BarbersChoice
At sixty, I thought life had beaten me down for good. Three divorces, bad health, worse choices with money—I was standing at the edge of almost homeless. The mirror showed a tired woman with lines around her eyes, carrying too many regrets.
And then one night, while scrolling through Facebook like it was some cheap medicine for loneliness, I saw him. Him.
That grin, even older now, still hooked something deep in me. Without thinking, I hit the little wink. And then, bold as I hadn’t been in years, I typed:
“Still obsessed with short hair old man?”
His reply came quick:
“Some things never change. You finally giving in?”
It was Jack. A fling from nearly three decades earlier. A year or so of emotional hell as I remember, his short hair addiction for both himself and for me especially was my breaking point. His allure led me to losing my most feminine trait – my long, fuul locks. I fell in to a dark time being forced to go shorter and shorter with my hair, eventually sometimes twice weekly visits to barbers – with instructions to “keep me tidy.” At times it was an old shop with an old male barber skinning me – others were females who seemed to love making me feel less than human. Regardless, he loved it. It was emotional hell as I remember.
I laughed out loud in the quiet of my room. Little did he know, I had just chopped my hair into a neat bob. Not the bald faded cuts he remembered, but sleek, sharp, and… well, maybe a little daring.
“Dinner?” I typed.
Dinner
When I walked into that restaurant, I could feel his eyes on me before I even reached the table. He didn’t hide it either. His gaze went straight to my hair.
“Damn,” he said, pulling out my chair. “That’s shorter than I ever thought I’d see on you.”
I smiled, sipping the power of the moment like fine wine. “What can I say? Age softens some people. For me, it sharpened the scissors.”
“Well,” he said, with a shit eating grin. “I hope it may have sharpened your zest for clippers as well young lady.”
We laughed, we remembered, we tiptoed around the wreckage of years. But under it all, there was tension. I could see it in the way his eyes lingered on the sharp line of my hair, the way his hand brushed the back of my neck when we said goodbye. And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t the broke, battered woman life had made me. I was the one in charge. What the hell right, it was only hair and at 60, I honestly was tired of the washing, trims, color and the expense of upkeep of my shoulder length hair.
The Game
After that, it became a game. My game.
The next time we met, my bob was gone. In its place, a pixie cut. Short, cropped, playful.
His grin gave him away instantly.
“You’re killing me,” he muttered.
Inside, I glowed. It was like shedding weight I’d carried for decades. Every snip of hair was another chain falling off.
The time after that, I went shorter still—clippers buzzing the sides to soft stubble. When I walked into the coffee shop, heads turned. Sixty years old, almost bare at the ears, and for the first time in my life I felt… dangerous.
Dangerous kn owing that I knew his addiction was stronger than I ever remembered. But now I’ve learned to let go to get what I wanted – what I needed – his deep pockets and long cock!
He leaned across the table, his fingers brushing the side of my head.
“You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?”
I tilted my head, letting him feel the prickle of fresh clipper work.
“Oh, I do. And I love it.”
“She used the large clippers with the suction this morning, I wasn’t sure if it was as short as I’m linking it these days – I couldn’t see the hair falling on the cape”
The power wasn’t in him wanting me—it was in me choosing it.
Almost Bald
Walking around town nearly bald at sixty was nothing short of electric. At first, I thought people would stare, whisper, maybe pity me. Instead, I found myself walking taller. Heads did turn—but it was curiosity, admiration even. I had spent so much of my life trying to be soft, to please, to look “acceptable.” Now, stripped down to stubble, I felt raw, fearless, beautiful.
Every breeze against my scalp reminded me that I was still alive, still capable of starting over. Younger women dyed their hair pink or shaved a side for rebellion. For me, it was the clippers—the boldness of stepping out with nothing to hide behind.
“Look at hot young gal over there babe, sad to say you’ll never see my hair that long. It’s all clippers and skin for me from here on”
And he? He couldn’t get enough.
The Gift
On his birthday, I handed him a small box wrapped in ribbon. My palms trembled, but not from doubt—from anticipation.
He opened it and burst into laughter.
“Oster 76s? You didn’t.”
“I did,” I said, my voice steady. My hair was buzzed down to a shadow now, soft as velvet under his fingers. “Why wait for the barber when you can keep me just the way you want… at home?”
That evening he was in his element as she skinned me short, each pass of the clippers removing what we now both needed gone – my past!
He stood stark naked as I ran the loud machine around his cock – his member erect and hard as a diamand cutter – still at his age!
“This shit needs to go babe, no pub’s in my mouth I say.” After taking him bald I began an onslaught – his cock deep down my throat, one hand pressing hard on his ass, the other leaving my finger thrusting a lubbed finger in his anus. His response said it all.
His eyes burned into mine, but for the first time, I realized I wasn’t giving him control. I was claiming it.
“I’ll never, ever let this shit get long again babe – I’m now your bald bitch forever!
Our Saturday morning rituals were me walking into our converted barbershop in the house, sitting in the one waiting chair, him coming in with his “NEXT” I get up and walk slowly to the chair, a few pumps, tight cape, and a quick, firm press on my crown and the sound and smell of the loud Osters plowing up my nape. Never a word form me he would demand – just 45 minutes or so of a bare metal blade on my scalp.
Because every cut had been my choice. Every inch lost had made me stronger. And sucking his cock in that room at sixty, nearly bald and bold, I felt more alive—and more in charge—than I ever had in my life.
