Frest Start: Ivy’s Perspective


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Author’s note: this is a companion story to Fresh Start by Ginger Herten (found here: http://www.hairstorynetwork.com/stories/fresh-start/) told from Ivy’s perspective. Thanks Ginny for letting me write this!

She catches my eye as soon as she walks into the bar. Fit, well-dressed and cute, she sits next to me at the counter.

“Mimosa, please,” she says to the bartender. That catches me by surprise.

The bartender notices too. “That’s an unusual drink to order in a bar at night,” he says.

“Yeah, I normally only have them with brunch,” she admits. “It fits my mood tonight though. I want something that’s festive and reminds me that I’m getting a fresh start.”

“What fresh start are you celebrating here alone?” I interject. I hope it’s not too forward to approach her. Hell, I don’t even have a clue if she’s into women.

“I saw my divorce lawyer this afternoon, the separation is official.” A smile begins to spread across her face. “It’s been a long time coming.”

Okay, so she just got divorced. Why? Is she high maintenance? An insufferable bitch? Did she decide to come out of the closet because she always knew she was a lesbian? Ok, now I’m projecting. I just need to be confident, maybe flirt a bit, and see where things go.

She reaches in her glass and plucks a cherry, of all things, from her drink. She glances at me before setting the cherry against her lips and popping the whole thing into her mouth with her index finger. Oh my god, is she doing what I think she’s doing?!? After several seconds her tongue emerges, bearing the tied cherry stem which she sets on her napkin.

She either really loves corny parlor tricks or she’s flirting with me. What are the chances? She’s really very pretty. Green, almond shaped eyes, high cheekbones and a glittering smile. Even her hair is a gorgeous shade of auburn, just kissed with a few dignified strands of light gray. Unfortunately the style appears a bit boring – one length, just a few inches past her shoulders.

She drains the last few drops of her mimosa and turns to face me, “I love your hair, it’s an incredibly good cut.”

“Thanks,” I say. I can feel the blood rushing to my cheeks at the compliment. I reach up and slightly ruffle my short, tapered pixie. “Want to play a round of pool? Nobody’s at the table.”

“Let me just get a refill first,” she says, signaling the bartender. “I have to warn you, I’m a wee bit out of practice.” She pulls her hair back into a ponytail and gives it a little shake.

We play for a while; she’s not as bad as she thinks she is. We talk as we go, gradually getting acquainted. Her name is Stacy. She has three kids that are at her sister’s tonight. She’s a closet designer, whatever the hell that is. I’m over ten years younger than she is, but that doesn’t bother me and I hope it doesn’t bother her.

We make some jokes back and forth and I notice that she keeps leaning over the table toward me to show off her cleavage. I’m feeling more and more comfortable that the interest is mutual. I also notice that she keeps drinking. She must have had five or six mimosas by now.

As we finish up I offer to drive her home. It doesn’t take much convincing; she must realize that she’s pretty drunk. When we get to her house, I offer to walk her in. She accepts, and it’s a good thing, since she’s a little unstable. I hold her around the waist while she fishes for her keys. Her hair smells good. Once inside I watch her while she struggles a bit to get her shoes off.

“You’re home safe,” I say. “I should get going.”

“You’d rather stay though, wouldn’t you?” she asks with a wink.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“Pffh, I’m not that drunk.” She is definitely that drunk, but she goes on, “my coordination goes before my judgment does. I wanted this before I took a single sip.”

“You didn’t know me before you started drinking,” I point out.

She immediately leans in and kisses me full on the mouth. Her hands go straight to my neck and it feels amazing as she rubs the freshly clippered nape that I just had cut yesterday.

“I wish I could feel this every day,” she blurts out, briefly looking embarrassed. “Did I mention earlier how much I like your hair?”

“It was the second thing you said to me.” As if to prove to me that this is what she wants regardless of the alcohol, she begins nibbling lightly on my ear. “Let’s get out of the kitchen,” I suggest, smiling.

We stumble to the couch in the living room and sit facing each other. She looks into my eyes and her hand goes right to my nape again. I must admit, it feels great. I’ve only had my hair this short for a few months, but I absolutely love it. If it were up to me, every woman would cut their hair this short and keep it this way all the time. It’s so easy and feels so great. And now I know how incredible it feels when someone runs their hands through it.

She’s staring quite intently into my eyes, so I ask, “You really like it, huh?” Stacy blushes a bit as I reach back and pull out her ponytail. Her lovely, thick red hair bounces down on her shoulders. I grab one of the soft locks and start twirling it around my index finger. Good hair has always been one of my turns-ons. Well, almost anything to do with hair really – haircuts, perms and rollers, bleaching, even shaving. I even went to beauty school and spent some time as a stylist before I found my calling making designer furniture. I look right back into Stacy’s eyes and say, “I bet you’re pretty used to getting lots of compliments on your own hair.”

“The attention’s been fading a bit along with the color,” she notes, dropping her head. “It was more of a thing when I was young and it was really fiery. I don’t mind the lack of attention though. Sure, some of it was compliments, but a lot of it was just being called ‘HEY RED’ and rude questions.”

“Rude questions?”

“Don’t ask,” she says, chuckling. “I’d rather get the kinds of compliments you get for your hair. Yours is bold by choice, mine is just bold by birth. I always just keep it in a boring mom style.”

“If you think it’s boring why don’t you do something with it?” I ask.

“I’ve got enough of a reputation around the PTA as the flakey one,” she notes shyly. “I’m the one who always sends the kids in mismatched socks and with a random box of Entenmann’s cake or cookies for the bake sale. I don’t need to stand out more. It’s bad enough being the redhead, everyone always spots me and remembers me.”

“Your PTA is really that conservative? Like on that old TV show Harper Valley PTA?”

“God no!” she responds, laughing.

“So, why do you think they’re going to judge you on your hair?” I probe.

“I don’t really think they’re going to judge me, just notice me even more,” she explains. “Ella’s mom has blue hair and no one judges her. But she’s also the one who coordinates all the girl scout meetings, so when people notice her they aren’t thinking-there goes Stacy, the flakey mom with the asshole husband.”

The way she lets the sentence trail off, I can’t help but wonder if there’s not more to the story than that, but I don’t want to push it any further. I continue to look into her eyes and twirl her hair around my finger. My mind is silently reviewing the information that she’s just shared with me while my libido is formulating a plan of its own.

“Well, they can stop thinking about the asshole husband,” I note.

“Yeah, I guess I don’t have that anymore,” she answers and smiles.

“If you didn’t care what anyone thought, what would you do with your hair?”

She sighs and closes her eyes, not in a bad way, but in a thinking about it way. “I see younger girls with cute short asymmetrical cuts all the time, but I’m too old to pull it off.”

“Where do you hide the scissors in this place?” I ask brazenly.

I’m playing quite the gambit here. If I’ve guessed right and Stacy’s got a bit of a hair thing too, this could be one of the greatest evenings of my life. On the other hand, if it gets too weird, or if she’s too drunk, everything could be ruined. Stacy opens her eyes and laughs nervously, but I’m not laughing.

“I’ve got some May wine in the fridge, want some?” she asks while walking back to the kitchen. I consider pointing out that she’s already had plenty of alcohol, but we’re already here at her place, so I decide to let things run their course. Stacy walks back to the couch with two full wine glasses and hands me one.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” I ask taking a sip of wine.

“What makes you say that?” she says, gulping down the last of the wine in her glass and pouring herself some more.

“If you’re young and bold enough to get divorced and start over, and you’re young and bold enough to hook up with someone you met in a bar, then you’re young and bold enough to do something fun with your hair,” I say, wondering if the wine will work to my advantage.

“It’s a temptation,” she responds.

“So, where do you hide those scissors? I can tell you are thinking about them.”

“Bottom of the linen closet,” she blurts out. She looks a little surprised at herself for letting it slip.

“Ok, let’s go!” I say, taking Stacy’s hand. “Upstairs?”

“Third door on the left,” she says, again sounding a bit surprised that she’s responding to my questions.

Once we get to the upstairs bathroom, Stacy opens the cabinet door. Looking down at the bottom of the closet, I see two boxes. One is just a small shoe box. The other is a box of Wahl hair clippers. Stacy picks up the first box as I pick up the box of clippers and wipe off the thick layer of dust that indicates that it’s been quite some time since these have been used.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” I tease, pointing to the logo on the box. “Where do you want to do this?”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

“Ok, let’s just put the boxes back and go back to the couch,” I say seriously, putting the box back down in the cabinet. Stacy stands there and stares at me, not making any move to replace the box. “Disappointed, aren’t you?” I ask.

She chuckles nervously and averts her eyes, damning evidence that she is indeed disappointed, though maybe a bit scared too.

“So, where do you want to do this?” I ask again picking the box back up.

“My bathroom, I guess,” she responds. She guides me through her bedroom to the master bath. “This has got to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done,” she says.

“Enjoying it though, aren’t you?” I ask with a wink.

“I’m just going to grab the wine, I’ll be right back,” she says, stalling. Oh, god, I hope this works. I can tell that she really wants to, she’s just apprehensive. But this can be the night of both of our lives, if only she would trust me.

I open the boxes and begin to take out the tools that are inside. Despite the dust on the outside of the boxes everything seems to be in good shape. I unroll a hand towel and lay out the scissors and shears on one side and the combs and clips on the other. As I pull the clippers out of their case and begin oiling the blades, Stacy comes in with the wine and both glasses.

“I couldn’t find a chair,” I mention.

“You really want to do this, don’t you?” she asks, hesitating in the doorway. “Why, why do you want to?”

“Because you want me to,” I reply. “And for the same reason that you own these,” I add, gesturing to the clippers and scissors laid out on the counter. “It’s obvious from the dust that you only used them on your husband and that you haven’t for a while. I’m guessing that was around the last time you slept with him.” I hope again that I’m not getting too pushy.

A shy shrug and blushing cheeks tell me that I’m right.

“Want to grab us a chair?” I prod.

Stacy pours herself yet another glass of wine and grabs a chair from across the hall. She’s drunk enough to smack the chair into just about every upright surface along the way. I haven’t had nearly as much to drink as Stacy, but I’m working on a nice buzz, so I decide to take another chance.

“You should take off your clothes,” I suggest coyly.

“Only if you do too,” she responds. I’m not sure if she’s taking the bait or if she doesn’t think that I’ll be willing to reciprocate.

Before either of us can second guess what we’re doing, I pull my t-shirt up and over my head and drop it on the floor. As I go for the button on my jeans I notice that Stacy is following suit and unbuttoning her blouse. In just a few seconds we’ve both stripped to bras and panties. I really wish that I had worn something sexier than a black sports bra. Stacy’s wearing a beautiful lace demi cup with underwire that really shows off her ample cleavage and the cutest pink panties decorated with little hearts and a tiny bow on the front. She seems pretty nervous. She makes slight movements as if she is going to cover herself with her hands, but then she stops and rigidly puts hers hands down at her sides.

“Sit down,” I say, trying to be encouraging but not too pushy.

Stacy takes a steadying breath and another drink and hastily takes a seat in the chair. She is sitting in it backwards, straddling the backrest. This works for me as the top of the chair comes up just under her breasts. She seems to be checking herself in the mirror, contemplating what’s about to happen.

“Oh! You’ve got a tattoo back here,” I notice as I lift the hair up off of Stacy’s shoulders. I had been a little nervous that my own tattoos (I have several) would be a turnoff to her, but now that I know she has one it doesn’t seem like such a big deal. “It’s big.”

She chuckles and blushes as I continue to examine the tattoo. She’s obviously had it for a long time and it’s seen better days. “It’s kind of hard to make out,” I say. “Is it celtic?”

With a coy smile, Stacy swigs down her remaining wine and says, “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

I get a big grin on my face. She has basically just told me that I’m spending the night. I twist her hair up around my hand and pull her head back so that I can lean in and kiss her. It’s a sweet kiss and our lips linger for a moment before I pull away.

I unwind Stacy’s silky hair off of my hand and begin to comb it out. I work slowly, trying to heighten the sensation of the experience by occasionally brushing the back of her neck with my hand or using my fingertips to pull stray hairs back off of her cheek.

Before long Stacy seems to relax as the brushing works its magic. As her shoulders drop and her breathing evens out, I start parting her hair. I section off the back part of her hair from above the right ear to the bottom left of the nape. I’m starting to get excited about what is going to happen and I think she is too, as I can see her smiling and biting her lip while her breathing picks back up again.

It’s a little crazy to think that I’m standing here in this beautiful woman’s house in my underwear, about to give her the short, asymmetrical haircut she’s always wanted. When I went to the bar this evening I was hopeful, but not overly optimistic, that I would find someone to go home with; never did I expect that I’d get to shear the hair off of a gorgeous ginger vixen.

Just as I finish clipping up the portion of Stacy’s hair that I’m not ready to cut yet, she takes a sharp nervous breath. I know that she wants to say something so I look her in the eyes in the mirror and pause. “Have you ever done this before?” she asks, very seriously.

“You probably should have asked these questions before telling me where the clippers were,” I tease. I’m not sure what exactly she’s expecting, but I hope she doesn’t think that I’d just start hacking at her hair with no talent or experience. I realize that I never told her that I went to beauty school or worked in a salon. She just thinks that I make furniture.

“You’re not going to tell me how short you’re planning to make it, are you?” she continues.

I smile reassuringly and shake my head.  I tilt Stacy’s head down so that she’s looking at her breasts. Then I pick up the scissors, adjust her head again just a bit while combing through a length of hair at the nape of her neck before I place the scissors in her hair. I close them with a soft schnick and make sure to keep the length of hair trapped between the blades. I bring the lock forward over her shoulder and drop it. The pretty red hair just brushes the edge of Stacy’s bra as it falls into her lap and then slides onto the floor.

I watch her in the mirror as she bites her lower lip. I’m hoping that’s a good sign. I remember how amazing it felt when the stylist at the salon bundled my mid-back length hair into a ponytail and severed it unceremoniously with unguarded clippers. It had felt liberating and exciting. It had meant me being me and in a way it was very sexy. But it had nothing on the eroticism of this cut. The two of us are nearly nude, in an intimate setting and charged with sexual energy. I continue to snip off the hair at the nape of Stacy’s neck and drop it in front of her, making sure that she can see the length that she is losing.

Once the length has been taken off the back I lift the hair around Stacy’s ear with the comb and snip it off an inch or two from her head. There’s no need to be precise right now as I’m just getting things ready for what’s to come. I continue to flip the hair in front of her, but now I start playing a game by giving myself a point each time I can land the lock in Stacy’s cleavage or on her bra.

I’m starting to feel really randy, so I take a little break and drink some wine. I watch Stacy staring at herself in the mirror. I’d give a dollar to know what she’s thinking, but I’m almost certain that she’s not expecting what’s coming next. I let the moment linger a bit longer until she looks up from her own reflection to make eye contact. A sly grin slowly spreads across my face as I reach down and pick up the clippers. I make a show of attaching the number 6 comb while making flirty eyes back at her.

Before I can flip the switch to turn the clippers on, Stacy holds her wine glass out to me and says, “Pour me another!”

“Really?” I ask, with a look of mild surprise on my face.

“I swear, I’ve drunk 200 pound men under the table,” she says, chuckling. I fill up her glass and she takes a few gulps before setting it back down. She takes a few deep breaths and turns to face the mirror again.

Stacy jumps a few inches out of the chair at the pop of the clippers when I turn them on. I laugh, probably all too hard. I quickly compose myself before I place the clippers in front of her right ear. I plunge them quickly into Stacy’s hair and push them all the way up to the section that is pinned up. I make a few more passes up the right side of her head, raining inch-long clippings down on Stacy’s shoulder as she watches, wide eyed.

“Well, I guess I should have seen that coming,” she says, laughing and reaching for her wine glass.

“Oh god, I thought you’d figured out what I was planning when I put the attachment on,” I say. I suddenly feel a rush of guilt. “Stacy, is this a bad idea to do this when you’re this drunk?” I try to show a softer, compassionate side.

“No, this is the perfect time to do this,” Stacy responds. She reaches out and puts her hand on the nape of my neck and pulls me in. She kisses me passionately, briefly flicking her tongue in between my open lips. “It’s too late to turn back at this point anyway. And I’m not that drunk, just nicely buzzed,” she adds before she starts to giggle at her own pun.

“I was planning to…” I start, hoping to explain.

“Shh,” Stacy puts her finger to my lips. “Don’t ruin the surprise. Do whatever, I’m sure I’ll love it,” she whispers softly, my face still close.

“Ok,’” I stand back up and walk around behind Stacy again. She’s convinced me that she wants this experience, if not the haircut. I softly brush the hair off of her shoulders and the upper part of her chest, caressing her smooth, soft skin. I pick the clippers back up and turn them back on. I finish buzzing off the hair around her ear and move on to the nape. In my opinion, the nape of the neck is the most incredible erogenous zone on the female body. I know there are others, and I like the others a lot, but the nape of the neck is just so incredibly sexy. I slowly move the clippers up along Stacy’s nape, mowing her hair down to an even auburn pelt.

Now that the clippered length is done, it’s time to put the taper in. I switch to the number 5 comb very deliberately, making sure that Stacy has every opportunity to voice her objection. She doesn’t say anything, but takes another sip of wine.

I work the taper carefully into the clippered back and side of Stacy’s hair. The side only needs the number 5 and number 4 combs, but I continue on the back with numbers 3 and 2 and I buzz down the bottom inch or so with the number 1. Finally I clean up the edges with the bare blades. I also trim the fine hairs off her neck that are only now exposed because her long hair is gone.

I put the clippers down and lean in to whisper in Stacy’s ear, “I know you’re dying to feel it.” Her right hand whips up to the back of her head and starts rubbing against the grain. She lets out a soft gasp and I can see her left hand go to her panties. “Now you get your wish, you can feel it every day, whenever you want,” I say, smiling.

“So, how do you want me to thank you?” Stacy asks coyly.

“I should probably finish the top first,” I say, releasing the clip on the top of her head and letting the remaining long hair spill out over her shoulders..

“I guess you have a point. I’ll try to restrain myself till you’re done,” Stacy says with a hand on my cheek before giving me a quick peck on the lips.

I go to work on the asymmetrical cut. I start on Stacy’s right side, cutting off over a foot of hair from the section that I just unclipped. I place the weight line right along her temple and continue around her head following the sectioning that I had done before. Once I make it around to the left side I flatten out the angle and cut it to lip length. There are now piles of hair from a few inches to over a foot long all around us and in Stacy’s lap. In all my time as a stylist I only saw this much hair on the floor once or twice.

I go back to the right side and start working scissors over comb. I’m trying to add texture that will transition into layers on the longer side. I don’t want the final style to be blunt and rigid, but to have movement and shape. I finish the scissor work by angling the sideburns into nice petit points and put down the scissors.

“Are you finished?” Stacy asks, starting to stand from the chair.

I gently push her back down by one shoulder. “I just want to soften it up a bit with the thinning shears,” I say.

“Good idea,” she responds. “I bet you didn’t expect me to have those when you asked where I hid the scissors.”

I nod my agreement and laugh. I didn’t expect her to have them, but I’m glad she does. I use them extensively on the short side to blend out the line between the clipper cut and scissor cuts sections of hair.

I put down the shears and smile at my work. Yep, I still got it! I pick my glass back up and watch as Stacy runs her hands through her hair and admires herself in the mirror. She stands and tries to brush all the little pieces of hair off of her skin. It’s not working so well – one of the disadvantages of not using a cape.

“Let’s take a shower,” she says suddenly, whether out of frustration or desire.

“Together?”

“I’m a big believer in water conservation,” she teases. I’m not sure if she’s serious or not but I watch her remove and shake out her hair-filled bra. I stare, mesmerized by two of the most wonderful breasts I have ever seen. They are large, so you could say that they hang, but they don’t droop, and they sway gently with the movement of Stacy removing her panties. I notice right away that her panties are pretty wet. She’s also trying unsuccessfully to hide it.

I realize as she steps into the shower and turns on the water that she’s serious about us showering together, so I pull my sports bra up over my head and slip out of my panties before joining an already soapy Stacy in the steaming water.

I step in behind her and work my hands down her body, starting at her shoulders, while I nibble her neck. My hands end up resting on her hips as she turns around and begins to lather my body with the soap. She briefly washes my legs, my arms, my shoulders, but she spends a lot of time cleaning my breasts. Mine are certainly smaller than hers, but my nipples are perky and it seems that she has taken notice.

Stacy kisses me again before switching places so that I can rinse off. She grabs the bottle of shampoo and squeezes out way too much for her current amount of hair. I chuckle lightly, knowing that she’s about to realize this as well. She closes her eyes and begins to work up a generous lather. After a moment I grab her wrists and move her arms down so that she is holding me around the waist. Then I continue the process of shampooing her hair for her. I spend a lot of time with my hands in her hair, working the shampoo through the strands (which isn’t too hard now that it’s this short) and massaging her scalp with my fingertips. Stacy starts slowly gyrating and her breathing gets faster. I don’t want to bring her to orgasm yet so I finish shampooing her and we switch positions so that she can rinse out her hair. I put my hands on Stacy’s face and trace my fingers down her neck. She runs her hands down my back and when she reaches my ass she squeezes and kneads it firmly.

“There’s hardly any room in here, let’s get out,” she suggests.

I reach back and turn off the water and we exit the shower. We carefully tiptoe around Stacy’s shorn hair that is piled all over the floor. Stacy grabs some towels, but instead of handing one to me, she starts to dry me off. She starts with my hair and works her way down, paying special attention to my neck, my breasts, and my nude pussy.

After finishing with me, Stacy quickly dries herself. “Sit down and I’ll comb out your hair.” I offer.

There is a wide tooth comb on Stacy’s dresser. I grab it and sit in front of her on the bed. I comb through the length that she still has on the left side then part her hair on the right, before tucking the long side back behind her ear. I bring my fingers down slowly along Stacy’s neck to her chest. I slide my hands under her ample breasts and cup them gently. Stacy looks down and the long side of her hair falls back in front of her face. I lean in and touch my tongue to her nipple. She gasps softly. I can feel my own juices flowing. I firmly rim her nipple over and over again with my tongue as Stacy places her hand on cheek and rubs my ear with her finger. She lays back on the bed and I lay next to her. I blow on the nipple that I had been caressing and it becomes rock solid. Her hand goes back to the hair on the back of my head and begins to rub. I grab her nipple with my thumb and forefinger and gently increase my grip, pinching, but not too hard. It is all Stacy needs as her muscles tense and she explodes, moaning and squeezing my neck.

I roll back off of Stacy onto my back. I’m so close to orgasm and I just want to cum. Fortunately Stacy senses my need and goes straight to my clit. She goes at me hard with her tongue while the long side of her hair brushes across my pelvis. The feeling coursing through me crests and I buck and shudder and moan in delight. Stacy doesn’t stop however, and I grab a hold of the sheet and thrust my pussy up into her face. Once again I writhe and groan with the pleasure of orgasm.

Stacy straddles me as I pant and enjoy the last shivers of my orgasm. Once I’ve caught my breath I take her by the shoulders and maneuver her onto her back. I spread her lips and thrust my fingers into her pink, wet goodness. With my other hand I hold her mound and lean down to pleasure her orally. Out of the corner of my eye I see her grab her own short hair with one hand while the other grips the short strands on the top of my head. All too soon she squeals and shudders, her orgasm lasting many times longer than my own.

We fall asleep in each other’s arms and don’t wake up until we hear the lawnmower going next door. I stare at my gorgeous ginger vixen and twirl her long strand of hair around my finger.

“Do you need an aspirin or something?” I ask, worried about how much she drank last night.

“No, why?” she asks, looking confused. “It’s not like my hair hurts.”

“I meant for the hangover,” I laugh.

“Naw, I never get hungover,” she says, looking away. “I’ll be right back.”

She wraps herself in a towel as she gets up. She walks to her bathroom and stands, unmoving, in the doorway for a moment. I worry that she might be second guessing what happened last night. That she’ll be mad at me, or worse, at herself. I had the single best night of my life last night and I will be devastated if it was anything less for Stacy.

“On second thought, I’m going to use the main bathroom,” she says, turning and making her way out the door. I sit up on the bed and wait for her to come back. The concern must show on my face because she looks at me quizzically as she sits next to me on the bed.

“Are you having regrets?” I blurt out. I can’t take the worry.

“About staying married these last few years just because getting divorced is complicated, or about last night?” she asks, with a wit that I didn’t see when she was drunk.

“Last night,” I reply, almost as a question.

“Not a single one,” she replies. She smiles and kisses me, passionately. “I just didn’t want my feet covered in hair.”

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