Give Yourself To Me (Part 1)

Nicola stepped out of the Uber with her overnight bag slung over one shoulder and the quiet, satisfied click of the door closing behind her. The conference cancellation had landed in her inbox at lunch, and she’d barely waited for the official email before booking the earlier train home. Now the flat’s street was lit by the soft amber of the streetlamps, and the familiar smell of someone else’s dinner drifting from a neighbour’s window made her shoulders drop for the first time all week. She let herself in, the key turning easily, and paused just inside the door. Her curls were still damp from the rain that had started as the train pulled in; she pushed them back with one hand and listened. The living-room lamp was on. Soft music—something low and playlist-familiar—filtered down the hall. Her flatmate was home. A small, private smile pulled at her mouth. Nicola kicked her shoes off by the mat, set the bag down without the usual careful hang-it-up ritual, and padded toward the light in her socks. She could already picture the look on her friend’s face when she appeared in the doorway a full two days early—hair wild, conference lanyard still stuffed in the bottom of her bag, ready for whatever unplanned Friday night version of “girl time” they could invent on the spot. The hallway smelled faintly of the candle they always lit when they were both in for the evening. Nicola slowed as she reached the living-room doorway, one hand resting lightly on the frame, and leaned in just far enough to see. The flat seemed very calm and all too familiar; they had shared it for years after all. But there was no obvious sign of her flatmate Kirsty. She strolled into the living room, no sign. She was confused; she knew Kirsty would be home because the flat was all completely lit up and lived in.

 

Suddenly, she could hear the unmistakable shattering sound like a sheep being sheared and heavy breathing. What the hell is going on, she wonders. Nicola stood still in the middle of the living room, bag still over her shoulder, listening. The flat looked exactly as it always did on a Friday evening—throw blankets half-folded on the sofa, Kirsty’s laptop open on the coffee table with a half-drunk mug beside it, the kitchen light on and the dishwasher humming its usual low cycle. Nothing out of place. Nothing that explained the absence. Then the sound started again. It was sharp and rhythmic, a rapid buzzing-click that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. It really did sound like the electric shears she’d once heard at a farm when she was a kid—the same high, mechanical chatter. Underneath it came short, uneven breaths. Not panicked. Just… heavy. Concentrated. “Kirst?” Nicola called, voice careful. No answer. The noise was coming from the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door was closed, light visible in the thin gap underneath. Nicola dropped her bag on the sofa and walked closer, the floorboards creaking under her socks in the way they always did. The buzzing paused for a second, then started again, closer now, and the breathing hitched with it. She stopped just outside the door, one hand raised to knock, the other hovering near the handle. Whatever Kirsty was doing in there, it wasn’t a normal Friday-night shower.

 

Nicola’s brow furrowed. She leaned in, almost touching the wood with her forehead, and listened harder. Nicola’s hand was still on the door handle when her brain caught up with her eyes. Kirsty was on her back in the middle of the bed, completely naked, legs spread wide. The electric clippers were in her right hand—the same buzzing, high-pitched chatter Nicola had heard from the hallway—hovering near the inside of her thigh. Her left hand was between her legs, moving in quick, focused strokes. Her head was tipped back against the pillow, eyes closed, mouth open, the heavy breathing Nicola had heard now clearly audible and unmistakably hers. The sheets were twisted under her hips. She hadn’t heard a single footstep. Nicola’s stomach dropped. She jerked backward so hard the door slammed against the frame, then spun and walked—almost ran—back down the hall, heart hammering. She didn’t stop until she was in the kitchen, both hands braced on the edge of the counter, staring at the sink without seeing it. The image was already burned in. Kirsty’s long dark hair fanned across the pillow. The pale skin of her stomach and thighs. The way her knees had been bent and open. The clippers still switched on, the cord trailing across the bed. And the sound—the wet, rhythmic sound of her own hand that Nicola hadn’t been able to process until she was already looking at it. They had lived together for years. They knew each other’s work schedules, coffee orders, which towels belonged to whom, the exact face each of them made when they were about to cry. Nicola had never once, not even for a second, imagined walking in on this. Behind her, the buzzing finally stopped. A moment later Kirsty’s bedroom door opened. Nicola didn’t turn around. Her fingers tightened on the counter. She could hear Kirsty’s bare feet on the floorboards, slow and careful now, and the soft rustle of fabric as she pulled something on.

 

Neither of them spoke. The kitchen light felt too bright. Nicola kept her eyes on the sink, pulse still loud in her ears, and waited for Kirsty to say something—or to decide not to. The two minutes stretched. Nicola stayed where she was, hands still resting on the counter, listening to the small sounds of Kirsty moving around her room—drawers, the soft snap of fabric, the bathroom tap running for a few seconds. When the bedroom door finally opened again, Nicola turned. Kirsty stood in the hallway just outside the kitchen, the dressing gown belted tightly at her waist. Her hair was still loose and slightly tangled from the pillow. She had one hand on the doorframe and the other tucked into the pocket of the gown. She looked at Nicola, then at the floor, then back again, a small, unsteady smile trying to settle on her face and not quite managing it.

 

“I wasn’t expecting you home,” she said quietly. Her voice was careful, almost flat.

 

“I didn’t hear you come in.”Nicola exhaled. “Conference got cancelled this afternoon. I caught the early train. I just… wanted to surprise you.” She paused, then the words came out faster than she meant them to.

 

“I’m sorry I barged in. I heard the noise and I got worried. I thought something was wrong.”

 

Kirsty nodded once, still not quite meeting her eyes. The dressing gown shifted when she shifted her weight. Neither of them moved closer. The dishwasher clicked into its next cycle behind Nicola, the only ordinary sound in the room. Kirsty’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked like she was searching for the next ordinary sentence and couldn’t find one. Nicola’s mouth was moving before she could stop it.

 

“What the hell were you doing in there?”, the words came out sharper than she intended, hanging in the kitchen air.

 

Kirsty’s shoulders tightened under the dressing gown. For a second she just looked at Nicola, eyes wide, the careful smile gone. Then she tipped her head toward the living room in a small, almost helpless motion and turned, walking ahead of Nicola without waiting.

 

“It was nothing,” she murmured, so quietly Nicola almost missed it.

 

She kept her back to her as she crossed the hall, one hand still gripping the front of the gown like she needed the reminder it was closed.

 

“Just… forget it. You’re home early, that’s good. How was the train?

 

”Nicola followed a step behind, the living-room lamp throwing both of their shadows long across the floorboards. She watched the way Kirsty moved—too deliberate, too quick to put the sofa between them—and felt the apology she’d offered a minute ago already sliding out of reach.

 

“It didn’t look like nothing,” Nicola said, stopping just inside the room. Her voice was lower now, but she didn’t soften it.

 

Kirsty sank onto the edge of the sofa, knees together, fingers twisting the belt of the gown. She stared at the coffee table instead of at Nicola, the laptop screen still glowing, the half-drunk mug still sitting there like any other Friday night. The silence stretched. She knew Nicola. She knew that tone. And she knew, with a small, sinking certainty, that changing the subject was not going to work. Nicola stayed standing, arms folded, watching Kirsty’s fingers keep twisting the belt of the dressing gown.

 

“Why do you even have a pair of electric clippers?” she asked. The question landed blunt and unsoftened.

 

“Were you about to shave your head or something? Because I walked in and for a second I genuinely thought I was five minutes away from you having your own Britney moment.”

 

Kirsty’s head came up at that. A flush crept across her cheeks and down her neck. She opened her mouth, closed it, then looked past Nicola toward the hallway like she was calculating the distance back to her room.

 

“I wasn’t—” she started, voice small. She stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “It wasn’t my head.”

 

The admission sat between them, thin and unfinished. Kirsty’s hands stilled on the belt. She still wouldn’t meet Nicola’s eyes for more than a second at a time, but the careful pretence she’d been holding onto since she left the bedroom had clearly cracked. Nicola didn’t fill the silence. She just waited, the same way she always did when she knew Kirsty was about to tell her something she’d rather keep to herself.

 

Nicola watched the way Kirsty’s shoulders had climbed toward her ears and felt the sharp edge of her own curiosity blunt. She exhaled, softer this time.

 

“Alright. Forget it for now.” She turned toward the hallway, already shrugging out of her jacket.

 

“I brought a bottle of wine home. Proper girls’ night. You’re not getting out of it.”

 

She bent to toe off her shoes by the mat, the overnight bag still sitting where she’d dropped it. The ordinary motions—jacket over the hook, shoes lined up, the familiar creak of the floor—seemed to loosen something in the room. Kirsty’s breath left her in a long, unsteady rush. Heat still burned across her cheeks and down her chest, but for one brief second the panic eased. Off the hook. Nicola was letting it go. Nicola straightened, wine bottle in one hand now, and looked back over her shoulder. Her voice carried easily down the short hall.

 

“You’re not off the hook, by the way.”

 

Kirsty’s eyes snapped up. The relief vanished as quickly as it had arrived. Nicola was already walking back toward the living room, barefoot, jacket gone, the bottle held up like a peace offering that wasn’t quite peace.

 

“Wine first,” she said, setting it on the coffee table. “Then you’re telling me what those clippers were actually for.”

 

They settled on the sofa with the wine open between them, two glasses already poured. Kirsty had curled into the corner, legs tucked under her, the dressing gown still belted but looser now that the first few sips had taken the edge off. She wasn’t a big drinker—never had been—but the wine always did the same thing to her: softened the tight line of her shoulders, made the words come a little easier. Nicola knew it. She’d watched it happen enough times over the years to recognise the exact moment Kirsty stopped guarding every sentence. Nicola shifted closer, one knee drawn up, and reached out without asking. Her fingers found the ends of Kirsty’s hair—long, dark, still slightly tangled from the pillow—and began to twist a slow section of it around her hand. It was an old habit, something she’d done since they were teenagers whenever she wanted Kirsty to talk. Kirsty didn’t pull away. She just went very still, glass balanced on her knee.

 

“So,” Nicola said, voice light, the way she always sounded when she was about to ignore a boundary. “The clippers.”

 

Kirsty took another sip. The wine left a faint pink mark on her lower lip. “They’re just… clippers,” she murmured. “I was using them.”

 

“Mm.” Nicola’s fingers kept moving, gentle but deliberate, separating one lock from the rest. “On your head?”

 

“No.”

 

“On your legs?”

 

A small shake of the head. Kirsty’s eyes stayed on the coffee table. “Not really.”

 

Nicola waited. The living room was quiet except for the low music still playing from earlier and the soft sound of her fingers in Kirsty’s hair. She gave the strand a light tug, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make Kirsty look at her. Kirsty’s mouth pressed together. She lifted the glass again, buying another few seconds, and when she answered it was barely above a whisper, the words half-swallowed by the rim.

 

“It wasn’t… I wasn’t shaving anything important. It was just… easier. For… what I was doing.”

 

She stopped there, cheeks warm again, and took another careful sip like the sentence had finished itself. Nicola’s hand stayed in her hair, unmoving now, waiting for the rest. Kirsty drained a long swallow of wine, the glass tipping farther than she usually allowed. The warmth spread through her chest and up into her face, and with it came the sharp, unwelcome clarity that the half-answers weren’t going to hold. Nicola’s fingers were still in her hair, patient and unmoving, the same quiet insistence that had always worked on her. The game was already over. It had been over the moment Nicola walked through the bedroom door. She set the glass down on the coffee table with a small, deliberate click. Her hands stayed there for a second, palms flat against the wood, steadying herself. When she spoke, the words came out faster than she meant them to, almost blunt.

 

“It’s called trichophilia.”

 

The living room went quiet around the word. Kirsty kept her eyes on the table, on the faint ring the glass had left. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, the way her pulse had jumped, but she didn’t take it back. She had spent years making sure this particular fact stayed in the locked part of her head that even Nicola didn’t have a key to. Now it was out, sitting between them on the sofa, and all she could do was wait to see whether the friendship that had held every other version of her would still hold this one.Nicola’s hand had gone still in her hair. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t laugh. She just looked at Kirsty, the easy teasing expression gone, replaced by something more careful.

 

“Hair,” Nicola said after a moment, voice low. “You get off on hair?”

 

Kirsty nodded once, small and tight. Her fingers curled against the edge of the table.

 

“Yeah.”

 

The wine glass sat between them, half-empty. Outside, a car passed on the street. Inside, neither of them moved. Kirsty’s fingers stayed pressed to the edge of the coffee table. She kept her eyes on the wood grain while she spoke, the words coming out low and uneven, like she was reading them off something she had never meant to say out loud.

 

“I’ve had it since we met. Since school. I’ve been hiding it the whole time.” She swallowed. “I love hair. Feeling it. Growing it. Washing it.” Her voice dropped even quieter on the last part, almost lost against the music still playing. “Cutting it.”

 

She finally looked up. Nicola hadn’t moved. Her hand was still resting in Kirsty’s hair, but the easy, familiar weight of it felt different now—still there, but frozen. Kirsty’s cheeks were hot; she could feel the flush all the way down her neck.

 

“I’m sorry I never told you,” she said, the apology rushing out. “I didn’t want it to… I didn’t want you to look at me differently. You’re my best friend. You’ve always been my best friend. If this changes that, I understand. I do. I just—” She stopped, breath catching. “I didn’t want to lose you over it.”

 

Nicola stared at her. The shock was plain on her face—eyes wider than usual, mouth slightly open, the confident line of her shoulders gone soft. She looked like she was trying to rearrange every version of Kirsty she had known for the last fifteen years and fit this new piece into the middle of them. The living room felt smaller. The wine sat untouched between them. Outside, another car went by. Inside, Nicola still hadn’t said a word, her face changed as she looked at her. The shock was still there, but it softened at the edges when she saw the way Kirsty’s mouth had gone tight, the careful way she was holding herself like she was waiting to be told the friendship was over. Nicola reached out and tucked the strand of hair she’d been holding back behind Kirsty’s ear, the gesture automatic and familiar.

 

“Hey,” she said, quieter now. “We’ll always be best friends. That doesn’t change. Whatever you do when you’re on your own is your business. I shouldn’t have pushed. I walked in on something private and then I kept going. That’s on me.”

 

She opened her arms, a small, clear motion. Kirsty didn’t hesitate. She shifted across the sofa and leaned in, the dressing gown bunching between them as she pressed her face against Nicola’s shoulder. Nicola’s arms came around her at once, one hand settling between her shoulder blades, the other resting lightly at the back of her head, fingers brushing the dark hair there without thinking. Kirsty’s breath shook once against Nicola’s collarbone, then steadied. They stayed like that, the wine forgotten on the table, the low music still playing, the flat quiet around them the way it always was when it was just the two of them. They eased apart slowly, Nicola’s hand lingering for a second at the back of Kirsty’s head before she let it drop. The dressing gown had slipped a little at the shoulder; Kirsty tugged it back into place without looking down.

 

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore,” Nicola said. Her voice was steady, careful. “Seriously. It’s fine.”

 

Kirsty shook her head. The wine had settled warm in her chest and the hug had loosened something that had been locked for years. She had already decided, somewhere between the kitchen and the sofa, that she was done keeping it shut.

 

“It’s okay. I want to. I’ve been carrying it around forever. Might as well… get it out.” A small, uneven smile tugged at her mouth. She glanced at Nicola, almost shy again.

 

“Sorry for the shock, though. I know we’ve seen each other naked before—changing, baths when we were younger, all that normal stuff. Just… never like that.”

 

Nicola huffed a quiet laugh, the sound more relief than amusement.

 

“Yeah. That was a first. It was a shock.” She paused, then added, softer, “But it’s okay. Really.”

 

She reached for her glass, took a sip, and set it back down. The easy deflection was gone from her face now. Kirsty had opened the door; Nicola could see it, and she could see that Kirsty wasn’t going to close it again tonight. She shifted on the sofa so she was facing her properly, one arm resting along the back cushions.

 

“So,” she said, not unkindly. “If you’re actually telling me… what does it mean? The clippers. The cutting. All of it.”

 

Kirsty’s fingers found the belt of the gown again, twisting once. She didn’t look away this time. The wine glass sat between them, catching the lamplight. Outside, the street had gone quiet. Inside, the question waited. Kirsty’s fingers stayed twisted in the belt of the dressing gown, but her voice came out steadier than she expected.

 

“You were never going to walk in and find me bald as a cue ball,” she said. “I promise. It wasn’t about actually doing it. I just… like the sound. The vibration. Having them there. The temptation of it.”

 

She glanced at Nicola, then down at her own hair where it spilled over her shoulder—long, thick, dark, the same length it had been for as long as the two of them had known each other.

 

“I’ve always had it like this. Since we were kids. But there’s this tiny part of me that… hopes someone would take the clippers to it one day. Just… do it.”

 

The words left her mouth and she heard them as if someone else had said them. Her cheeks burned hotter. She couldn’t believe how blunt she’d just been, how easily the sentence had come out once the wine and the hug and the open door had lined up. She pressed her lips together, waiting, the living room suddenly very quiet around the two of them. Nicola was still watching her, glass paused halfway to her mouth, the shock from earlier replaced by something quieter and more attentive. Kirsty didn’t take the words back. She just sat there, heart loud in her ears, and let them stay.

 

Nicola tilted her head, studying her. “Do you think you’d ever actually do it? Let someone?”

 

Kirsty’s answer was immediate and small. She shook her head, eyes dropping to the space between them on the sofa. “No. I’m too chicken.” Her fingers tightened on the belt of the gown. “That’s the sick part. I love my hair. It’s my favourite thing about myself. I can’t even picture not having it.” She paused, the next words quieter, almost reluctant. “But if somebody made me… if they didn’t give me a choice… I would. I’d let them.”

 

Nicola’s eyebrow lifted, slow and deliberate. The confident line of her mouth curved, not quite a smile.

 

“So it’s like being submissive?”

 

The flush that had been sitting high on Kirsty’s cheeks deepened until it reached the tips of her ears. She didn’t look up. She didn’t deny it. A tiny, helpless nod was all she managed, the confirmation clear even without words. The wine glass sat forgotten on the table. Outside, the street stayed quiet. Inside, Nicola watched the colour rise across her best friend’s face and didn’t look away. Nicola didn’t look away. Her voice stayed even, almost casual, the same tone she used when she was testing how far something would go.

 

“So if I tied you to our kitchen chair right now and told you I was going to shave your head, you’d let me?” Kirsty’s breath caught. She shook her head, but it wasn’t a full refusal.

 

“It’s not that simple.” Her fingers had gone still on the belt of the gown. “I like the whole thing. The setup. I’d want it to be… an actual barber chair. With a cape. Clippers, scissors, all of it. Not just—” She stopped herself, the rest of the sentence cut off. Her cheeks were still flushed. She looked at the wine glass instead of at Nicola. “This is all fantasy anyway. We’re wasting time talking about something that’s never going to happen.”

 

The living room stayed quiet around them. Nicola’s eyebrow stayed slightly raised. She didn’t fill the silence right away. She just watched Kirsty, the half-empty glass, the way her best friend’s hands had tightened again in her lap, and let the unfinished sentence hang between them. Nicola’s fingers drifted up to her own hair as she asked it, deliberately twisting one of the dark-blonde curls around her index finger so the spiral bounced against her cheek.

 

“Is it just cutting your own hair you’re into? Or other people’s as well?”

 

Kirsty’s eyes flicked to the curl, then away. The flush on her face hadn’t faded.

 

“It depends,” she said quietly.

 

Nicola didn’t let the short answer sit. She gave the curl another slow twist, watching Kirsty’s face.

 

“Depends on what? Would you want to cut mine?”

 

Kirsty’s mouth opened, then closed. She looked at the wine glass again, at the belt of her gown, anywhere but the curl still looped around Nicola’s finger. The truth sat heavy and private behind her teeth: she had never really thought about cutting Nicola’s hair. Not properly. But the other image—the one that had lived in the back of her head for years, of Nicola fastening her into a barber chair, cape tight around her neck, clippers already humming—had never gone away. She could feel the weight of it now, sharp and impossible. She would never say it. Not tonight. Not ever.

 

“I don’t know,” she murmured instead, the words small and unfinished. “It’s not… I haven’t really thought about it like that.”

 

Nicola’s eyebrow lifted again, the curl still caught between her fingers. She didn’t look convinced. The living room stayed quiet around them, the half-empty glasses catching the lamp light, Kirsty’s long dark hair spilling over her shoulder while Nicola’s curls framed her face, and the question hung there, waiting. Nicola’s mouth curved into a small, sceptical smile. She let the curl slip free of her fingers and shook her head, the motion light.

 

“You’d never get me in a barber chair anyway,” she said, the old confident ease sliding back into her voice. “So you can keep dreaming about that one.”

 

The words landed soft and teasing. Something in Kirsty’s shoulders eased; the tight line of her mouth loosened just enough for a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. The worst of the tension had thinned. The wine glasses still sat between them, the lamp still low, Nicola’s curls still framing her face while Kirsty’s long dark hair spilled over the shoulder of the dressing gown. For a moment it almost felt ordinary again. Kirsty looked at her own hands in her lap. The opening was there—small, but there. She had already said more tonight than she had in fifteen years. One more piece didn’t feel as impossible as it had an hour ago.

 

“It isn’t just the clippers,” she said quietly.

 

Nicola’s smile stayed, but her head tilted, listening. Kirsty kept her eyes on the belt of the gown, fingers worrying the fabric once more.

 

“I’ve got other things. Scissors. A proper cape. A few different guards.” She paused, the next words careful. “They’re in the bottom of my wardrobe. Have been for a while.”

 

The living room went quiet again, but the quiet felt different now—less sharp, more expectant. Nicola didn’t interrupt. She just watched her, the playful edge still on her face, waiting to hear the rest.

 

“I’ve got a barber cape too,” Kirsty said, the words coming out blunter than she meant them to. She kept her eyes on the belt of the gown. “I put it on sometimes. When you’re not here.”

 

Nicola’s eyebrows shot up. For a second she just stared, the playful smile wiped clean by genuine surprise. Then her hand came out and swatted Kirsty’s arm—light, familiar, the same half-hearted hit she’d been giving her since they were sixteen.

 

“You absolute menace,” she said, laughing under her breath. “Right. I’m keeping a close eye on you from now on. No more unsupervised evenings. I’m serious.”

 

Kirsty’s giggle broke free before she could stop it, small and shaky and a little disbelieving. The sound felt strange in her own ears. She pressed a hand over her mouth for a moment, still flushed, still half-convinced she was dreaming the whole conversation. The wine, the sofa, Nicola’s curls, the dressing gown, the quiet flat—they were all real. And she had just told her best friend about the cape in the bottom of the wardrobe. Nicola was still watching her, the shock fading into something warmer and more curious, the corner of her mouth lifted again. Kirsty dropped her hand, the giggle trailing off into a breathless little exhale, and met her eyes for the first time in several minutes. The weight of everything she’d said sat between them, lighter than it had been an hour ago, but still unmistakably there.

 

Nicola’s eyes lit up. Kirsty saw it the second it happened—the quick, bright shift that always meant an idea had landed and she was already running with it. Kirsty opened her mouth to head her off.

 

“Nic, don’t—”

 

“Go get the barber set.” Nicola was already smiling, the words tumbling out before Kirsty could finish. “Cape, clippers, whatever you’ve got. We’ll try the cape on. Just the cape. Come on.”

 

Kirsty’s protest died halfway out. Her heart had kicked hard against her ribs; the idea of the cape coming out of the wardrobe, of Nicola seeing it, of actually putting it on while Nicola watched, sent a sharp, hot thrill straight through her that she had no business feeling on their living-room sofa. She tried to keep her face even, tried to sound like she was only humouring her.

 

“That’s a terrible idea,” she said, but the words came out thinner than she wanted. Her fingers had already loosened on the belt of the gown. She looked at Nicola—the expectant tilt of her head, the curls, the open, playful challenge in her expression—and felt the last of her resistance fold.

 

“Fine,” she muttered, standing before she could talk herself out of it. “Just the cape. And then we put it away.”

 

Nicola’s grin widened. Kirsty turned toward the hallway, pulse loud in her ears, already knowing she was lying to both of them about how long “just the cape” was going to last. Kirsty disappeared into her room. Nicola heard the wardrobe door open, then the soft rustle of things being moved. A minute later Kirsty came back down the hall with her arms full.Nicola’s eyes went wide the moment she saw the spread. The clippers were there, and the black barber cape folded over Kirsty’s forearm, but so was everything else: a neat row of plastic guards numbered 0 through 8, a pair of proper haircutting scissors still in their sleeve, two combs, and a small aerosol can of shaving foam that had clearly never been used on legs. Kirsty set the whole collection down on the coffee table without a word, the cape sliding into a soft pile beside the clippers. Nicola leaned forward at once, fingers already sorting through the guards, turning the scissors over, picking up the foam and reading the label.

 

“Jesus, Kirst. This must have cost a fortune.”

 

Kirsty stayed standing on the other side of the table, arms folded loosely over the dressing gown. She didn’t answer. She didn’t deny it either. Her eyes stayed on the items—on Nicola’s hands moving through them—and the flush on her cheeks deepened as the full extent of what she’d kept hidden for years sat under the living-room lamp between them. Nicola glanced up, still holding one of the combs, and the look on her face was pure, unfiltered surprise. Kirsty met it for a second, then looked away, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wasn’t sure whether to smile or apologise again. Nicola looked up from the combs and met Kirsty’s eyes. The familiar cheeky glint was already there, the one that had got them both into trouble more than once over the years. She smiled, slow and deliberate. Kirsty’s stomach dropped. She knew that look. Her arms tightened across her chest and the words came out fast, defensive, almost sharp.

 

“I’m not cutting my hair. Don’t even— I’m not doing it. That’s not happening.”

 

“Relax.” Nicola’s voice stayed light, the smile still in place. “Nobody’s cutting anything. I just want to see the cape on you. That’s all. Put it on.”

 

Kirsty shook her head at once. The flush was back, hotter now, and she felt herself folding inward the way she used to when they were teenagers and Nicola pushed too far. Her shoulders rounded. Her voice came out small.

 

“I can’t.”

 

Nicola stood anyway, still smiling, and picked the cape up from the table. She held it out, the black fabric hanging from her hand, the neck strip open and waiting. She didn’t step closer. She just offered it, the cheeky light still in her eyes, and waited. Kirsty stared at the cape, then at Nicola’s face, her heart loud in her ears, and didn’t move. Kirsty removed her dressing gown and her hands came up, palms open, the last of the protest leaving her in a small, defeated breath. Nicola stepped in at once. She shook the cape out with a practised flick she had no business knowing, then settled it around Kirsty’s shoulders. The neck strip closed with a soft Velcro rasp. Nicola smoothed the fabric down the front, black and slightly shiny under the living-room lamp, the hem brushing the tops of Kirsty’s bare feet. When Nicola stepped back, Kirsty was left standing in the middle of the room in the cape, the dressing gown hidden underneath, her long dark hair spilling over the black cloth. The coffee table in front of her held everything else: the clippers, the full set of guards, the scissors, the combs, the can of foam. The ordinary sofa and the half-finished glasses of wine sat just beyond them. Heat climbed her neck and settled under the tight collar of the cape. It was humiliating—standing there like this in their own living room, tools laid out, Nicola watching with that bright, interested look still on her face. And underneath the humiliation, low and private and impossible to ignore, something else curled warm in her stomach. She kept her eyes on the floorboards and didn’t say a word. Nicola didn’t fill the silence either. She just looked at her, head tilted, the smile still playing at the corner of her mouth, and let the moment sit. Kirsty sat. The cape rustled as she lowered herself onto the sofa, the black fabric pooling over her lap and the edge of the cushions. She reached for the bottle without looking at Nicola, poured herself another half-glass, and took a slow sip. The wine was warmer now. She set the glass down and glanced up, one eyebrow lifted in a small, cheeky challenge.

 

“That enough for you?”

 

The room stayed quiet. No answer. Kirsty turned her head. Nicola was still standing by the coffee table, the full set of tools spread out in front of her, and the glint was back in her eyes—brighter this time, sharper, the same look that had always meant she was already three steps ahead. The smile hadn’t left her mouth. Kirsty felt her stomach drop all over again .She let out a short, defeated breath and sank a little deeper into the sofa, the cape shifting with her.

 

“What now?” Nicola’s head tilted. She didn’t reach for the clippers. She just looked at Kirsty—caped, flushed, wine glass in reach, long dark hair spilling over the black cloth—and let the silence stretch one second longer before she answered. Nicola tipped her head toward the kitchen.

 

“Come on.”

 

Kirsty stood. The cape shifted and settled around her as she followed, bare feet quiet on the floorboards, the black fabric brushing her calves with every step. She didn’t argue. She never really did, not when Nicola used that tone. Loyalty had always been the easier path between them; tonight it simply carried her down the short hall still wrapped in the barber cape, tools left behind on the coffee table. In the kitchen Nicola pulled one of the wooden chairs out from the table, the legs scraping softly against the tile. She turned it so it faced the room and rested a hand on the back.

 

“Sit.”

 

Kirsty’s face changed at once. The last of the cheeky defiance drained out of it; what replaced it was plain, open panic. Her eyes flicked from the chair to Nicola’s face and back again. Nicola saw it and shook her head, voice low and steady.

 

“No cutting. I promise. I just want you to sit.”

 

Kirsty’s legs felt unsteady under the cape. She moved anyway, the fabric rustling as she lowered herself onto the chair. The wood was cool through the thin dressing gown. She kept her hands in her lap, fingers twisted together, and looked up at Nicola with her pulse loud in her throat. The kitchen light was brighter than the living room. The cape gleamed under it. Nicola stayed standing behind the chair, one hand still resting on the top rail, and didn’t reach for anything else. Not yet. Kirsty sat with her hands still knotted in her lap, the cape tight at her throat. The kitchen light felt too bright, the chair too exposed, Nicola’s presence behind her too close. Every part of it was humiliating. Every part of it settled warm and heavy low in her stomach. She loved it. She hated that she loved it. She didn’t move. Nicola’s footsteps left the kitchen, quick and light. A drawer opened in the living room, then closed. When she came back she was still empty-handed of anything sharp. Only the two barber combs were in her fingers, the ordinary plastic ones Kirsty had kept hidden for years.

 

“Relax,” Nicola said, voice low. She stepped in behind the chair. “Just let me take over for a few minutes. That’s all.”

 

Kirsty’s breath left her in one long, shaky exhale. Her shoulders dropped. She closed her eyes. The cape rustled as Nicola moved closer; she felt the faint shift of air, then the first light touch of fingers gathering her hair at the nape, lifting it away from her neck. The comb followed a second later, slow and deliberate, teeth sliding through the length from root to end. Kirsty’s hands loosened in her lap. She kept her eyes shut and let Nicola work, the kitchen quiet around them except for the soft, repeated sound of the comb. Kirsty’s head tipped forward a fraction, the last of the resistance leaving her shoulders. She stayed quiet. The comb moved in slow, steady passes through her hair—root to tip, then again—lifting the weight and letting it fall. Each stroke drew a soft, involuntary sound from her throat, barely more than a breath, almost a purr. Her eyes stayed closed. Her hands rested loose in her lap under the cape. She had stopped thinking about the kitchen light, the chair, the open doorway. There was only the comb and Nicola’s fingers and the low, steady warmth of being handled. Nicola’s smile stayed in place the whole time, small and private. She worked another section free, comb gliding through without snagging, and spoke quietly above Kirsty’s head.

 

“I still can’t believe you’d want to cut all of this off.”

 

Kirsty’s answer came slow and soft, the words half-lost in the rhythm of the comb, like she was already half-asleep.

 

“I’ll do anything… as long as I submit.”

 

Nicola’s hand paused for half a second. The smile shifted—still there, but thinner now, bemused, the corner of her mouth lifting as she looked down at the crown of Kirsty’s head and the long dark hair spilling over the black cape. She resumed the next stroke, slower than before.

 

“Is that what you want?” she asked, voice low. “To submit to me?”

 

The comb kept moving. Kirsty didn’t open her eyes. The question hung in the bright kitchen between them, waiting. Kirsty didn’t answer. Her head stayed tipped forward, eyes closed, the soft sound still catching in her throat with every slow pass of the comb. Nicola watched her for a moment longer and realised she might not have heard the question at all. She didn’t repeat it. The comb kept moving, steady and unhurried, until the last section had been worked through and the hair lay smooth and heavy again over the black cape.Nicola stepped back. She set the comb on the kitchen table and looked at her—Kirsty still seated, still wrapped in the cape, shoulders loose, face soft in a way Nicola rarely saw outside of sleep. For a second she just stood there, taking it in. Kirsty’s eyes opened. She blinked once, slow, and found Nicola standing over her. A small, dazed smile tugged at her mouth.

 

“Thank you,” she said, voice low. “Why did you do that?”

 

Nicola’s answer came easily, confident and warm.

 

“I liked seeing you like that. The real you. Comfortable.” She reached down and gave the edge of the cape a light tug. “Come on. Cape off. There’s still wine left and the sofa’s waiting.”

 

Kirsty nodded. She pushed herself up from the chair the way she usually climbed out of bed in the morning—slow, a little unsteady, the cape shifting around her. Nicola was already turning toward the living room. Kirsty followed, bare feet quiet on the tile, the Velcro at her neck still fastened, the long dark hair Nicola had just combed spilling over the black fabric as she went. Kirsty sank into the sofa and took another slow sip of wine. The warmth from earlier still sat low in her chest, fuzzy and slightly unreal. The cape was gone, folded back on the coffee table with the combs, but she could still feel the ghost of it at her neck. She kept turning the evening over in her head—the chair, the comb, the way Nicola had looked at her—and couldn’t quite make it settle into something that had actually happened. Nicola watched her for a moment, then couldn’t help herself. She nudged Kirsty’s knee with her own, voice light and cheeky.

 

“So when do I get my hands on your hair again?” Kirsty didn’t even pause. She let her head tip back against the cushions, eyes half-closed, and answered like it was the simplest thing in the world.

 

“Anytime you like.” A small, daring smile pulled at her mouth. She turned her head just enough to meet Nicola’s eyes, the wine making the words easier than they should have been.

 

“When do I get my hands on yours?” Nicola blinked. A short, startled laugh burst out of her—loud in the quiet living room—and then she just stared, curls framing her face, the confident line of her mouth open and empty. For the first time all night she had nothing ready. The wine glasses sat between them. Kirsty’s long dark hair spilled over her shoulder. Nicola’s own curls caught the lamplight. And Nicola, who had pushed and teased and led every step since the bedroom door, was suddenly, completely speechless. Kirsty turned the wine glass slowly between her fingers, still loose and warm from the chair and the comb.

 

“The cape’s actually really comfortable,” she said, almost idly. “And the combs… they’re soothing. You’re welcome to try them sometime. If you want.” Nicola’s cheeks went pink. She shook her head at once, a soft, dismissive swat of her hand through the air between them.

 

“No. Absolutely not. That’s not— I’m not doing that.” Her fingers had already found one of her own curls, twisting it the way she always did when she was thinking too hard. The spiral bounced against her cheek as she kept talking, voice lighter than her face. “You can keep the cape. And the combs. I’m fine.”

 

She didn’t look entirely convinced of her own answer. The curl stayed looped around her finger. Kirsty watched her, the flush high on Nicola’s face, the usual confident tilt of her chin a little less sure. For the first time all evening the balance felt different. Kirsty was still the one who had sat in the chair, still the one who had closed her eyes and let herself be handled. And yet Nicola was the one blushing now, still playing with her hair like she couldn’t quite decide what she wanted to do with it. Kirsty took another sip of wine and didn’t push. She just smiled, small and private, and let the silence sit. Nicola’s fingers kept moving through the dark-blonde curl, slower than before, and neither of them said anything else for a long moment.