Dormant Desires

Dormant Desires

 

By Shorngirl

 

         I was just seven when I received my first haircut from a barber. It wasn’t anything like what you might imagine. Being a girl growing up in the country, the only haircuts I ever had were trims by my mother.

         I had plank straight hair back then, and a silvery blonde in colour. My mother saw no need to bother the hairdresser with it, so every couple of months, I would be sat down on a stool in the kitchen, while she snipped off a few inches. My brothers both got the same treatment, only the scissors had nothing to do with it.

         Mother would pull out the Wahl clippers from the drawer in the kitchen and set them right where I had been, reducing their heads to stubble. I would sit at the table and watch, chin in my hands, as what little hair they had tumbled to the floor.

They were both older than me, and would often kid me about having mine cut like theirs, mockingly running their fingers like combs through my hair. Strangely enough, I never objected to their razzing, giggling along with them, imagining the same.

         One time, I even hid my mother’s hair-cutting scissors, naïve enough to think she might resort to the clippers instead. I suppose I can blame my brothers for my burgeoning interest in having my hair cut.

         “Can you cut it shorter, Mom?” I asked one time, my hair reaching well past my shoulders.

         “Well, that depends. How short would you like it?” She asked me, never being one to discourage us from asking reasonable questions.

         “I want mine like Timmy and Ross.” I giggled.

         “Sally Louise, don’t be silly. You’re a girl, and girls don’t wear their hair like that.” She admonished, gently.

         “Why not?” I questioned.

         She had to think for a moment, but finally settled on… “They just don’t, Sally.”

         “How about I cut it so it’s off your shoulders? How would that be?” She asked.

         “Okay.” I sighed with a shrug. It was something different, and I figured it was the best I was going to get.

         I ended up with a bob that was a good two inches shorter than she had planned on. I remember her cursing as she went back and forth with the scissors and comb, trying to get things even. I loved it. Somewhere between my ears and my shoulders, I really didn’t care how it looked to anyone else.

         Of course, my mother wasn’t satisfied, which was how I ended up at the barbershop the following month. I was seven, and it was a whole new world to me. My mother and I were the only girls in the place, and being a Saturday afternoon, it was pretty busy.

         I guess she figured, since we were going, that my brothers might as well go too. She took three numbers from a rack at the door and handed each of us one, warning us not to lose them.

         Timmy and Ross were horsing around, as boys do, until one of the barbers told them to settle down. I just sat quietly, and watched as they worked. At that age, I was just fascinated with watching the haircuts, just as I had at home with my brothers.

         When Timmy’s number was called, Mom asked what all the boys were getting, and seeing as they were starting with a longish brushcut, the barber suggested a crewcut. So that’s what they both got. Longer on the top but a lot shorter on the sides and back, it was a good look for them. I think they were just happy not to be buzzed down as they had been.

         That’s when my number was called, and things got complicated. As I scurried up to the chair, my mother was close behind, trying to explain to the barber what she wanted done. I was disappointed when she asked for the same thing I had, only evened out.

         “And, how would you like your hair cut, little girl?” The older barber asked, seeing my displeasure over my mother’s request. He tucked the red and white striped cape into the paper strip he had cinched around my neck and clipped it in.

         “Short, like my brothers,” I answered, pointing to the two as they sat in the chairs behind us. He raised an eyebrow, looking at my mother questioningly, and then back to me.

         “How about we do something in between?” He suggested.

         “Um… how short would that be?” My mother asked, nervously, probably regretting having ever brought me there.

         “I can cut her hair like a boy, if that’s what she wants, but it doesn’t have to be so short; maybe… something like that.” He pointed to a picture on the wall. The boy’s hair had been trimmed around the ears and clipped tight in the back, but the top still hung down onto his forehead, parted on the side. Neat and tidy, without the military look.

         I swore I could hear her fretting behind me, as she stood. She sighed, finally. “I don’t want to hear any complaints out of you, young lady.”

         I smiled a gap-toothed smile in the mirror, having lost both lateral incisors that summer. Looking at her over my shoulder, I bubbled… “Thanks, Mom.” I watched in the mirror as she retreated to the chairs, reining in my brothers, who overheard the entire conversation.

         I had a fleeting moment of anxiety as I wondered what my friends were going to make of my boyish bob. That was soon quashed by the sound of clippers firing up in the barber’s hand. Was he going to give me what I really wanted? Slipping them under the bob in the back, I felt the whirring blades bite into my hair and slide part of the way up the back.

         A long hank of my hair slid over the cape to the floor, followed by a flurry of them as he worked his way around my head. When he’d finished and set the clippers down, all that remained of my hair was a silvery mushroom cap that just touched the tops of my ears.

         He sprayed me down and began working with scissors and a comb, taking it shorter and shorter. My ears were plainly visible now, but even more so when he cut them out in an arc on each side.

         I watched as he held my hair out with three of his fingers, snipping over and over again, until the hair began to mimic the shape of my head. I felt him comb in the side part, forcing my hair over the top. Using more spray, he continued cutting until it lay totally flat. I watched carefully as he cut bangs that were well above my eyebrows and at a slight angle, recombing the part once again.

         Looking at myself in the mirror, the pretty blonde girl was gone, replaced by a tidy little boy. As the barber finished off the cut with some smaller clippers, skinning around my ears and up the back, the cut was finished.

         “Your father’s going to kill me.” I heard my mother say to Ross as he pulled me down from the chair, scruffing my head with his fingers. We all ran out to the car, while my mother settled up, but I was as happy as a clam. I took all the taunting my brothers gave me that day, about how I was one of them now, and that nobody was going to recognise me anymore.

         They were right about the latter part. We went back to school the following week, and it took a few days for everyone to get used to the new Sally. Some of the girls seemed almost envious, but a few gave me grief about it. The boys seemed to ignore me altogether. Funny how that happens, not that it mattered to me at that age. Without my long blonde hair, I seemed invisible to them.

         So, that was all a long time ago; twenty years in fact. I managed to graduate from high school with honours and landed at a prestigious university in central New York State. Four years later, I’ve moved into a rather lucrative technology position in Boston, a long way from my hometown roots in central Virginia. I did get home every once in a while, for holidays and the occasional birthday, but I’ve gotten used to city life.

         I outgrew my momentary fascination with short hair midway through high school, and as I discovered, boys were far more interested in girls with fashionably long tresses. My silvery-blonde hair had morphed into something more akin to mousey brown, although my mother still insisted that I was dirty blonde. Either way, it had grown longer, and I’ve kept it over my shoulders since graduation.

         I had a short vacation coming up, and my mother had begged me to come home for at least a part of it. It was summer, and I knew that Virginia was going to be uncomfortably hot. Boston, being by the ocean, stayed more tolerable, and I rarely turned on the AC. Back home, it was practically a requirement.

         Neither of my brothers wandered very far from home, having opened up a collision shop not too far away. I was the only one to go to college and move away, and I think they resented that a bit. When I was home for the holidays, they would razz me about being all high and mighty and too aloof for the likes of them, as they put it.

         To be honest, I never felt that way. They were both successful in their own right; I’d just gone in a different direction. So, when we all sat down for Sunday supper that first weekend, they were relentless.

         “You remember that summer when you had all that hair cut off?” Ross asked, curious. “Hell, you looked like a boy for the rest of the year.” He mused.

         “Yes, I remember. It was… a phase, I think.” I answered as politely as I could. That year, I had fallen under the impression that long hair was just too much of a bother, and I found myself back at the barbershop quite a few times.

         I remembered how it felt, the sharp bristles at my neck and around my ears. I also remembered being shunned by almost every boy in school, and some of the more popular girls as well. Still, it didn’t stop me from enjoying the freedom of so short a style while I kept it.

         “How is the old barbershop, anyway?” I asked.

         “Oh, Harvey and Willard keep it busy these days. For a while, they were struggling when all the boys decided they needed longer hair. Now that things are back to normal, they’re busy enough.” Tim explained. “We still go around there.” He nodded to Ross.

         “You should think about heading down there with us, sis.” Tim kidded. “I’m sure Harvey could cut you a nice style out of that mop of yours.”

         I instinctively ran my fingers through my hair, jostled by what my brother had suggested. I couldn’t lie. There had been moments, even in Boston, when I thought hard about getting something shorter. I’d fought the idea because I didn’t want to be seen as different. I had no real contact with clientele and was stuck in a lab most of the day. That fact had given me pause and had me thinking.

         “Come on, Sally. You know you want to.” Tim pressed.

         “You both leave Sally alone, now.” My mother chided. “She’s a woman now and can wear her hair any way she wants.”

         That night, I had the most vivid dream as I slept in my old room. I woke up, the moonlight streaming in through the window, and I quickly grabbed at my hair, sighing when I realized it was still there. It felt like a nightmare, but the strange thing was, I was terribly aroused. It felt off, masturbating in my mother’s house, but then, how many times had I done it before I’d left for college? Silently, I brought myself off, imagining the scenes in the dream actually coming to pass.

         My brothers never brought up my short-haired days the rest of the time I was home, and I was pleased to finally get away to my actual vacation. If I thought Virginia was hot, I should have imagined that my final destination would be that much warmer.

         I’d never been to the Caribbean, and although I worried about going there on my own, I’d been assured that there was nothing to worry about. My hotel room looked out over a baby blue lagoon, and the smell of Cajun cooking and the sweet scent of flowers filled the air.

         I tied my hair back and changed into a gauzy sundress, hoping to lounge on the beach for a few hours before supper time. It was a little slice of heaven, to be honest. The only thing that got to me was the damned heat. Even at night, the sea breeze did little to cool things down.

         The second day I was there, I started wearing my hair up off my shoulders, clipped into a messy bun on the top of my head. That was the day I saw him. Spread out under a palm tree, a man was busy relieving a woman of her hair. When I say ‘relieving’, I mean right down to the skin. Fascinated, I turned to face the spectacle, keeping my sunglasses on so I could watch unashamedly.

The woman seemed pleased with her freshly shorn head, paying the man before picking up her things and walking back to the hotel. He picked up his blanket and shook off the woman’s hair, the breeze spreading it over the sand. He glanced my way, but if he suspected that I was watching, he never let on.

Not twenty minutes later, another woman took a seat on the blanket, and he repeated the process with her. This woman’s hair was considerably longer than the first, but he treated it no differently. His cordless clippers made short work of her luxurious mane, as he ran them in neat little rows over her scalp.

The sun was setting, and I felt my tummy rumbling. The other part of me that was bothered needed attention as well. I deliberately walked close to the man. His skin was as dark as night, and he smiled at me as I passed. “…Sure is hot these days, is it not, nice lady?” He mused, his thick Caribbean accent sounding exotic and deep. “Let me help you with that.” He suggested, looking directly at my hair, which had slipped from its clips and fallen in ringlets around my face.

“Oh, I could never.” I insisted, continuing to walk.

“I am always here, nice lady.” He tempted me as I rounded the corner and into the hotel. I wonder if they knew that there was a man on their beach shaving women’s heads. Surely, they must know.

While I was eating supper on the patio, I had a moment to ask my server about the man. “Do you know there’s a man shaving women’s heads on the beach?” I asked, almost bashfully.

“Oh, yes. He comes here during the summer.” The woman explained. “You should see him, if you are curious.” She suggested, winking.

My dreams were crazy that night, and I woke in an incredible state. Not only did he shave my head, but he had had his way with me as well, right there on his blanket, my hair beneath us as he took me. “Jesus!” I panted, my fingers wet from my own juices, having already started what I would immediately finish.

The following morning, I was determined to shake off this strange desire I was having and arranged to go shopping in Bridgetown. As much as I wanted to forget what had happened overnight, I simply couldn’t get my mind off of it. I returned to the hotel early in the afternoon, empty-handed.

My hair was hanging over my shoulders in strings, the air conditioning in the taxi seemingly broken. A swim was what I needed, so I donned my swimsuit and headed for the beach.

I hadn’t emerged from the water for more than a few minutes when my eyes wandered over to the palm tree where the makeshift barbershop had been the day before. I was almost sad to see the spot empty. Wanting to stay out of the sun after being so overheated, I took advantage of the swaying palm and lay out my blanket beneath it.

I must have dozed off for a while, and awoke to the sound of buzzing. In my drowsy state, I waved at my face, thinking it was a wasp or some such thing. To my surprise, the barber must have arrived after I was asleep, and was in the middle of giving a young man a close crop, cutting laser lines into his scalp.

“I thought you only cut women’s hair.” I sighed, rolling onto my tummy.

“Look who is awake. You must be so eager if you are waiting in my spot.” He mused, patting the man on the shoulder to indicate he was finished.

“Only taking advantage of the shade.” I defended, pulling up to hug my knees to my chest.

“You are a very funny lady. Do not be afraid of what you want, because I can give it to you.” He smiled, his perfect teeth in sharp contrast to his smooth complexion. Nodding to the man as he was paid, he lifted the blanket to scatter the hair, however scant it might have been.

I immediately thought of the dream and how he gave me so much more than a haircut. I felt a tingle between my legs, and worried that my burgeoning arousal might drive me to do something I might regret later. “Do you have to shave it?” I asked, not understanding what made me say anything to encourage him.

“No, of course not, but why are you here?” He asked.

“In Barbados? I’m on vacation.” I chortled.

“No, why are you here, exactly where you knew I would be?” He asked. “You want me to take it from you. I can see it in your eyes, nice lady.” He frowned knowingly.

 “Is that what you think?” I asked, fearful that the juice seeping from between my legs might give me away entirely. I leaned forward, resting my chin on my knees.

“Is it not so? You give yourself away.” His eyes were locked on my feet, but I then realized that the crotch of my bikini bottoms was on full display to him. “You cannot hide, you know. This would not be the first time you have surrendered your hair to a man.”

How on earth could he know so much about me? Even if it was a childhood fascination, there was no denying that it had never truly left me. He knew his proposal excited me, and that only fed my desires. “What if I said yes?” I sighed, aroused and terrified at the same time.

“Then I would take from you only what you would let me take.” He promised. Motioning to a spot at the center of his blanket, it was only a short crawl, but it could have been a million miles.

“Part of me is dying to let you do this, but another is fighting me.” I admitted.

“You are in Barbados, nice lady. Let your body tell you what is right.” He pointed to his head. “Turn this off for a moment or two. That is all it would take.”

I found myself crawling on my hands and knees, as symbolic a gesture as ever there could be. My hair was still damp with seawater and hung around my face in a disorganized nest. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Kneel for me, right here.” He spun me as I did, and unlike the others, I faced him instead of the ocean. He tossed my hair back and forth, examining it, testing its length with his fingertips. “I’m taking it all, nice lady.” He stated, flatly.

I looked up into his eyes, and it was if I was held by some sort of spell. Nodding my consent, my lips sealed themselves against anything that might rebel against the call of my body.

He stood inches from me, and I could see his sizable cock moving beneath the loose white cotton. The high-pitched whine of the clippers hovered close to my ear before he slipped them under my hair at the back. As he pulled them upwards, I thought I might actually faint from the pleasure. Nearly falling forward into him, I grazed his hardness with my cheek before he settled me.

“Put your hands here.” He mused, reaching down and sliding my palms onto his hips, steadying myself. The shearing continued then, stroke after stroke, the blades severing my locks at the root. I could feel the breeze from the ocean caressing my newly naked skin as he stripped me.

Turning the blades around, he paused for a moment, holding them at the top of my forehead, taunting me. “I am taking all of this. You are different than the others, but you know this to be. Do you not?” He pressed the whirring teeth over my crown, and I felt myself teetering on the edge of an orgasm that was years in coming. Each furrow he cut felt like electric jolts that coursed through my body.

He could see me. He knew what was happening. I held onto him if only to lock myself to the surface of the planet. Nothing could stop it, except for him to finish, which is exactly what happened.

“There you are, nice lady.” He rested me back on my heels, and I so desperately wanted everything to continue.

“Sally.” I sighed, reaching up to touch the microscopic stubble that remained on my scalp. “You shaved me.”

“I took your hair, because you wanted me to take it, Sally.” He answered in his deep, melodic voice.

Flustered, I reached for my bag, fumbling with my wallet. “How much?”

“Maybe, you would want to pay… some other way?” He questioned. “I don’t live far away, you know.” He held out his hand to help me from my knees.

He gathered his things, rolling the colorful blanket under his arm, having shaken out my hair, which scattered about over the sand on the ocean breeze. “Come with me, Sally.”

Almost in a daze, I left the hotel complex and into the streets of Speightstown, following behind him like a bald dog that had lost its way. He paused for a moment at a small shop, picking out a large floppy-brimmed hat, which he placed over my exposed pate. “You are very white, Sally.” He smiled, gifting me the hat.

“Thank you…?” I questioned.

“Xavier.” He nodded, directing me down a narrow alley to a small group of what could only be described as beach shacks. “This one.” He directed me inside, the humble furnishings and décor were simple, but impeccably clean. “Some tea?” He offered, but I shook my head, my eyes unwilling to stray from the large bulge in his cotton pants. “I think we do not need this anymore.” Xavier pulled at the strings of my bikini, and it fell in pieces to the floor.

Naked, I thought about covering myself, but then, why on earth would I do that? I watched in fascination as he lifted his shirt, revealing a well-sculpted form that was muscular but slender at the same time. It was when he lowered his pants that I knew I hadn’t imagined what was beneath. I wanted to fall to my knees all over again and worship him, and I think he saw that in my eyes.

Lifting the hat from my head, I suddenly felt exposed, the air suddenly apparent against my shaven scalp. “You shaved me.” I sighed, redundantly.

“You are beautiful without your hair, Sally.” He insisted, stepping forward and running his hands over the sensitive surface. He was so close I could smell the earthy scent of his manhood, pressing against me. Without thinking, I reached down and took it into my hands, feeling its girth and length as it hardened. He didn’t stop me.

He tilted my face upward, his fingers under my chin, and enveloped my mouth with full lips, swallowing me. I could feel my knees growing weaker, but sensing this, he swept me up in his arms and carried me into a small bedroom. I knew what was about to happen, and I feared that I would never be the same.

His weight came down on me, and I could feel his cock straining as it pressed against my sopping cunt. “Fuck me, Xavier!” I screamed, permitting him to take what he already owned.

Then I felt stretched, his body pressing against me as he filled me as no one ever had, or ever would again. There was pain, but the pleasure of the fullness cancelled out any discomfort. Soon, he was sliding in and out of me, his long strokes ensuring that I was well and truly his.

The contrast where our bodies met was striking, like some abstract painting, black and white mixing together and pulling apart. I could feel him getting close, but having experienced so many orgasms, I knew there was nothing I could say or do to prevent him from filling me with his seed.

With his hands gripping my scalp tightly, he thrust deeper than before, a shrill gasp involuntarily escaping my lips as he flooded me with a torrent of his spent passion.

I gripped his buttocks for all I was worth, keeping him deep inside me, until he slowly began to soften. Wincing as he pulled away from me, the emptiness was almost too much to bear.

“I dreamt of this,” I admitted, as we lay side by side on the bed, a simple mattress set on a wood plank floor.

“Hairless little Sally, what will you do when you go back to America as a bald woman?” He asked, not out of concern, I thought, but to reinforce what he had done to me, and how it would affect my life.”

“Do you do this to please the women you shave, or is it more about the taking of their hair, marking them as yours?” The question felt forward after I had asked it, but he didn’t seem offended.

“Almost all the time, I am simply giving them what they want.” He sighed. “Very rarely, it is as you said. I feel the need to take what they are hiding from, to mark them.”

“Which am I?” I asked, pensively.

“I think you know the answer to that question, Sally. I took what was already mine, and I kept on taking until I had taken all of it.” He turned, trying to gauge my reaction.

I could have been upset, or even angry. The real question was, why did what he said make me want to do it all over again?

As I walked into the lab, I was expecting some feedback concerning my radical new look. My hair had begun to look a bit spiky by the time I reached Boston, but I had spotted a small barbershop around the corner from my condo weeks before. Nothing would ever be the same after Xavier’s cut, but I felt the need to maintain the look, if only to reinforce his will over me, even from all those miles away.

There were some curious stares, and even a few offhand comments, but life went on, my job unaffected. Even my boss had come to look on my new unencumbered hairstyle as ‘an efficient alternative’ as he put it.

 Every few days, I would visit the barber, and without asking, he would remove the guard from his most aggressive clippers and skin me to the bone. I loved the slight resistance as I ran my palm over its surface when he was done. A few times, he had asked me if he might just shave it with a blade, but I resisted. A sleek scalp wouldn’t be the same as the rough, unfinished surface that Xavier had left me with.

No, the minute stubble was a reminder of what he had taken, and what the barber continued to take from me. The barber called it an induction cut, but I liked to think of it as Xavier’s mark. I wear it to this day.