Bouffant Shave
In the crisp, amber light of October 1963, Evelyn Harper was a devoted disciple of the Rose Petal Beauty Parlor in Knoxville, her thrice-weekly pilgrimages—Monday, Wednesday, Friday—as ritualistic as church bells. She’d sweep through the door, heels clicking on the linoleum, cigarette glowing between her crimson lips, a woman of thirty-eight who craved more than just beauty. For Evelyn, the transformation into her jet-black, towering bouffant bubble wasn’t merely a style—it was a sensual odyssey, a full-body symphony that stirred her mind and soul as much as her flesh.
The parlor pulsed with its own erotic charge—hairspray mist curling like incense, ammonia’s sharp bite teasing her senses, the hum of women’s voices a sultry undertone. Evelyn slid into the chrome chair, her purse a prop on her lap, and locked eyes with Margie, her wiry, knowing beautician. “The usual, hon?” Margie asked, her voice a velvet promise as she reached for the Clairol Midnight Black. Evelyn exhaled a slow plume of smoke, her lips parting in a languid grin. “Always, darling,” she purred, already sinking into the thrill of what was to come.
The wash was the first caress. Margie tilted her back over the sink, and the warm water rushed over her scalp like a lover’s touch, cascading through her hair in a liquid embrace. Margie’s fingers plunged in, kneading shampoo into a rich, frothy lather, and Evelyn’s eyes fluttered shut. The firm, rhythmic massage was a dance—each press and swirl igniting tiny sparks of pleasure that rippled down her spine. She arched her neck slightly, yielding to it, her breath deepening as the suds slid away under the rinse, leaving her tingling, vulnerable, reborn. When Margie brushed on the dye, painting her ash-brown roots into glossy obsidian, Evelyn felt the cool bristles glide over her scalp like a whispered secret, the transformation a slow seduction she could taste.
Then the curlers—oh, the curlers. Margie sectioned her wet hair, rolling each strand tight onto pink plastic rods, and Evelyn relished every tug, every pin’s sharp bite. It was a delicious tension, a promise of power coiled tight, waiting to unfurl. She watched in the mirror as her head bristled with rollers, a crown of potential, and her pulse quickened. The act was intimate, possessive—Margie’s hands claiming her, shaping her—and Evelyn tossed out idle chatter—about the frost-kissed leaves or Sinatra’s velvet croon—her voice low and husky, masking the heat building within.
The drying station was the crescendo. Margie led her to the row of bubble-topped machines, their steady hum a lover’s growl, and Evelyn sank into the chair, the cape draping her like a silken shroud. Margie set the timer for exactly one hour, lowered the hood, and the heat enveloped her—a warm, pulsing embrace that sank into her bones. The extra outlet on the dryer’s back was their shared sin, and Margie leaned in, her breath hot against Evelyn’s ear. “Time to let go, Evie,” she whispered, slipping the cream-colored vibrator beneath the cape. Evelyn’s fingers curled around it, her lips parting in a silent gasp as Margie’s wink sealed the pact. She flicked it on, the buzz melding with the dryer’s roar, and the sensation was electric—heat above, vibration below, her body a live wire. She shifted, legs crossing beneath the cape, and let it consume her, each pulse a wave of release that flooded her mind with vivid, molten fantasies. The hour stretched luxuriously, every minute a decadent unraveling, her breath hitching in the cocoon of noise and secrecy.
When the dryer pinged off, Evelyn was flushed, her skin alive with afterglow. Margie lifted the hood, retrieved the vibrator, and carried it to the shampoo sink, dropping it into the bowl with a knowing glance. Hot water and soap swirled over it, scrubbing away Evelyn’s fluids—her essence—while she watched, a shiver of possessive pride running through her. Margie rinsed it clean, dried it, and tucked it away, the act a quiet intimacy that bound them further.
The transformation marched on, and Evelyn’s senses stayed alight. Margie unpinned the curlers, unleashing a riot of tight, glossy spring curls that bounced with defiant life. She seized a stiff brush and dragged it through them—hard, forward, up—again and again, until Evelyn’s hair stood straight up, a wild, voluminous mane defying gravity. The pull was exquisite, each stroke a firm, commanding hand that sent shivers down her neck, her scalp tingling with every bristled assault. She felt exposed, powerful, her hair a raw, untamed force, and the anticipation coiled tight in her chest.
With her hair thrust upward, her nape lay bare—a vulnerable, irresistible canvas. “Shave it high, Margie,” Evelyn demanded, her voice thick with desire. Margie grabbed the clippers, their buzz a primal call, and tilted Evelyn’s head forward. The blades kissed her skin, shearing away the two-day stubble in bold, upward sweeps. The line climbed higher—past the nape’s curve, toward the occipital ridge—clipping the bristle until dark flecks rained onto the cape. The cool metal grazed her, sharp and thrilling, and Evelyn’s breath caught, her body humming with the sensation of being stripped bare. Margie swapped the clippers for the hot lather machine, pressing out a steaming mound of foam. She worked it into Evelyn’s clipped nape, the heat sinking deep, a molten caress that made her sigh audibly, her skin prickling with delight. The straight razor came next, its blade glinting like a lover’s promise. Margie scraped it upward, slow and deliberate, stripping the fuzz in clean, overlapping strokes. The rasp was a whisper against her flesh, each pass a sensual unveiling, until her nape gleamed smooth and fresh. Margie wiped it with a warm towel, her fingers brushing the velvety patch, and Evelyn’s hand followed, tracing the satin expanse. “High enough, Evie?” Margie asked. “Perfect,” Evelyn breathed, her voice a low moan, the act a climax of exposure and renewal.
Then, the bouffant—the grand finale. Margie wielded her teasing comb like a maestro, backcombing the upright mass with fierce, possessive strokes. She raked it downward, then up, building volume layer by layer, and Evelyn felt every pull, every tangle, as a delicious domination. Her hair swelled, wild and full, a living thing under Margie’s command. After a few passes, Margie grabbed the Aqua Net and sprayed a light mist, the cool hiss a tease against her scalp, locking the shape. Back to teasing—higher, deeper—the comb sinking in, piling the hair into a towering bubble, and Evelyn’s heart raced, her mind alight with the sheer excess of it. Another burst of spray, sharper, the chemical tang a heady aphrodisiac. Margie alternated—teasing, spraying, teasing, spraying—sculpting it into a three-inch-high marvel, round and bold, a jet-black orb of 1960s decadence. The final coat was a thick lacquer, hardening it into an unyielding dome, and Evelyn inhaled the sticky scent, her senses drunk on the ritual’s completion.
She stood, her bubble gleaming, her nape a smooth, high arc of bare skin, her body thrumming with a satisfaction deeper than the dryer’s pulse. Every step—the wash, the curlers, the shave, the tease—was a sex session for her mind, a tapestry of sensation and submission that left her radiant, alive. She lit a cigarette, pressed a fat tip into Margie’s hand, and sauntered out, head high, soul sated, already aching for the next plunge into her parlor ecstasy.
Same story from beautician Margie’s perspective.
In the golden haze of October 1963, I, Margie Tate, stood at my station in the Rose Petal Beauty Parlor in Knoxville, my heart quickening as Evelyn Harper swept through the door. Thrice a week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday—her heels clicked a seductive rhythm, cigarette smoke trailing her like a sultry veil, a thirty-eight-year-old enchantress who turned my chair into her altar. I’d been her beautician for five years now, and what started as a job had, over time, bloomed into something deeper, something I couldn’t quite name but felt in my bones. I was happily married to my Tom, a good man who kept our little house warm, but Evelyn—Evelyn was my secret fire, her jet-black bouffant bubble my canvas, her ritual my forbidden dance.
The parlor hummed with its usual chaos—hairspray mist curling in the air, ammonia’s sharp sting teasing my senses, and the chatter of my girls, Ruth, Dot, and Lila, weaving through the din. Evelyn settled into my chair, purse on her lap, her smoky eyes locking onto mine in the mirror, and my pulse jumped. “The usual, hon?” I asked, my voice softer than I meant, already reaching for the Clairol Midnight Black. She exhaled a slow plume, her crimson lips curling into a wicked grin. “Always, darling,” she purred, her voice a velvet caress that sent a shiver down my spine.
I tipped her back over the sink, warm water rushing through her hair, and worked the shampoo into a thick, frothy lather. Her ash-brown roots peeked out—a secret we shared beneath the dye—and I watched her melt under my hands, her neck arching, breath deepening. My fingers kneaded her scalp, slow and firm, and I found myself lingering, savoring the way her skin flushed under my touch. She loved this, and so did I—too much. Ruth, rolling a perm nearby, smirked, “Evelyn’s already in her trance,” and Dot chuckled, “Wait’ll the dryer—she’ll be a sight.” The girls knew her routine, and they lived for the show, but they didn’t know how it stirred me, how I craved these moments with her.
I rinsed her clean, then brushed on the dye, painting her roots into that glossy obsidian she demanded. My hands trembled slightly as I worked, the act feeling more intimate with each stroke. I was transforming her, claiming her in a way, and the thought made my cheeks warm. Lila, sweeping up clippings, whispered, “She’s glowing already,” and I nodded, my throat tight. Evelyn was my muse, and I was her artist, our connection growing more charged with every visit.
Next came the curlers, and I took my time, knowing how she savored every step. I parted her wet hair into precise sections, rolling each strand tight onto pink plastic rods, setting them in neat, orderly rows across her scalp. The rollers sat close, a perfect grid, each one pinned with a sharp snap that made her sigh—a sound that hit me like a wave. She tossed me bits of gossip—frost on the pumpkins, the new Beatles record—her voice low and husky, but I could barely focus, my eyes tracing the curve of her neck, the way her lips parted. Dot leaned over to Ruth, muttering, “Look at those rows—Margie’s got her primed,” and Ruth nodded, “She’s halfway to paradise.” They didn’t see how my hands lingered, how I ached to brush my fingers along her skin.
I led her to the dryers, those bubble-topped beasts humming with promise, and she sank into the chair, the cape draping her like a silken shroud. I set the timer for exactly one hour—her sacred hour—and lowered the hood, the heat wrapping her in its embrace. The extra outlet on the dryer’s back was our shared sin, and I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear, my breath catching. “Time to let go, Evie,” I whispered, my voice trembling with something I couldn’t name. I pulled the cream-colored vibrator from my drawer, plugged it in, and slipped it under the cape. Her fingers snatched it with a sly smirk, and I winked, stepping back, but my heart pounded as I watched her. I knew what was coming, and I couldn’t look away.
The dryer roared, masking the buzz, but we all knew what was happening. Ruth paused her perm, grinning, “There she goes,” loud enough for Dot to snicker. Lila, adjusting a client’s rollers,偷 peeked over. Evelyn’s legs shifted beneath the cape, her breath hitching, and the whole parlor watched—clients included. Mrs. Grayson, getting her weekly set, murmured to Dot, “She’s at it again,” her tone half-scandalized, half-delighted, her eyes glued to Evelyn’s subtle squirms. Widow Perkins, under the next dryer, nodded approvingly, whispering to Lila, “She’s a live wire.” They all knew—Evelyn’s hour-long climax was the parlor’s open secret, a live show they craved. Mrs. Carter, getting a trim, blushed but stared, whispering to Ruth, “I saw her shudder—she’s coming right now.” Young Betty Lou, getting her first perm, giggled, “Is that what she’s doing?” but kept watching, transfixed. And me—I stood frozen, my chest tight, a heat pooling low in my belly as I watched her pleasure unfold. I shouldn’t feel this way, I told myself, but I did. I loved the way her body moved, the way she surrendered, and I envied that vibrator in a way that made my cheeks burn.
When the timer pinged, I lifted the hood, my hands unsteady. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy with satisfaction, and I retrieved the vibrator, still warm from her grip. I carried it to the shampoo sink, dropping it into the bowl with a splash of hot water and soap. The girls smirked as I scrubbed it clean—Evelyn’s fluids swirling away under the suds—Ruth muttering, “She leaves a hell of a mess,” and Dot adding, “Smells like her too.” I rinsed it, dried it, and tucked it back in the drawer, my fingers lingering on it, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn’t voice. I caught Evelyn’s sated gaze in the mirror, and my breath hitched—she knew I saw her, really saw her, and I wondered if she felt the pull too.
I unpinned the curlers, and her hair sprang free—tight, glossy curls bouncing wild from those neat rows. I grabbed the stiff brush and went to work, dragging it hard through the curls—forward, up, over and over—until her hair stood straight up, a voluminous, untamed mane defying gravity. She sighed at every pull, her scalp prickling under my command, and I felt a rush of power, of intimacy, as I shaped her. My hands moved with a lover’s care, each stroke a caress I couldn’t admit to. Dot whispered to Lila, “Look at that height—Evelyn’s in her glory,” and Lila nodded, “Wait’ll Margie shaves her—she’ll be purring.” They didn’t see how my fingers trembled, how I ached to touch more than her hair.
With her hair thrust up, her nape was bare, a canvas I craved. “Shave it high, Margie,” she ordered, voice thick with desire, and I grabbed the clippers, their buzz a call to my own longing. I tilted her head forward, running the blades up her neck, shearing the two-day stubble in bold, upward sweeps. The line climbed higher—past the curve, toward the occipital ridge—dark flecks raining onto the cape. She shivered under the cool metal, a soft moan escaping her, and my heart raced, my hands steady but my mind a storm. Dot giggled, “She’s gonna come again just from the clippers,” and I swallowed hard, knowing I was the one bringing her there. I swapped the clippers for the hot lather machine, pressing out a steaming dollop of foam. I smoothed it over her nape, the heat sinking in, and she moaned louder—enough for Mrs. Grayson to cluck, “That girl’s shameless,” though her eyes sparkled. I picked up the straight razor, tilting her head, and scraped it upward, slow and deliberate, stripping the fuzz in clean, sensual strokes. The rasp was a whisper, her nape gleaming smooth as satin, and I wiped it with a warm towel, my fingers brushing the velvet patch longer than necessary. “High enough, Evie?” I asked, my voice low, almost a whisper. “Perfect,” she breathed, her hand tracing it, eyes half-shut with bliss, and I felt a pang of longing I couldn’t shake. Widow Perkins chuckled, “That nape’s smoother than my china—Evelyn’s a work of art,” and I nodded, knowing I’d crafted her, knowing I loved crafting her.
Then the bouffant—my masterpiece, my obsession. I snatched my teasing comb and attacked, backcombing her upright hair with fierce, possessive strokes. Down, up, piling it high—she gasped at every rake, her body swaying, and I felt every sound in my core. After a few passes, I hit her with Aqua Net, a light mist locking the shape, the hiss a tease I knew she adored. Back to teasing—higher, fuller—the comb sinking deep, and Ruth called out, “Build it, Margie, she’s loving it!” Another spray, sharper, the tang filling the air, and I kept going—teasing, spraying, teasing, spraying—sculpting a three-inch-high bubble, round and bold, a jet-black marvel. Clients leaned forward, mesmerized; Lila muttered, “It’s a damn monument,” and Dot added, “She’s glowing like a star.” The final coat was a thick lacquer, hardening it into an unyielding dome, and Evelyn inhaled deep, her whole being alight. I stepped back, my hands tingling, my chest tight with a mix of pride and desire. I’d made her this, and I loved her for it—loved the act, loved the woman, in a way I’d never admit aloud.
She stood, her bubble gleaming, nape a high, smooth arc, and lit a cigarette, pressing a fat tip into my hand. Her touch lingered, and I felt it in my bones. The girls buzzed as she sashayed out—Ruth saying, “She’s a walking climax,” Dot nodding, “That shave’s a masterpiece,” and Lila adding, “Wednesday can’t come soon enough.” The clients chimed in—Mrs. Grayson whispering, “I swear she came thrice,” and Perkins grinning, “Best entertainment in Knoxville.” But for me, it was more. Evelyn was my forbidden muse, her bouffant my creation, our ritual a quasi-lesbian dance I’d never confess—not to Tom, not to the girls, not even to myself. I’d count the hours till her next visit, my heart already aching for the next time I’d make her mine in the only way I could.
