HairSnip.com

My therapist and I learned the hard way that after my sessions I needed to go directly home without interacting with other people.  I’d been seeing him for two years, using hypnosis to help me deal with my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Turns out that I’m highly suggestible after our sessions, and need several hours to recover from my hypnagogic state.  Which we discovered after I stopped at Target on my way home after a session and wound up buying an expensive new flat screen television with the least prompting from a salesperson. 

My OCD was relatively mild but I felt like it was holding me back from forming intimate relationships.  I hadn’t had a boyfriend since I’d been in college.  The OCD primarily manifested, comically enough, as an obsession with hair care.  I hadn’t had more than an inch cut off my hair at one time since I was in elementary school.  I spent literally hours every day taking care of my hair.  Every night I’d wash it, condition it, dry it, comb it out and braid it before I slept.  And I got up early every morning to put it into a professional looking French braid that reached all the way to my waist.  Unbound my hair fell to my butt. 

I was a natural blonde with the under layers a tawny gold and the sun touched top layers almost white.  My hair was fine but abundant and very straight.  With all of my tending it shimmered when I let it down, falling like sheets of gold over my shoulders.  Feeling that braid down my back was a source of comfort and confidence to me, and I often played with the ends of my braid when I was thinking or anxious. 

I got it trimmed exactly twice a year and pathetically that had been the erotic focus of my life for the last several years.  I went to a salon that specialized in long hair, and I knew they’d never do more than trim the ends.  And yet, I wanted something to happen.  Though the idea of getting my hair cut shorter filled me with panic, it took on a weird erotic force for me.  I masturbated every night thinking about some hairdresser ignoring my instructions and cutting it shorter and shorter.  I was a successful career woman and yet my life seemed stuck. 

Mindful of my therapist’s advice, I had intended to go straight home after our regular weekly session.  But I had skipped lunch that day for a meeting and gone to therapy immediately after work so I was starving.  I decided to stop by my favorite Chinese restaurant, get a quick meal and head on home.  The worse that could happen was I might be talked into buying an extra appetizer. 

The meal was uneventful (though the Five Spices Chicken was excellent) and I lingered over my tea as I opened my fortune cookie:  “Try saying ‘Yes’ instead of ‘No.’ It will change your life."  I didn’t think anything of it until the waiter came by and asked if I wanted more tea.  I didn’t. I was ready to go.  But that’s not what I said. 

“Yes, please," I answered. 

I didn’t finish the tea.  I decided to head home directly.  It was only a half mile walk.  But as I passed a liquor store a man looked up and asked, “Hey, you got a light?" 

“Yes!" I said brightly.  But I didn’t smoke.  And I didn’t have a lighter.  I fake fumbled through my purse and then shrugged as if I’d lost the lighter.  He looked at me like I was an idiot.  I decided to get off the main street and cut around to the back of the minimall.  There was less foot traffic there, and only a few store fronts.  That’s when I saw her. 

She stood outside her shop in the traditional white tunic, a metal comb in her breast pocket, having a smoke.  She was an attractive looking woman in her early forties.  Her hair was bleached blonde and permed, and the sides were held back with combs. 

She nodded as I walked by and said, “Goodness, that’s a gorgeous mane of hair." 

“Why thank you," I said, stopping to talk to her.  It was a compulsion, this need to engage with anybody who asked me a question. 

“You must be tired of it," she said, obviously joking.  “Admit it, wouldn’t you love to be sitting in my barber chair?" 

She was just teasing, expecting me to laugh and clutch the ends of my hair to my chest, and giggle or gasp and yelp “No way!" and scurry off. 

Which I would have done but I couldn’t.  I couldn’t stop myself from responding. I had to answer every question in the affirmative.  It was reflexive, automatic. 

“Yes, I would." 

She raised her eyebrows and exhaled a stream of smoke, flicking her cigarette to the ground and grinding it out under her shoe. 

“Do you want a trim?" she asked. 

“Yes," I said, relieved.  A trim wouldn’t be so bad. The after effects of the hypnosis only lasted about an hour.  I just had to get my hair trimmed and then get home without interacting with anybody else and I’d be okay.  It would be a little adventure. 

She held the door for me and ushered me into her shop. There were only two chairs and she pointed to the one nearest the door, a big red leather chair with wide armrests, and tilted metal footrest.  As I sat in the chair she lifted my hair up off my neck and indicated I was to hold it up.  She pulled a neck tissue out of a box and secured it around my neck.  Unnecessary with just the ends of my hair being trimmed, but probably habit on her part.  She flipped the cape out over me, a classic white sheet with red pinstripes.  It had three snaps that held it close around my neck.  When I swallowed it tightened on my throat.  I felt a little flush at the restraint.  It was exciting, like I couldn’t move.  I took a deep breath.  It was just going to be a trim. 

She stood behind me, releasing my braid and running her hands down my hair and pumped the chair up with her foot.  My image rose in the mirror until my head was just under her breasts.  She gathered my hair up into a ponytail between her hands, then ran one hand down the length of my hair until just six inches sprouted from her fist.  She took out her comb and combed through the ends.  There were no tangles. 

She took out a wide boar bristle brush and began brushing my hair out from the bottom.  There was something about the way she handled my hair that was so pleasurable.  I think it’s just that she enjoyed it.  She was a barber who liked hair. 

“You’d be surprised how many long haired girls I get in here," she said. 

“Really?" 

“Mmmhmm," she said.  She took my hair in her hands, and ran the brush through it in long strokes. 

“I think it’s exciting for them.  They’re toying with the idea of getting their hair cut shorter.  Obviously they could just go to Supercuts and get a half inch trimmed off every six months, but they like to sit in the barber chair.  They like to feel like it’s possible at least.  Sometimes I feel like they want me to just cut it off without their permission.  Isn’t that funny?" 

“Yes." I squirmed uncomfortably in the chair.  This is exactly what I had fantasized about many times, but I hadn’t even had the nerve to go to a barber for a trim.  The brush pulled gently through my hair, my head bobbing back pleasantly with each stroke.  I closed my eyes as I felt the bristles against my scalp.  Smooth and rhythmic, it was incredibly relaxing to have somebody brush my hair. 

I realized with a bit of surprise that I was getting turned on.  I wondered why barbers didn’t offer this as a service.  I should do this more often, I thought.  Sitting in a barber chair, with a cape around my neck as she brushes my hair feels great.  It’s totally worth giving up half an inch of hair for this experience.  I could grow that back in a month.  I could get my hair trimmed every month and have her brush out my hair.  It felt exciting just thinking about it. 

“I have a theory about long haired girls," she said, as she held the brush up.  I opened my eyes and met hers in the mirror.  I must have looked disappointed because she asked, “Do you want me to keep brushing your hair?" 

“Yes, please." 

“It feels good, doesn’t it?’ 

“Yes, it does," I said closing my eyes again under the brush strokes. 

“My theory," she went on, “is that there are three kinds of girl with long hair.  The first kind of girl loves having long hair.  It makes her feel feminine and sexy and pretty pretty princess.  The second girl likes having long hair, but mostly she wears it long because her boyfriend or husband loves it long.  She likes the attention she gets but she mostly wears it long for somebody else.  The third kind of girl has long hair because she’s afraid of getting it cut. She thinks about getting it cut all the time. But the long hair is a huge part of her identity.  People think of her as “the long hair girl."  But the longer it gets the stronger the compulsion grows to cut it all off. Like those girls I mentioned who come in for a trim.  They’ve got this strange helplessness when they sit in my chair, just waiting for me to take over.  But I can’t. I’m a professional.  I can’t just cut somebody’s hair against their will.  Do you know what I mean?" 

“Yes," I answered. She might as well be reading from my case file. Yes, I know exactly what you mean. 

“What do you think of my theory? Does that sound right?" 

“Yes, it does," I said.  I felt my panties getting wet. 

“I’d say you’re the first kind of girl, who takes pleasure in her own hair.  Is that right?" 

“Yes," I said, relieved. 

“Well, then let’s just trim the ends for you, okay?" 

“Yes, please." 

She pumped the chair up even higher and pulled up a small rolling chair up so she could sit down while she trimmed the ends of my hair which fell past the back of the barber chair. 

I felt a little disappointed when I felt her trimming the ends.  She was being very careful and meticulous, and only taking off half an inch.  She was a professional.  It didn’t take long. 

She stood up and gathered my hair, twisting it gently into a loose, golden rope and draped it over my shoulder so it ran down into my lap where I could inspect the ends.  They looked very neat. 

“That should hold you for a while," she said, and started to unsnap the cape but paused when she saw my face in the mirror.  “Do you want me to take it shorter?" 

“Yes, please," I answered, my heart beating rapidly.  How far would this go?  Please don’t ask me any more questions, I thought, even as my hand slid down into my lap. 

She snapped the cape back up.  I swallowed hard and felt it tighten on my throat. 

She combed my hair down again and asked, “I think I’ll take three inches off. That way I can give it a nice rounded shape at the bottom. Is that okay?" 

“Yes," I said. Always yes.  How many questions would she ask?  My god, this was already going to be more hair cut off at one time than I’d ever had done.  Three and a half inches. 

She pulled up her chair again and sprayed the ends of my hair with a water bottle.  This was going to be even more precise.  Not just taking off the split ends, but shaping the bottom of my hair.  I calculated where my hair would fall now, and got a little rush when I realized it would be at the small of my back. 

She was quiet as she worked, concentrating.  I stared at myself in the mirror with my hair parted in the middle and flowing back over my shoulders.  I couldn’t even see her in the mirror as she trimmed my hair.  Just the sound of her scissors snipping, and the sound of the traffic outside and the whir of the fan.  Again, she finished quickly. 

I was surprised though when she picked up the blow dryer and a round brush.  It only took her a few minutes to blow dry my hair so that the ends turned under. 

“Oh, that’s nice," she said, pleased with her work.  “Let me show you." But she didn’t hand me a mirror to inspect the back; my hair was still too long to see in the mirror. She stood back and took out her phone and snapped a picture of my hair.  She came around to show me the picture.  She’d done a great job.  The ends weren’t cut off in a straight line, but had a rounded shape, slightly shorter on the sides, belling out at the bottom.  It made my hair look so full and healthy. 

“Do you like it?" she asked. 

“Yes, I love it." I relaxed. I couldn’t wait to get home and replay the whole experience in my head.  It had been so exciting.  I’d take a long bath and my hand would wander down my belly and I’d finger myself for hours remembering this. 

“I’m glad," she said.  “You might want to consider layering the ends next time.  That would give your hair more movement.  Have you ever had layers?"  She was unsnapping the cape. 

“Yes," I lied. 

“Did you like having layers in your hair?" 

“Yes, I did."  Oh please, don’t ask me any more questions, I thought.  My face began to flush as she paused before taking off my cape.  She turned to look me directly in the face.  I wanted to close my eyes and put my hands over my ears.  But I didn’t. And she asked me. 

“Oh, do you want me to give you some layers?" 

“Yes," I said, my voice catching in my throat. 

“Sorry," she said, “Do you want it layered?" 

I cleared my throat and spoke up.  “Yes, I do." 

“Okay!" she said brightly.  “This is certainly turning into an adventure, isn’t it?" 

“Yes, it is." 

“I’m glad you’re so game.  Some girls are so fearful of getting even a quarter of an inch cut off.  This will be a nice look for you." 

She snapped the cape up again.  I’d been so close to leaving and now she was going to be cutting layers into my hair. 

She held up a razor, and when she saw the expression on face said, “Don’t worry! This isn’t the razor I use for shaving.  This is for cutting hair.  See? It’s got a guide on it.  It’s perfect for putting some layers into long hair.  I think we’ll just layer the last eighteen inches; is that okay?" 

“Yes," I nodded. 

I’d never had anybody cut my hair with a razor before.  She spritzed the ends of my hair again, combed it out and then carefully drew the razor down along the hair to the ends.  It was the strangest sensation, as if my hair was being ripped.  But painlessly.  Just this tug as the razor dragged along the hair, and the sensation of my hair being almost torn and pulled away.  When I realized the shortest pieces of my hair would now be in the middle of my back, I felt a little tremble on the inside of my thighs.  Well, I thought, it will still be long.  The bottom will reach all the way to the small of my back. 

I sat rigidly upright while she razored the ends of my hair.  Looking in the mirror I could see the longer strands of hair falling to the floor.  Eighteen inches.  That was a lot.  I pressed my hand harder into my lap and closed my eyes. 

“Hmmm," she said as she finished the layers.  “I almost prefer the rounded look.  Here, let me show you?"  She took another picture with her phone and showed it to me. 

“What do you think?" she asked.  Thank god, I thought, not a Yes or No question. 

“I like it," I said, eager to get out of the chair. 

“But did you like it better when it was cut blunt with the rounded bottom?" 

“Yes." 

“Well, I could cut it blunt again, but we’d have to go all the way up to here."  She placed the edge of her hand against my hair just below my bra strap. 

Oh shit, I thought, please don’t ask me. Please. 

“Are you willing to go that short?" 

“Yes, I am."  Now my heart was really beating.  I rubbed the palms of my hands on the top of my skirt, and began fretting with the waistband.  I wanted to touch myself but I didn’t dare. I knew I’d come. 

“Wow, this is a big change for you isn’t it?" 

“Yes, it is."  She didn’t need her rollaway chair now.  She pumped the barber chair up higher.  She began to brush my hair again and I closed my eyes in relief.  It was calming.  But I wasn’t calm.  My stomach was clenching up in a knot.  I couldn’t believe this was happening.  I’d fantasized about it for so long and now my hair was going to be up to my bra strap. 

I looked at the counter in front of me with all of her barber kit laid out.  Two kinds of scissors, thinning shears, two razors, one for shaping hair, one for shaving, the edger plugged into its charger and the clippers hanging from a hook next to the blow dryer.  I closed my eyes again.  When I thought about the clippers I felt a surge through my body. 

I couldn’t watch.  I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing which was getting very shallow.  I wasn’t going to be a long haired girl anymore.  Lots of girls had hair down to their bra strap.  That wasn’t short hair but it wasn’t the kind of hair that people complimented you on out on the street:  “What a gorgeous mane of hair." 

I opened my eyes and gave an involuntary squeak when I saw her cutting twenty inches of hair off with one snip. 

“You okay?" she asked. 

“Yes."  There was a lot of hair on the floor now.  I felt horribly, deliciously trapped. My head already felt so much lighter.  My lap was pooled with long strands of blonde hair now.  She pulled my hair forward over my shoulder to blow dry it, curling the ends under again.  It reached just to my nipples, which were getting hard as the warm air blew over them.  I had to get out of this chair before she cut it any shorter. I wanted to race home and masturbate furiously. I couldn’t stop staring at myself in the mirror.  It was shocking.  It looked good; the haircut was excellent.  It flattered me.  But I looked so different.  I wished she would finish so I could pay her and race home. 

She looked at my face in the mirror with concern.  “Are you okay, dear?" 

“Yes," I whispered.  Please stop talking to me, I thought. 

“I bet you didn’t plan on getting your hair cut this short when you walked past my shop this evening, did you?" 

“Yes, I did." 

“Really?" she said in surprise.  “You wanted me to cut your hair this short?"  I closed my eyes, and let her brush my hair before I answered. 

“Yes." 

She stood there quietly, brushing my hair for what seemed a long time.  I kept my eyes closed so she wouldn’t ask me anything else.  I began to breathe again as I relaxed under the brush strokes. 

“Do you remember when I told you my theory about long-haired girls?" she asked. 

“Yes." 

“I don’t think you are the first kind of long haired girl after all.  I think you are the third kind of girl who is afraid to get her hair cut but desperately wants it to happen." 

I held my breath. 

“Is that the kind of girl you are?" she asked. 

“Yes," I whispered. 

She continued to brush my hair.  “Well," she said briskly, pulling my hair into a ponytail at the back of my head and holding it tightly until I opened my eyes, “I’m a professional. I won’t cut your hair shorter than you allow me.  So I need to know one thing.  Can you say “No" if you want me to stop?" 

“Yes," I lied. 

She nodded with a smile. She knew. She knew. I swallowed hard, ashamed at how turned on I felt. 

She kept brushing through my hair, pulling on the ponytail she made between her hands. She pulled my head around so our eyes met again in the mirror. 

“I think you’re ready to go shorter, don’t you?" 

“Yes," I said dread filling my stomach even as I felt close to orgasm. 

“Are you sure?" she asked, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes, I’m sure."  Now I felt almost calm, resigned.  She knew. She was going to cut my hair short. I couldn’t stop her. 

“Have you ever wondered what you’d look like with a bob?" 

“Yes, I have."  My hair hadn’t been shorter than my chin since I was a toddler. 

“Don’t you think undercut bobs are the sexiest?" 

“Yes, they are."  I stared at the clippers hanging from their hook. 

She put aside the brush and picked up her comb, spritzed my hair thoroughly and began combing it into sections, parting the hair, twisting it up and clipping it into place until there was just one long piece of hair hanging down in back.  The back had been parted vertically in the middle, then two angled parts at the occipital bone, making a delta shape.  All the hair from the back of my skull down had been combed out into one section. 

With both hands alongside my jaw and her thumbs at the back of my head, she tilted my head forward. It felt like everything was happening in slow motion.  Like the executioner was putting my head on the chopping block.  It felt so unreal as the cold scissors slid along the back of my neck right at the hairline and I felt them cut and the hair slithered down the back of the cape.  Oh god, it’s happening. It’s really happening. 

She smoothed the hair down with the edge of her hand and snipped again and again until it was even.  Then she combed out a vertical section in the back, a fingerswidth from my scalp and cut that.  It was getting so short.  She could have just cut this section with the clippers from the start but she wanted to draw it out.  She wanted me to pay attention to each sensation. 

I was just letting it happen.  My head was tilted down and I stared at the blonde hair in my lap, but I wasn’t really seeing it.  All my attention was focused on what I felt as she cut my hair.  Her fingers so close to my head and cutting away until that whole section was done.  It couldn’t have been more than three quarters of an inch.  That wasn’t enough though.  I couldn’t see what she was doing but I’d never felt anything so clearly in my life.  Now she was combing up through the hair and cutting with the scissors over the comb in a quick rhythm.  Very smooth and even. 

I wanted to touch it but I kept my hands under the cape.  She petted my nape and it made me shudder. I saw her smile in the mirror. 

“Are you ready for the clippers?" she asked. 

“Yes," I lied.  I was in no way ready for clippers. 

She placed her left hand on top of my head and forced it down, and flicked on the clippers with her thumb.  It was so loud it filled the shop with noise.  I gave a sharp intake of breath as the cold metal of the blade touched my neck and swept upward in one motion, all the way up to the part at the base of my skull.  I had expected it to pull or tug at my hair somehow, like the razored layers.  But it wasn’t like that at all.  It sheared through my hair effortlessly. 

Her grip on my head was unrelenting.  It felt like she was pushing my head under water.  With each pass of the clippers I felt an orgasm beginning to build in my body, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.  And then, right as it was mounting she let go of my head and turned off the clippers.  I gasped for breath like a drowning woman breaking the surface. 

“Touch it," she said, turning her back on me and walking to the sink. 

I raised a trembling hand out from under the cape and touched the back of my head. And when I felt that soft bristle of velvet at my nape I came.  It was a violent surge, as my back arched and I clutched at the armrest with my free hand.  It seemed to come in waves and waves, and I didn’t even care that she was standing there not five feet away.  I sat there dazed as it slowly subsided, staring at my reflection stupidly. 

She came back over and handed me a glass of water which I drank.  She placed one hand on top of my head, just letting the weight of it slowly stabilize me.  I stared down into my lap again. 

“Well, now we know, don’t we?" 

“Yes," I said. 

“Let’s see what the bob looks like anyway."  She dropped the side sections of my hair down in panels and cut them even to the bottom of my ears.  I watched in stunned, gawping amazement as my hair slid down off the cape to the floor.  I kept looking down at the floor and then up at the mirror again.  What was happening?  I was in a stuporous afterglow, watching something from afar.  Somebody was getting their hair cut into a short bob, and I was watching it happen in the mirror.  She looked very cute, the girl in the mirror. 

“Bangs, I think" she said. 

“Yes," I murmured. 

Her comb flicked through my hair making a triangular part and she combed the hair down over my eyes.  Then the scissors slid in again, close to my skin, half an inch above my eyebrows and there was a snip and hair was hanging off my nose.  She leaned forward and blew the hair off my face. 

The girl in the mirror had bangs.  She had a cute bob with a clipper cut nape.  The girl in the mirror was me. 

“You look fantastic.  This cut really suits you." 

“Thank you," I said. 

“I think that’s short enough for today, don’t you?" 

“Yes!" I said, nodding emphatically, pleased and relieved.  This was definitely enough for one day.  My hand crept up to the back of my neck again, and felt a pleasant tingle down my spine. 

“It’s about a quarter-inch long back there," she said, stroking my neck and provoking further shivers.  “I think that’s actually my favorite length.  Like velvet but with just a bit of bristle to it.  Don’t you think that’s a good length?" 

“Yes," I said dreamily, my eyes closed as she continued to stroke the back of my head, her fingers raking my scalp just slightly. 

“Well," she said pausing for effect until I opened my eyes, “Maybe the next time we can cut it shorter.  Would you like that?" 

Next time? Next time I had a therapy session I wouldn’t be walking down this back street. Next time would probably be ten years down the road when my hair had grown out.  But that’s not how I answered. 

“Yes. Next time," I emphasized. 

“We should stop now." 

“Yes, this is good." 

She was massaging my scalp with her fingertips now, tugging my hair at the root.  My head moved under her hands.  It was so easy for her to take me out of myself.  I felt lost in her touch and it was like waking from a nap when she stopped, and carefully combed my bob into place. 

She turned the chair until I was facing her.  She leaned close and blew lightly on my face, sending little hairs clear of my eyelashes.  She smelled like Opium perfume and cigarettes and coffee and hairspray.  She smelled like the best thing ever. 

“I think that if I let you out of my chair, you might never get your hair cut again.  I think you’ll remember this moment and fantasize about it but never have the guts to do it again.  I think this bob will grow out and the bangs will grow out, and you’ll pin them back with barrettes and slowly this moment will ease into your past.  Or, I could give you the haircut you’ve always wanted, but were always afraid to ask for.  I think I should give you that haircut, don’t you?" 

“Yes." I tried to bite my mouth shut.  “Please," I asked. 

“I thought so." 

Her left hand was heavy on my head as she forced it down.  She fired up the clippers and held them at the back of my neck for a long time, just teasing me by going over the already clippered section. 

“Yes," I said. Answering a question she hadn’t asked.  “Yes, please, yes!"  She ran the clippers up the back of my head, peeling it all the way to the crown.  A thick hank of blonde hair fluttered to the ground. 

“Hold my head down. Please. Harder," I begged. 

She laughed.  Oh she had me now. She pushed me back into the chair and bent my head back to one side, running the clippers around my ear and turning the bob into a bowlcut.  She took a firm grip on the hair on top of my head and pulled my head to the other side and cleared the other ear.  I looked like Henry V. A truly dorky bowlcut. 

“Let’s play with all the toys in the toybox," she said. 

“Yes, please." I didn’t want her to stop touching my head. I wanted her to hold me down, to push me back in the chair, to force my head down.  I wanted her to treat me roughly while I was trapped under the cape, unable to resist her. 

She flashed the thinning shears at me so I could see the teeth on the blades. They were like pinking shears. She lifted the hair on the side of my head up with the comb and started cutting with the thinning shears, starting close to my scalp and working her way out to the ends.  It was such an unusual sensation.  Like my hair was being chewed and ruined.  It didn’t cut off the length, just “thinned out the bulk" as they liked to say.  It felt fantastic and strangely wild.  Little chunks of hair were raining down over my face.  It didn’t look like my hair was getting shorter exactly, just lying closer to my head. 

“Those are fun, aren’t they?" 

“Yes." 

“But you know what’s more fun? Clippers are the best. Don’t you think?" 

“Yes, I do. Please use them. Please." I couldn’t stop begging. 

She pushed me back into the chair, leaning forward as she did so, pinning my shoulders back. She threw one leg over the chair so her knee was pressed into my belly.  She pulled my head forward into her body. I felt gasping and hot as she forced my head against her breasts, the rough fabric of her tunic harsh against my face. 

My voice was muffled but I couldn’t stop:  “Please. Please…" 

“Shhhhh," she whispered and flicked on the clippers.  She kept a tight grip on my head, almost a headlock, forcing my face down.  And she slowly pushed the clippers up the side of my head. 

I let out a low moan, completely abandoned to the moment.  I wanted to be in this moment forever. 

“Shhhhhh," she whispered again, soothingly, running the clippers up the side, cleaning up the back, rolling my head over and shearing the other side.  One quarter inch on the sides and back all the way around.  Then she leaned back and got off me, brushed the hair off the front of her clothes. 

“Shave me," I begged. “Shave me bald with the razor. Please.  Please don’t stop." 

She rolled her eyes at me. “Oh that’d be great for business, wouldn’t it? Sending a bald girl crying and hysterical out of my barber shop.  Be still.  I’ll give you the haircut you need." 

I stared at myself in the mirror.  The sides and back were clean and evenly shorn, but the top was a ragged thatch of uneven strands after the thinning shears.  She picked up comb and scissors again and seemed to switch back into traditional barber mode.  She combed through the top carefully seeing where she needed to fix it, and then began cutting my hair.  Her touch was gentle again. Tilting my head this way and that, combing and cutting, shaping the hair.  Short trimmings fell down over my face and off my ears as she blended the side with the top, taming it.  She went over it again meticulously, combing it in vertical sections, then horizontal ones, until it was an even three inches all across the top that blended perfectly into the sides and over the crown. 

She set down the scissors and comb and opened a jar of Brillantine, scooping it out with her fingertips.  She rubbed it up on both hands and plastered it on top of my head, rubbing her hands deep into my hair.  It smelled strongly of lavender.  She wiped her hands off with a towel and took out that little metal comb again and combed my hair flat from a side part.  It was a little boy’s first haircut from 1953.  My hair looked so shiny I thought it would squeak. 

“Would you like a scalp massage?" 

“Yes," I said with complete sincerity. I craved her hands on my head.  But she surprised me by fitting a large device over her right hand, a vibrator.  She ran it up the back of my neck, the vibrations flowing directly down through her fingers into my neck.  The sensation was unbelievable.  She ran her hand up over my head, messing up the neatly combed hair. I could feel it pulsing down through my scalp.  Her fingers worked around my head, along the edge of my hairline, along my jaw, down my neck again and deep into my shoulders.  I arched my back shamelessly until my breasts were pressed against the cape. 

She laughed at this display, and ran her hand down to my breasts to pinch my nipple; the vibrations sent waves of feeling through my body. It was almost as if I were too spent to have another orgasm so my body just seemed to pulse with these tiny little peaks of pleasure.  Her hand wandered from one breast and then back to the other and I was so lost in sensation, my body completely abuzz that I didn’t even notice when she stopped and turned off the vibrator. 

She combed my hair neatly back into place, unsnapped the cape and swept it off my body dumping a great heap of blonde hair to the floor.  She removed the tissue from my neck, and dipped her soft brush in talcum powder and dusted off my neck. 

I was unsteady as she helped me back to my feet.  I paid her like it was just a regular transaction.  I just stopped by for a trim. 

I stared at myself in the mirror.  An attractive young woman in a navy blue skirt, and a white silk top with a very neat, very short, military haircut stared back. 

“So," she said, “I have to ask you one last question.  Are you happy?" 

“Yes," I said.  And it was true.

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