“Fuck daddy--ya made me talk like a hick, so why don’ ya make me look like one too?” you say, leering at him in the mirror.
“Sounds like a fuckin great idea tah me, boy--can’t wait tah have a stupid, shit eating redneck livin’ wit me.”
You’re terrified, deep down inside, but at the same time so incredibly turned on by the idea you’re still clean cock is rock hard, pressing into your now reeking fat. “So...what first?” you say, reaching for the ointment, but he stops your hand.
“Hold yer horses boy--best to let a old hand take the lead--things can get a bit weird when ya give yerself a scalp massage. Just relax, and let daddy take care a yer stylin’.”
He got a big glop of ointment in both hands, slathered it all over your scalp and started rubbing it in. In the mirror, you could see your hair...changing. On the top and sides it was shortening, even as the back began growing out and down past your neck in greasy waves--a proper mullet--but the changes were deeper than that. The ointment was seaping in through your skin, through your skull, starting to coat your brain proper. Your old memories began to fade--your job, your previous boyfriends, your education, your dreams and goals--all of it, and it was replaced by something new. Growing up in a trailer with your abusive dad and brothers, eating their shit day in and day out. How one day you got fisted so brutally you couldn’t keep your own shit in anymore, but you never really cared that much--if anything, you thought it made you feel even sexier, dumping shit right into the back of the same pair of nasty overalls you wore every day. That was your only wardrobe--it still was. One pair of overalls and a pair of boots you wear until they rot away, and then you go get another pair at the thrift store and repeat the whole cycle all over again. You remember all the men who’ve fucked you--all of them nasty fuckers and daddies: bikers, truckers, backwoods hicks, every male member of your sizable extended family. It’s so much, but you embrace it--you don’t have anything else, not anymore.
Dazed, you watch as the last of the ointment disappears into your hair, absorbed into your mind, calcifying your new past and identity. “Fuck Pa, ya’s really fucked up my whole damn head, ya know that?” you say, your drawl even more exaggerated than before.
“Hell yeah boy--ya ain’t never going back to that old life now.”
“Why the fuckin’ hell would I wanna?” you say, “was a fuckin’ little city bitch before, I ain’t never wanna be a fucker like that.”
“Amen, boy. Still, we ain’t quite done,” Jack said, and turned his attention to the rest of your face. He rubbed the ointment in all over the sides of your face and your jaw and neck, and you see the facial hair you’d grown before shifting. The goatee pulls back and becomes stubble, while the hair fills in everywhere else, leaving you with thick, curly muttonchops connected by a full mustache. “That, ‘n one more thing--open that pretty mouth for daddy, boy.” You do, and he swabs the inside of your mouth--and you taste new flavors on your tongue. Cheap whiskey and bourbon. Chewing tobacco. You need them, you realize, and a wad of tobacco forms in between your lower teeth and lip for you to suck on, the black spit running down your stubbly chin, your teeth coated black with leaf caught between the stubs.
“Fuck Pa, I’s looking damn fine.”
“No kidding boy,” Jack says, and runs a through your mullet before tugging it into a fist, pulling your head back and kissing you, shoving his tongue into your filthy mouth, tasting the tobacco coating your mouth. You almost melt into him, you’re so turned on. He pulled away, licking the tobacco spit from his lips. “Fuck boy--ya know, yer givin’ me some pretty fuckin’ nasty ideas...”