Good Help is Hard to Find

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People often ask me, “How did you get into becoming a hair stylist?” I typically tell them that my entire life, I’d always wanted to own my own salon. Cutting hair is my passion and I wanted to create an upscale environment in which to hone my craft. And that’s true.

But secretly, there was a deeper reason that I’d decided to pursue this profession—ever since I was young, I’d been fascinated by cutting hair, especially dramatic long to short cuts. I remember being so entranced by haircuts in movies or when girls in my class would show up to school with much shorter hair. As I got older, I realized my fascination had developed a sexual edge—it turned me on to cut hair (and to get my own cut as well).

When I finally opened my business, I was giddy with excitement. I could safely and secretly indulge my fetish, develop my skills, and make good money if I was good enough. And I am good. Very good.

The ambiance of the salon, with the camel leather and chrome chairs in front of floor to ceiling mirrors, along with plants and art from local artists, was unmatched. I’d chosen every detail of the decor. We quickly became one of the most popular salons in town, which brought me immense amounts of joy.

My biggest stressor was finding good stylists to work with me. They had to be talented, with a great understanding of the fundamentals, while remaining adaptable—willing to learn and grow with the times. They had to have impeccable customer service skills and represent my brand with fidelity. They had to have integrity.

A few of my employees were awesome. Super dependable, fun to work with. But I had a long string of frankly shitty workers. One flaked on her clients without telling them constantly, so I had to fire her. Another stole a box full of expensive products. And the third girl I’d had to fire in rapid succession just sucked, both in terms of talent and attitude.

I got into this job to cut hair, not to deal with these HR debacles. It was getting in the way of the joy I felt about the success of the salon. It was hard to have these conversations with people, but I had to protect my business.

I knew I needed to hire some more people, and I had an email inbox full of resumes from stylists who were interested in working for me. One stood out near the top. His name was Daniel and his experience and references looked stellar. I decided to call him in for an interview.

When he arrived through the front door, I was immediately taken aback. He was extremely hot. He was tall, with full sleeve tattoos on both arms, and with his long brown hair pulled back into a bun. I longed to get my fingers (and scissors) in it.

“Hello, welcome to Honey Salon. You’re Daniel?”

“Yes,” his voice was darkly sensual. He produced his hand and I shook it—his grip was firm and his eye contact was piercing. His eyes were brown, with flecks of gold.

I had been so busy with work that I hadn’t thought about sex much in months. But the second his hand touched mine, I felt an electric charge straight to my center. There was something about this man, a charisma I couldn’t totally put a finger on.

He nailed the interview and I hired him.

His station was across the salon and we worked most of the same hours, so I’d be able to sneak peeks at his work in my mirror.

As much as I loved dramatic cuts and short cuts, most of my clients were women who had long hair and just wanted services like basic trims and highlights. Sometimes I’d try to coax them toward going shorter, but I was rarely successful. I didn’t want to be known as a “scissor happy” stylist and get bad reviews, so I would ere on the side of caution.

My own hair was long. I got regular trims, but my own thick, blonde hair fell to my mid-back. The last time I’d cut it short had been in hair school and the bob haircut the novice stylist gave me was so bad, I’d been scared off trusting other stylists to cut my hair since.

Daniel had an amazing charm with clients. On his first day, he got a walk-in off the street, who was a girl with red hair to her waist.

He’d caped her up and asked her what she was looking for. Over the roar of blowdryers, I couldn’t hear her answer, but I could see her motioning for a trim. Predictable. But with a brilliant smile on his face, he talked to her until she was laughing. He then had her look at herself in the mirror and held her hair back from her face, demonstrating what she could look like with short hair. After some brief back and forth, I watched as she nodded and he retrieved his pair of shears from his station, gathered her thick red hair into his large hand, and chopped through it at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were wide, but she was smiling as he placed the severed ponytail in front of her and took her to the sink to wash her hair. She’d left that day with a short bob with an undercut, smiling and looking amazing.

In under two minutes, he’d convinced a woman who’d wanted a trim to chop years of hair growth completely off. I was fascinated. I was so aroused by watching him that I was distracted from my own clients. How did he do it?

That day, he did major chops for two more clients. One girl had shoulder length brunette hair and left with a close-cropped pixie and another had long blonde hair and left with a bob. Three dramatic chops, in one day. Surely, I reasoned, this had to be a fluke.

But it wasn’t. Day after day, I mostly gave basic trims and blowouts to my clients, while I watched the mountains of hair fall from his chair. At the end of each day, the bin by his station was often overflowing with hair of different colors and textures. And his work was amazing—truly top of the field precision cuts that suited the face shape and personality of each of his clients. Something about the combination of him being so physically hot, and how good he was at his job, and the calmly dominant nature of coaxing all these different women into happily losing so much of their hair was almost too much for me to handle. I needed a cold shower at the end of each day. It was getting harder and harder for me to retain a professional facade around him.

One day, a month or so in, I was sitting in my chair, waiting for my next client to arrive. We had a small lunch room in the back, where I’d usually spend my limited breaks, but I’d watched a girl with long, pin-straight dark hair slide into his chair and my curiosity got the better of me. I had to watch. Had to see if he’d be able to talk her into a short cut. I pretended to look at my phone as he caped her up and began talking to her. Between sneaking looks, I could hear a bit of the conversation.

“So what are we doing today?” he asked, all charm.

“I think maybe a couple inches off the bottom and some long layers,” she answered meekly. I could tells she wasn’t immune to him—he was truly magnetic.

“Yeah?” he smiled and started to ruffle his hands through her long hair. I could see her close her eyes briefly as if stifling a moan from his touch. I was suddenly very jealous of her—I wished I was the one under his spell. “You know, with your face shape and hair texture, you could pull off almost anything. And I’m sure a basic trim and shape-up would look lovely. But I just have to ask, have you ever considered going shorter?”

She made eye contact in the mirror. “Shorter?” she asked. “No, not really…”

This is when I would have stopped the conversation for fear of offending my guest, but he continued on. “I’m not just saying this, but I think you could really pull short hair off.”

She grabbed the ends of her hair as if grabbing a security blanket. “How short?”

He made eye contact with her in the mirror. “Well, I could just surprise you. That could be fun.”

Oh my God. To just hand over control of your hair like that. The thought had me wet—thinking of being the person giving OR taking that control. Either one aroused me beyond reason. I furrowed my brow as I scrolled aimlessly on my phone, not really reading anything.

She smiled, “Yeah, I guess so.”

“OK,” he said, “Then just let me get rid of the bulk before I wash your hair.” Without wasting time, he grabbed his shears and positioned them at the midpoint between her chin and shoulders and chopped, sending sheets of long dark hair to the floor in a pile. I didn’t realize it, but my mouth was agape and I’d given up all pretense of not watching the show. When I looked up, I made direct eye contact with him in the mirror and my heart began racing. He looked right at me and smiled slyly as if very pleased to have caught me gawking at him. My cheeks flushed and then he had the audacity to wink at me before leading his guest away.

While he was shampooing his client, mine showed up for her twice-yearly trim. Another boring cut, but I forced my entire attention into talking to her and trimming her dishwater brown hair. I couldn’t look at him. I was mortified.

After my last client left that night, Daniel and I were the only ones left in the shop. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him as I swept and sanitized my station. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched his long steps to the front door, which he locked. He pulled the shades on all the windows and then turned to look at me.

“So,” he said to me, his signature smile gracing his lips.

I feigned disinterest. “Yes?”

“I caught you looking today, while I was cutting that girl’s hair off.”

I shrugged. “Well, it was a pretty drastic cut. I couldn’t believe you talked her into that so quickly. I think anyone would have looked.”

“Maybe,” he said, and then walked over to me. “But I don’t think you were just casually interested.”

My heart beat like a drum in my chest. “What do you mean?”

“I think you know what I mean,” he stepped closer to me, and tucked a blonde tendril of my hair behind my ear. He was close enough that I could smell his aftershave. I had to stifle a moan. “It turned you on.”

I jumped back. “What! No! What are you talking about? Don’t be weird.”

He chuckled. “No need to get defensive. It turns me on, too. It’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

“But it’s our job.”

“Exactly, and it explains why you and I are both so good at it. It’s more than just a job to us.”

He thinks I’m good, I inwardly beamed. I didn’t realize how much I craved his approval. I rarely felt that need from anyone, but I respected him. He continued, “It’s always the best when you get to take off a lot of hair, right?”

His voice, his nonjudgemental demeanor made me feel safe to be honest. “Yes. I don’t know what it is exactly. But something about the contrast of them walking in with long hair and leaving with it short. Watching the hair fall.”

“The sounds of it all, the feel of it, the control of it,” he continued, and I nodded.

“It’s kind of like, a head of long hair is a chunk of marble and I can always see the sculpture underneath it,” I explained. He was so close to me now I could feel his body heat.

“I knew you got it,” he said. “But I have to ask, why keep your own hair so long if you feel this way?”

His hand moved to toy with the ends of my strands and I could feel jolts all the way into my scalp and through my body. “I don’t really trust anyone with my hair.”

“But you want the women in your chair to trust you with big transformations.”

“Well, yeah. I have to admit, I am pretty amazed at the number of women you’ve convinced to go short. I’ve tried, but they almost never listen to me.”

“You know what you have to do if you want that trust from them, right?”

Both of his hands were fully running through my hair now as his face was inches from mine. I tilted my hips toward his and could feel a hard bulge in his pants rub against me.

“Have a better sales pitch?” I laughed huskily.

“You know you have to chop your hair off. They won’t trust you to take them short when you have all this mermaid hair.”

“But everyone loves my ‘mermaid hair,’ as you call it.”

He shook his head. “I don’t. I prefer the women I fuck to have short hair. I think you’re hiding behind all of this.”

“The women you fuck, hmm?”

“Don’t act like you don’t want me. I could tell from the day we met. I want you, too. It’s the reason I took this job—you are beautiful, and talented. And I want to be the one to cut all this off.”  He grabbed my hair in his hand and firmly pulled my head back.

He kissed me then and I knew I was fucked. Our hands were all over each other with the passion of weeks of building sexual tension and the vulnerable explosion of revealing our deepest sexual secret to each other. It was amazing—I emerged from the fog of our kiss not thinking straight.

I reached over and removed the elastic from his hair. I’d never seen it down, but it fell to his shoulders and was wavy in texture. Beautiful. Soft. “If you want to cut my hair, I want to cut yours, too.” I decided in that moment. It only felt fair.

His eyes lit up, “So you’re saying I can cut yours?”

“If you’re saying I can cut yours,” I said.

“Ok, under one condition. I get to do whatever I want. So can you.”

I kissed him again, and then sat in my chair. “Deal.”

While throwing a cape around my shoulders, he admitted, “I have been thinking about what I would do to you if you were in this position for weeks now.”

“Oh yeah?”

He turned his back to me to gather his supplies. “Yes, I’ve thought about all the different styles you could pull off. But I keep coming back to one.”

Looking in the mirror, with my long hair falling in waves around me, I had my first moment of panic. What if I hate my hair? I can’t just wear a hat—having good hair is literally my business. It’d taken years to get to wear I was. I was starting to feel a little sick.

As if reading my mind, Daniel gently kneaded both my shoulders. “Relax. Have you ever seen me give a bad haircut?”

I shook my head.

“Then trust me. Stay here with me. Be fully in the moment. I know what will make you look and feel good. You’ll want to remember this. I know I will.”

I took his word and did my best to be present. My scalp tingled as he combed through my hair, muttering nice words about how pretty and shiny it was. In all the major chops I’d seen him do, he cut off the bulk of the hair first, all at once, before doing anything else. Sometimes he’d let it fall to the floor—sometimes, he’d cut off a ponytail. But instead, he started to part my hair so that the back and sides were still down and he secured the top of my hair into a clip.

Worry went through my body as I speculated at what this meant. His sectioning indicated a really short cut…

“Hey, you aren’t going too short, right? I need to have some hair to thrive in this business.”

He smiled again. “Put your head down. Chin to chest.”

I obeyed and felt a firm grasp on my hair that was down and then the loud crunch of scissors that seemed to last forever, followed by the release of tension as my hair was cut off into his hand. Holding onto my cut hair, he let it go down the front of my cape and I gasped as I beheld nearly 2-foot long strands slide down into my lap. I finally looked up to see that he had cut the lower section of my hair right at the nape of my neck. I was in shock.

“Keep your head down,” he said, and I complied. I heard him rummaging around and the undeniable click of a guard being secured to clippers. Heard the clippers roar to life—one of my favorite sounds, second only to the sound of scissors slicing through hair. I wondered what number guard he chose and if he was going to be merciful. I’d never had clippers used on my own hair before and had always wondered what they would feel like…

As the cold metal touched the back of my nape, shivers erupted throughout my whole body. As Daniel efficiently sheared the back and sides of my hair, I honestly felt like I was going to explode with desire. More hair slid down my cape to join the longer strands. When he got to my ears, he had to push them down to get the clippers around them. I heard him click on another guard and continue his work as my head was still forced down to look at the wreckage of my beautiful hair. And then, another guard. He was obviously giving me a fade in the back, a fact that made my stomach clench. Could I pull something like that off? Was he going to leave the top of my hair long enough that I could hide it?

Finally, he turned off the clippers and let me look at myself, handing me a hand mirror so I could look at the back. I gasped. He’d gone SHORT on the back and sides. It was a perfectly executed low fade that must have been a #2 at the longest. I reached out to feel it and it made me shiver. Logically, I was mad at him—this was so short. It wasn’t my style. But emotionally, I loved it. I loved the way it felt under my hands.

“So, are you going to leave the top part long?” I asked, hopeful.

He unclipped it, sending my remaining long hair sprawling. “Absolutely not. But I’ll leave some because I’m feeling generous.”

Letting me look now, he grasped the rest of my long hair in his fist high above my head, and plunged his scissors into in a few inches away from my scalp. The crunch of scissors brought me back to a place of extreme pleasure as I watched my long hair be reduced to almost nothing.

He then spent the next few minutes perfecting the cut, texturizing and playing with each piece to make sure it looked perfect. He took a step back to look at me and then brought clippers back out to etch a line into the side of my hair. When he was done, I had maybe two inches of hair on top. It was a perfectly executed, super short pixie cut. I looked nothing like myself.

I looked at him, and said sincerely, “I love it.”

He smiled, “I knew you would.”

We kissed then, passionately, and he reached under my cape and skirt to find me with his fingers. “You’re soaking wet,” he said, and slid my panties aside to gently circle his thumb around my clit. That alone almost got me to come, but when he plunged one and then another of his fingers into my pussy, I screamed with pleasure while watching myself, a version of myself I barely recognized with short hair, cumming in the mirror, my hair all over us both and the ground. I slumped over for a minute before remembering.

“I can’t have you have longer hair than me,” I said, gripping his hair in my hand.

He chuckled. “That’s only fair.”

We switched places and I took off my cape to put it on him. “This won’t take long,” I said gleefully. Any guilt about ridding him of his beautiful hair was completely overshadowed by how short he’d taken me. My payback was going to be swift.

I decided to be generous and clicked on a #1 guard. Without wasting any time, I plunged the clippers right into the middle of his forehead, leaving a short pelt in my wake. Efficiently, I worked the clippers all over his head until he had a short, all-over buzz. I clicked the guard off to clean up his neck and sides.

Somehow, he looked even hotter with his new Prison Break look. I could tell he was hard as he looked at all of our hair together on the ground before us. He took off the cape and lowered me to his lap so we could kiss some more before we had passionate sex right there in my chair.

 

That was the first night in what has been a long relationship with Daniel. We still work together, except he has been helping me with the more stressful parts of managing the business and with the wide variety of short cuts Daniel gives me regularly, I now have a much easier time convincing girls to go short too.

 

 

Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts and if you have any requests. -LOW

6 responses to “Good Help is Hard to Find

  1. Thank you, this is great (o:

    The only thing I would change is that I would let her make him even more sophisticated, instead of going for the prison break hair. Let her live out some of those dreams she’s had in hair school? Perhaps the day after? Perhaps she starts?

    But the story is great, and comes to a lovely crescendo, so.

  2. That was a fantastic story! I loved that they both got really short haircuts. I also thought it was great that they both had feelings for each other and that cutting hair was an exciting thing for them sexually.

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