His spiraling addiction…

Jim and I met 2 years ago through mutual friends, both in our 50’s fell in love and as of today, we’re great, but at what price. You see my guy has a hair fetish that I realized only days after we starting dating, ultimately culminating in me going shorter and shorter, eventually to my current haircut, a clippered pixie short enough to see skin. Though the compliments are many, I would prefer a longer style, but he will just not have it! I love the guy with all my heart and quite frankly, the shorter cut doesn’t bother me as much as the time in and out of barbershops, home haircuts and the like…

Early on it was the occasional drop in a local barbershop, maybe bi weekly – regardless of the location, whether we were traveling, morning, night weekend, whatever, he managed to find a barbershop for us to visit. Always the same M.O. – Me telling the barber we were traveling for a wedding and just wanted to clean up my cut for the event. The looks from some of the barbers was one of “WTF” this woman is practically bald already.” The trips to the barber  became even more frequent, at times multiple visits a week!

And now here we are. Our apartment filled with clippers. The large Oster 76’s plugged in and ready in the kitchen, a set in the bedroom, the bath , and even the cordless type in both vehicles. Couple that with a few electric foil shavers and now you now my man has a serious fucking problem, Nevertheless, I conform, play his game and go along with his fantasy, though at times it surpasses the freak meter for sure. For example:

I’m sitting at my desk working and I hear the clippers come on behind me – he expects me to drop my head and sit for a nape clean up. Cooking in the kitchen pointing for me to kneel down and runs the machine forcefully over and over the same area, sometimes never uttering a word. Even once on the phone with a good friend, him turning on the loud Osters (they’re the worst) forcefully grabbing my scalp and going over and over with his self proclaimed “go to blade” the “Triple 000, – while Joann, my friend inquires about the sound in the background.  Oh but is gets worse. A trip to the movies found us sitting back in the back row of a sparsely attended show, him using the cordless clippers to “trim me up” The really freaky shit is his desire to have me sit on the porch, back deck or anywhere really where people are out or walking past. Constantly slamming my head down, running the clippers over and over my neck and over the ears seemingly for hours. He says the looks from the neighbors is a turn on and tells them all “she just loves the shorter cuts.” And perhaps the fucking weirdest stunt was the whole Army recruit “induction cut” when he had me dress in an old fashioned pair of shorts and a plain white t-shirt, stand at attention beside the barber chair (yes – an old fashioned complete shop in our spare bedroom) and sit for a “boot camp cut.” The attached suction hose, 5’00000 blade, with the loud 76 clippers removing all signs of femineity I had. “Skinned to the bone” in his words – all in less than 90 seconds.

And after a return 8 day business trip he picked me up form the airport, and were headed to our favorite bar for dinner. Me in a white polo button down and jeans. Pulling off the road into a warehouse parking lot, back road he helps me get into the back of his dually and sit in a chair he conveniently brings along. Planned for sure, because the big Oster clippers from home hit my neck and just like that – I’m practically bald again on the nape. 8 days of growth gone in literally seconds. I dare not utter a word as he forcefully presses my head down, literally grinding the loud blade against my neckline. And with a dusting of tiny black hairs (well maybe a bit gray) covering my shirt, he escorts me to the bar for all to see. Brushing it off did little good. The guy is sick. We sit among the patrons, men & women, the ladies all with longer styles, the guys seemingly astonished that a gal can be sheared so short…

His creepy text messages telling me my appointment at “whatever barbershop” is at whatever time, please be punctual. The constant photos he sends of ladies being shorn in barbershops, buzzed napes, military style flattops – all for me to keep and show the barbers when prompted. The T-shirt depicting a woman in a barber chair, head down, with clippers moving up her nape, with the words underneath “Head down dear.” Or having me post on Facebook that I’m headed to the barbershop for a cleanup, using hashtags after we leave like… #scalpedlady #headdown #oster76rocks #shorthairdontcare. Again, the guy is sick!

To make matters worse, he even changed my ringtone to the sound of the “Oster 76” his so called go to clipper.

The longest my hair has been in years came when out of the blue he wanted me to grow it out. WTF. So after 4 wekks or so, I found out why. We went to the Bahamas for a week or so or drinkin, funnin, and sunnin’ as he called it. My tan hit an all time bronze. The sick fuck had his motives – The day before we were to return, he took me to an old barbershop in the village and had the barber literally scalp my nape and sides to the skin. I looked so damn stupid. The tan lines around my scalp and the contrast of my now white, bald scalp was so ugly.

But I love him to death! He’s so good to me, my kids, and works hard to provide everything we need. So if a dozen “clean ups” a week makes him happy, I’m good to play the game!

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