Fever

The Reception

Three empty Corona bottles lined spread of empty plates, and all I wanted was another beer. I should have tried harder to find a man in college. Had Tinder been a thing yet? Dating wasn’t in my head at the time. At least I got a degree. Even now there were healthier things t o consider, like forks. There were three at my plate, and that’s how many I’d have at my own wedding, if it could ever happen.

Not a bridesmaid, I chose for myself a dark dress with spare straps to show off my pure skin. At 30, I still had baby fat. Not a stretch mark, not a mole on my on my curves. Not that anyone noticed, I thought eyeing my champagne flute, pretending not to listen to those around me. I fiddled with my dark hair. In subtle waves, it hung halfway down my back. The boys, I guess you’d call them men, joked across the table, all especially enchanted by Simon, the only one who hadn’t worn a tie, or ordered a second beer.

He had an easy laugh, as if the joke were always on himself, taking it with a white smile of somewhat crooked teeth. At a passing glance, I blushed at his charm. Upon seating, I’d asserted a brief introduction, but now I pretended not to be there, watching for the little serving boy so I could order, yes, another Corona. But that would have to do me, despite the small crowd’s promise to the DJ that we’d party hard. In the event any of such single men would want to hook-up later, I’d have to make sure I wasn’t too drunk for it to mean anything.

I wasn’t the only single woman in attendance, but I was the only one without kids. Fred and Simon were the only guys without dates, and I wondered how Simon didn’t have someone. Maybe he liked to play the field. But only a true rascal could avoid the fever following such a romantic ceremony.

After a few bites of dinner, I went heavy on the water. If not for want of something harder, I was nervous and so obviously alone. And I kept feeling the flush of Simon, perhaps trying to make eye contact with me, but why? Stupid, timid me couldn’t dare meet his gaze. And it would be rude to play on my phone. Instead I developed a profound fascination with my water glass, until it was time to dance.

“Care to… cut a rug? Please?” Simon asked, suddenly closer than I expected, with a smile of self-mockery. How did I not feel his eyes on me as they moved from his chair to mine? Was I in such denial of my reality, which wasn’t all so bad? And why would he say please? Did I appear so disinterested in him? Would he believe I’m just shy?

But to his question, I answered, “Yes,” with a stiff smile. “I’d hate to make it seem like I’m not having a good time.”

“Great,” Simon said with chuckle, more self-mockery, but endearing. “Let’s make sure Tommy and Angela know they threw a great party.”

The Dance

I took his big hand, which pulled me eagerly toward the floor.

“All right,” I said, with a stretch of my neck and a toss of my hair. Noting a hungry lick of his teeth, I suddeny felt a dash of confidence, enough to admit, “I’m not good at dancing, so it would be great if you could also dance badly.”

It got a laugh. “Anything you want,” Simon replied, letting his voice go deep. As his hand rested on the small of my back, he asked, “Is this all right?”

“Yes,” I replied, almost a sigh. It had been too long since a man had his hands on me. “Will you lead?”

“Sure.”

And I followed as closely as I could, first to the tune of some boy band, then to the Spice Girls’ 2Become1. It was great how well the DJ catered to us 90s kids, reminding me of my first crush, half as handsome as the man with his hands in my hair, and arm about my shoulder, holding me so close. My head rested on the sleeve of his jacket, and his warm breath grazed my jaw. I remembered the fantasies of my early teens, before I knew anything about sex, full of kisses and tugs at my long, girlish hair.

“So you don’t have a date,” I dared, amazed at how quickly I felt comfortable. There was something about his big hands on me, pulling me closer to his chest.

“No. I’m single,” he confirmed, curtly. “You?”

“Single. I don’t meet a lot of guys, well, I don’t meet a lot of guys who speak english.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Your job must be really interesting.”

“It’s not. I work for a firm that does bookkeeping and taxes for immigrant businesses, making sure everything’s legal and secure for everyone,” I blurted, eager to get on with my own question. “So. Why are you single?”

“Ohhh…” Simon muttered, then inhaled and spun me as Christina Aguilera sang about her reflection, and whether it might ever reflect who she was inside. “It might not seem like it, but I’m a weird guy. I like weird stuff, and not a lot of women are into it. But that’s enough about that. Why are you single?” He asked before I had a chance to mull over his answer.

“I told you. I don’t meet a lot of guys. But you know, it’s really nice to meet you. And I get it, you can have your privacy about whatever you’re a freak about. I won’t press the issue.”

“Thanks.” He replied with a wink, and we kept dancing. And as the night carried on, it didn’t seem logical for us to find another partner.

Eventually I asked, “Did you take the shuttle from the Hotel?”

“No. I drove, actually. I couldn’t very well justify the cost of a hundred dollars to sleep in a bed. I only live about an hour away.”

“Really? I live in Logan Square. So I’m not too far, either. But I got a room for this… It just seemed like the thing to do.” Again, I wondered what weird thing it was that Simon was into that put off most women, then decided it didn’t matter. I wanted to hook up with him, even if it wouldn’t lead to anything. “I’m not drunk, and you can stay in my room if you want. It doesn’t have to be a weird thing.”

“Wow. Thanks. What does not being drunk have to do with anything?”

I felt myself blush, unsure of how to answer. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“All right. You’ll bring me back for my car, in the morning, or some time tomorrow?”

“Of course,” I breathed, suddenly wondering why I said anything about it being a weird thing. I’d never been adventurous in any aspect, but I wanted Simon. I wanted whatever weird thing he was into. I pressed my head into his chest, and he kissed my head, breathing deeply into my hair.

“It smells nice,” he noted.

My Room

“So what now?” he asked, tossing his back pack onto the floor of my room.

I sat on the bed and, pulling off my heels, gave a flirty roll of my eyes. “Well… I kind of want to do something crazy.” Hoping he’d take the hint.

“Really?” He hummed, taking a seat next to me. As soon as I noticed the touching of our bodies, we were kissing. His hard fingertips dug into my shoulder as my world went dark and hot.

He pulled away, so abruptly. “You really want to do something crazy?”

“Yes,” I affirmed, wide-eyed, catching my breath.

“What about a hair cut? Something really short? I’ll do a good job.” His words came out so fast, and I felt myself struggling to swallow.

“What? No! That’s not what I had in mind at all!” Was my immediate reaction, sitting up straight with a regrettable glare. In my defense, his suggestion came as a shock, since I thought it was clear that sex was going to be the ‘crazy thing’.

“All right, that’s fine.” He returned, pulling me close again for a kiss.

But I felt the need to make an excuse, and pulled his face to my shoulder. “I’ve never had short hair before, and I’ve never wanted it… And if we cut it tonight, it’ll really look like I’ve lost my mind… Is that what you want?”

“No…” he muttered. “What did you have in mind?”

“Uh… hooking up?”

“Okay… yeah. I want to do that. But that seems like the least crazy thing we could do… seeing how well we’ve hit it off. Don’t you agree?”

“Yeah,” I said, with my hand on his long, strong leg, “I guess I just don’t hook-up… It’s been a while.”

“So that makes it even more special, right?”

“Right…” I replied with a whimper as I lost myself again a swarm of kissing and touching.

And as he fucked me, and went down on me, and fucked me some more, I couldn’t help but think of him cutting my hair. That must have be his kink. But this was so good… and I couldn’t help but imagine his excitement at cutting my hair, and how good the sex would be afterward. And I thought of the humiliation I’d feel at losing all my hair, just for a guy… but this was what I always wanted. A handsome, kind, funny guy, and generous lover. I squeezed his cock in my slit as I felt him come in me. The hot release brought out my own climax, and then I knew, I’d do anything just to experience it again.

As he nuzzled up to my naked shoulder, I asked, “Do you still want to cut my hair?”

“Yes,” he muttered, kissing my neck, avoiding my gaze.

“How short?”

“Short. We dont have to talk about it.”

“But I want you to do it…” I swallowed, waiting for a breath from him that never came. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Simon exhaled. “Tomorrow would be better.”

I rolled over and kissed him. “Okay,” I answered and licked my lips, forming into a smile. “Where?”

“My family owns a Fantastic Sam’s in Lansing. You know, I really like you. And if you have any reservations about how I cut your hair, you shouldn’t do it.”

“I want to do it… especially if that means we can do this again. I don’t care if you shave me bald.” I replied, almost choking as the world Bald came out, as if it were nothing. Since when did any woman go Bald without first consulting everyone she knew? I had no idea… famous ladies shaved their heads sometimes, sure. Like Britney Spears. But I’d never known a woman who did that.

My mind raced, and all Simon could reply was, “Thanks. You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

And now the pressure was on. Whatever had happened so far became much more than a one night stand. I couldn’t sleep. In fact, an hour passed in wakeful breathing before I could decide on whether or not to say anything, and what I even could say. Instead I slid out of the bed and grabbed our complimentary champagne, warm now. At the blink of light in Simon’s eye, I covered my naked chest and noted, “Can’t sleep. I guess I’m excited.”

“Me too,” He sat up, folding a leg, blocking my view of his erection.

We found ourselves talking for at least an hour, passing the bottle, myself afraid to drain it for fear of the ending party. But I didn’t want to wait for tomorrow… I wanted to know immediately how Simon would cut my hair, and what the rest of our relationship might be. I wanted him so badly. The next few moments lost my memory in a haze until we were making love again, an endless minute of tastes and touches that would forever be carved into my sense of yearning.

The Shop

Breakfast was served downstairs, for all from the party. Simon and I were late, to the knowing eyes of our friends, minus the bride and groom. In my car, I followed Simon’s white Cavalier to his distant suburb. In traffic, I looked out for women with very short, or bald hair styles. There were none. Wearing a floral dress with short sleeves under a black cardigan, nice enough for the post-wedding breakfast, I followed Simon into the shop. He was in his black jeans and corded jacket from yesterday.

Two female hairdressers, one middle aged and the other probably in her early twenties, were giving stylish cuts to a pair of young brothers while their mom watched from a row of plastic chairs. A few other patrons sat reading magazines, waiting for their what were probably trims.

“This is Kristin,” Simon explained to the warm, almost flirty greetings of the ladies working. I gave them a wave, barely meeting their eyes, sensing they knew what this what was about to transpire.

I settled into the barber chair, feet in place, gripping the brown leather of the arm rests. Simon breathed quickly through his nose, hanging up his jacket and ordering his station. With hands as anxious as mine, he put my hair in a high pony tail, then wrapped a paper around my neck and draped the striped cape over me.

“So… Kristin. What did you have in mind, today?”

I sucked in some air and met his gaze, nervously smiling on the other side of the mirror. So dreamy. I licked my lips and exhaled, and got that feeling in my face like I could cry if I let myself. Trying to maintain an assuring smile, I sniffed, then swallowed. “I want it short. Really short. Go crazy.” I tried to pace my words behind a blurting thrill.

“All right. If you insist.” He replied. “Will you remove your earrings?”

“Sure.”

Suddenly I felt every eye in the shop on me. Yes. I’m really doing it. I answered, eyes closed. I heard the pop of a set of electric clippers. They roared toward my right ear, chewing away at my hair. I felt plastic, not metal, but couldn’t see what size of guard Simon was using. As the buzzing made its way around the back of my head and left ear, I saw maybe a half inch of black hair, sticking straight out, which seemed longer about my sideburn. No scalp showing through, still hiding my ear a bit. And I wondered if Simon was going to leave me more length on top. Part of me wanted to go all out, pleased as he buzzed away at my fringe, leaving behind more black fuzz.

And within the minute, Simon pulled away my ponytail, representing 99% of the hair I had yesterday, years of growth. My head was suddenly so small, but my eyes were bigger, more expressive I thought. And I noticed I have a womanly jaw line. With what remained of yesterday’s make-up, and what hung on my chest, I looked as much of a woman as ever.

Then the clippers came on again with no guard, warmer and itchier than I thought they’d be as tiny hairs sprayed onto my neck and ear, leaving behind a feeling of coolness I’d never known, air on my pale scalp, bald I noticed, as he worked around my ear. Simon was making me bald. No sideburns. Bald to my temple, with a short fade to my crown where less than a half inch of hair left a pelt of fuzz. And this was it. As far as crazy hair cuts went, I had nothing more to fear.

Once I thought he was done, Simon put a guard on the clippers again, a different one than before, and went to work on the top of my hair, making it even shorter. As if the no hair I had now was still too much. But I calmed myself, remembering. The worst was over.

And my scalp showed some on top, if you looked close enough to the shadow of hair which graced the top of my head. I thought I looked very sharp, in fact.

“Don’t worry, he’s just doing the one today.” I heard one of the other stylists say toward the waiting customers.

“How do you like it?” Simon asked, brushing the dustings of my mane from my face and nose.

“It looks good,” I said with a brave smile.

Un-caped, I spun before the mirror, pleased with how my shoulders and chest looked without the contouring of my long hair. I shook my head about as if I had hair to whip around, but there was none. Instead I felt cool air on my neck and ears. It was nice. Simon handed my earrings to me, wearing a huge, eager smile.

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggested.

To that, I nodded, following him out the door.

“I’ll sweep that up tomorrow,” he mentioned to the other stylists, opening the door for me. Closing it behind, he asked, “So what now? Do you want to see my place?”

“That sounds good,” I answered, pulling him close to me, resting my buzzed head on the arm of his jacket. “Will you drive?”