?I can?t do it.?

?Why not??

?Don?t know. I just can?t.?

?Not good enough. You have a computer. You obviously can type. What is the problem??

?Cold feet.?

?Why??

?Don?t know.?

?Look, nobody will know who you are. You don?t even have to reveal your name or address to the public. Even the host does not need your name, only your email when you submit the story. So even if it is horrible ? WHICH IT WILL NOT BE ? nobody will know it is you.?

?I?m not sure.?

?Stop this! Just write the story. You have been thinking about it for a while. Just do it.?

?I don?t know.?

She sat back in exasperation and looked at the screen. He wanted to write, but was too afraid. Afraid of what, she did not know. She started to type. ?What would you write about??

?A spy story, I guess.?

?And??

?You know, spy stuff.?

This was getting nowhere. She did not know who he was, only his email address and a simple name, ?Mike.? He had contacted her a few months ago about one of the stories she wrote for a website, one that featured female haircutting. They had emailed back and forth and she wanted so badly to encourage him to write a story, but he kept stalling.

?Let?s try this. What if I were sitting at my computer and you were standing behind me. What would you do??

?I don?t know.?

?Mike, you know what I look like. I have used myself as a model for all of the stories. I have never actually done what I write about, so my hair is still very much attached to my head ? well past my shoulders, wavy, healthy and thick. I have just taken it loose from my ponytail and it is falling around my face. You are behind me as I work on the computer. What are you going to do??

?I would brush it.?

?More??

?Okay, I would brush it softly at first, so as not to hurt you by pulling knots. Then as I knew it was untangled, I would brush harder, so you felt the bristles hard against your scalp. I would brush the top, the sides and underneath. Then I would run my fingers through it over and over again like a comb.?

?That would feel very nice. Very nice indeed. Now what??

?I would tell you that you needed a haircut. I would pick up the desk scissors and run the cold steel across your cheek. Closed of course; I would not want to hurt you. But I would want you to feel the steel that will soon cut into your hair?

?I like this. Please continue.?

?Before the blades warmed too much from your skin, I would pull a mass of hair in front of your face. Placing the scissors on your forehead, I would close the blades and let your long hair fall to your lap. You write about that a lot, so it must be something you dream of.?

?It is.?

?To continue that feeling, I would grab another section from the side and pull it in front of your face. I would wait until you turned your eyes toward the scissors so you could see each hair spring loose. Can you imagine the smooth line of the lock of hair I am holding??

?I can. More. Tell me more.?

?I take the thick lock and tickle your face with it. You giggle. Then I place that on the desk in front of you. I repeat this, cutting all I can in front of your face. When I can?t cut anymore that way, I will start cutting in the back, pulling the hair firmly, almost to the point of pain, so only cutting will cure the pain. You beg for more.?

?Oh, yes!?

?I cut frantically, knowing how much pleasure you are getting. But as with all good things, I finally run out of hair to cut.?

?Now what??

?I reach for the clippers.?

?There are clippers on my desk??

?It?s my story and yes, there are clippers on the desk.?

?Okay. Just seemed out of place.?

?May I finish the story??

?Sorry.?

?Thank you. As I was saying, I would pick up the clippers and wait. Wait until you become tense because you know what will happen, but yet I am not doing it. You don?t know what to think. Then, POP! You will jump, but my firm hand on your shoulder will calm you. I will slowly move my hand to your jaw to steady your head. You write a lot about the uncertainly of cutting the top, when the commitment to the cut is made. I shall make it for you. I will start right in the middle, and go so slowly. You will hear the grind of each hair as it is severed. You will gasp for air as excitement fills your body. You will grab the arms of the chair. But I will keep on cutting. Slowly, as if time will end when the cut ends.?

?Oh my g..?

?Not yet! That was using the guard. Let me take off the guard. Can you feel the difference??

?Don?t stop!?

?Can you feel the difference??

?You have no idea!?

?Now, I will cover your head with warm lather. I will wipe the bit that ran sound your face. I will be careful, so as not to cut you. But I want you to hear the scraping sound. Feel every last hair on your head fall away. And when I am through, I will place a warm towel to wipe off anything I missed. Then I will put your hands on to of your head and my hands on top of yours. I will pull your head back and give you a kiss that lets you know how I feel about you.?

?Mike, I am blown away. How can you say you can?t write??

?I just needed a muse. And you are mine. Thank you!?

This story is dedicated to Mike, who wrote me this afternoon with yet another excuse as to why he would not write a story. To all readers who have thought about creating your own story, start writing now, even if you get just one paragraph written. You each have a story; one that excites you and one that others would like to read as well. But others can?t read it if you don?t share it with us. I enjoy reading stories as much as writing them. Send them to this website.

So to all of you, and especially Mike, write the story!