Gemma is Falling for Grace

Prologue

My name is Gemma, and I spent my formative years growing up in a village hidden away in the countryside, steeped in tradition. Modern excesses from the city rarely penetrated the cossetted world, and they carried little influence. By way of example, long hair was practically a uniform for all the women and girls, a standard my parents diligently upheld for me. My hair cascaded well past my waist, complemented by the modest calf-length dresses and skirts my mother bought for me. I presented a picture of wholesome country charm.

Grace

College in the city, however, was a jarring awakening. The women who surrounded me expressed themselves through radically unique styles. My tutor, Grace, was the most captivating. She sported a bowlcut, a hairstyle forced on schoolboys back home, utterly foreign on a woman. I burned with curiosity, wanting to know everything about it. The how, the where, the why of its stark simplicity. But shyness held me captive.

Grace’s wardrobe was equally subversive. Mini skirts, like the denim one I coveted, daring tops, and a worn leather biker jacket screamed rebellion. Something I noticed about her was a ritual she followed. Every Thursday morning, Grace’s bowlcut was impeccably fresh, the porcelain skin of her neck and ears gleaming as she faced the whiteboard as she lectured, mirroring its stark, clean surface.

I obsessively deduced that Wednesday afternoons, conveniently lecture-free, were her haircutting days. One Wednesday, fuelled by a newfound boldness, I surreptitiously followed her into town. At the weekend I had splashed out on a new outfit that resembled one of those worn by Grace. So, I was clad in a ridiculously short denim skirt and a flimsy white lace camisole. I purchased the garments with my meagre allowance, the first clothes I had ever bought for myself and guaranteed not to find favour with my parents. My long hair, usually confined in braids or ponytails, flowed freely for the first time that I could ever remember.

My pursuit of Grace led me through a dark and mysterious region of the city, a labyrinth of back alleys I had never known existed. I frequently lost sight of her, and several times I thought I would not find her again. I rounded one corner a little too quickly and I stumbled through an open doorway into a grimy, unassuming shop.

Once my eyes had grown accustomed to the subdued interior, a pair of ceiling lights suddenly turning on startled me. They illuminated a massive chair whose shining chrome and worn leather reflected the bright light. Spotlit, perched high on the huge old-fashioned barber’s chair, was Grace. Standing behind her, with her hands resting on Grace’s shoulders, was another stunningly attractive woman.

Victoria

Distracted in their conversation by my clumsy entrance, both women inside the grimy shop had turned to face me. Grace smiled in recognition and beckoned me over. The other woman, catching my panicked expression and my attempt to retreat, held me with a steely gaze that brooked no argument, and firmly closed the door with a sold kick.

I took a couple of tentative steps towards Grace, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl rather than an adventurous student. ‘What a pleasant surprise, Gemma,’ Grace said warmly. ‘May I introduce to Victoria. She is my barber.’

Barber? Back home men and boys went to the barbershop, usually once a month. Older women went to the hairdressing salon, while young women and girls had the ends of their long hair trimmed twice a year by competent relatives who were in possession of dressmaking shears. Women entrusted their hair to a barber!

‘Hello, sweetie,’ Victoria chimed, a hint of mischief in her smile.

Victoria was a striking woman in her early thirties. She wore a form-fitting white tunic that barely covered her bottom, partially zipped up the front and leaving a plunging neckline. Her own hair was even more radical than Grace’s. The top was a stiff, upright brush cut, while the back and sides were bare shining skin that gave the strong impression that she was completely bald. It was unquestionably a style usually favoured by men, that I later learnt was termed a flattop. Yet, Victoria radiated undeniable femininity.

‘Er, hello … Victoria,’ I mumbled, tongue-tied by her appearance.

‘Nice outfit, sweetie … well, what I can see of it under all that hair,’ she quipped. ‘Rather like what our Grace likes to wear,’ she smirked.

Wearing my hair loose might have been a mistake as, irrespective of how lovely and dramatic it looked, it was going everywhere and swamping me. My denim skirt only resembled Grace’s by virtue of its ridiculous shortness, as its pristine chain store appearance did not match her stylishly ripped and worn garment. My skimpy white camisole top fared better in the comparison as only a little of it was on view due to the blanket of hair covering it. Standing there, feeling silly, I realised I should never have completely changed my appearance simply to perform my peculiar quest.

‘How sweet of you, Gemma, I’m flattered,’ Grace smiled, nodding approvingly as she surveyed my legs that had never been on display in public before.

‘Er, thanks,’ I managed, ‘er, both of you.’ I gestured towards the door. ‘Look, sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you, so I’ll um …’

‘Nonsense, Gemma,’ Grace interrupted. ‘Victoria is about to give me my weekly haircut, and you shall stay and observe.’

Watching

Grace’s peculiar invitation perplexed me. Who on earth spent time watching other women have their hair cut?

‘There you go, sweetie,’ Victoria gestured, pulling a wooden chair a little closer to the massive barber’s chair from a mismatched selection lined up against one wall. ‘Enjoy!’

‘Er, thanks, Victoria,’ I said, gliding onto the seat, fighting with my enveloping hair as I tried to avoid sitting on it. So, I concluded, there was at least one person who was prepared to watch another woman have her hair cut!

I was regretting that I had not been more careful in my pursuit, wishing I had stopped myself before entering Victoria’s barbershop. Grace’s discovery that I had followed her mortified me, but the prospect of witnessing Grace’s fresh haircut was undeniably thrilling.

‘Comfortable?’ Gemma asked, turning towards me, sniggering as I awkwardly pushed back the mountain of tresses that still covered half my face. I murmured an acknowledgement. ‘It’s a shame you forgot to do your hair,’ she lamented. ‘You look so cute with it in two long plaits.’

‘If nothing else, I imagine you can see her,’ Victoria joked. ‘I must admit that I’m still unsure what the little sweetie looks like.’

Realising that I had made a silly error of judgement with my hair, I stored Gemma’s preference away for another time when it might prove useful. I pushed back the errant hair from my face once more to satisfy Victoria, held it there defiantly for a short while, but then it still tumbled forward into my eyes. Both women laughed.

Trimming

But then it was down to the serious business. Victoria selected a huge set of red hairclippers from an array lined up on hooks by the mirror. She adjusted the blade before filling the shop with a horrendous roaring sound. Tilting Grace’s head down with a gentle push, Victoria placed the blade against the velvet like pelt covering my tutor’s neck. Like a hot knife through butter, the blade glided upwards and carved a swathe of pristine whiteness through the barely perceptible bristles.

I tried to suppress the first flush of arousal that crept up my neck as I absorbed what was happening in front of me. I was unsure whether my reaction was simply a result of being close to Grace in an informal setting, or something to do with the haircutting. Whatever, at that moment, the sight of short hairs falling from Grace’s nape, revealing her shining white skin, was intoxicating.

Victoria moved to the side, tilting Grace’s head the other way, and carved away the pelt that surrounded her ears. She did the same on the other side. Being so close, I marvelled at her perfectly formed ears that sat neatly against her head, now in a wide expanse of bare skin. I wondered if my ears looked as good as hers. Even with braids and ponytails, they were never so tight that the style exposed my ears. I made a mental note to experiment, perhaps fashioning a high ponytail scraped back from my face, something I had never attempted.

As I watched avidly, Grace and Victoria chatted. Their words were lost to the whirring clippers, but their glances in my direction were frequent and knowing. It was as if I was the subject of a private joke. I felt intimidated, a little frightened, but also intensely aware.

With comb and scissors, Victoria precisely trimmed the outline of the bowl shape, making the glossy cap of hair geometrically perfect. She took extra care with the thick blunt fringe that covered Grace’s forehead, ensuring it was the same length as the rest of the style.

Once Victoria had cut Grace’s hair, she beckoned me closer to inspect the barber’s work, urging me to examine her bare nape. ‘What do you think, Gemma?’ she murmured huskily.

Inspecting

Grace’s fresh haircut drew me in, like a moth to a flame. Studying it, I marvelled at its pristine milkiness and uniform smoothness. And then, astonished by my uncharacteristic boldness, I bravely ran one finger along it, before quickly withdrawing it as if it were on fire. ‘It’s, er, nice,’ I stammered, feeling painfully self-conscious under Grace and Victoria inquisitive gaze.

“Just nice, Gemma?” Grace teased, swivelling the chair around to look up at me. She reached out and guided my whole hand to the back her neck, holding it there, her skin radiating warmth beneath my touch.

‘Lovely,’ I purred in a tone that I did not know that I possessed. Enjoying the sensation, I allowed my fingers to glide slowly along her nape. I did not want to stop, and she did not object.

Grace then began toying with my bountiful tresses that had fallen forward as I peered down at her, twirling it between her fingers. Two minutes of charged silence passed during which my anxiety over the situation mingled with a strange and growing excitement.

‘I imagine you have a lovely nape too, sweetie, under that mountain of hair,’ Victoria piped up, startling me as I had forgotten she was there during our mutual exploration. ‘What do you think, Grace?’

The barber’s intrusion quickly dampened my excitement, and I pulled my hand away from Grace’s neck. However, I was unable to move away as she maintained a firm grasp of my long hair. ‘I think you may be right, Victoria, as I have caught glimpses when she’s placed it under more control during my lectures.’

I may never have pulled it all it into a high ponytail, but my various braided styles often exposed a portion of my neck. While I may never have styled my hair for the purpose she referred to, I was still annoyed at her criticism. ‘I -’

‘I could soon remedy that, Grace,’ Victoria interjected, ignoring me completely, ‘by revealing her lovely nape with a nice haircut.’

Panic seized me, but I was still unable to move away as Grace was firmly tugging on my hair, holding me captive. ‘Now, hang on -’

‘I’ve recognised Gemma’s fascination with my hair from the first time she attended one of my lectures,’ Grace revealed, which was true, ‘so it was simply of waiting until she was ready to have her own cut.’ And that was not true. ‘I confess that I would have expected to find an excuse to chat to me about it before now. But I have learnt that our sweet country girl is, on the whole, a little shy,’ which was true, ‘although not today it seems with her stalking me,’ she reasoned, emphasising her point with a sharp tug of my hair.

With Grace’s constant flow of assertions, I had found it difficult to interject. However, I strongly disagreed with accusing my mild interest as stalking! ‘I was just curious,’ I whined indignantly. ‘I love my long hair, and I have no intention of cutting it.’

‘Really?’ Grace questioned pointedly, finally relaxing her grip on my hair as she stood.

As both women appraised me, I saw them exchange knowing looks. Acutely aware of their scrutiny, I stumbled in the direction of the door. ‘I’m leaving.’ I insisted.

But I was wrong. They both looped an arm through mine and, their grip surprisingly firm, steered me towards the barber’s chair that Grace had just vacated, my protests ignored.

Amusement from the women greeted my whimpers and pleas. ‘Ah, the sweet little lamb bleats that she isn’t ready to be sheared,’ Victoria teased.

‘I think that we know better,’ Gemma giggled, as she swung me around onto the chair, the seat still warm from where she had sat for her haircut.

Preparing

‘Whoa!’ I shrieked, as Victoria enthusiastically pumped the chair, thrusting me upwards. Too high to hop off safely, she rendered me helpless, a vulnerable captive. ‘No, no, let me down,’ I pleaded with all the conviction I could muster, before the barber draped a large white cape over me.

Victoria paid me no heed, scooping out my hair confined under the cape, before securing it tightly at my neck. A little too tight, adding to my sense of vulnerability. ‘So, Grace, what do you think we should do with your sweet little lamb?’

They were giving me no opportunity to contribute to my future. ‘Excuse me, I -’

‘Well, Victoria, she has blatantly copied my outfit, so I imagine she would want a bowlcut just like mine,’ Grace mused, observing her friend brushing my hair with more enthusiasm than care. I had ensured there was no knots or tangles before I came out, but the barber had no trouble finding them and forcing the brush through them.

No!’ I cried out. ‘A bowlcut would be far too short! Besides, as I have said, I like it long. It has always been long, and you said that my plaits were cute. I could do them for you now so, and keep them in, and -’

‘With ribbons at the end, like you wear in my lectures,’ Grace asked. I nodded eagerly, although I had been wondering whether the red ribbons commonly used to secure the ends in the country were appropriate in the city. ‘I see. Do you have red ribbons, Victoria.’

‘No, my friend, this is a barbershop,’ Victoria smirked. ‘We don’t get much call for ribbons in here.’

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t,’ Grace giggled. ‘Sorry, Gemma, although the glistening waterfall of hair flowing down your back looks magnificent, we have no means to style it to my liking. So, a bowlcut it shall have to be.’

Planning

‘No!’ I wailed, tears welling up.

‘Excellent,’ claimed Victoria, although I begged to differ. ‘Now, sweetie, remember I have years of experience of cutting the hair of difficult customers, so resistance is futile,’ she assured.

Grace chuckled. So, Victoria, give her the same cut as mine,’ her eyes flicking between me and her own reflection in the mirror. ‘But take the edge of the bowl higher and give her a shorter fringe to match.’

‘That sounds delightful,’ Victoria judged, reaching for her large red hairclippers.

‘Oh, and ensure the back and sides are shaved bare using a razor,’ Grace added, running her fingers through my long tresses. ‘Such a shame, really,’ she lamented, not unkindly.

‘Perfect,’ the barber claimed, as a single tear slipped down my cheek. ‘Oh, sweetie …’ she giggled, wiping the moisture from my face with a manicured fingertip.

‘Now, Gemma, before Victoria commences your transformation, I should tell you that you will find the shearing of your long hair arousing,’ she explained calmly, in the manner of a schoolteacher. ‘Embrace the sensations and your feelings, and do not be embarrassed to let your mind and body respond. It is perfectly natural.’

I blushed under Grace’s intense gaze, having no intention of allowing myself to become turned on in the presence of two strangers. Then I drew a sharp breath as Grace’s fingertips brushed the cape, slowly and gently traversing my breasts, lingering on my hardening nipples.

‘She’s ready for you, Victoria,’ Grace announced huskily, as she settled on the wooden chair so she could have a close view of my transformation.

The hairclippers roared into life, and Victoria leaned closer. ‘I will go slowly, sweetie,’ she purred, ‘as it’s your first time.’

Transforming

Wasting no time, Victoria placed the vibrating blade of the hairclippers against my hair, above ear, and thrust it forward. Like a knife through butter, she severed a long thick tendril. It slid down my shoulder, over my breasts, and gathered in my lap.

Edging the blade systematically around my head, further long strands fell, accumulating in a heavy pile on my lap, pressing against my thighs as my head felt increasingly lighter. I watched in the mirror, but it was like it was happening to someone else.

In fear, my hands had been tightly gripping the arms of the massive chair. Instinctively, I found myself dropping my right hand onto my leg and then allowing my fingers to slide under my denim miniskirt, finding a warming home between my thighs.

As Victoria moved behind me with her hairclippers, I felt the coolness of the ceiling fan on my nape, indicating that she was stripping the hair from the back of my head too. I could hear my hair making loud swishing sounds as it hit the floor, testament to the length and thickness of each tendril.

When Victoria appeared on my other side, she severed all the hair above that ear in the same manner. Accompanying that, the pile of hair in my lap doubled in weight, its pressure fuelling my unintentional arousal.

The barber combed down the front of my hair over my forehead. Momentarily I could not see, but that changed as I felt the blade of the hairclippers digging into my skin above my eyebrows. As she stepped back, I saw she had created a short blunt fringe above my eyebrows that joined the perimeter of the bowl shape on each side of my head.

With practiced skill, Victoria used comb and scissors to finalise the precise glossy cap of hair that sat evenly upon my crown. Reverting to her hairclippers, she buzzed the back and sides of my head below the perimeter of the bowl. The vibration was unworldly and the effect on my appearance was crazy. When she finished, I could feel cool air all around my head, signifying the back and sides were completely bare.

But not sufficiently bare for the two women. Victoria nodded towards Grace who was enthusiastically shaking an aerosol can that proclaimed itself as shaving foam. She released copious quantities into the barber’s palm who proceeded to smear the back and sides of my head with the white substance. As Victoria approached with a razor, I realised that she was about to shave me, resulting in a warmth spreading between my thighs.

With practiced skill, the barber guided the blade over the skin above each ear and along my neck, scraping away the foam as she did so. With a flourish she whisked away the cape and stood back. In the past I might have been horrified at what I then saw. My fingertips were still curling under the hem of my denim skirt. It was too late to snatch them away unseen and, besides, I was more than content to leave them where they were, tracing their stimulating passage.

Finally, with a perfect bowlcut perched atop my head and the back and sides shaved to a shining whiteness, Grace stepped behind me allowing her hands to rest lightly on my shoulders. ‘All that long hair you carried around for so many years, Gemma, has been taken from you,’ she purred close my ear, her fingers tracing the curve of my bare nape.

‘Yes, all that hair stripped away, sweetie,’ Victoria smirked as she caught my eye. ‘You could be the bowlcut twins.’

Unbelievably, taunting me with the humiliation of losing my long hair, replaced by an embarrassing bowlcut, was igniting a strange desire deep within me.

My back arched as Grace’s hand slipped down my body, gently caressing my breast through my skimpy lace top. And that was enough. I bucked and writhed in the chair, overwhelmed by pleasure … a pleasure that rumbled on and on.

Anticipating

‘Gemma, you are now changed forever,’ Grace whispered, her fingers continuing to play with my receptive body.

‘In the future, sweetie, you will only find satisfaction in a weekly haircut by my hand,’ Victoria added cheekily.

‘So, from next Wednesday afternoon, you and I,’ Grace instructed, ‘will venture to Victoria’s delightful haven together.’

Once released, I stood on trembling legs. ‘Thank you,’ I breathed, and took slow and uncertain steps towards the door.

‘You do well to snare a sweet little lamb for shearing every year, don’t you, Grace?’ Victoria chuckled quietly to her friend, although I managed to overhear.

‘Yes, my friend, and I think this particular little lamb will be ready for a sweet little flattop, just like yours, very soon,’ Grace murmured softly, leaving me alarmed, wondering if I had heard her correctly. ‘So much more pristine skin still to uncover.’

‘And then a complete shearing, all the way down to the wood, so much earlier than all the others,’ Victoria giggled, her eyes sparkling with mischief, ‘even if she might not know it yet.’

Epilogue

Their words hung in the air, but I did not react or turn around. I stumbled out of the barbershop, the late afternoon sun hitting my exposed nape. However, the warmth between my legs intensified, a tremor of anticipation for what they had planned for me.

A whirlwind of conflicting emotions churned inside me as my hand instinctively rose up to examine the unfamiliar landscape of my head. It felt incredibly strange, both vulnerable and liberating. I ran a hand over the glossy cap of hair on top of my head, the unfamiliarity sending a shiver down my spine. The air felt colder against my shaved skin, a stark contrast to the weight and warmth of my long hair.

I walked aimlessly, unsure of where to go. The denim mini-skirt and lace camisole, which had felt so daring and rebellious that morning, now felt like a uniform, a mark of my transformation. I kept replaying Grace’s words in her head, the promise – or was it a threat? – of weekly haircuts, the suggestion of an even shorter style. The thought both terrified and thrilled me.

As I rounded a corner, I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window. It was me, undoubtedly, but … completely transformed. The long hair that had defined me, the hair that had been my shield and my pride, was gone. In its place was a harsh, almost brutal, haircut that exposed me, to reveal a raw, untamed version of myself.

Tears welled up in my eyes, blurring my reflection. Suddenly, I wanted to believe my ridiculous quest and its consequences had all been a dream, or even, a nightmare. But I could not. The weight of the chopped hair on my thighs had been real, the feel of the clippers against my skin had been real, and the strange, unsettling pleasure I had experienced had been undeniably real.

I took a deep breath, trying to regain control of my emotions. I could not go back to being the Gemma I had been. That girl was gone, sheared away along with my long hair. But who was I now, and what did I want?

Although I did not know the answers yet, I was determined to find out. I would embrace this updated version of myself, explore the desires that had I had kept hidden for so long. And, just maybe, I would show the same confidence as Grace by adopting my fresh and severe bowlcut as my own.