This story takes place about 4 years after getting my A-Line Bob. After a few weeks of wearing (and loving) my bob, I agreed to let my girl cut it into sort of a not-so-severe bowl cut. After that, I was back in grow-out mode, and as this story begins, my hair is below chest length. I vividly remember my hair reaching below my chest here.
My hair had grown back, and was slowly approaching what some might call the mythical “waist length”. I was happy with it, I liked that I had several long-to-short transformations under my belt, and I was super pleased that I was able to grow it out so long again. This was as long as it had been in quite some time. Sure, I still fantasized about cutting it off… on almost a daily basis, but I really felt like the actual “act” of cutting it off was all out of my system… at least for now.
My girlfriend had become my fiancee, and we were setting about starting a life together. During our engagement, she had finished grad school and we were planning a huge party. Family would be flying in from all over the country to celebrate her accomplishment. We really couldn’t have been happier.
Then, one evening we were out at a restaurant.
Our waitress approached the table, and my back (and long ponytail) was facing her. She greeted us with a “Hey ladies!” before seeing my heavily bearded face and offering up a sputtering apology, laced with awkward and stammering compliments about how pretty my hair looked.
My girl was mortified. Like, seriously embarrassed. I instantly knew what our next conversation was likely going to be about.
That night, when I brought her home, we had “the chat”. She was “in” on my fetish and knew what my hair meant to me… but, in her words, it “had to go”. At least for her graduation party. If I’d cut it off for the party, I could grow it out as long as I wanted to afterwards. The party was just a few days away. If I was going to do this, it would have to get done very soon.
I was devastated. It had taken me four years to grow my hair back out… and I still wasn’t satisfied with the length. I wanted it even longer!
I went back to my apartment that night, and tried to concoct a way out of this. Maybe I could come up with some sort of a compromise? Maybe I wouldn’t have to go short-short? Maybe I could instead take it up around my shoulders? I’d still hate it, but it’d be quicker to grow back out. Really, I was game for anything but a short-short haircut. Unfortunately, that was the only option on the table.
I was still kind of in denial about the whole thing. I called her a few times that night to try and discuss it further… and maybe “bargain” a bit. But, she was steadfast. It had to be short-short. After that, I could grow it to my toes if I wanted… but, for the party, it had to be short-short.
I felt like I was running in a million directions at once. How would I do this? Where would I go? I felt nauseous, depressed… lost, really.
To get my mind off things I… hopped online to check out some videos and pictures of women cutting all their hair off. Knowing that I was just about to be among them, I figured I may as well have some fun. This was back when Yahoo Groups were a big thing, and I used to spend hours going through those photo galleries.
I even made a “hair game” out of it. I’d pick a gallery, and if there were 50 pictures of braids being cut, I’d cut off a chunk of my hair. Just the tip of my ponytail… and barely even that. Just the tiniest of dustings to drive myself crazy. A ridiculously silly “game”, but a lot of fun. As I scrolled the galleries, I thought a bit more about the “game”.
I realized I kind of had a golden opportunity here. I could legitimately play the “hair game”. I could braid up my hair… and once I found a gallery of 50 braids being cut, I could go ahead and cut mine off. The tassel, a big chunk, or even the whole thing. It was going to be cut anyway, right? I didn’t have a choice.
Thing is, I’d never really been into “self cuts”. Sure, I’ll tease myself with a tiny trim here and again… but, for a major transformation like this, I thought it would be far more satisfying to visit a salon. Part of me, however, didn’t want to miss out on the golden opportunity of “taking it all off” myself. The very thought of taking the matter into my own hands… scary and oddly appealing. But could I?
I found myself with almost too many options here. When you spend so long growing out your hair, cutting it all off (especially for a fetishist) is almost like a ritual. Everything needs to be perfect… or as close to perfect as possible. Nearly every time I’ve “gone short” has been a disappointment. Something I’d immediately regret and wish I hadn’t done. An experience that didn’t live up to my expectation at all. But, here, I didn’t have a say in whether or not it was going to happen. It just was.
The only thing I had to do was concoct the perfect special “cutting ritual”.
Do I risk heading into a salon, where I might get a stylist who doesn’t care that she’s about to cut all my hair off? Who doesn’t “get” how big a deal this is for me? Hair donations were getting pretty popular around this time, and I’d thought maybe some stylists had become numb to taking off massive lengths. At least that was my worry.
Do I ask my fiancee to do the honors?
Or, do I just do it myself?
Once my mind stopped drifting I realized that I’d already braided my ponytail. Maybe I had subconsciously decided.
Well, what’ll it hurt to just play the Yahoo Groups “braid game”? At the very least, I know I’ll have fun checking out the galleries, right? I figured I’d look at five galleries… and, if none of them had 50 pictures of braids being cut, then I’ll head to the salon the next day after work… or try my luck at “bargaining” with my fiancee.
And so, I opened the first one.
There were only a dozen or so pictures of braids being cut in this one. The first one I saw, however, really stuck with me. It was a picture of a beautiful Asian woman. In one hand was a shiny black braid. Very thick, but not all that long. Definitely under a foot in length. In her other hand, though, was a pair of clippers.
In all my time fantasizing about having my braid cut off, I always imagined it happening with scissors. I never once considered pressing a pair of clippers into it. This sent me into orbit. I ran to the bathroom to make sure my beard trimmer was fully charged.
Gallery Two didn’t have a single braid in it.
Gallery Three looked promising. With just a couple of photos left, I had counted 48 braids cut off. With my heart pounding, I kept pressing “next”. It looked like this was going to be a case of “so close, yet so far”. I felt equal parts relief and disappointment.
The last picture in the album featuring a gorgeous blonde woman holding… four severed braids… putting me over my quarry of 50. Like a zombie I walked into the bathroom.
I stood there in front of the mirror for several minutes… just breathing. Taking in what was about to happen… if I didn’t chicken out, that is. I picked up my beard trimmer and, again, flicked it on to make sure it had juice… or rather, in hopes that it didn’t. It did though. It was fully charged… and hungry.
I took a look at my braid, and realized it was the most crooked thing I’d ever seen.
I’ve never been good at braiding, though over the years, I had picked up how to do a very basic one. I undid the messy braid to give it another shot. I decided to pull all my hair back into a ponytail. Then, I’d put a second elastic an inch or two below the first, then braid the rest of the way to the tip. I figured the space between those two elastics would be what I’d press the clippers into. My hands were shaking, almost violently. I couldn’t believe what I might be about to do. I couldn’t believe that, had I not been called “lady” at the restaurant that evening, I might not be in this predicament in the first place.
I finished my braid… and held it out to the side, to admire its length. I was surprised at how good it turned out… and was heartbroken that it’d be several years before I’d get the opportunity to do it again. I picked up the clippers and held them just above the braid band… and stopped.
I couldn’t do it.
I stomped around the apartment trying to blow off some of the ungodly adrenaline I’d built up. As I did, I happened past my monitor again, where I saw that fateful photo of the four braids. The woman looked adorable holding these chunky blonde braids. They were beautiful and thick, the kind of braids I always dreamt of having. They spilled out of her hands, and were so long and thick that they bent. I instinctively reached for mine, and held it out… seeing that it was near as heavy-looking. It had “heft” to it. If I held it out, it hung just like hers did. I suddenly wanted, more than anything, to hold it just like she was in the picture.
With newfound resolve, I headed back into the bathroom for another “go”.
I turned to the side so I could watch what I was about to do. My braid hung down my back. So long. So shiny. So thick. It was like I was seeing it for the first time. I was hit with a pang of what I can only compare to hunger or thirst, I wanted to cut it off. I needed to cut it off. I picked up the beard trimmer… and went to plunge it into the braid. I didn’t care where in the braid… anywhere would have worked… and once again, I stopped myself.
I was beginning to get angry. I felt like I was a slave to this braid. I felt like a fool. So, I undid it… again.
This time, I pulled it back in a ponytail… holding it tight with my fist. I went into the kitchen to track down a rubberband. Not a hair tie, but an actual sticky, painful rubber band. I wrapped that sucker around the base of my ponytail no less than a dozen times.
I didn’t even bother braiding my ponytail. I knew if I had, I’d only chicken out again. No matter how much I ached to cut off a braid, it just wasn’t happening tonight. Back into the bathroom, I picked up the trimmers… turned them on… and just backed my ponytail into it. This resulted in my taking a sizable notch out of the top of my ponytail, just below the rubberband. Foot long waves hit the floor. I exhaled… it was finally done. I reached back and touched the damage… annoyed that my aim was so poor. I was hoping to have severed it above the rubberband. I was still holding out a bit of hope that, once I made it to the “point of no return”, that I might still be able to braid the pony.
From here I kept attacking the ponytail with the trimmers from all sides… until they finally gave out. Beard trimmers aren’t made to eat their way though entire ponytails. At least this one wasn’t. I finished the hack-job with a small pair of scissors. When I was done, I snipped the rubberband off, and surveyed my work.
It was ugly… and I regretted it immediately. I began to wish I had gone to the salon for the big cut. Every other option seemed better than what I’d actually wound up doing. Disappointed and annoyed… and with what looked like several pounds of long dark hair on my bathroom floor, I went to bed.
The next morning, I called in sick to work… tied up the little bit of hair I had left into a stub of a ponytail, and drove a few towns over to visit a salon I’d never have to go to again.
When I was seated, the stylist had a good laugh. Called me “naughty” for cutting my own hair… and made a spectacle of tossing my hairtie into the garbage, as I “wouldn’t be needing it anymore”, She was a lot of fun, and I know it would have been great had she been the one to perform my “big cut”. I walked out of the salon with a short-short cut… which, I hated, even if it looked really nice.
The party was a success, my fiancee was pleased with my look… and once it had passed, I was back on the “grow out” again.