A Most Unexpected Vacation
It had been two years since I’d taken a real vacation. Covid really put a kibosh on the whole travel situation, so this was long overdue. The plan was to travel to England by air and then cross the channel to France by train.
I was so excited to finally be getting away. As someone who was used to taking trips out of the country twice a year, I was famished for change.
I’d never been to France, but had always dreamed about walking along the Champs-Elysees in the evening, absorbing the beauty of the city of lights. England would be fun, of course, but having been born there and spending the majority of my youth on the streets of Newcastle, France was definitely the highlight of the trip.
I flew into Heathrow early on Saturday morning, the overnight flight over the Atlantic gave me at least a few hours of sleep. I watched the checkerboard neighborhoods of Hounslow and Middlesex circle below as we approached the massive airport.
Of course, customs had changed since the last time I’d been through, but my dual citizenship had its advantages. Most of the process was proving my vaccination status and whether I had tested negative within the last seventy-two hours.
My first night was spent in a bed and breakfast in Woking, one where I’d stayed before. It was far enough from the hubbub of London to be peaceful, but close enough to be an easy commute on the rails. I’d learned long ago, that driving in London was best left to the Cabbies.
After settling in, a stared at my reflection in the mirror that perched above the basin in the bathroom. Traveling was never kind to my hair, which was particularly long just then. This time, the whole left side of my head was frizzy, and I hated that it just wouldn’t do a thing until I washed it. I must have slept on it during the flight. I cringed that I had looked this bad, or worse, when I emerged from the plane.
Right then and there, I decided that sometime during this vacation I was going to get a haircut. At the moment, it was about halfway down my back. I had never colored it, and I gave that some consideration as well. It was nothing spectacular now, light blonde at the tips, from the summer sun, and a darker dirty blonde at the roots, and about every other shade in between.
Of course, all the best salons were in Paris, so I made a pact with myself to visit one of the more upscale salons as soon as I arrived.
It was fun spending some time with a few childhood friends, three of which had made the trip to London. I had offered to drive up to Newcastle, but they immediately shot that down, saying there was so much more to do in London. Of course, they were right.
For three days, we wined and dined our way through the London night scene, and at the end of it, I wondered why I had ever moved to the states. Friendships you make at that age, never really fade, you just pick up where you left off.
It was finally time to say adieu to blighty, and make my way to Folkstone. I’d never made the trip so when I was pulling the rental onto the car carriers, I was amazed at the innovation of it all. Aside from the place looking like a maximum-security prison, it was cool.
I was so glad I had made the decision to rent a car with left-hand drive. As little driving as I had done in the UK, it was worth it once I was on the road from Calais.
I was not unaware of my hair being the focus of several conversations amongst my friends. One of them actually offered to cut it for me; that was how hideous it must have looked. I had to admit that even on a good day, it was dry and frizzed out. I’d tried a number of products, attempting to bring some life back to it, but it was pretty much a lost cause.
Of course, by the time I had parked the car and got checked into the hotel, it was far too late to make an appointment with any of the better salons. I simply tied it back, and made my way out into the Parisian night, enjoying my first time there.
The following morning, I inquired where I might have my hair styled, in the best French I could manage. I had taken three years of it in school in Newcastle, but much of that had gone the way of all things once learned and twice forgotten. To my relief, the concierge spoke far better English than I spoke French (not hard) and recommended a salon that was just down the street. He even suggested that he make an appointment for me.
I had only just finished breakfast, when the man suddenly appeared in the dining room. He smiled, saying that he had worked a miracle, managing to get in to see Francois that afternoon. Excited that I was able to get things sorted so quickly, I accepted his offer.
I tried to get my head around the notion that I was going to have my hair done by someone named Francois, in a Parisian salon. It was only then that I realized I had given absolutely no thought as to how I wanted it cut. Whipping out my phone, I began searching through hairstyles, finally tossing it onto the chaise.
What was I doing? Who was I to tell a world-class stylist how to cut my hair? No, I was going to walk into the place and simply allow him free rein. It might even be exciting to see how things turn out. It certainly couldn’t be any worse than it was.
As the time approached for me to leave for the salon, I began to have second thoughts about turning my hair over to a complete stranger. I mean, I had no idea what this guy was like. He might decide to do something totally crazy.
‘La Fête des Cheveux’ was loosely translated as ‘The Hair Party’ which I thought was a little hilarious, to be honest. I had visions of people dancing about on the top of my head, and I giggled a little as I stepped through the doors to the salon.
“Bonjour.” A voice called out as I looked around the place. I tried to see where it had come from, but was soon greeted by a young woman. She sported a rather shocking affair on her head, with the back and both sides shaved clean to the skin, and a super tight perm of what could only be called poodle curls teased up onto the top of her head. It was so black, it almost looked blue, if you know what I mean. “Vous êtes ici pour une coupe de cheveux?”
‘Of course, I’m there for a haircut. Look at my hair.’ I thought, running my fingers through my blonde hair, which had been particularly unruly that morning. “Oui.” Was all I managed.
“Avez-vous une réservation?” She asked, her thinly coiffed eyebrows arching high into her forehead.
Giving up on my lousy understanding of the French language, I prayed she spoke English, however provincial it appeared. “Yes, the concierge at my hotel made the appointment for me. This morning.”
There was a pause, and then a brief sigh. “A moment, please.” The girl raised a finger. “Francois?” When the devastatingly handsome man stepped out from the back of the shop, I was nearly floored. “Elle parle anglaise.” She directed his gaze to me, and I must have turned three shades of red.
“Good afternoon, madame. You must be Elizabeth?” He assumed.
“Yes, thank you. Thank you for squeezing me in.” I said, wanting to be grateful for the appointment.
“I’m just about finished with my last customer. If you would have a cup of coffee?” He suggested, after which the receptionist ran to a small counter and began to fix me a cup. Not wanting to be rude, I accepted.
A few moments later, a woman appeared from the back of the shop, and I was flabbergasted by her appearance. However pleased she seemed with her hair, I was shocked. It had been cut to the finest stubble imaginable. Any shorter and a blade would have had to be used. She ran her hand over the sandpapery surface, and I swore I could hear the friction from my seat. There were some pleasantries exchanged before she pushed through the door and out into the Parisian streets, essentially bald.
Suddenly, the idea of allowing this man anywhere near my hair, much less giving him a free hand, seemed ludicrous. It was far too late for any retreat, however, as Francois stood expectantly at the entrance to the back.
“Ready for you, Elizabeth.” The receptionist gave me a contrite smile as I passed, entering what appeared to be a very private salon. There were a few chairs, but he seemed to be the only one there, at least that day.
“Let us see what we have to work with, yes?” He smiled, indicating his chair, a slew of instruments and products scattered randomly over the counter behind. I felt a bit like a lamb for the slaughter, but did as he asked anyway.
“I was thinking…”
“You have a lot of damage, Elizabeth,” Francois said, tsking a bit afterward. “Your hair is very dry. Do you not use a conditioner?” He asked.
“Yes, of course, but…”
“I’m thinking we need to go short.” He said, acerbically. “It’s summer anyway, short is in right now.” He qualified, sensing I might bolt out of his salon, had he not. He fastened a cape around me, as if that might stop me.
“How short? Like the woman before me?” I asked, glancing back over my shoulder but missing him as he lifted something from the counter.
“I saw you admiring Natalie. It’s very becoming on her, don’t you agree?” I felt him do something at the back of my head, and was shocked when he dangled what appeared to be most of my hair in front of my eyes.
“What did you… I mean, how did you…” My words left me as he let go of the hair. Two feet of blonde locks floated unceremoniously to the floor at my feet.
“A well-honed razor is an invaluable tool.” He spun me around to face him, the blade just then retreating into its sheath. “Saves you the angst of the scissors.” He smirked. “Now we can get to work, yes?”
“You just cut off all my hair!” I chided, reaching back to feel the ragged ends that rested bluntly at the top of my neck.
“Not all, but I can certainly do that if you like, seeing as you admired the style so much.” He sighed. “I was thinking of something… not so extreme. Not that an ultra-short style wouldn’t suit you, it would.” Francois explained.
Somewhat relieved he wasn’t intent on shaving me bald like ‘Natalie’, I loosened my stance a little. “What did you have in mind?”
“You will love it.” He clapped his hands together, exchanging the razor for some scissors.
The way he attacked my hair, it was almost like he was fulfilling a vendetta or something. As deft as his hands obviously were, he managed to cut away most of my hair in a matter of a minute, fingering out a length and attack, fingering out and attack. Of course, he had once again spun my chair, so I had no idea what he was doing. What I did know was that more and more of my hair seemed to be finding its way to the floor of his salon.
As he slowed, I assumed he was nearly finished. I was wrong, of course. He simply exchanged the scissors for a set of clippers.
“You said you weren’t…”
“Trust, Elizabeth. Trust. Did I not say that you will love it?” The clippers popped to life, causing me to jump in the chair. All I could do was nod, as I felt them slip beneath my hair at the back.
The sensation was so different than anything I had ever experienced. As they climbed up the back of my head, I felt them lift almost halfway up. Suddenly a cool breeze caressed my scalp, and I felt the strangest sense of arousal course through me. It was when I realized that the breeze was actually Francois’ breath, that the arousal settled firmly between my thighs and stayed there.
Unconsciously, I think, I tipped my head down so my chin touched my breast bone. He paused, and then continued the cut, all the way across the back.
“I think you enjoy the sensation, yes?” He asked.
I was too embarrassed to say anything, knowing that if I did, he might carry through with something far more drastic, and I would undoubtedly be powerless to stop him.
Something warm and fragrant was spread over my neck and up the back of my head. I was about to inquire what it was when I felt the strangest tug at my skin, followed by the unmistakable sound of a razor scraping against my skin.
Feeling the devastatingly sharp instrument against my neck and then the back of my head was almost indescribable. All I did know was that it was even more arousing than the clippers had been. I wasn’t certain whether it was the sensation or the knowledge of what they were doing that was more erotic. Perhaps it was a bit of both. I unconsciously let a moan escape my lips as the razor passed down over my exposed scalp.
“You better behave, Elizabeth, or you may be in for more than a haircut.” Francois chortled, but inside, I wished for nothing more. I imagined him taking me in that chair, spinning me around and slicing my panties away with his razor, and then having his way with me.
“All done!” He announced, setting down his tools. “Would you like to see?”
I gave him a look that probably spoke more of my desire to rip off his clothes, than see anything he had done with my hair. He spun me around and I was pleasantly surprised to find quite a bit of hair still clinging to my head. It was a severely undercut A-line bob, with the front points just grazing my chin, and the back…well, that was where it was a bit of a shock, at least to see for the first time.
My hair stopped entirely at the point where he had shaved with the razor, leaving most of the back of my head exposed and bare. It took a good minute for me to finally agree to like it. What I couldn’t stop doing was feeling it. The stark contrast of the thickly bobbed hair, suddenly yielding to a glass-smooth scalp, was pure sensory overload. As embarrassing as it was, I just couldn’t keep my fingers away from it.
“I told you. You see, it is as you like?” He asked, hopefully.
“Yes, it is. It will certainly take some getting used to, but I do like it.”
“How long are you in Paris, Lizzy?” He asked, taking liberty with my name that I usually reserved for close friends.
“I’m here, in France for ten days. I’m driving to Nice for two days, but will be back for a further three before I fly back home.” I admitted, not knowing why I felt the need to divulge my itinerary with this man.
“Good. I will ‘pencil’ you in for when you return from Nice.” He said, without asking. He handed me his card and I handed him two hundred euros, his fee plus tip. Ouch.
The next few days were a blur of sightseeing and getting used to the looks and provocative stares I received from men, who seemed to know something I was yet ignorant of.
I had a couple of rendezvous with men who seemed to be more than interested, and I couldn’t deny having a good time of it. Especially a certain Jean-Luc in Nice, who simply couldn’t keep his hands away from my bald patch, as I began to call it. He even offered to freshen up the shave, but I declined, saying that my stylist, Francois, would be mightily upset with me.
To be honest, I had never enjoyed, nor had more fun with a haircut in all my life. I do need to admit to masturbating more than a few times, one hand between my legs, and the other exploring this strange new erogenous zone I had discovered. What was I to tell Francois?
I fingered the business card that Francois had given me, once I was settled back in my hotel. My appointment was for the following morning, and I was more excited about having his hands back in my hair, than I was about any plans I would keep for the balance of the day.
Of course, the concierge was over the moon with my new cut, saying that I owed him a finder’s fee, in jest. When I shared that I was to see Francois that morning, he simply winked and walked away.
Disappointment was too kind a word to describe how I felt when I arrived at La Fête des Cheveux, only to find it locked. I knocked, thinking that perhaps Francois might be inside, but it was not to be. Completely dejected, I slowly walked away from the salon.
“Bonjour, Lizzy.” A voice almost whispered from a table in a sidewalk café. I glanced over, hopefully, and found Francois, enjoying a cup of coffee and a pastry. “Join me, yes?”
I was still annoyed, but at least he might explain what he was thinking. “Did you forget about our appointment?” I asked, as I sat, and was immediately served coffee.
“On the contrary. I am very much looking forward to it.” He admitted.
“Then why are you here, and not there?” I asked, glancing at the clock only to realize my mistake. “I’m an hour early, aren’t I?” I said, foolishly.
“So, we can enjoy our ‘petit déjeuner’ and then stroll over to freshen up your look, what do you say?” He held his cup out, and I responded, enjoying a little conversation before submitting to whatever he had planned for me.
As he fumbled with the keys to open the salon, I was almost pleased to find we had the place to ourselves. “Your receptionist?” I inquired.
“Chantelle is off today. In fact, I don’t usually open on Thursday.” He admitted.
“So, you planned for us to be alone?” I asked, playfully.
“I trust your new look has had the men sniffing the flowers?” He returned, provocatively. “It’s quite stunning, you know. But I have something different planned for you. Something you can take back to America, and enjoy for a while.”
I wasn’t going to ask, but a little bug in my gut was working overtime to make me giddy with nerves.
“I think, and seeing as we are alone, we should dispense with the pleasantries, yes?” He slipped out of his shirt, displaying the most delectable physique that lay hidden underneath. I reached out, running my hands over his sculpted pecks, and smiled. “Your turn, Lizzy.”
He unbuttoned my sundress, and it slipped away, gathering in a ring at my feet. He seemed only marginally surprised that I wore absolutely nothing beneath. I stepped out away from the garment, and into his arms. It felt so natural, so right to allow this beautiful man to know me so completely.
His hand slipped under my breast to cup it, and then to raise my nipple to his lips, where he teased it gently with his teeth. I moaned, and not quietly, and his other hand found its way between my legs, finding me wet, and ready.
“You are ready for me, but first, a little apéritif.” Guiding me into his chair, naked, he didn’t bother with a cape. I didn’t want one, either. “Don’t be shocked, Lizzy. It will be short.” He warned.
As if in response to his cautionary words, I again lowered my chin to my breasts, inviting him to do as he wished. This time there were no scissors. I heard the clippers before I felt them, but even the sound was enough to worry the nub that pulsed so wantonly between my folds.
Francois spun the chair around so I could see what he was doing, deliberately, I was certain. As he placed the humming machine against the top of my forehead, I gasped. Was he really doing this? My curiosity was soon sated as the blades eased into my hairline, parting the stylish bob with a two-inch-wide path of bristles that couldn’t have been half an inch long.
Again, I gasped, but not from fear. I was honestly worried I might spoil the man’s chair with my excitement. Before very long all that remained of my hair, was standing up like a field of wheat stalks freshly harvested. My scalp was plainly visible beneath the stubble, and I reached up, only to have my hand firmly returned to where it had been, busily stroking my clit.
Francois painstakingly painted the remaining hair with what I assumed was bleach by the smell of it, and I wondered just how stark a look this was really going to be. To my utter surprise, Francois wasn’t idle while he waited for the dye to set. No, he got busy relieving me of my bush, which was embarrassingly wet with my own juices.
I was only a bit worried as the straight razor made short work of my pubic hair, spreading my legs to allow him to do a thorough job. He wasn’t shy about keeping my spirits up either, his fingers finding their way inside more than a few times.
At last, the bleach was rinsed away, and I had a look at what was left. The super-short crop was very stunning in white, and I had to admit to liking it much better that way. “You are a genius, Monsieur Francois.” I declared, bringing his hand between my legs to caress my baby smooth mons. Francois had other ideas as he lowered his jeans. I was so ready for this.