How Often?

Story Categories:

Views: 5,888 | Likes: +50

After graduating college, I began a new career in Chicago.  I was working as an assistant to an accountant and my day to day job was to make sure they had all the files he needed and that his calendar was updated with meetings and appointments.  It was a nine to five type of job and I dressed business casual.   My hair was long, just past my bra strap and I kept it highlighted on top of my sandy blonde natural color.  I would usually put my hair up in a bun or a high ponytail while at the office to keep it out of my face.  Plus I think it gave me a little bit more of a business look.  Occasionally I would wear it down, usually straight, unless there was an important meeting I would add some waves to it for a little more sass.

My boss Ted always complimented me when I wore my hair down.  He always said he loved my hair and if I ever got out of the accounting world, I could be a hair model with how long and thick it was.  I’ve never been very attracted to Ted as he was in his younger 40’s and was just an average guy with a short fade and had a little face scruff.  On nights out from work, I liked to meet with my friends at a neighborhood pub and have drinks.  I always kept my hair up when I went out, and would take it out of my bun or pony if there was a cute guy around.  I loved to turn my head and let it toss across my back while falling back into place.  Sometimes I’d catch the attention of a guy and run my hands through my hair while I bit my lower lip.  That was always good for a free drink.  Yes, I’m blessed.  I’m 5’5″ and about 110 lbs.   I’ve got light brown eyes and my skin has a great olive glow, but by far my best asset is my thick long hair.

I’m used to getting a trim about every 6 weeks or so.  My stylist Heather was always so careful to take just under a half inch off each time to ensure my hair stayed long and healthy.  We highlighted ever other visit.   Today was a highlight day.  I woke up and put on some workout clothes and sneakers and wrapped my hair into a bun as I left the apartment.  When I got to the salon, the receptionist informed me that Heather had moved out of state and I was assigned to a new stylist.  Fear instantly crept over me as I hated change and I loved that Heather respected that.  But I needed a trim and I was desperate for some new highlights, so I accepted that I would be in good hands with a new stylist.  As she approached, I was greeted by a warm handshake.

“Hi, I’m Morgan.  I’m going to be your stylist for today!”

“Nice to meet you Morgan, I’m Taylor.  Are you taking all of Heather’s clients?”

“Yes, most of them, but some of the others are being split among the other hair stylist.  You know, the ones that don’t come in for regular appointments.”

We went to the back booth and I sat in the black leather chair facing the mirror.  I have to admit, Morgan made me a little nervous at first.  She was a little more punkish looking with her layered hair with pink and blue strands dyed throughout it.  With her slightly freckled cheeks and bright blue eyes, she pulled the look off well.  She was slightly taller and maybe a little thicker than me but had a beauty about her that I just couldn’t take my eyes off.  I had never been attracted to another girl before, but something was different about her.   I wasn’t sure how to take it all in.

“So what are we doing today?” Morgan asked as she ran her fingers into my scalp picking up my hair and pulling it down across the black cape she had stretched over me.

“Just highlights and a trim” I spoke with a little shyness.

“Oh, ok” she said with a little bit of boredom to her demeanor.  “How often do you come in?”

I told her about Heather and my 6 week routine.  I was specific to mention how careful Heather was to only take about a half inch or so to maintain my length.  Highlights were every other trip, to save money and also to make sure my healthy hair stayed that way.  I never wanted it to get too bleached out or burnt from the chemicals.

Morgan nodded and took a breath like she was disappointed, but nonetheless said professionally, “I see, well let’s get you washed up and get to work.”

The shampoo was amazing.  She worked her fingers across every inch of my scalp and was working her hands in a circular motion picking up and putting down my heavy hair with each pass.

“You have a ton of hair.  I can’t imagine what its like to carry all this around everyday”

I took that as a backhanded compliment.  “Well I’m used to it, I’ve always taken good care of it.  My boss said I could be a hair model in another life.”

She responded a little annoyed, “You would have to change it up quite a bit if you really wanted to be a hair model.”

I was a little taken back. “I meant for commercials like shampoo and conditioners always show.”

“Oh THAT type of hair model.  Yeah, I guess you could pull that off.”

I don’t know if was just me or if she was being sarcastic but I had to question it.

“What type of hair model were you thinking of?”

“Well the type that is up for anything.  You know, can change up their look and not be too concerned with always keeping the same style.  It’s not for everybody, but a real hair model has to be confident in any look they may get.  And they should be willing to try new things and experiment.”

This got my mind turning.  Was I afraid of change?  I mean, I have always kept my hair like this since high school, when I felt like I needed to maintain a look to be attractive to the boys.  It had become my trademark, my identity.  Was I attached?  Yes, I was.  But now talking to Morgan, I felt like it was a weakness, not a strength in my look.

I tried to counter what she was saying.

“Well I don’t know how often I would be able to change things up with my schedule and everything.  I stay so busy.  Plus my boss loves my hair this way so I keep it the same to stay in good graces.”

She retorted, “Oh you keep your looks for your boss.  That seems like a good reason!”

She was definitely being sarcastic.  It was a little humiliating and demeaning, but it was also strangely a turn on.   I don’t know what came over me but I blurted out…

“Well what would you do if you were in my shoes?”

She lit up a little.  “Really?  I would trust a stylist to give me style.  It’s in the job description of course.  I don’t know that you would be up for what I think you could do with your hair.”

Now my mind was racing.  She said this like she wanted to change me.  A new feeling came over me that I had never experienced.   I wanted her to.  I needed her to.  And I wanted to lose control to someone that spoke so brutally honest and sincere with me.  I was overtaken with thoughts and feelings and I needed to do something about it.  I needed her to change me.  I desired her control and I wanted to submit to her wishes.

“If I told you that you can do whatever you want with my hair today, what would you do”. I asked expecting a detailed answer.

“I would turn your back to this mirror and surprise you with a completely new look.  But you would need to come and see me a little more often than your current situation.”

“How often?”  I asked while wanting her to say as often as possible.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”  She was so coy.  So confident.  So sexy and strong minded.

I submitted.  And it felt great.

“I would like to know actually.  Do it!  Whatever you think is best.  I completely trust you know your business.”

“Now we are talking!  No more questions.  I am taking control now and you are going to leave here a different woman.  But you’re going to need to come and see me every 3 to 4 weeks after this so I can use you as my hair model.   I’m going to start with cutting more than the half inch you’re used to, and you’re going to deal with it.”

My fate was sealed.  She had control and I was the passenger along for the ride.  I was anxious and nervous but turned on and feeling so good about whatever she was going to do to me.

“I will do whatever you ask.  I trust you to style me as you see fit.”

With that she gathered my hair into a ponytail and turned the chair away from the mirror.

“This has got to go!”

The scissors scrunched through my ponytail right around the base of my neck.  What seemed like hours, in seconds my head was light.   My damp hair fell around my face and hung no lower to my shoulders.  After the initial cut, she combed it out and began sectioning it off, using clips to secure each part.  She worked from the back to the left side, taking smaller sections from each clip and trimming off sometimes inches, sometimes less.   Over and over she cut back to the front and used her hands to ruffle my hair about.  She repeated the process on the other side, from back to the front.   And then she came around the chair to face me.   She pulled the front sections of my hair down on each side and cut them just a slight bit below my chin.   She then proceeded to take each section and point cut into the strands taking little bits of hair with each snip.  The cutting process was long, but it actually felt good.  Then she walked to her table and grabbed clippers.  I could hear her popping an attachment to them and popped them to life.

“You’re going to love this!” She said mischievously.

She ran the clippers slightly into the back of my hair and worked them up my hair line.  Again she tossed the now much shorter hairs back and forth with her hand.   She was right, it felt amazing.  When she stopped.  She walked around me several times and took scissors back into my ends, trimming here and there.  When she was done, I knew it by the smile on her face.

“Lets bring some color to this do!”

She led me back to a different chair and began mixing different liquids and creams into a bowl. there were 3 different bowls she put together.  then she sectioned off my hair again and began applying with a brush.  When the color was all painted on, she wrapped my head up with a plastic cap and told me I needed to sit for 45 minutes.

The anticipation was killing me.   What had I done?  Or what had I let her do to me?  Would I still be pretty?   What will people thinK?   Would I ever feel the same again?  So many thoughts ran through my mind.   When the wait was over, she removed the cap and took me back to the shampoo bowl.  She rinsed and rinsed and massaged my head.  I was in heaven.  And I loved her control she had over my hair’s fate.   When I was all rinsed out, she began blow drying and brushing my hair.  I knew it was much shorter as I saw the hairs flying across my face.  Finally, she was done and took me back to the chair.  She circled me yet again and took little tiny snips around here and there.  Then she combed me out and ran her hands up the back of my hair and lifted while applying a little bit of spray.

“Are you ready?” she asked with a smirk.

“I think I am.” I said, nervous and excited.

She spun the chair around and I looked into the mirror at what I had become.

The girl staring back at me was hot!  My once mid back blonde hair was now mostly black, with blue and purple strands underneath.  She gave me a mirror to look at the back.  It was stacked up to my occipital bone at the middle of my head and angled down to just below chin length at the front.  I couldn’t believe it.

“Give it a good shake” she insisted.

I tuned my head back and forth from side to side.  The cut swooshed across my face and the back bounced perfectly back into form when I stopped.   I had a meticulously cut angled bob.  Colored with a very punk mix of black, blue and purple.  I was a new woman.   I couldn’t help but take my hand from under the cape and reach it into the highly stacked back and poof it up for that volume.   I felt alive.   I had left my apartment as a pretty, preppy, business type blondie and was going to leave this salon as a punk, stylish, badass.

“So how often can I come to see you?”

“I want you in my chair in no less than 4 weeks.”   She was commanding me.  And I liked it.

She took the cape off and I paid and left a fat tip for Morgan.  She changed me.  When I was about to open the door, she said, “You forgot this.”

It was an appointment card.  3 weeks from today.  I open the door and walked out and turned the card over and she had written her number on the back with a heart and a little note that said, “drinks later?”

A devilish smile emerged as I tucked the card into my purse.  I think I had a date.  I walked down the street and my hair was bouncing and swishing about.  I felt so sexy.  So confident.  But I knew that Morgan would now have control over my looks.  And I liked it.

This new hair called for a new outfit.  I bought Vans shoes and some ripped up worn black jeans with a Guns and Roses tee shirt that was cut to show a little bit of my midriff.  My sexy punk look wasn’t quite complete.   So I went into the piercing shop and got some large hoop earrings that stuck out just below the side angled of my sharp bob.  I also had my septum pierced with a thin hoop and put one small stud in my lower bottom lip.   I’m a bobbed rocker chick now.  My look was changed.   And now that Morgan was in charge, who knows how much and how often it may change again?

 

8 responses to “How Often?

  1. Lovely story (o:
    You have a bit of name confusion though, in the top where the client enters the salon; first the stylist is called Morgan, then it’s Taylor who intimidates our ‘I’ with her punky style, then a couple sentences further, it’s Heather who nods and breathes disappointedly, then for the rest she’s Morgan again ..

Leave a Reply