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I haven?t let a man cut my hair for about a decade now, in fact the mere thought gives me the shivers. No, this man needs a Woman to cut his hair. And not a hairdresser either, I want a Barber, a Femme Barber doing the deed. In a barbershop, in an old-fashioned chair, Her clippers, scissors and razors (clippers mostly!) working their way over my scalp.

I want to feel the sweep of the cape enclosing me and weighing me down, anchoring me to a point of no return, a place where I can?t escape, left with no choice but to accept whatever Fate is about to deliver. Passive, watching my own demise – that?s the sensation I want. Stuck sitting there while She stands over me, under Her gaze, Her direction, in Her hands?

Good cut, bad cut, a ?deliver-me-from-evil? cut, whatever?

I want Her pushing my head this way and that, I want the intense electric whirr of Her clippers humming away in my ears. I want to see the light in the shop catch on the scissors as she picks them up. And in the mirror I need to see those dexterous fingers manipulating my hair while feeling their tug and pull, snipping off length from my fringe and top. Scissors – the adjunct, sharp and precise, there to compliment the clippers handiwork.

I want to deeply inhale that shaving cream scent as it?s applied along the neatness of the clippers edge. And then I want to feel (and hear) the raw red scrap of Her cut-throat razor down my neck and over my ears. A razored tidy-up to end on?

Hmmm, it?s five weeks since my last visit?. I can?t stand the wait any longer, I?ve got to see Her?

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