“Anything”

This is a sequel to the story “Beware ‘suggested’ pins…” but it should stand on its own merit as well.

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You can’t believe it. You’ve been doing hair for more than a decade, and you’ve never screwed up like this.

Sure, you’ve had the occasional client insist on a big change and then begin to regret it as soon as you took her past the point of no return—what stylist hasn’t?—but the change was never initiated by you. That’s what made what happened earlier today so different, and therefore so regrettable.

Because a few hours ago, one of your regular clients—a woman who loved to change her look regularly, as long as she was in control of it—sat in your chair and told you to pick from amongst any of the different and quite varied styles she had saved to a Pinterest board. And even though you confirmed with her that she would be okay with losing quite a bit of length, and even though she told you to pick the style you thought would look best and that you’d have the most fun doing, and even though you checked one last time to make sure any of the styles saved to that board would be okay, you still managed to screw up when you put a #4 guard on a set of clippers and proceeded to run them down the center of your client’s head.

Your client had been shocked and angry at first, insisting nothing even remotely close to a buzzcut was saved to her Pinterest board. And then you looked over her shoulder as she scrolled all the way to the bottom of the page, and she saw it: a photo of a model sporting a buzzcut with tapered sides. And still your client insisted that she had not saved the style and suddenly you realized what had happened: Pinterest’s algorithm had saved it for her.

So you apologized profusely to your client and she said it wasn’t your fault and told you to finish buzzing her hair off, because it’s not like there was really any other option anyway. And the weird thing was that after the initial shock wore off, your client seemed to enjoy the sensation of you stripping her of her long, highlighted hair. And the weirder thing was that you enjoyed doing it, too.

This was not the first buzzcut you’d ever given, but it was by far the first one that ended with this much hair on the floor, and it was also the first one you’d ever given in which it was you, and not the client, who decided on the style. Sure, you thought you had your client’s consent for the cut, and as far as you believed she was giving you free rein with any number of styles. But mistake or no, you decided on the buzzcut because you thought you’d enjoy giving it just as much as it was because you knew she’d look stunning at the end of the process.

And as much as you’re feeling right now like you screwed up, you have to admit: you did enjoy it and she did look stunning and if you had to do it all over again, you probably wouldn’t change a thing. You’re also beginning to think, as you fondle the 100% tip your client left you, now tucked into the pocket of your apron, that she wouldn’t change a thing, either.

Still, your client seemed awfully flustered when she left. Maybe the tip was more an indicator of her feeling slightly disoriented by the whole ordeal. Or maybe she just wanted to get out of there so badly she didn’t bother counting the cash she handed you and never meant to be so generous. Or maybe…

No.

Sure, she seemed to be enjoying the process. The clippers must have felt like a soothing scalp massage after the shock of their first pass. And sure, she seemed to actually like the result. But she couldn’t possibly have thought the experience or the look warranted such generosity, especially since it left her with only a fraction of an inch of hair on her head.

You didn’t have much time to dwell on it in the moment, as your next client arrived almost immediately after your severely shorn client’s departure. You were extremely conservative with that appointment, cutting exactly the inch she requested and touching up her color with the exact formulation you kept on her color card. Another client was in after that, and another. All uneventful, thank god.

But now they’re all gone and the salon is closing. A few other stylists have crowded around your station to get the download on your 3:30 client, who had come in with so much hair and left with so little. As you recount the story some of your colleagues protectively clutch at their own hair, as if the story could have happened to any of them—whether giving or receiving the haircut. But you feel a surprising thrill on the retelling and find yourself hoping another such opportunity will present itself in the future.

Your colleagues begin to trickle away, and you pick up your phone to put in a takeout order you can pick up on your way home. You see a text message waiting there for you, from a few hours ago. Your 3:30 client—the one you had accidentally, brutally shorn. You forgot: you had texted her while your next client’s color was processing.

You tap the message and see the text you sent, followed by her reply:

“Thanks for the generous tip,” your text reads. “I’m so relieved you don’t hate me. Still, I do feel guilty about the whole thing. If there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, just say the word.”

“Actually, there is one thing you could do for me.”

“Anything!” you had replied.

And then her cryptic answer, time-stamped a few hours before: “I have an idea, but I understand completely if it’s a bridge too far.”

You practically shaved the woman’s head this afternoon. What could possibly be a bridge too far after that, you wonder. A few last colleagues are heading for the door. One calls out to see if you’d like to join them at the bar. “Not tonight, thanks!” you shout after them. They leave, and you follow behind to lock the door. You are alone in the salon.

”Sorry,” you start to text back to your 3:30 client, “Busy afternoon and evening here. I missed your message. But I offered penance because I meant it. What did you have in mind?”

You see three dots appear on your screen and then disappear again a few times, and then the next message finally comes through. “I want you to do to yourself what you did to me. And I want to be there while you do.”

Your breath quickens. You feel your heart in your throat. You study yourself in the mirror, your long black curls crawling down your back, save for the thick bangs obscuring your eyebrows. It’s taken years to get your hair to look like this. How could you possibly even consider what your client is asking of you?

And yet…you did just rob her of her comparable length and years of growth and maintenance. Even if it was the algorithm’s fault, you made the decision to go with the shortest possible option you believed was available to you, and you decided to start at the center of your client’s forehead for maximum drama, foregoing any chance of fixing your error.

It only seems fair.

”Deal,” you find yourself typing. “I’m still at the salon, if you’re available.” You hit “send” quickly, worried you’ll lose your nerve otherwise.

”I can be there in ten minutes. Don’t start without me.”

---

It has been the longest ten minutes of your life, mostly spent gazing into the mirror as you psyched yourself up for what was coming. You hear a gentle knocking on the front door of the salon and go to open it. It is, as you expected, your client from earlier. She looks resplendent as she enters. Rather than the business attire she was in before, she is clad in a loose button-down shirt open past her collarbone, tucked into a pair of wide-legged trousers that look equally chic and comfortable. She’s always been taller than you, but now she practically towers in the heels she’s sporting. She’s also wearing more makeup than she had before, which, paired with the short buzzcut you left her with that afternoon, makes her hazel eyes pop.

”I stand by my earlier assertion,” you say, locking the door behind her. “I really do think this is the best haircut I’ve given anyone all month. Maybe longer.”

”On that,” she says, “You and I both agree.”

”So you really do like it, then?”

“I do,” she says, giving her head a little rub and closing her eyes in what certainly looks like a fleeting second of pleasure. “I really do. But when you dangle a word like ‘anything’ out there in your apology, I’m going to take you up on it.”

”About that…” you begin.

”You’re not going to reneg, are you?”

”No,” you sigh. “I said I would do anything. And this,” you hold up a lock of hair and let it fall heavily back down, “certainly counts as anything. But I can’t give myself the exact same haircut I gave you. It’s not exactly easy to give yourself a fade.”

”That part’s less important to me anyway.” She walks toward you and picks up the same lock of hair you had just let drop. She does not let it go. “I just want to see you getting rid of all of this, just like you rid me of mine.”

Standing there in the comfortable boots you wear for long days in the salon, you’re practically eye-level with her cleavage, and you can see the red lace bra she’s wearing under her shirt. It’s not the first time today that you feel an unexpected thrill. “Then let’s get to it,” you say, your voice surprisingly husky. “I’m ready if you are.”

---

You’ve asked her if she wants to help, if she’d like to be the one to take that first, fateful pass with the clippers you know will spell the end of your long curls for years to come, but she insists she would rather watch. Not from the next salon chair over, but leaning right against your station—she’s not obscuring the mirror so much as making sure she remains in your full view.

You had cleaned and oiled your clippers earlier, when you thought you were done for the evening, so they’re ready to go, affixed with a #2 guard—shorter than what you used on her, since you won’t be fading it. Instead of a cape, you’ve fitted yourself with an old smock the salon keeps around for the clients who really, really worry about something happening to their clothes while they’re in the chair. You’re as prepared for this moment as you can possibly be.

You look toward your client, who looks hungrily back at you, her eyes not looking into yours but instead at that spot on your forehead where she knows you’ll momentarily be placing the hungry, merciless blades of your clippers. You both jump slightly when you turn them on, a loud pop followed by a dull roar as the machine hums to life. Then you raise your right hand and set the clippers at your widow’s peak, pulling your hair taut with your left.

You shift your gaze from your client back to the mirror as you slowly pull the clippers back toward your crown. Your client gasps along with you as their devastation becomes apparent, a two-inch wide gap in your signature bangs leading to a stripe down the center of your head that’s far too wide to be a part. A few inches of curls give way to a few feet, but all fall unceremoniously to the ground behind you when you release your hold.

As with your client’s hair earlier today, that first pass tolls a death knell for the rest of your hair. There’s nothing to do but keep going. And so you pull another section of hair taut, just to the right of where you started, and plunge your clippers in with gusto, giggling slightly as a chunk of your bangs slithers down your forehead and past your nose, while the longer lengths come away in your hand.

You take another handful of hair that’s still attached to your head and make your third pass. A fourth, fifth, and sixth follow in quick succession. You never stop, never slow down. You’re working on the right side of your head now and you’ve begun to notice a faint tickle that isn’t a tickle at all but something more visceral, more primal, traveling from your scalp down your spine. You flash a look at your client, who gives you a knowing smile. You weren’t imagining it. She did enjoy the feeling of having her hair buzzed off earlier that day. And now you’re beginning to understand why.

Most of the hair that had been on the right side of your head is now on the floor or in your lap. Before moving on to the other side, you hold your ear down, running the clippers over the strip of scalp that had been hidden by it to make sure every last long hair is gone. And then you keep running them over that spot for a few seconds longer and notice that primal message being sent down your spine is only growing stronger.

It’s over to your left side now. The same process, the same feelings. You look at your client again and her mouth is not set in a smile but rather open slightly in a perfectly round “o.” Clearly, she is enjoying the show. Good.

You’re working quickly, almost with abandon. There will be consequences for this, namely that tomorrow you’ll have to explain to your boss, colleagues, and clients what happened to your cascade of dark curls. But right now, in this moment, you don’t care. Impulsively, you throw a handful of your hair toward your client. She catches a lock and proceeds to rub it between her thumb and forefinger while she watches you finish clearing all of the hair from the left side of your head. It’s time again to hold your ear down and run the clippers around that area that had been so delicious on your right side. It’s even better now, if that’s possible. A gentle moan escapes your lips. Your client licks hers.

You know where this is heading. You’ve never crossed that line with a client before. Hell, you’ve only been with a few women before. None of that matters.

The only hair left on your head covers your nape. This is going to be harder. “Will you help me?” you ask your client.

”No,” she says. “I’m just here to watch.”

You reach behind your head with your left hand and gather the long locks that remain there into a ponytail, then again plunge the clippers in. The tension on your scalp from that last ponytail you’ll sport for years—possibly ever—slowly gives way to nothing but more tingling traveling down your spine and a growing, wet warmth in your panties.

At last, the final bundle comes away in your hand. You hold it triumphantly overhead, then open your left hand and let those last long locks fall to the floor as you make eye contact with your client. She gasps as they land but doesn’t break eye contact. That’s on you. You close your eyes, using your left hand to feel the new expanse of velvety softness that now covers your head, your right hand following closely behind to buzz off any last remnants of your former glory, and also to prolong the experience of the clippers running all over your head.

When you finally shut off the clippers and open your eyes again, you find your client not leaning against your counter but standing mere inches from you, still fondling that lock of hair she caught when you’d tossed it at her. You cautiously drape the cord of your clippers over the armrest if your chair so they don’t fall as you stand on shaky legs and tilt your head toward her. The hair that had collected on your lap tumbles to the floor.

She wraps her arms around your buzzed head and pulls you in for a kiss. She is hungry. You both are. Her tongue parts your lips and enters your mouth and now you are also wrapping your arms around her head, feeling the prickles of her fresh cut on your bare forearms. You move from her mouth down to her throat and run your tongue along her clavicle then kiss your way down the center of her chest as you work the buttons of her blouse. She reaches behind you and unsnaps the smock you’re wearing instead of a shirt and you allow it to slide down your arms to the floor, revealing your black bra at the same moment that you reveal her red one.

From there it’s a race to see whose bra can come off first. Your client has the advantage of working from above and beats you here, sliding your bra down your arms just as she did with the smock then lowering her closely cropped head to take one of your nipples in her mouth, sucking until you gasp and then releasing it and moving to the second.

Once both of your nipples are equally engorged she finally allows you to remove her bra, too, and she steps out of her heels to give easier access to her own breasts. As you take a nipple in your mouth, she holds your head toward her chest, stroking her fingernails along your nape until you’re practically purring. You pull away from the nipple but don’t have the opportunity to move toward the second. She has released your head and put her hands on your waist, undoing the fly of your jeans and tugging them down as she guides you to the floor, where you lie on your back on a sea of your own severed hair. She kisses her way down your chest and your belly, then peels your drenched panties down and places her mouth on your closely trimmed mound, quickly finding your clit and licking and sucking as you rub her shorn head and give yourself fully to the most powerful orgasm of your life.

You’re beginning to roll your client onto her back so you can pull her pants down and return the favor when you hear your name being called. The familiar voice of one of your colleagues. “Shit!” you exclaim with a start, aware of just how bad this situation must look.

”Fall asleep in your chair, did you?”

Your eyes flutter open and you see your colleague standing in the mirror behind you. Something else, too: all of your hair, still attached to your head—your long, dark curls in all their glory. Your client is nowhere to be seen. “Um, yeah, I guess so,” you respond.

”You ought to head home—it’s late. I only stopped back in because I forgot my wallet.”

”Yeah,” you agree. “It’s been a…long day.”

”Rough one, too, I’d imagine, after that 3:30 appointment. Have you heard back from her after you texted to apologize?”

“Um…” You realize you’re still holding your phone in your hand. A message alert on your screen bears your client’s name. You open it and scroll up. The message in which she told you she wanted to watch as you gave yourself the same haircut you’d given her isn’t there. But the one that preceded it is: “I have an idea, but I understand completely if it’s a bridge too far.”

So, too, is your reply: “Sorry,” it reads, “Busy afternoon and evening here. I missed your message. But I offered penance because I meant it. What did you have in mind?”

Then the follow-up message, which you had apparently missed when you dozed off in your chair waiting for her reply: “Have dinner with me tomorrow night?”

You turn your chair to face your colleague and tuck a long curl behind your right ear. “I think she forgives me,” you tell her, without offering any further details.

Your colleague smiles brightly. “Of course she does,” she says. “She looked phenomenal when she left here. It was a big change but I wouldn’t be surprised if she never lets it grow back. It’s that good.” She turns and pulls her wallet out of a drawer at her station, then heads for the door. “Well, goodnight! Try to get some rest.”

You’re alone again in the salon. You run a hand through your hair, somehow both relieved and disappointed it’s still there. You look back down at your phone. “It’s a date,” you type back, “meet me at the salon?” You hit send immediately as your dream quickly plays itself back in your mind. Who knows? Maybe, by this time tomorrow, it won’t just be a dream.