Bouffant Shave
It was the summer of 1960, and Barbara, fresh out of high school at 18, felt the world was hers to conquer. With her diploma in hand and the small town buzzing with the energy of a new decade, she decided it was time for a change—a big one. She booked an appointment at Vera’s, the grandest salon in town, a place where the air was thick with the scent of hairspray and the hum of ambition.
Barbara walked in with her natural blond-streaked hair bouncing lightly against her shoulders, a remnant of her schoolgirl days. She’d heard about the growing trend sweeping through the magazines and the gossip circles: the bouffant bubble, a towering masterpiece of teased hair that screamed sophistication and rebellion all at once. Sitting in Vera’s chair, she made up her mind. “I want it big,” she told Vera, the salon’s namesake and resident hair wizard. “And dye it black. I’m done with the old me.” Vera, with her sharp eyes and sharper scissors, grinned. “You’re gonna turn heads, honey.”
The transformation took hours. Vera teased Barbara’s hair into a voluminous cloud, each strand coaxed upward with expert precision, then locked it in place with what felt like an entire can of hairspray. The dye took hold, turning her sun-kissed locks into a sleek, dramatic black that framed her face like a movie star’s. When Barbara looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. She was bold, modern, a girl ready to step into the ‘60s with swagger.
As she admired her reflection, her eyes caught a sign taped to the salon’s front window: Shampoo Girl Wanted. It was perfect timing—school was over, and she needed a job to keep her busy and fund her new life. She turned to Vera, who was wiping her hands on a towel, and asked, “That job in the window—is it still open? I’d love to work here.” Vera sized her up, then nodded. “You’ve got spunk, kid. Start Monday. We’ll see how you do.”
That night, Barbara returned home, her massive bouffant swaying slightly with each step. Her mother, busy in the kitchen preparing for Barbara’s graduation party, nearly dropped a tray of deviled eggs when she saw her daughter. “Good heavens, Barb! What have you done to your hair?” she gasped, half in shock, half in awe. Barbara just laughed. “It’s the new me, Ma. Wait ‘til you see it in action.”
The party was a hit. Friends poured into the house, their eyes widening at Barbara’s towering hairdo. “It’s huge!” her best friend Linda squealed, circling her like she was a sculpture. “How do you even get it that high?” another chimed in. Barbara soaked it all in, feeling every bit the star of the night. The black bouffant gleamed under the living room lights, a perfect contrast to her pastel party dress, and the compliments kept coming. She’d never felt so alive.
As the evening wound down, Barbara clinked a spoon against her glass of punch to get everyone’s attention. The chatter quieted, and she stood tall—well, taller, thanks to the hair. “I just want to thank you all for coming,” she said, her voice steady and bright. “This party’s been swell, and you’ve made me feel like a million bucks with all the love for my new ‘do. Oh, and one more thing—I’m starting work at Vera’s next week! Free bouffants from now on, so get used to this!” The room erupted in cheers and laughter, her friends toasting to her bold new chapter.
Barbara went to bed that night with her head on the pillow—carefully, to preserve the masterpiece atop it—dreaming of the days ahead. At Vera’s, she’d scrub shampoo into scalps, learn the tricks of the trade, and keep her bouffant sky-high. The ‘60s were just beginning, and Barbara was ready to make her mark, one teased strand at time.
The morning after the party, Barbara sat at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee and flipping through a magazine, her jet-black bouffant still holding its impressive shape from the night before. Her mother, Mrs. Dawson, stood at the sink, scrubbing dishes with a practiced rhythm. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes narrowing as she studied her daughter’s towering hairdo.
“Barb, I’ve got to ask,” she said, setting a plate in the drainer. “Why’d you go jet black? That blond you had was so lovely—natural, too. And that big bubble up there… well, it’s certainly a statement. I just hope it helps you catch a husband.” She turned fully now, drying her hands on a towel. “I’m glad you’ve got that job at Vera’s for the summer, but by the end of it, I want you married and moved out. You’re 18 now—it’s time to get serious.”
Barbara’s jaw dropped, her coffee cup frozen halfway to her lips. Married and moved out? By summer’s end? She hadn’t seen that coming. She’d thought her mother would be thrilled about the job, maybe even proud of her bold new look, but this was a curveball. “Ma, I—I didn’t expect that,” she managed, her voice shaky. “The black hair, the bouffant—it’s just me trying something new. I wasn’t thinking about husbands yet.” Her mother gave her a stern look, one that said you’d better start, then turned back to the sink, leaving Barbara stunned and staring at her untouched coffee.
When Monday rolled around, Barbara stepped into Vera’s salon for her first day, her mind still spinning from her mother’s decree. The familiar buzz of the salon—hairdryers whirring, women chatting—felt like a lifeline. She tied on an apron and found Vera setting up a station. “First days are the best,” Vera said with a grin, patting the chair. “Sit down, let’s get that bouffant work-ready—rollers first, then we’ll tease it up.”
As Vera sectioned Barbara’s hair and started winding it onto big rollers, Barbara couldn’t hold it in any longer. “My mom threw me for a loop yesterday,” she said, watching Vera’s reflection in the mirror. “She says she’s glad I’ve got this job, but by summer’s end, she wants me married and out of the house. I don’t even have any prospects yet! I’m excited to be here, working with you, but she’s acting like this is just a stepping stone.”
Vera’s hands kept moving, deftly rolling Barbara’s hair, but her expression turned thoughtful. “Married by summer’s end? That’s a big ask, especially for a girl just starting out.” She chuckled softly, then added, “Well, maybe I’ve got an idea brewing.” Barbara tilted her head slightly, curious, but Vera gently nudged it back into place. “Hold still, hon. I’ll tell you soon enough. For now, let’s focus on getting you trained and that hair of yours sky-high.”
By the time Vera was done, Barbara’s bouffant was a vision—jet black, voluminous, and locked in place with a generous mist of hairspray. She took her spot at the shampoo station, ready to dive into her first client, her mind buzzing with her mother’s expectations and Vera’s mysterious hint. Whatever Vera’s idea was, it wasn’t about marriage—not yet, at least. Barbara could feel something big coming, though, and as she lathered up her first head of hair, she couldn’t help but wonder what her boss had up her sleeve.
The workday at Vera’s had zipped by, leaving Barbara with tired arms and a head full of satisfaction from her first shift. As she untied her apron, Vera waved her over. “Barb, come to the back with me. I’ve got something to show you.”
Intrigued, Barbara trailed Vera past the bustling salon stations, down a narrow hall, to a door tucked out of sight. Vera pulled a key from her pocket, unlocked it, and flipped on the lights. A wave of pink flooded Barbara’s vision—pink walls, pink tiles, pink everything. Two massive bathtubs dominated the space, divided by a flimsy pink curtain that swayed as the door closed. Barbara’s eyebrows shot up. “What is all this?”
Vera crossed her arms, a fond grin spreading across her face. “This place was built in ‘45 as a spa room. Back then, women didn’t have electric clippers, so they’d pop in during summer to get their privates spruced up. They’d soak in those tubs—nice and steamy—and we’d shave ‘em clean. While they soaked, I’d give ‘em a hot, soapy enema. Kept ‘em feeling brand new.”
Barbara’s jaw dropped, a laugh escaping her. “Wow, that must’ve been wild!”
“Oh, it was,” Vera said, her eyes twinkling. “Packed in here some days. But then Norelco rolled out those portable lady shavers, and poof—business fizzled out. Can’t say I’d have kept coming either if I were them!” She straightened, her tone shifting. “Anyway, here’s my idea. We’ve got that kitchen up front. I could have my husband build a platform over one of these tubs, toss a mattress on it, and make it a bed. This room’s big enough—it could be yours. If your mom boots you out by summer’s end, you could stay here for twenty bucks a week.”
Barbara’s mind spun, not with numbers, but with the sheer absurdity and allure of it all. A pink spa room turned bedroom, complete with bathtubs and a mattress on stilts? It was bizarre, sure, but it was also a lifeline—a way to dodge her mother’s marry-or-bust deadline. She didn’t pause to tally up the cost, didn’t crunch twenty bucks a week into eighty a month or weigh it against her shampoo girl wages. Instead, a grin broke across her face, and she blurted, “I’ll take it now!”
Vera raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised but pleased. “You sure? Didn’t think you’d jump that fast.”
“I’m sure,” Barbara said, nodding firmly. “If Mom’s serious about kicking me out, I’ll be ready. Plus, it’s kind of fun—living in a place like this.” She glanced around the pink abyss, imagining her clothes in a corner, her bouffant resting on a makeshift nightstand.
Vera laughed, clapping her on the shoulder. “Alright, kid, it’s yours. I’ll get my husband in here soon to fix it up. Welcome to the weirdest room in town.” She flicked off the lights and locked the door, leaving Barbara buzzing with a mix of excitement and defiance.
That night, tucked into her bed at home, Barbara didn’t bother worrying about the money or what her mother might say. The pink room was hers—a bold, quirky escape hatch. She’d keep scrubbing hair, keep her bouffant high, and now, she had a place to land if the summer turned sour. For the first time since her mother’s ultimatum, she felt like she was calling the shots.
Over the next few days, Barbara settled into her new life with a thrill she hadn’t expected. Moving into the pink spa room was a whirlwind—her clothes found a home in a small dresser Vera loaned her, and her few belongings dotted the space around the platform bed her husband had rigged up over one of the tubs. The mattress wasn’t fancy, but it was hers, and the faint hum of independence made it feel like a palace. She threw herself into her work at the salon, loving the rhythm of shampooing and the chatter of the clients, her bouffant bobbing as she moved between stations. After hours, she’d retreat to her quirky apartment, marveling at how quickly it had become home.
One quiet afternoon, as she lounged on her bed polishing her nails, Barbara’s eyes drifted to the tub beneath the platform. She’d noticed an odd, contoured seat molded into its lip before, but now, with time to spare, curiosity got the better of her. When Vera popped by to check on her, Barbara pointed to it. “Vera, what’s this weird seat thing on the tub for?”
Vera leaned against the doorframe, a sly grin creeping up. “Oh, that? Back in the spa days, gals would perch right there. It’s shaped to spread their legs nice and wide. I’d lather up their pussy and anus with soap, shave ‘em smooth as silk, then lube their asses up good. After that, I’d slide a lubed enema bulb into their rear. They’d lean back into the tub to soak some more, and I’d unclip the bag hanging up there—” she nodded to a hook above the tub—“letting the enema flow steady into ‘em from the hose. Kept ‘em relaxed and squeaky clean.”
Barbara’s eyes widened, a mix of shock and intrigue washing over her. “Wow,” she breathed, picturing the scene—women lounging in steamy water, the ritual unfolding like some bizarre pampering ceremony. “I wish I could’ve had a spa day like that. Sounds… kinda wild.”
Vera tilted her head, studying Barbara with a spark in her eye. “Well, maybe you can,” she said slowly. “How about this—I’ll stop by Sunday after church. My husband can mop the front of the salon, keep himself busy, while I give you the full treatment. Shave, enema, the works. What do you say?”
Barbara’s heart skipped. She hadn’t expected that. The idea was outrageous, a little embarrassing, but undeniably tempting—a chance to step into the past she’d only heard about, right here in her own tub. “You’re serious?” she asked, a grin tugging at her lips.
“Dead serious,” Vera replied, crossing her arms. “You’re one of us now, living in this room. Might as well christen it proper.”
“Okay, deal,” Barbara said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “Sunday it is.”
As Vera left, Barbara flopped back onto her mattress, staring at the pink ceiling. The next few days stretched ahead—work, sleep, and now, a strange, thrilling promise waiting at the end of the week. She didn’t know exactly what she’d signed up for, but she couldn’t wait to find out. Sunday after church, the tub would come alive again, and she’d be the one soaking in its history.
The week flew by in a haze of shampoo suds and hairspray clouds, with Barbara settling deeper into her routine at Vera’s. She loved the chatter of the salon, the way her bouffant turned heads, and the oddball charm of her pink spa room apartment. But midweek, as she was rinsing a client’s hair, Vera sidled up to her with a glint in her eye that Barbara had come to recognize as trouble—or at least something unexpected.
“Barb, you’re going down a rabbit hole with that bouffant of yours,” Vera said, her voice low but teasing. “You’ve got the height, the tease, the jet-black shine—but there’s one detail you left out. I like all my gals’ napes shaved high. Clean and sharp, just like the old days.”
Before Barbara could process the words, Vera pulled a pair of electric clippers from a drawer, the kind that buzzed like an angry bee. “Hold still,” she said, guiding Barbara to a chair and tilting her head forward. The clippers roared to life, their hum filling the air as Vera pressed them against the base of Barbara’s neck. A cool tickle ran up her spine as the blades sheared away the soft, dark hair at her nape, leaving a strip of bare skin in their wake. Barbara shivered, half from the sensation, half from the shock of it.
Vera wasn’t done. She swapped the clippers for a straight razor, lathered the freshly buzzed nape with warm shaving cream, and scraped it smooth with precise strokes. “There,” she said, wiping the excess foam away with a towel and running her fingers over the glassy skin. “Bald as a baby and twice as pretty. That’s how we do it here—keeps the bouffant looking crisp.”
Barbara reached back, her fingertips brushing the naked patch. It felt strange—smooth and cool where hair had been moments before—but when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she had to admit it worked. The high, shaved nape sharpened the edge of her towering bouffant, giving it an almost architectural flair. “Wow,” she murmured, turning her head side to side. “It’s… bold.”
“Bold’s the name of the game,” Vera said with a satisfied nod, switching off the clippers. “You’re one of my gals now, and we don’t half-step. Besides, it’ll feel nice come Sunday when you’re soaking in that tub.”
Barbara grinned, her mind flashing to their Sunday spa day plan. The week had already taken a turn she hadn’t seen coming, and now, with her nape shaved bare and a strange ritual looming, she felt like she was tumbling deeper into Vera’s world. She didn’t mind one bit. Back at her station, she ran a hand over the smooth strip again, a little thrill sparking in her chest. The bouffant was hers, the room was hers, and now, even this odd new detail felt like a badge of belonging. Sunday couldn’t come fast enough.
Sunday dawned bright and lazy, and Barbara woke with a flutter of anticipation in her chest. She stayed in her negligee and robe, lounging in her pink spa room, her freshly shaved nape cool against the pillow as she waited for Vera. The clock ticked past noon, then one, and still no sign of her boss. Barbara fidgeted, her excitement tinged with impatience, until finally, at 2:00 p.m., she heard the jingle of the salon’s front door. Vera bustled in, her husband trailing behind, both carrying the faint scent of diner grease. “Sorry, hon,” Vera called out. “Stopped for lunch—burgers were too good to rush.”
Vera’s husband set to work up front, hammering at a loose counter edge before grabbing a mop, while Vera led Barbara to the back. “Alright, Barb, let’s get you started,” she said, her voice brisk with purpose. She turned the tap on the remaining tub, hot water gushing in until steam curled upward, filling the room with a warm haze. At the sink, Vera took a bar of soap and a paring knife, shaving it down into ultra-thin strips that fluttered into a gallon enema bag. She filled the bag with hot water, swirling it until the soap dissolved into a frothy mix, then hung it high on an IV pole bolted above the tub.
“Got my shaving kit ready, bath’s steaming, enema’s prepped,” Vera said, clapping her hands. “Strip down and hop in. I’ll be out front for about ten minutes—gives that muff of yours time to soften up for shaving.” She winked and left, leaving Barbara alone with the scalding tub.
Barbara shed her robe and negligee, the air cool against her skin as she dipped a toe into the water. It was blisteringly hot, but she eased in slowly, hissing as the heat swallowed her legs, then her hips, until she settled against the contoured seat, the water lapping at her chest. Her bouffant perched high and dry, a black crown above the steam. Nervousness danced with eagerness—she was about to be shaved by Vera, her boss, in a ritual straight out of the salon’s wild past.
Ten minutes later, Vera returned, a shaving kit in hand. “Ready, doll?” she asked, kneeling by the tub. Barbara nodded, lifting herself slightly to perch on the contoured seat, her legs spreading naturally. Vera lathered her pubic hair with warm shaving cream, the rich scent mixing with the steam. She took a straight razor, its edge glinting, and began at the top of Barbara’s mound, scraping downward in smooth, deliberate strokes. The hair fell away, revealing soft, pale skin. Vera’s fingers parted Barbara’s outer lips gently, the razor gliding along the tender edges, nicking away every stray strand until the lips were bare and glistening. She tilted Barbara’s hips, shaving the inner creases where thigh met groin, her touch steady and intimate, leaving the entire vaginal area sleek and exposed.
“Flip over,” Vera said next, and Barbara shifted onto her knees, the water sloshing as she braced her hands on the tub’s edge. Vera spread more cream across Barbara’s backside, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin around her anus. The razor followed, slicing through the fine hairs in quick, precise passes, circling the puckered ring until it was as smooth as the rest. Barbara shivered, the sensation sharp and strange, her skin prickling under Vera’s expert hands.
“Alright, all fours now,” Vera instructed, and Barbara obeyed, water dripping from her as she positioned herself. Vera dipped a finger into a jar of Vaseline, the thick grease gleaming as she slid it slowly into Barbara’s anus. The intrusion was slick and cool, Barbara’s breath hitching as Vera worked it in, coating her insides. A second finger joined, stretching her gently, sliding in and out with a rhythmic ream that made Barbara’s thighs tremble. Then a third finger, pushing deeper, the stretch intensifying until Barbara moaned softly, her body caught between discomfort and a curious heat. Vera’s movements were slow, deliberate, her free hand resting on Barbara’s hip as she opened her up.
Finally, Vera reached for the enema nozzle—a thick, two-inch piece, lubed and ready. She eased it into Barbara’s stretched anus, the width making her gasp as it settled snugly inside. “Alright, flip back,” Vera said, “but keep that bouffant dry.” Barbara turned carefully, lying back against the tub’s slope, the nozzle shifting as she relaxed into the water. Vera’s fingers found the clip on the hose, and with a click, the hot, soapy enema began to flow.
Barbara felt it immediately—a warm rush filling her, spreading through her belly with a gentle pressure. “There it goes,” Vera narrated, her voice low and playful. “Nice and steady, warming you up inside. Feel that soap doing its work?” Barbara nodded, her eyes half-closed as the liquid surged, a soothing heat that made her sigh. “Halfway there now,” Vera continued, adjusting the bag so it swayed slightly. “It’s gonna fill you right up—relax into it, let it take over.” The sensation built, a fullness that was strange but oddly comforting, and Barbara sank deeper into the tub, her body humming with the flow.
After twenty minutes, Vera checked the bag—empty. “It’s all in you,” she said. “Let’s empty you out.” She stood, grasping the hose like a leash, and led Barbara, nude and dripping, across the room to a small bathroom tucked in the corner. The enema bag dangled behind, still attached, as Barbara shuffled forward, the nozzle shifting with each step, her bare feet slapping the tiles. Vera guided her gently, a hand on her shoulder, until she perched on the toilet.
Vera knelt, sliding the nozzle out with a slow tug, and Barbara’s body responded instantly. The rush of release hit, loud and unapologetic, the soapy water spilling out in waves as she emptied herself. While Barbara sat, flushed and noisy, Vera stood close, her hands moving to pat and adjust Barbara’s bouffant, keeping it pristine. Then, unexpectedly, Vera leaned down, her fingers brushing Barbara’s chin as she pressed a sensual kiss to her lips. It was soft, lingering, a jolt of warmth that caught Barbara off guard, her breath mingling with Vera’s as the last of the enema gurgled out.
Barbara blinked up at her, dazed, the kiss and the day’s strange intimacy swirling in her mind. Vera just smiled, a knowing curve to her lips, and handed her a towel. “You’re one of us now, Barb,” she said simply, stepping back to let her recover. The tub, the shave, the enema, the kiss—it was a Sunday she’d never forget.
Summer melted away in a haze of heat and hairspray, Barbara’s new life at Vera’s unfurling like a ribbon that never stopped unspooling. Her job consumed her days—fingers kneading shampoo into scalps, the sharp tang of lather stinging her nose, the rhythmic slosh of water in the sink as she rinsed away the week’s grit. Her pink spa room apartment glowed like a candy-coated dream, its walls shimmering faintly in the lamplight, the platform bed creaking under her weight as she sank into it each night. Sundays, though, were her holy grail, a decadence she hoarded like a secret jewel. Fall swept in with crisp winds, winter with its icy bite, and years piled up—ten, then twenty, then thirty—until 1990 loomed, a full three decades since she’d first walked into Vera’s. Yet her life stayed stubbornly, gloriously the same, a loop of routine and ritual etched into her bones.
Each morning, she stood before her cracked mirror, her hands a blur as she sculpted her jet-black bouffant. She’d tease the strands upward with a rat-tail comb, the hair crackling under her touch, until it rose like a dark, glossy thunderhead, sprayed stiff with a mist that coated her throat with its chemical bite. The high-shaved nape beneath gleamed like polished ivory, cool and bare where Vera’s clippers had kissed it years ago. That bouffant was her crown, her defiance, a daily act of creation that tethered her to 1960 even as the calendar mocked her loyalty.
Sundays ignited her. She’d pad into the back room, the pink walls pulsing with a rosy warmth, the air thick with the ghosts of steam and soap. Stripping off her robe, she’d bare herself to the tub’s scalding embrace, the water hissing as it swallowed her thighs, then her hips, until it lapped at the swell of her breasts. Her bouffant stayed aloft, a dry island above the flood. Vera would enter, her presence a quiet storm—apron stained with dye, eyes sharp as razor blades. The enema bag dangled from its IV pole, fat with hot, soapy water that sloshed faintly, the nozzle thick and gleaming with Vaseline.
First came the shave, a ceremony of exposure. Barbara perched on the tub’s contoured seat, legs splayed wide, the steam softening her skin until it felt like silk. Vera’s hands moved with a surgeon’s grace, slathering her mound with shaving cream that smelled of lavender and sin. The razor rasped against her flesh, peeling away the coarse pubic hair in long, deliberate strokes, leaving her mound a pale, trembling expanse. Vera’s fingers parted her outer lips, the touch cool and firm, as the blade traced the tender edges—each lip shaved bare, the skin puckering slightly under the steel’s kiss, until her vulva glistened like a peeled fruit. The inner folds came next, Vera tilting her hips to chase every shadow, the razor’s edge whispering against the delicate creases until no hair remained, just a raw, pulsing smoothness that made Barbara’s breath hitch.
Then the backside. On her knees, water dripping in fat beads down her spine, Barbara braced herself as Vera lathered her ass with more cream, the foam slick and cold against her heat. The razor circled her anus, shaving away the fine, dark wisps in tight, meticulous arcs, the blade grazing the puckered ring until it shone like a polished coin. The sensation was electric—sharp, intimate, a shiver racing up her spine as Vera wiped her clean, her fingertips lingering just long enough to spark a flush across Barbara’s cheeks.
The enema was next, and it stole her breath every time. Vera dipped her fingers into a jar of Vaseline, the grease glistening like liquid amber as she pressed one into Barbara’s anus. It slid in slow, a slick intrusion that burned then soothed, her walls clenching around it. A second finger followed, stretching her wider, the in-and-out ream a steady pulse that drew a low, throaty moan from her lips. When the third joined, Barbara’s world tilted—her ass opened fully, the stretch a deep, aching bloom that made her thighs quake, her moans rising sharp and desperate, echoing off the pink tiles. Vera’s free hand gripped her hip, anchoring her as she worked, her breath hot against Barbara’s ear.
The nozzle came last—a thick, two-inch beast, lubed and relentless. Vera eased it in, the width splitting her open, a slow burn that made Barbara gasp, her body yielding as it lodged deep. “Flip back,” Vera murmured, and Barbara obeyed, reclining into the tub, the nozzle shifting inside her as she kept her bouffant high and dry. Vera’s fingers flicked the clip on the hose, and the hot, soapy flood began—warmth surging into her, a liquid tide that filled her belly with a gentle, swelling pressure. “Feel it going in,” Vera purred, her voice a velvet tease. “Hot and slow, cleaning you deep—halfway now, stretching you nice.” Barbara sighed, her eyes fluttering shut as the heat spread, a fullness that cradled her insides, soothing and thrilling all at once. She sank into it, her body humming, lost in the flow.
Twenty minutes later, the bag hung limp. “All in you,” Vera said, tugging the hose like a leash as she led Barbara, nude and dripping, to the bathroom. The tiles were cold under her feet, the nozzle swaying with each step, her belly sloshing faintly. Perched on the toilet, Vera slid the nozzle free, and the release roared out—a noisy, gushing torrent that splashed against the porcelain, the soapy water spilling from her in waves. As she emptied, Vera stood close, her hands fluffing Barbara’s bouffant, fingers tracing its curves to keep it pristine. Then, unbidden, she leaned down, her lips capturing Barbara’s in a kiss that burned—soft at first, then deep and hungry, her tongue brushing Barbara’s with a heat that matched the steam. Barbara melted into it, her body still shuddering from the purge, her heart pounding with a love she couldn’t voice.
By 1970, the world had shifted beneath her. Bouffants faded from the streets, replaced by limp waves and feathered cuts, the women in the salon eyeing her towering hair with pity or smirks. She felt like a ghost in public, her bubble a beacon of a lost era. By 1980, she shrank from the outside, her rare ventures met with stares that pinned her like a museum piece. By 1990, at 48, she barely left Vera’s at all—the salon’s walls her fortress, its mirrors her only sky. She remained a shampoo girl, her hands deft and tireless, the suds her solace. Her love stayed locked in Vera’s touch—those fingers in her anus, her vagina, the warm kisses that lit her up each Sunday. Three decades on, she was a fixture, her bouffant a monument, her heart tethered to the woman who’d shaped her life one shave, one enema, one kiss at a time. The world spun forward, but Barbara stayed, cocooned in Vera’s embrace, content in her unchanging orbit.
