I was three years old with long, blond, ringlets down the middle of my back. For whatever reason, as some children do; I found a pair of scissors one day while my mother was busy, and what transpired next would only be the beginning. I proceeded to lift the shears to my head and hack off my curls right down to the scalp. When my mother discovered what I had done, she wasted no time in driving me to the barbershop to, “fix what I had done” to my hair. Our town was small; however, there were plenty of beauty parlors that she could have taken me to, but instead, my first (well, my second really), haircut would take place in a barbers’ chair.

I don’t remember much about the haircut itself that day; I just remember the big red chair, the crisp striped cape, and the distinct smell of a barbershop. I remember being scared as the barber pushed my head down to look at the floor. I am told that what was left of my hair, after my encounter with the scissors, was shaved right down to nothing and my long, blond ringlets would be gone forever.

After that first trip to the barber, it was my parent’s decision that my hair would remain in this short, clipped hairstyle. By the time that I reached school age, I could see that other girls in my class, and in my school, had a variety of pretty long pigtails, ringlets, or ponytails, and my hair was shaved right down into a little boy haircut. It didn’t take long for me to start rebelling against my trips to the barber. “Why did I have to have my hair sheared”, I would ask my mother? Why can’t I have pretty long hair like the other girls? My mother would insist that my hair was too hard to care for, and my dad insisted that she keep me in a nice, clean, short haircut. Did they forget that I was a girl? Was it such a thrill for them to watch my head being shaved when I was three years old, that now it had become a source of pleasure for them?

Although I was young, on some level I realized that both of my parents had a hair fetish. My dad kept a military butch at all times, and my mother, with her short pixie, frequented the barbershop as well. Where their fetish really came to light for me, was when I got a little bit older, and started to realize that I was getting haircuts more frequently than anyone else I knew. So much so, that each time we got in the car to go uptown, I just assumed that it was a trip to the barbershop.

Each time we headed uptown, I would beg my mother to please, please, please, not take me to the barber for another haircut, but my pleading was to no avail. Once we arrived uptown and got out of the car, my mother would grab my hand and hold it tight as she walked me down the block, and into the barbershop door. I would scream and cry, full well knowing that my hair was going to be buzzed off short and my dreams of long ringlets would once again be dashed. A smile would come over my mother’s face and she would laugh as she delivered me into the barber’s chair.

Once in the chair, the tissue was placed tight around my neck and the cape was wrapped around me and fastened. The barber listened attentively as my mother delivered specifications as to how my hair should be cut. “Shave her right up the back”, she would tell him with a smug look on her face, as she sat back and prepared to watch the show. I learned to accept my fate, and sat silent as I watched the barber pick up his large clippers, and prepare to go to work. It was at that quiet moment, before the haircut began, that my senses came to life and once again I would start noticing the smells, and the sounds around me. The clippers would start to humm and I would tingle from head to toe, especially as the barber would overlap my ears, and swipe the clippers around them to ensure a nice, clean, haircut. His black comb would then pick up the already short hairs off my nape, allowing him to clip them right down to nubs and I felt so excited. It didn’t take long, before my already short locks were shaved into little boy haircut, and the barber would start to brush the clipped hairs from my face and neck. Ahhhhh that felt so good.

We would leave the shop and return home to my father, delighting in my clean, shaven haircut. I hated the fact that he derived such pleasure out of seeing his little girls hair cut right down to nothing.

As the years past, and the regular visits to the barber continued, I became confused with regard to my feelings. On one hand, I was angry with my parents for making me look like such a freak, when all of my friends had beautiful hair. At night though, after my haircuts, I would lie in my bed and rub my hand over the stubble on my head, delighted with what I was feeling. I would experience such excitement that my body would start to tingle all over, and I would notice my panties were wet. The pleasure was overwhelming.

When I got older, my mother upped the ante, and started using any excuse for me to need a haircut, even punishment. Now, I was not only escorted to my regular six week shave, if I happened to smart off to my parents, or commit some other form of childhood buffoonery, I was threatened with another trip to the barber. More often than not she would carry through with her threat and haul me off to the barbershop. Even at such a young age, I could sense the fact that my mother enjoyed watching, as the barber placed the tissue on my neck, and the cape over my trembling body, as he prepared me for my punishment.

One particular barber visit especially stands out in my mind. I don’t remember if I was in the chair for a maintenance shave, or a punishment shave, but as soon as I was caped, and the clippers were turned on, several boys from my school apparently needed haircuts that day as well. There they were, five boys sitting in the chairs against the wall, staring and snickering at the only girl they knew, who would sit in a barber chair and have her hair clipped shorter than any haircut they had ever had. I was so humiliated that I felt sick, yet at the same time, I was enjoying the sensation.

The years went by and the frequent visits to the barber continued. I can only remember one time, in high school, that I was allowed to grow my hair to shoulder length, much to my parent’s dismay. Having worn such short hair all of my life, it wasn’t long before I found myself in the barbershop (of my own accord), requesting that my shoulder length hair to be clipped into a little boy’s haircut. This time as I sat in the chair, I could feel my jeans press between my legs and I could hardly contain the excitement as I anticipated the clippers. My heart pounded as I requested the barber to, shave me short, and he was all too happy to do so.

I am married now and although my husband doesn’t like short hair, he will tolerate my occasional semi-short haircut. I have not been clipped short since college; however, I yearn to once again sit in a barber chair and smell those familiar smells, feel the tissue being placed tight around my neck, and the cape placed and fastened. I crave the tingly feeling and the chills that went through me, as the barber placed his buzzing clippers against my nape and methodically proceed to “shave me right up the back”.