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Author’s note: This story contains sexual situations and female headshaving. If you can’t handle either of these, please click the "back" button.

Judging from the mail ‘Da Marsh has received since "From Mistress To Missy" and "P.J. Shearer’s Secret Revealed" were published, it seems that a lot of you like my stories. A few of you asked when I’ll reveal how my headshaving fetish began. I know, I could have mentioned it during the last two stories, but after all, your first headshave, like your first time with sex, is a special thing, and deserves a tale of its own.

It all started in the small town of Osterberg, when I was just a kid. I was first aware of bald-headed women thanks to "Sesame Street." The show had two sketches that astounded me. The first one was one of Kermit the Frog "Newsflashes," which told a fairy tale like a news story. Anyway, when they got to Rapunzel, her hair fell off her head when the Prince was climbing up the tower. The second sketch was a song called, "I Want To Hold Your…," I think, where a boy Muppet was telling a girl Muppet how much he liked her, but she didn’t love her back. The boy Muppet then sang a song in which he described the various parts of the girl that he loved about her (ears, eyes, tooth), then he took each part off her head and laid them down. The last part was, of course, the hair. Naturally, since "Sesame Street" was a kid’s show, the two sketches weren’t sexual or anything, but the contrast between a head full of hair and a hairless head on a woman was quite intriguing to me. But those thoughts soon sank into my subconscious as I went on with my childhood, briefly surfacing when the first Star Trek movie premiered, with a bald female as one of the Enterprise’s crew.

My dad, Wally Shearer, was a fun-loving guy (Who else would name me Philbert Jingle Shearer? Now you know why I preferred P.J. when I was a kid), who loved working with tools, and especially his pride and joy, his candy apple red ’67 Mercury Cougar. If he wasn’t at his job as a mechanic, or with mom, he would be in the garage, or the workshop behind it. He died on the job, due to a defective tool, when I was eleven.

My mom, Amanda Shearer, was, and still is, something else. As a teen, Mandy (as most people called her) was one of the first girls in Osterberg High to wear "mod" clothing and hairstyles. She went to beauty school afterwards, but she only did haircuts for me, dad and his friends, and hairdos for the neighborhood women while dad was alive. When he died, mom took the insurance money, his veteran’s benefits (he served stateside during the Vietnam War), and the settlement money from the defective tool, and decided to go back to beauty school to freshen up her skills and to get certified. She sold most of the tools in dad’s workshop and turned it into her own "Family Hair Care Center." Mom called it that because she could do both traditional and modern salon styles, perms and hair coloring, as well as the standard barbershop cuts for both men and women, but she really didn’t like the term "unisex" attributed to such places.

Regardless of the name, Mandy’s was a neighborhood hit, since the local women could get a perm or style and have their sons clipper cut while their styles were setting or drying. Dad’s old friends and Mandy’s occasional boyfriends stopped by for cuts, too, and the word quickly spread around among the guys. She also sold hair care products and wigs on the side. Mom’s only competition in Osterberg was Max’s Barber Shop, frequented by the older men in town, and Mr. Leonard’s Salon, a traditional salon with a more well-to-do clientele.

What does all this have to do with me? Plenty, since after dad died (and mom renamed me Phillip John, though by then everyone called me P.J. or Phil, anyway), I earned my allowance by, among other things, cleaning out Mandy’s after it closed for the day. Mom always gave me haircuts for free, and even taught me how to do my own haircutting, which helped me a lot when it came to my first time with a woman.

When you have a name like the one dad gave me, you get teased a lot, and you either get pushed around or you fight back. I fought back, and dad and mom taught me how to channel that anger into something good, like Little League Baseball and flag football. I was good at both, and I grew up big and healthy, eventually becoming the catcher for the Osterberg High baseball team and middle linebacker for the Osterberg High Blades football team by my senior year, which leads me to my first time.

It was in my senior year in Osterberg High, in the early ’80s. An accident before classes had begun put me on the disabled list for half the football season, limiting my chances of getting an athletic scholarship. The "Blades’ Edge," the school newspaper, asked me to write a column about the football team from a player’s perspective. That’s when I met Karen Traczyk, a photographer and writer of a humor column that had the school laughing. Her dad still owns an electronics store in town. She was 5’6", and her curvy figure had started to develop in freshman year. By the time we met, she was already 35C-22-34, and she was working her way toward a D-cup. Karen’s hair was definitely one of her best features. It was normally a rich, chocolate-like brown, although she’d lighten it sometimes, or streak it in punkish colors. It was thick and straight, usually with wispy bangs, almost down to her waist, although sometimes she’d spike it, tease it, crimp it, or wear it up like Kate or Cindy from the B-52’s. You see, unlike most students at Osterberg High, who liked arena rock bands like Journey, Styx or REO Speedwagon, or the small minority who liked Heavy Metal, Karen was one of the few in school who liked New Wave. She and her small scene usually hung out in the nearby college town of Wahlton, or had parties at their homes. Karen’s figure, her taste in music, and a dress style that didn’t exactly cover her shapely physique, had started to get her talked about as a "New Wave Slut," and rumor had it that she wasn’t "friendly" to just guys, either.

One of those who spread the rumors, no doubt, was Tammy Stewart. Tammy looked like your average perky, pretty cheerleader, with mid-back length wavy golden blonde hair, but inside was a whole other animal. She herself was rumored to frequent the Wahlton frat party scene, until her parents (her dad ran the local savings and loan) put a stop to it. She soon set her sights on dating one of my teammates, but they were either dating Tammy’s fellow cheerleaders, or else they dated junior or sophomore girls, which left me the only one on the football team without a steady date.

I dated Tammy twice, but I just couldn’t see us as a couple. Even I could tell that all I really was to her was a trophy she could show to the class, and a letter jacket or jersey she could borrow. Unfortunately, even though I told Tammy that I wasn’t going to go steady with her, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Sure, she was cute, and had a great body (36C-24-35, if you’d like to know), but her behavior turned from charming to slightly annoying, like you knew it was all just an act. Then, I met Karen.

It wasn’t exactly love at first sight; she was a New Wave party girl, and I was supposed to be a "dumb jock," but after a few weeks, we got to know each other a little better. Although she showed a saucy, playful side to the world, she was serious about her work on the paper, her art, and how she wanted to get out of Osterberg. Karen could see how much I wanted to get out of there, too, and that although I was an athlete, I’m interested in other things than sports alone.

When me and Karen first dated, our friends thought we were crazy. Her friends in the school’s New Wave scene were skeptical until they realized that it was serious (the fact that I worked at Mandy’s, where Karen & Company got their ‘dos also helped, I think). My teammates’ eyes bugged out when she showed up at a game with her hair streaked in the team’s colors.

It was after my third date with Karen, however, when the rumors about her really started to get raunchy. I found out who spread them. I wondered what Tammy’s problem was. Looking back, my guess was that she was the only cheerleader not dating a football player, and that she was jealous that someone like Karen could snatch me easily. One night, her jealousy got out of hand.

It was on a clear night in mid-October. My leg was on the mend, I could drive dad’s old ’67 Cougar again, and the team was about to make the playoffs. My mom went to a hairshow right after she closed Mandy’s. I was sitting in one of the old-fashioned barber chairs, watching MTV on the tube 9she had it for the moms to watch soap operas or for the kids to watch cartoons), eating my fast-food dinner. The sun was starting to go down when I saw Karen’s car pull into the driveway. She got out in a hurry, and she was wearing a hooded jacket, hood up, something she didn’t usually wear.

When she came to the door, she knocked frantically and said, "P.J., is Mandy there? I’ve got a real emergency!" I unlocked the door and let her in. I told her that mom was in St. Louis the whole weekend for a hairshow. Karen replied, "Oh, man! I need your help!" Then she pulled down the hood, revealing that she had some kind of sticky substance in her hair. I asked her, "How’d you do that?" As she was unzipping her jacket, she replied, "Some prankster poured rubber cement, paste, and who knows what on my head! I was going to the "Edge" office, and boom! The old ‘bucket on the door ledge’ trick! I washed my hair twice, but I still can’t get all this off!"

I told her, "Calm down, Karen. Mom’ll be back Sunday." Karen replied, "Well, P.J., isn’t there anything YOU can do about it?" She saw me give myself a clipper cut in Mandy’s once, so she saw what I could do. "I don’t have a license like mom does, Karen, but I think I can help you." I checked all over her head and said, "OK, it looks like this has to be cut off. The best thing for you to do would be to call Mr. Leonard’s for an appointment, or wait till mom opens up on Monday." Karen’s answer was: "But P.J.! Mr. Leonard’s is usually booked solid on Saturdays. And besides, Tammy Stewart’s one of his clients! I’d DIE if she saw me like this while I was waiting for Mr. Leonard to fix it up! I know you can do this, P.J.. I’ve seen you give yourself clipper cuts before. So what if you don’t have a license? You’re my only hope, P.J.. I’d be SO grateful if you could help me." That did the trick. "OK, Karen, let’s go to the shampooing sink and wash enough of this gunk out."

As she sat down, I took one of mom’s transparent capes and wrapped it around her neck. I took a bottle of shampoo and started to wet Karen’s hair down. "Man, this feels good" was her response. Then I poured some shampoo into my hand and lathered it up. I was ready to massage it into her hair. I managed to get most of the smaller globs of gunk out of her bangs, but there was still a lot on the rest of her locks, and it was almost impossible to get out. "Oh, man, you’re doing great already," she said as my fingers went to work on her scalp.

After I rinsed the shampoo from her tresses, I handed Karen a towel. As she surveyed the remaing damage, she noticed a few globs around the collar of her blouse. "oh, man! I thought it was just my sweater that got slimed. Now that moron’s messed up one of my good blouses!" She tucked it out of her skirt and unbuttoned it, revealing a frilly, lacy push-up bra. "Could you take this to the washing machine? I can wash it later. And since your mom’s not home, could you get me a beer? Thanks!" When I came back with a beer for me and a light beer for her, I found her already in the barber chair, looking wide-eyed at a magazine. Karen said, Hey, thanks. Say, when did Mandy get this?" She was referring to the magazine she was holding, called "The Razor’s Edge," which I’m sure a lot of you in the hair fetish commmunity remember. "Oh, that? One of dad’s old friends gave it to her as a gag gift. OK, I’m ready to start cutting."

I got out a comb and a pair of scissors. I took the comb and smoothed out her bangs. Then i placed the comb underneath a medium-sized glob, and when thecomb stopped, I opened the scissors, placed the blades underneath the comb, and then I started the first snip, snip,snips, through Karen’s hair, which a week from then I was running through my fingers. I kept cutting and cutting until all the globs were freed from her head.

What remained on Karen’s head was a mass of variable-length locks, from the still waist-length ones along the sides, to short, almost inch-long hairs around the back of the crown. We both knew it was time to even it out. I said to Karen, "Well, if you don’t want to wait all night for me to even this out, I’d better get out the clippers."

"Clippers, P.J.?"

"’Fraid so, Karen. Whatever that stuff was, it worked its way down deep. I can try to blend the bangs in, but that’s all I can save." "OK, P.J., go ahead."

"Why are you so nervous, Karen? This can’t be the first time someone used clippers on your head."

"Actually, P.J., it is. I’ve never had someone use clippers on me. Not here at Mandy’s. Not before I moved to Osterberg, either."

"Well, don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe with me." I plugged in mom’s back-up pair of Wahl clippers, carefully oiling them up and snapping on the #8 attachment. "OK, Karen, I’ll start out with a #8, or 1" attachment. If they’re not evened out after that, I’ll switch to a #7, or a 7/8" guard." POP! HHHHHHhhhhhhhhhMMMMMMmmmmmmmmm……

I pushed her head down and proceeded to work. I could see her eyebrows rise when the clippers first touched the back of her neck, right underneath her hairline. There was no turning back when I started to go upward. HHHHHHHhhhhhMMMMMmmmmmm……… Karen’s tresses poured from the back of her head like hot chocolate, flowing down her shoulders one last time…..down her back….onto the floor. As I was starting another pass, I could see her cheeks blushing, her knees and ankles pressing together underneath her short pleated skirt. Her hands were still in her lap, still above her skirt. I pretended not to notice it, but when I was finished with the back, I closed the blinds and locked the door before I cleaned out the clippers.

HHHHHHhhhhhhMMMMMMmmmmmm…….. I went to work on Karen’s left side, starting at her nape, going carefully around her ear. I could see more color rush into her cheeks, goose bumps starting to form throughout her body, her legs pressing harder, her hands getting fidgety…..HHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhMMMMMMmmmmmm……..

By the time I was buzzing her right side, more goosebumps appeared wherever I saw skin from the neck down… and speaking of "bumps," more of her nipples were showing from underneath the lacy confines of her bra, and they were getting stiffer, too. The hair kept sliding down her shoulders…. her breasts….onto her lap. Karen was playing with some of the longer strands, stroking her left cheek.

When I was finished with her back and sides, Karen touched the inch-long remains of her mane. She was surprised at how velvety-soft it was. I could see one of her hands move down and under her skirt. Hey, I didn’t know how girls masturbated then. She stopped when she saw me standing in front of her, pushing her head down again.

HHHHHhhhhhhhhMMMMMmmmmmm……… The clippers went to work again, this time starting from under her bangs to her crown. More hairs joined the pile on her lap and the one on the floor. While Karen’s hands were now gripping thearms of the barber chair, her legs started to rub together slowly, her eyes closed. But it wasn’t long until the top was finished, and she had to see the results.

Even when I finished the back, I could see some uneven patches here and there, and so could she when I finished up top.When I explained that I’d have to use the 7/8" guard, she smiled slightly, closed her eyes, lowered her chin and gripped the armrests of the chair. As shorter hairs started to rain down, it seemed to me that the shorter the guard was, the more she was turned on she was…..HHHHHhhhhhhMMMMMmmmmm……

About seven minutes later, Karen’s hair was, except for her bangs, just 7/8" long. I kept her bangs an inch long. I simply asked her, "Well, Karen, what do you think? Is it the new you?" She took a long look at her new locks, then she said, "Ewwww! I look like a BOY! Can’t you make it just a little more girlish?"

I could see her point. You see, Karen’s biggest secret back then was although she liked to wear "dress to distress" kind of clothes and wild hairstyles, she always had enough underneath all that to show that she was a girl, and a sexy one at that. She might have worn, for example, a studded leather jacket, leather miniskirt, torn New Wave band t-shirt, fishnet stockings and ankle boots, but you could tell that those boots had high heels (and I could tell that she had silk or satin bras and panties underneath after going to one of her parties). Maybe that was the reason why Tammy thought that Karen was a slut. What Tammy didn’t realize, however, was that I barely got to "third base" before "the haircut."

Anyway, however much I loved Karen with long hair, I thought she looked cool with her new ‘do. The buzzings revealed that she had a perfect oval-shaped head and face. Karen’s buzzcut could definitely go with her more punkish outfits. She might have had to wear a wig if she wanted to look more girly, but wearing wigs was nothing new to her.

The moment after that I still remember vividly today as the time Karen – and I – reached the point of no return. As a Duran Duran song ended on MTV, Joan Jett was leading the Blackhearts with her cry, "I don’t give a damn about my reputation!" Joan recently shaved her head. Coincidence? Maybe so, maybe no. Meanwhile, I told Karen, "OK, you might look more like Annie Lennox of The Eurythmics than Kate of the B-52’s, but there’s just no way you could be mistaken for a boy." Her reply was, "Yeah, now Tammy’ll really call me a dyke slut! Couldn’t you have made it a sophisticated kind of short?"

"Well, I can taper the nape a bit, maybe even do a fade. But honestly, Karen honey, it looks good on you. You’ve got a great head shape. You could wear just about any style. Hell, you’d even look good with a total headshave." I forgot that when I was saying that, she was staring at the "after" photos of a model in the copy of "The Razor’s Edge." When I realized what I said, Karen had a wicked grin on her face. "I’d look good bald? THAT’ll make that bitch’s jaw drop! OK, P.J., do it."

"You’re sure you know what you’re saying, Karen?"

"Sure I’m sure! It’s probably Tammy who’s behind the bucket incident. She probably planned it so I’d have to get a dykeish hairstyle so that she’ll tell everyone that I’ve really become a lezzie, trying to split us up. This time, however, I’m going to turn the tables on her. Besides, you said yourself that I’d look good bald. So what are you waiting for, P.J.? Make me your damsel in dis-tress!"

She giggled as I took the guard off of the clippers. I told her, "Now you’d better hold still this time. I haven’t had much experience with unguarded clippers. I don’t want to cut your head, OK?"

"OK, P.J. Dear."

POP! HHHHHHHhhhhhMMMMMMmmmmm……… She kept still, including her legs, when the unguarded clippers touched her neck, although she started to sound like she was purring.

The peach fuzz on her head soon met the longer hairs on Karen’s lap and on the floor. Her hair had gone from waist-length to just a shadowy 1/100" in little more than an hour. The moaning grew even louder each time I touched her nape with the unguarded clippers.

When I was finished with the clippers, I put them aside, and picked up the duster. I saw mom use it on the necks of the neighborhood boys plenty of times, but in Karen’s case, I dusted off her whole head. She giggled so hard when I dusted the talc on her scalp, that her right nipple came all the way out of her bra. I asked her why she moaned when the clippers ran through her locks, and why she was giggling with my dusting, and Karen said, "I’m not really sure. Maybe I’ve got a sensitive scalp or something. I just know that until now, I sure loved it when I brushed my hair. You know, the old ‘hundred strokes a night’ routine. I had no idea this feeling was deep down under my skin."

I dusted the hairs off the cape until Karen said, "Uh, P.J., aren’t you going to shave my head, like they did with the girl in this magazine? C’mon, P.J. darling, you’re not finished yet! I want to be totally smooth!"

I said, "OK, ok, just give me a minute." It seemed that mom took her straight razor to St. Louis for the hairshow, so I had to make do with my safety razors. Otherwise, everything else was right there. I wrapped a hot towel on Karen’s head and kept it on for a few minutes. Then I took it off, took a few squirts from the hot lather dispenser, and spread the rich shaving cream all over her head. As I spread the lather on her scalp, she closed her eyes in ecstasy, reached back, and unhooked her bra, setting her breasts (OK, it was really just the left one at the time) free. Then the razor went to work.

Since it was my first time, I took it a little slower than I do when I shave my own face, and a lot slower than I shave heads now. As the razor started to make a smooth pale pink path through the creamy landscape that was the remains of Karen’s mane, those two "Sesame Street" sketches came back to me, along with the gals in the copy of "The Razor’s Edge" (I was thinking of taking it to my room when Karen showed up). When I was finished, and I was checking for stray hairs, I couldn’t believe how smooth her head was, and how beautiful she remained without her hair. I also couldn’t believe how much she purred as my fingers probed for any stray hairs. A thought occurred to me, one I still have when someone asks me why I shave heads; other guys brag in the locker room how they got some girl naked, but only I know how to really strip her bare.

Karen saw her new look in the big mirror, and said, "Wow! I didn’t know I can look like this!" She raised her skirt up and remarked, "Well, looks like this has to go, too." Apparently, she took her panties off when I was getting my razor from the bathroom. Since I had even less experience in pussy trimming back then, I asked her what she meant. Karen replied, "Just run the clippers through my pubic hair, and I’ll do the rest." I took my first look at her neatly trimmed, but lushly coiffed privates, and thought it was a shame to buzz all that off, but I snapped the clippers on, anyway. She reclined so far back, her ass was right on the edge of the seat, her legs spread as far apart as she could spread them.

Karen moaned even louder when the clippers touched the skin near her lower hairline. I figured she would’ve wanted the clippers to be unguarded. Since I was working with a smaller area, I took no chances and went slower. A minute or two later, only stubble remained. She asked for the razor and a dollop or two of shaving cream. She let me spread it on her pussy, then I watched her as she took care of the stubble and any stray hairs.

When Karen finished down there, she took another look in the big mirror. Since the only hair she had left was her eyebrows and eyelashes, I couldn’t help but notice her, either. I was right when I said that even if she was bald, she’d be beautiful. Her eyes looked one and a half times as big, and her breasts looked somewhat larger, now that her hair wasn’t there to balance the look. Karen kept looking in the mirror and said, "I had no idea it would look like this….or feel like this." After watching all her curves naked, I felt like that, too.

I hope you don’t mind that I’m not going to detail about the sex that followed. Hey, it was the first time for both of us. You know what it’s like – the awkwardness, wondering if it was good, or wondering if it was as good as the movies had us to believe, that sort of thing. OK, I’ll give you two details; I did use a condom, and I think we both liked it when I caressed her shaved head while she was sucking me off.

When we were finished, Karen reached into her purse to pay me, but I refused, and I reminded her that I didn’t have a license to cut hair. Besides, she repaid me far more than any money could buy. She got dressed, except for her blouse. I asked her how she’d explain her new look to her family and classmates, and she said, "Uh oh, I know my friends will think it’s cool, but my folks will send me to therapy for this! Not to mention what Tammy Stewart will say! Man, I’m screwed!" But I had an idea. Mom sold wigs as a sideline; the spare room next door was full of them, so Karen put her hooded jacket on and joined me there. We found a shoulder-length wig with practically the same color as the hair on the floor around the barber chair. It was adjustable, and in the end, it was like Karen just had a trim. She paid the money she would she would have paid mom for the cut, and I took care of the rest.

After we finished cleaning up and closing Mandy’s, I went back into the house with Karen. Once her blouse was out of the dryer, she treated me with a striptease set to The Stray Cats’ "Sexy and Seventeen," with her wig as the last thing she took off. The sex was getting better and better each time. During the weekend, we ate, drank, watched TV, went out, screwed, found out that Tammy was behind the practical joke, and planned revenge (more on that another time).

The rest of the senior year was great. By the time we graduated, Karen’s hair grew long enough for a pixie cut, and the wig was put in her closet. Unfortunately, we had to split up after graduation. Karen got accepted to a liberal arts college in Colorado. By the time my leg was fully healed, The Osterberg Blades football team already bowed out of the regional championships. The Blades’ baseball team (I played catcher for them, remember?), also had a slump, which put me out of the running for an athletic scholarship. I decided to join the Army for the college money, something Karen was flabbergasted to hear (You’ll definitely hear about my Army exploits soon). It was a tough few days after we broke up, but soon I had induction and boot camp to worry about.

Five years later, I met up with her again at the reunion. I was out of the Army and after a batchelor’s degree in marketing, she was out of college, earned her journalism degree, and was a cub reporter at a mid-size town newspaper. We met, talked about the times we had, especially how the first time was, how it was going. Which gave us an idea. Was it coincidence that I brought my bag of tricks to the reunion, and Karen brought the wig? Maybe so, maybe no, but both got used a lot that weekend. Her hair was down to mid-back length, and her bosses at the paper wanted it cut (not "professional looking," they said). The problem was that mom moved her shop from behind the garage to where Max’s Barber Shop used to be. Mom was using the room behind the garage for storage, so we decided to use Karen’s hotel room to do the deed. I thought that this shaving was better than the first, simply because her mane was intact this time. It was also the first cut mane I saved. After the sex, we agreed that on each reunion, I’d shave her head. She would keep her hair at least shoulder-length until after the reunion dance, then we would go to a hotel room and the clippers would go to work again.

On our tenth year reunion, I already had my degree and started my career in sales. Karen was still at the paper, although she married, had a daughter, and divorced. She had a french twist when I met her. Each shave got better and better, now that we learned more about both shaving and sex.

On our fifthteenth year reunion, I had a big sales convention to go to that weekend, and Karen was having a problem with her daughter, so we both skipped that one.

We both went to the big twentieth year reunion. Karen rose up the ranks of the mid-sized town paper, right up to city editor – and quit after a few years. She and her daughter Paula Jean moved to Wahlton and Karen started an "alternative news" and nightlife newspaper. As for me, I stayed in one company for a while, moved on to another. When we met, I could see that we still took care of ourselves, although Karen was wearing quite a bit more piercings around the ears and belly button. Her hair? Almost waist-length, with blonde highlights. She didn’t bring the wig this time – she didn’t need it now that she owned the Wahlton Whirl, and besides, Paula Jean, now in her early teens, was threatening to get her hair dyed purple (P.J. definitely looks like her mom), so Karen decided to really surprise P.J. (her daughter’s nickname. Coincidence?) My mom at this time sold both her Osterberg and Wahlton locations to a national haircare chain and retired to the Gulf Coast. I bought the old house to use when I made sales calls near my hometown, the garage, and two barber chairs, one for my apartment in the city, the other sat in the back in the back of the garage, all made up to look like it did that night in mid-October when everything changed.

After the dance, the two of us left in our separate cars. I arrived at the old Mandy’s to get everything ready. About ten minutes later, Karen walked in, still in her party dress, her blonde highlighted tresses flowing behind her. She said, "I just need a trim." I asked how short, and she said, "Oh, an inch will do." I instinctively snapped on the #8 guard. I snapped the cape around her neck, gave her coiffure its last brushing, and turned the clippers on.

It was like time went backwards as her long, luscious locks hit the floor, although there were a few premature gray hairs in the remaining one inch stubble, but after I took the guard off, those were history, too. Karen’s moaning when the clippers did their thing also took me back. After I toweled off her head following the shaving, the sex afterwards was the best we ever had. The best part, however, was afterwards when I gave her the other present I had planned – an engagement ring. Her eyes looked like a Japanese manga or anime character’s when she saw the diamond. She definitely said yes. Karen was like a high school girl again when she got dressed. She couldn’t wait to drive back home and tell our friends about our engagement. I couldn’t believe that I waited twenty years to pop the question to her. After all the women I had been with those two decades, Karen was still the woman I could see myself marrying.

I woke up early the following morning, showered and shaved, and turned on the morning news while pouring the coffee. Only the lead story opened my eyes wider than the coffee – a 37-year old woman, Karen Traczyk-Hayward, was pronounced dead on arrival at Osterberg Community Hospital after her car was hit by an SUV. The SUV’s driver was listed in stable condition, but had a blood alcohol count of twice the legal limit. The driver, Tammy Slotnick, was charged with driving under the influence and vehicular manslaughter.

I was questioned by the police about Karen, and I told them about our engagement plans, and how she had her head shaved in sympathy for a friend who was undergoing chemotherapy. I haven’t heard from them since, so I figured they must have bought the story. I still can’t believe it myself. It still seems like it was just last night that I smelled the perfume in Karen’s locks while I was brushing it, that it was feeling her shaven head for stray hairs. Hell, it still felt like last night that she was stripping off to "Sexy and Seventeen." The whole place reminded me of Karen, so eventually I sold the house, the garage, and the chair. Every now and then, I watch the tapes we made of our fifth and tenth reunions, and I still have the engagement ring, which they sent back. Those items are so special to me that I don’t even keep them with the mementos of my past shaves. After all, your first girl is supposed to be special, right?

Thanks for reading this work of fiction. Copyright 2003, ‘Da Marsh. Unauthorized publication will be punished!

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