obvious. The MILF made it quick clear that she was staring at me, probably undressing me mentally, the dirty whore. Had the bus not showed up so soon, I might have had to go wipe the drool off her lips, and I'm not talking about the ones on her face.

I smiled back at her and got on the bus with the knowledge that my new haircut was indeed a success. I couldn't wait for the weekend; young women everywhere were at my mercy.

I think it was when I got off the bus and started walking to my office building that I started to think that something was wrong...

I must have walked past ten women, all of whom gave me more than unusual stares. Some smiled and giggled as they walked by, some just stared, and there was that one elderly woman that turned her head away in what I thought looked like disgust. Damn old people: what the hell do they know anyway?

But still, I was confused. I'm a decent looking guy, but I was not used to this kind of attention. What was the problem? Did my barber cut a huge penis into the side of my head? Did I have shit stuck to the bottom of my shoe? What?

By the time I got to work, the stares were beginning to freak me out. My heart racing, the sweat flowing out of my pores, I desperately tried to think of something, anything that would account for all the looks I was getting.

But then my ego took over, and starting saying things like:

"They're probably all looking because you're so hot."

"They all want to fuck you, you idiot."

"They're jealous because they're married to a guy with a small dick and they want your huge sausage."

Ah yes, I thought to myself, that MUST be the explanation. My heart beat dropped back to normal and I wiped the drying sweat off my brow. I was back to my usual suave self.

My conclusion was the only reasonable hypothesis I could come up with to explain why every woman I had passed since I stepped out my front door had blatantly stared at me. I knew women were supposed to be the more "modest" gender when it came to checking people out, but obviously my good looks and dashing new hair cut threw them over the edge and into the depths of hormonal-induced lust.

I sat down at my desk, researching my future modeling career on the web, and preparing myself to be assaulted at any moment by some lust-crazed executive intent on ripping my clothes off and ravaging me in my cubicle.

As I was searching the immediate area for some type of defense weapon, I realized that all the coffee I had consumed had caught up with me, and it was time to empty the old bladder.

I sauntered on down to the bathroom, winking at the cute secretary whose wide blue eyes were fixed on me the whole time.

I pushed the bathroom door and strode into the white-tiled room like the stud I was.

I stepped up to the urinal.

My hand went down to my zipper.

"Huh?" I muttered.

Something wasn't right.

The realization of the morning's events hit me like a brick.


My zipper, still at the bottom of its track, devilishly smiled back up at me as if to say "Haha, gotcha!"

My fly was open and my crotch had been on public display the entire morning.

I knew I shouldn't have gone commando today.

Uploaded 06/24/2008
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