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I stood in front of the bathroom mirror drying my hair, the brush held straight almost touching my waist as I ran the dryer up and down. It was a ritual I had done all my life.

But recently I started remembering Anne in grade two and the day I looked across the playground. Anne was nowhere to be seen. Her ponytail would swing back and forth making her easy to identify. Filing into class I looked over at her desk. There she was… or was …! Her hair was chopped short. She looked like a boy. Her mother had taken her brother to the barbershop. Anne went along. The guy asked if she needed a haircut. Anne was led to the chair, and her mother told him to do whatever he wanted. She cried and the barber laughed. Unable to escape and all her glorious hair, was shorn by a barber doing “what he wanted”. But since then, I’ve always been aroused seeing some girl the victim of a haircut. It sends erotic sensations right through me.

I took my brush and began drying the back.

Through High School my best friend was Linda. We never had to compete with who had the longest hair. Linda kept hers short. It was never more than 3 inches. She confided secretly she went to a barbershop. The week before graduation she showed up absolutely shorn. Her dark blonde hair was clippered straight up the sides and back, nothing was longer than an inch. I ran my hand over the back allowing the bristles stroke my palm. I gasped. She’d got really scalped! I wondered why she’d let a barber do this too her. But that caress up the back explained more than words ever could. He really did it to her.

By the end of summer that wasn’t all Linda had let some guy do. She had to stay with her aunt in Huston for the next year.

I had to pause. My arms were getting tired.

Why did I think about this? It made juices leak down my thighs. I ran my fingers through the long hair I had dried. It would be easier to care for short. My mother would die! I slid my fingers into my hair tight to my scalp. The years of careful culturing would make a wonderful souvenir. I reached down to wipe the moisture from my leg, caressing the thick curly hair between my legs. I could always start there. I took a hot cloth and lathered. The process was more complicated than I thought, but after a half hour of contortions and shaving the triangle was gone. I used some baby oil and caressed myself. The results were instantaneous and intense.

I lay on the bed, my head swirling. I gathered my thoughts and returned to the bathroom to finish drying my hair. I looked like I was twelve again. Nothing relieved the erotic tension. I lay on the bed bathed in my freshly washed hair. It cascaded over my face and breasts. I touched between my legs. It was so smooth and wet. I ached so bad.

I pulled on my jeans and grabbed a tee-shirt from the drawer. I hadn’t had my hair trimmed since I moved here eight months ago. I needed to do it! I needed to really do it! There was a small salon I passed going to work. My stomach was butterflies. Fifteen minutes later I was sitting in front of a mirror wondering if I should just run, while trying to explain why I wanted short hair. The woman stared at me. “I want to save as much as I can as a souvenir” I told her. We flipped the pages of several books. One moment I was brave, the next petrified. I was shaking when I finally said, “Just do it!”

I emerged with 26 inches coiled in a plastic bag. I hurried back to stare into the bathroom mirror. I looked like a high school preppie girl. My hair caressed my neckline; the front hung in layers chin length. I laid my cut hair on the counter. It felt so rich and silky lying there. I stared at my reflection. This wasn’t the cut I had imagined but still it urged me to lie on the bed and reached inside my jeans. There were a few stray bristles. I lathered again and reshaved. It was 4:00pm before I got up and once again stared into the mirror. It wasn’t short like Linda’s. I could feel my stomach turning. There was still time to “really do it”.

I ran a comb up the side close to my head. My panties were wet against my smooth skin. I took them off and put on just a skirt. My hair had been beautiful. Why was I so determined to ruin it? I fingered the chopped layers. I took a deep breath as I slid my wallet into my waist pouch and took a last glance, “You’ve come this far. You might as well do it now!”

A months ago I was sitting at the lunch table when a guy joked he went for a haircut and was surprised to see a woman ahead of him. Why I remembered this I don’t know.

That shop was a five minute drive away. I drove past slowly. It looked closed. That would make my decision easy but I parked anyway and walk back just to look. There was no one there. I paused and glanced in the window.

“Sorry! I stepped out to grab a bite!” The voice came from behind me with the sound of footsteps running across the street. “Didn’t get lunch!” He held the door open and I stepped inside. “Get yourself up there and I’ll just put this down!”

My heart pounded. What had happened to just walking past? I didn’t have to do this! I could leave! He put down his coffee and patted the back of the large padded chair as if summoning a dog. “Jump up here!” I said nothing as I stepped on the iron footrest and sank into the seat. Simulating a matador he flicked the cape, fastening it snug around my neck. I was caught. I could no longer just leave. I felt the wetness leak down both legs.

“So what is it today?” I griped the armrests to stop shaking. My voice quivered. “I’m tired of long hair.” Referring to the mane I had sentenced to destruction only hours earlier I stammered, “Easy to look after!” What could I say? “I’m about to have an orgasm in your chair?” He ran his comb through the top bringing it forward over my face. “My girlfriend gets her hair cut by a barber… he uses clippers” I said nervously. “She gets everything close!” I couldn’t stop shaking. He smiled, “No problem!” What had I said? I paused to gasp for another breath.

The chair was facing the window. The large mirror was to the side, behind the counter, but he stood blocking the view. “Off the ears?” I was shaking and ready to cry. I wanted to say, “No! Make it long: like it was when I woke up this morning!” He was ready to shear me! Why was I letting him do this? I was trapped. I had to! I nodded.

 He flicked the switch. I felt the vibration press against my neck and behind my ear, then sweep right up the side. Thick gobs tumbled down over my shoulder. I began to breathe rapidly. He chuckled, “You’ll feel cool now!” I squirmed. I slid my hand under my skirt. It was soaked right through. The breeze from his sleeve penetrated to my scalp. My palms sweated against the armrests. I prayed. “God please! Not right to my skin”.

I wanted to say something, anything to save what was left. Strands from the top dangled in front of my face hiding the tears that dotted the cape. My voice quivered, “Will the top be longer?” He kept working. “I haven’t got there yet?” Suddenly in an act of resolution he brought the clippers to my forehead pressed into my hair. My body went numb. The thick curtain that hung across my face dropped into my lap. He paused shaking the long hair from his arm and the clippers. “Can’t get easier to look after than this!”

As I got down from the chair I glanced at the mirror. I wanted to throw up. My hair was gone. “God! I look like a boy!” He grinned, “It’s a barbershop! You can’t leave looking like a girl!”

The hard part is just beginning. What am I going to tell everyone? I was back in my car in less than 5 minutes. I stared into the rear view mirror and ran my hand over my scalp. I’m so shaved, so wet, so scared! I feel screwed!

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