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  I was doing some shopping and decided to see if I could indulge my hair fantasies with a little treat.  I wandered by one of the salons in the mall, peeking inside to see if there were any stylists there I knew from the last time I’d stopped in at that particular salon, which had been at least a year ago.  I didn’t see anyone I recognized, so I thought I’d give it a go…

  My dark brown hair was in its usual French braid, with my long bangs unbraided and swept to one side.  When my hair is down it is just a bit shy of waist length – my repeated indulgences in my hair fantasies have kept it from actually reaching waist length, even though that has been a goal of mine for some time.  I like dressing up when I go shopping; I think the clerks at various stores respond better when I’m in my professional-woman-in-a-business-suit mode than when I’m in my mother-of-three-kids-in-sweatpants-and-a-t-shirt mode.  So even though I was not working today I had on one of my business suits; a navy blue pinstriped knee length skirt and matching blazer over a white oxford shirt.  I had on medium heels but I had decided to forego nylons for the shopping trip.

  I walked into the salon and stopped at the desk, where a young lady asked if she could help me.  I told her I just needed a very small trim and asked if there would be a long wait.  She checked her book and looked behind her at a couple of the stylists with free chairs.  She smiled and said she was pretty sure she could fit me in right away.  She turned a bit in her chair and asked, “Julie?  Can you do a trim?"

  At one of the stations a slim lady, about my age (late thirties), with a dark brown, chin-length, angled bob looked over at me in a friendly way and gestured for me to come right over.  I walked around the counter and over to her chair.  She kindly offered to take my blazer, so I handed it to her and then sat down, feeling the same thrill of uncertainty, anxiety, and excitement I always did when sitting in a salon chair…

  I pulled my long French braid over my shoulder and started fussing with the end as though I was letting it out, but I was really just stalling.  I like it when the stylist lets down my braid, as it allows for a bit more attention to be paid to me and my hair, but I’ve found that if I start to do it myself they are often more inclined to offer to do it for me.  Such was the case with Julie.  She hung up my blazer and saw I was starting to work the elastic band off the end of my thick braid and immediately said, “Oh, let me do that, honey!"  She smiled at me again and took the braid right out of my hand, expertly removing the elastic and then deftly unwinding the long braid.

  Julie commented quite flatteringly on the length and thickness of my hair, which I always like to hear.  I have to admit that I am blessed with great hair that is thick, shiny, and strong.  It usually has a very slight wave to it, but after being in a French braid for any period of time it the wave is much more pronounced.  I have even been stopped on the street before and asked what I use on my hair to keep it so healthy, even though it is almost waist length.

  All in all, I love my long hair and the attention it gets me, which only makes it that much more inexplicable that for the past couple of years I have been tremendously intrigued, almost obsessed, with getting a short haircut.  However, I also have become nearly obsessed with enjoying, almost luxuriating in, the feeling of helplessness and submission I get when I’m in a salon chair, sort of “trapped under the cape."  So I don’t want to ask for a short hairstyle, but I want to be given one, if that makes any sense…  I fantasize about going to a salon and asking for a half inch trim, but having the stylist decide on her own that I’d look fantastic in a Posh bob or a pixie hairstyle and just making that first cut way up high on my neck, without asking me first, so I can’t back out.

  To indulge this fantasy of mine I have taken to occasionally going to salons where I don’t know anyone and asking for a half-inch trim, just so I can feel nervous and anxious when the stylist stands behind me with the scissors and I wonder if they are a bit “scissor happy" and will ignore my request for a trim and take off several inches (or more!) instead.  It usually happens that they do take off more than a half-inch, but rarely more than an inch.  Even so, I still find myself getting excited, even when the stylist is only cutting a tiny bit more than a half-inch; there is just something very intriguing to me about sitting in the chair and feeling helpless and submissive while the stylist does what she wants with my hair, instead of what I told her to do with my hair.

The most exciting such salon experience for me was about a year ago, when I asked for the usual half-inch trim.  The stylist complimented me on how beautiful my hair was and said she’d be happy to give me a half-inch trim.  She started carefully combing out a single lock of my long hair and holding it behind me as I sat in the chair.  I could see her in the mirror and I watched with a mixture of anxiety and excitement as she held up the long lock of hair so that the ends were between her fingers; at least four inches of hair was sticking up between her fingers and lying over the back of her hand.  I watched, mesmerized, as she slid the scissors into my hair and snipped off the four inches that was hanging over her hand.  My eyes got really wide and I kind of gasped a bit, but I didn’t say anything and I didn’t move.  The girl combed up another lock of my hair, holding it up behind my head, almost as if she wanted to make sure I could see it in the mirror.  She seemed to be intentionally avoiding my eyes as she combed the lock of hair, held it between her fingers, and snipped off another four-inch section.  I must have gasped a bit louder this time, or maybe I even groaned a bit, because she looked at me in the mirror and paused for a moment.  She was completely unapologetic as she told me that my hair was so long and so thick that I wouldn’t even miss it.  Without another word she combed out another section of hair, held it up (with me watching intently in the mirror, torn between complete anxiety and complete excitement) and ruthlessly cut off another four-inch chunk of my gorgeous long hair.  I felt myself flush at her nonchalant, unsympathetic comment; it was exciting to me that she was just ignoring my request and deciding on her own how much of my long, beautiful hair to cut off.  I think I may have even shuddered a bit in excitement – thankfully she didn’t notice or I would have been completely embarrassed!

  Anyway, I sat there, completely submissive and meek, as she trimmed off four inches instead of the half-inch I had requested.  I didn’t say much during the trim because I was enjoying the helpless feeling of being in the chair, trapped under the cape, while someone else decided how much of my beautiful long hair to cut off.  The stylist didn’t say a whole lot, either, though she did comment after she was done that my hair looked much better now; the ends were healthier and had a few layers cut into them (which I hadn’t asked for) that would make my hair move much more easily.  I mumbled my thanks without saying anything about her cutting off much more than I had asked for, and without even thinking about it I then gave her a twenty dollar tip for a thirty dollar haircut.  Even though she probably thought I was upset, in reality I had enjoyed the experience very much and it never occurred to me that it would probably seem quite strange for me to give so large a tip when the stylist basically ignored my instructions and did what she wanted.

What I really wanted was for her to see that it excited me when she cut off four inches instead of a half-inch, and for her to take it upon herself, without asking or discussing it with me, to give me a very short, very sexy hairstyle.  I am very chicken about cutting my hair, and if asked I will always say I don’t want to change my hairstyle and I just want a half-inch trim.  The whole time she was cutting my hair I kept dreading (and hoping, with almost the same enthusiasm) that she would notice I enjoyed the fact that she was ignoring my instructions and would just push my head down and make the first cut of a very short style way up high on my neck so that I couldn’t back out.  If I gasped or protested she would just push my head down again (not too hard or anything, just firmly and rather dominantly) and keep cutting.  I always hoped for that to happen, but of course it never did.  But I still very much enjoyed the feeling of helpless submission whenever I sat in a salon chair and had the stylist cut off a bit more than I wanted, and this experience was the best I’d had so far.

I have always wanted to go to a barber shop and ask for a trim, because I imagine a barber in a barber shop would certainly take off much more than I asked for.  I don’t know if that is true or not, but it is what I have always imagined.  I drive by barber shops whenever I can, trying to get a peek inside, but I usually can’t see very much.  I have never had the guts yet to go into a barber shop for a trim, but it is something I enjoy fantasizing about.

Anyway…  I was sitting in Julie’s chair and she was brushing out my hair after releasing it from the French braid.  She made several comments about how beautiful and shiny it was, and even one of the other stylists came over.  The other stylist touched my hair and told me she had clients who would kill for hair like mine.  Julie laughed and said she had clients like that, too.  I laughed along with them, all the while enjoying the feeling of having someone playing with my hair and complimenting me about it as well.

I mentioned several times while Julie was brushing my hair that I only need a very minor trim, and that a half-inch was the maximum I wanted her to cut.  Each time Julie would just nod and acknowledge me while continuing to brush my hair.  I always wanted to make sure the stylist knew I was very concerned about cutting my hair and that I didn’t want too much cut off.  That way, if they ignored me and cut more than a half-inch it would excite me more than if I kind of hinted to them that cutting off more than I specified would be alright with me.  When I warned them over and over not to cut more than half an inch, and they did it anyway, it really added to my helpless feeling and my overall submissiveness in the chair, which really turned me on a lot.

After Julie had brushed my hair she snapped a black cape out in front of her and then placed it around my neck.  As she dampened my hair with a spray bottle of water I felt the familiar thrill of anxiety and excitement that I always got as soon as I was “trapped under the cape."  It almost feels as though once that cape is on me I have no power over my own hair anymore.  I always enjoy the feeling and I love fantasizing about someone taking advantage of that helplessness and cutting my hair short without asking me or consulting me about it.  I felt the same stirrings and nervous excitement as usual when Julie started pinning my hair up on top of my head and I wonder if she was maybe just a bit “scissor happy" and if I was about to get a much shorter cut than I asked for.  I loved this feeling so much that, even though no one ever really cut off too much, I still visited salons so often for “trims" that my hair had never actually gotten to waist length, even though it had been within a few inches for several years.

As I felt Julie letting down the first section of hair to cut, I mentioned again, making sure to sound a little bit nervous, that I only wanted a half-inch cut off and no more.  I added that I’ve been growing my hair for quite a while and I am trying to get it to waist length.  Julie just nodded and smiled and commented again on how great my hair looked.

I caught myself imagining how it might feel if Julie suddenly slipped the scissors into the hair way up at the top of my neck, feeling the cold steel of the scissors on the bare skin of my neck before hearing that terror-inducing, excitement-causing, horribly final sound of the scissors closing on the first lock of hair, after which there would be nothing left for me to do but watch in horror and exultation as the first twenty-four inch lock of my beautiful dark hair slid down the cape to the floor and I would have no choice but to sit submissively and helplessly as the remainder of my long hair was ruthlessly cut into some sort of very short and very sexy new hairstyle.  I’m sure my face grew flushed and I shuddered again in my arousal as I imagined that scenario, but luckily Julie didn’t seem to notice.

Julie was combing the first lock of hair now, lifting it up behind my head but holding it out, sort of straight behind me, so I couldn’t really see what was going on.  I know that is how they hold the hair when they are cutting layers into it, so I assumed she had decided I wanted the existing layers trimmed a half-inch, rather than just taking a straight half-inch off the ends.  I hadn’t specified either way, and I didn’t mind keeping the slight layering I had at the ends of my hair.

With the way Julie was holding my hair out behind me I couldn’t see when she made the first cut, but I heard it.  It sounded like she was simply cutting the ends slightly, as I had told her to do.  I could definitely tell she wasn’t anywhere near the top of my neck.  Even so, I still felt a thrill and found myself getting aroused as I heard the scissors snipping through that first lock of hair.  Even a slight trim was enough to turn me on, I thought to myself, giggling a bit on the inside.

Julie started combing out another lock of hair, and as she combed it straight out behind me and held it between the fingers of her left hand she reached out with her right hand and turned the chair about ninety degrees so that the mirror was now on my right.  Out of habit, I immediately glanced down at the floor to see how much hair had been cut, fully expecting to see tiny snips of hair no more than a half-inch long.

With a frantic gasp I looked down and saw long, long pieces of my dark hair on the floor; the snipped-off locks were a good twelve inches long!  I felt an immediate flush in my face and a sort of heat spreading though my body as I started to whip my head around to look in the mirror when I heard Julie say, very calmly and quietly, “Hold still, please."

As odd as it sounds, I actually froze in place when I heard that.  I guess my submissive instincts had completely kicked in at that point.  I held my head perfectly still, facing forward, but I cast my eyes to the side so I could see in the mirror what she was doing to my hair.  I watched with a combination of fear, anxiety, arousal, and excitement as Julie carefully straightened the long lock of hair she had already combed out and was holding between her fingers.  However, she was holding it about a foot from my head, with another foot or so of my beautiful dark hair hanging between her fingers.  Without so much as a glance at me in the mirror, she cut through that lock of hair with a series of rapid snips, sending another foot-long lock of my dark tresses to the floor of the salon.

Despite my best intentions to play it cool and casual, at that point I let out a whimper that was a mixture of both anxious fear and extreme arousal.  I immediately felt a bit embarrassed by the whimper, but I simply couldn’t help myself.  I was feeling utterly helpless and submissive and, at the same time, completely turned on.  I wanted to touch myself under the cape but I was gripping the armrests so tightly I was sure my knuckles were turning bone-white.

Other than the whimper, which I think I actually repeated, possibly more than once, I didn’t make a sound or say a word.  I was thinking to myself that I should protest and complain otherwise Julie is going to know I’m some sort of fetishist who gets off on having her hair cut short when she only asks for a trim.  But, despite my desire to avoid embarrassment, I simply couldn’t bring myself to say a word, much less start complaining or protesting.  I was afraid if I tried to speak I’d embarrass myself by obviously sounding like I was completely aroused by speaking in a husky, breathless voice.  I didn’t want everyone in the salon stopping what they were doing and looking over to see why the lady getting her hair cut was suddenly talking like she’d was about to have sex, so I simply kept my mouth shut.

Julie didn’t say anything else right away; she just combed out another section and chopped that off, too, taking off twelve inches of my beautiful, long, dark hair.  As much as I wanted to remain casual, like none of this affected me, I couldn’t help but whimper again as I heard the sound of the scissors and saw the long, dark lock of hair fall to the floor.  I kept my head very still, as per Julie’s instructions, but kept looking sideways to see the reflection in the mirror.  I was almost horrified by the sight of my long hair being ruthlessly cut off, but I was also so aroused by the sight that I couldn’t look away.

After cutting a few more locks of my hair, Julie let down another section from the clips holding it atop my head.  As she combed down the next section and secured the rest of my long hair back on top of my head, I found my breathing had steadied enough for me to talk without embarrassing myself.

“Uh, Julie?" I asked in a very small, very timid voice, “I think I said I only wanted a half-inch trim…"  My voice trailed off at the end as I thought about how I didn’t want anyone else in the salon to hear me and wonder why I wasn’t screaming in protest after asking for a half-inch trim and instead having a foot of hair cut off.

Julie smiled just a bit as she finished pinning my hair up on top of my head.  She combed out the first long section of uncut hair, matching it up with one of the sections she’d already cut.  Lining everything up carefully, she cut through that lock of hair with another series of rapid snips, sending yet another foot-long section of my beautiful dark hair to the floor.  Apparently satisfied that I now knew exactly what she was doing, she turned the chair back ninety degrees so I was facing the mirror again.  Only then did she respond to my question, but she kept mercilessly cutting my long hair as she did so.

“You don’t remember me, do you?" she asked in a soft voice.  I got the impression she, like me, didn’t want our conversation to be overheard by anyone else in the salon.

I felt something akin to panic for a second or two as I frantically searched my memory.  Had I gone to Julie for a trim before?  I was always so afraid of someone noticing my particular quirk about getting aroused when the hairstylist ignored my instructions that I made it a point to avoid going to any hairstylist more than once.  I remembered being in this salon before, more than once, actually, but I was sure Julie had never cut my hair before.  I looked more closely at Julie’s face, thinking that maybe she had dramatically changed her hairstyle or something like that, but I was still certain she had never cut my hair before.

After a half-minute or so (during which Julie kept confidently and rapidly cutting off my long hair, lock by lock) I quietly admitted that no, I didn’t remember her.  Julie just smiled again and started letting down the next long section of uncut hair.  When she had let down the next section and secured the hair on top of my head she smiled a bit and shrugged.

“I guess there’s no reason you would," she said, combing out the first section of hair and ruthlessly snipping it off.  “I never did your hair before, if that’s what you were wondering."

I must have let out a sigh, because she chuckled a bit, as if she knew exactly what I had been thinking.  I had to consciously try to listen to her words and pay attention to what she was saying, because I was still so distracted by the sound (facing the mirror I could no longer see my hair being cut, though I could catch occasional glimpses here and there) of the scissors snipping through my hair and the mental image I had of my long locks piling up on the floor, a silent testimony to my helplessness as I sat submissively in the chair and did nothing to stop them from being cut off.

“I’ve been working here for a while, you see.  You were in here three other times in the past couple of years," she said, continuing to cut.  “Each time you went to a different stylist, and each time you made it very plain that you only wanted a half-inch cut off."

I was torn between admitting what was going on with me (which I was fairly sure Julie had already figured out) and trying to deny everything to avoid embarrassment.  I wasn’t sure myself why I enjoyed feeling helpless and submissive when it came to my long hair, so I knew I wouldn’t be able to explain it to someone else.

“Well," I said quietly, so no one could overhear, “it’s not that unusual to go to different stylists, is it?"

“I suppose not," Julie said, pausing for just a second to look at me in the mirror, catching my eye as if to let me know she already knew exactly what I was thinking.  She smiled again as she continued, “Except that the first time you were here you went to Karen, who cut just a little more than a half-inch during your trim.  You reaction was a bit unusual, almost as if you enjoyed having her cut off more than you repeatedly asked for, and I was in the very next station, so I noticed."

I looked again at Julie’s face, trying to picture her in the salon at one of the other stations during one of my previous visits.  Unfortunately, when I am indulging my hair fetish I am fairly oblivious to what’s going on around me, with the exception of the person cutting my hair and what they are doing.  I never really noticed any of the other stylists in the salon, except to look briefly at them to see if any of them had cut my hair before.

Julie paused again to look at me and smiled, seeming to know again just what I was thinking.

“Still can’t place me?  That’s okay," she said, letting down the next long section of uncut hair from the top of my head.  She continued cutting as she talked.  “I never spoke to you, and my hair was a bit longer then, and it was blonde.  By the second time you came in I could tell you were much more focused on getting your hair cut than you were on noticing, well, basically anything else in the salon."

I started to turn my head a bit to get a better look at what she was doing behind the chair and she gently but firmly placed her left hand on the top of my head and turned me back to face forward.  Despite the fact that I’m completely heterosexual, I found myself even more turned on by her dominating presence – cutting my hair the way she wanted to, telling me to hold still, moving my head to where she wanted it, and not allowing me to fully see what she was doing.

Julie casually continued cutting my hair as she continued her story.

“The next time you came in you went to Angela, and you repeated your requests for only a half-inch trim, and repeated that you were trying to grow your hair to waist length, almost word-for-word from the first time you were in here.  I was only a couple of chairs away, and even though I didn’t notice you when you came in, I overheard what you were saying and I noticed you then."

Still unable to take my eyes off the mirror, trying desperately to catch a glimpse of each lock of my precious hair as it was cut off and fell to the floor, I nonetheless felt a wave of panic that someone had noticed me and what I was doing.  I had always been very careful, or so I thought, about not tipping anyone off to the fact that I was indulging a rather odd haircutting/submissive fetish rather than just getting a simple trim.  It was unnerving, to say the least, that this woman I had never even noticed had seemingly figured the whole thing out.  It made me wonder if other stylists I had gone to had known exactly what I was thinking when I asked for a trim and then got excited when they took off more than a half an inch.  I felt a bit embarrassed that Julie seemed to know that I was apparently turned on by the thought of being trapped in a salon chair, helpless and submissive, while someone else decided how much of my long, silky, dark hair would be cut off.

Seeing that I was not going to comment, and perhaps sensing my underlying embarrassment, Julie continued.

“I remember you mentioning several times that you were trying to grow your hair, and that you only wanted a half-inch off, and no more.  And I remember that when Angela started cutting your hair, you waited until after she had cut a few pieces and then looked down at the floor to see how much was coming off."  Julie let down another section of my long hair as she talked; she was nearly done with the haircut, and I was almost bursting with anticipation to see what it would look like and how short it would be.

“When Angela cut your hair she was pretty precise about it, and I think she actually took off a little bit less than half an inch.  When you noticed that after looking at the hair on the floor, I was pretty sure I could detect a bit of disappointment, as if you wanted her to cut off more even though you kept telling her you only wanted a half inch off."

As Julie described my previous trips to the salon I could tell that she must have really been paying attention; I could easily remember the events she was describing.  I remembered the haircut by Angela and I recalled very clearly my disappointment when I looked at the floor to see how much hair she was cutting and saw tiny little snips that were less than half an inch long.  I probably sighed or frowned a bit, which Julie apparently noticed.  I still had absolutely no recollection of her working nearby when I came in those other times, but I also had no recollection of any of the other clients or pretty much anything else that was going on around me.  I was always fixated on my feelings of submission once I was seated in the chair and my hopes and anxiety over whether the stylist would do what I asked her to do or take it upon herself to chop off more than I wanted.

“Well," Julie said, still working her scissors confidently, casually taking off years of growth without so much as asking me first, “after that I was pretty confident that you were interested in having a stylist cut off more than a half inch, no matter what you asked for.  I figured it must be some sort of a submissive thing, but I didn’t really care.  I wanted to be the next one to cut your hair, if you ever came in again.  I thought it would be fun, and harmless, and I’d get to cut off a bunch of that gorgeous long hair of yours, which I was dying to do."  She laughed a bit at that, and I took it as a confirmation of my long-held belief that hairstylists with a long-haired client (like me) always want to cut off as much of their hair as they can.  I don’t know why, but I have always thought that.  With Julie, at least, it seemed to be true.

I was beginning the think that Julie had figured out my little scam because she had a similar, but opposite, fetish of her own, and was thus quicker to pick up on the clues than other stylists.  She seemed to be getting a thrill out of calmly taking charge and cutting off twelve inches of my long, dark hair instead of the half-inch I had repeatedly asked for.  I figured she had some sort of domination fetish with regards to hair and haircutting, the same way I had a submission fetish related to my hair and having it cut.  She wasn’t touching me in anything other than a professional manner and she wasn’t making any sort of sexual comments or anything like that (which I wouldn’t have liked at all, and which would have made me so uncomfortable I would have had probably gotten up and left in the middle of the haircut), so I considered myself lucky I had wound up in her chair.  She seemed to be calmly enjoying her role as the dominant hairstylist, and I know I was absolutely enjoying my role as the submissive client who has to sit still and bow her head obediently as her long hair is ruthlessly cut shorter than she wants, and there was no uncomfortable or unwanted sexual aspect to the haircut.  All in all I was considering myself fantastically lucky for deciding to stop in to this salon and winding up in her chair today!

I realized that Julie had continued with her story as I’d been daydreaming, and that she had also continued with the haircut as well.  She was letting down the final section now and combing it out.  I could see some of my hair that was in front of my shoulders; what had used to reach almost to my belt now barely touched the tops of my breasts.  It was still about six or seven inches past my collarbone, but to me it was SHORT!  My hair had not been this short for years!  I moaned just a little bit, very softly, but I could tell Julie heard me when I saw her pause in her cutting and smile.

“Anyway," Julie said, still smiling at me (and I know she knew I was moaning because I was so aroused by the sight of my much shorter hair!), “about a year ago or so you came in again, but unfortunately I was in the back and didn’t see you.  You asked for a tiny trim again and wound up in Sharon’s chair, right next to mine.  I came out after my break just in time to see Sharon caping you as asked, more than once, for her to just cut off a half inch because you were trying to grow your hair to waist length.  I tried to come up with some idea to swoop in and take over from Sharon, but it was impossible; it just isn’t done.  But I knew that you were almost certainly going to get what you wanted, to some degree, at least, because Sharon was brand new at the time and had already gotten more than a few complaints that she took off too much when she cut and didn’t listen to what her clients wanted."

I recalled that Sharon had seemed very young, and I certainly recalled that she had been fairly ruthless about cutting off four inches instead of a half-inch.  She had pretty much ignored my request for a half-inch trim and had instead taken off four inches and layered the ends, all with a sort of ‘I-know-what’s-best-so-just-let-me-do-it’ attitude.

“I had a client come in just then, but I paid very close attention to what you were having done in the next chair," Julie said with another smile.  “I saw your reaction when you noticed Sharon was taking off more than you had asked for and, after seeing that, I was even more certain that you wanted to be given a haircut, rather than ask for a haircut."

I nodded to myself, thinking that my reaction probably would have been pretty easy to see for someone who was looking for it, as Julie obviously had been.  I recalled then that I had also tipped her rather well, which I was sure Julie could not have possibly failed to notice.  By the smile on her face, it seemed she was reading my mind once again.

“And," she said with a knowing smile, “you tipped her twenty bucks for a thirty dollar trim!  And all without the slightest word of complaint about her cutting off too much, which made you fairly unique among Sharon’s clients.  You can see she’s not working here anymore, by the way.  Too many complaints."

Careful to hold my head still as I had been instructed, I glanced in the mirror at the other stylists in the salon.  Sure enough, I didn’t see Sharon there anywhere.  But I also hadn’t seen her when I peeked into the salon in the first place; if I had I probably wouldn’t have come in, or I would have at least waited until she was in the middle of an appointment or on a break.  I always tried to be careful about coming back to a stylist more than once; I never wanted to face the embarrassment of being confronted by a stylist who remembered me and my somewhat unusual behavior.

Julie finished cutting the final section of my hair, leaving me with nothing longer than mid-back.  She stepped in front of me and combed my long bangs down, then lifted them in her fingers and dropped them a few times.

“Hmmm…  Leave the bangs long or take them short?" she asked softly, obviously just thinking out loud, since she was clearly not asking for my opinion.  I froze and I felt a fresh bloom of heat spreading up my neck and into my face as I sat there, meek and helpless, while Julie decided if I would get to keep my long bangs (which I loved) or if she would ruthlessly hack them off and leave me with short bangs.  I actually found myself holding my breath as I sat there, both dreading and hoping that she would decide to give me short bangs.

She let me dangle in uncertainty for another few moments before brushing my long bangs to the side with her fingers and saying softly, “No, I guess they look best if we leave them long."  I heard myself sighing out loud, though even I couldn’t tell if it was in relief or in disappointment.

My hair had mostly dried during the cutting, but Julie grabbed her blow dryer and finished it off, using a big round brush to straighten my wavy hair as well.  She turned me away from the mirror while she dried my hair, so I couldn’t see what was happening.

After a few minutes she put down her blow dryer and brush and took off the cape.  Quite calmly and confidently, she turned the chair back to face the mirror and I got my first real look at my new haircut.

I now had mid-back length hair that Julie had artfully arranged over my shoulders.  It was very straight, but even straight it didn’t even come within a couple of inches of the inside of my elbow.  Thirty minutes ago I could pull my hair over my shoulder while seated and touch the ends to my belt.  Now when I pulled my hair over my shoulder I couldn’t even touch it to the bottom of my bra.  I couldn’t believe how short it was (short to me, even though I knew it was still long to most everyone else.)  And I really couldn’t believe I just had to sit there in the salon chair, meek and submissive, and that I had done nothing to save my long, dark, silky, beautiful hair when the stylist started cutting it all off.

I was feeling another bloom of heat spreading up my neck and face, and I had the sense that every time I thought about this experience for the next few weeks (at least!) I would be getting that same rush of arousal and excitement.

I shook my head back and forth a bit, feeling how much lighter my head felt now that it was carrying a foot less hair than before.  I couldn’t help the huge smile that spread over my face as I took it all in.

Julie was still standing behind me, with a smile on her face like the cat that swallowed the proverbial canary.  She casually fixed my hair with her fingers after I shook it out, rearranging it stylishly over my shoulders again.  Then she put her hand on the back of my head and pushed my head forward, gently but quite firmly, until my chin was on my chest.  I was frozen in fear and submission, but my breathing increased quite clearly as my excitement and arousal suddenly spiked again.

Casually, slowly, Julie ran her fingers up the back of my neck and into my hair, continuing upward a few inches into my hair.  She leaned down just a bit, probably so no one would overhear her, and semi-whispered, “I think you would look great in a sharply-angled bob, like mine.  I’d probably need the clippers, of course, to properly take care of the nape."

I felt a shudder run through my body as I felt her fingernails moving slowly up the back of my head and I imagined the feel of the clippers taking the same path through my dark locks as my hair was cut into a sharply angled bob.  I gasped a bit and actually had to bite my lip to hold back a moan.

Julie let go of my hair and stood up.  Still in a semi-whisper, she said, “If you come back and see me, feel free to ask for your usual half-inch trim.  I won’t take off any more than you ask for.  I promise."  She still had that same smile on her face, and as she turned away she stroked her own nape with her hand, running her fingers though the very short, clippered layers of her own dark brown angled bob.

I followed her to the counter to pay and rapidly counted out five twenty-dollar bills to pay for the thirty dollar haircut.  I was feeling a bit flustered, as I still felt like I was about to orgasm at any moment, and I could hardly say anything except ‘thank you’ to Julie as I paid her.  She didn’t seem surprised by the large tip, and just smiled at with her knowing smile and said she hoped she would see me again soon.

I left the salon to go home, wondering if I would have the guts to go in there again when I was fairly certain that, if I did, no matter what I asked for Julie was going to push my head down and give me an angled bob just like hers…

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