I Like It Smooth

The first cut was for love.

After that, she spent years chasing the feeling.

Chapter 1

Matt…

I first saw him at a friends’ party. He was the center of attention: joking around, making toasts, I think he even sang something at one point. A little lean, with sharp features and incredibly tall. He seemed unbelievably handsome to me. Only one thing bothered me — he had come alone. Had his girlfriend not shown up? Was he not interested in women? Or, on the contrary, was he too interested in them, with so many around that he simply didn’t bring them along to gatherings with friends? The idea that he might actually be single seemed impossible. Those questions occupied me the entire evening. But I still never found the courage to approach him.

Then one of those days happened when something just hits you in the head, and I messaged him. Some stupid line like, “Is this you by any chance?” But he kept the conversation going. We started texting. There was clearly mutual attraction, though I still couldn’t quite believe my luck. He didn’t take much initiative, and I was afraid of seeming clingy or easy. We texted for more than a month before finally going on a date.

We were young, neither of us had much money, though I don’t think that was really the point. He didn’t take me to a restaurant. We just walked around the city, stumbled onto some parade, he showed me landmarks and places he liked, and then somehow we wandered into a movie theater to see some random film. I only remember that it was old and good — I don’t even remember which one, because we spent the entire screening kissing.

Afterward we went back to his place. He rented a tiny apartment nearby, with a narrow kitchen barely wide enough for two people and a permanent smell of coffee in the air. We started taking each other’s clothes off right there in the doorway. It was intense.

Later we were lying in bed, taking a break before round two. He was stroking my breasts, then slid his hand lower and ran his fingers through my neatly trimmed bush.

“I like it better smooth,” he said with a smile.

“Next time,” I smiled back.

“Better now. There are disposable razors on the shelf in the bathroom. If you’re willing to make sacrifices like that for me…” He looked into my eyes.

I was willing. I ran to the bathroom. He called after me jokingly:

“Need help?”

“I can handle it!”

When I came back, he greeted me with a kiss, then moved lower and inspected the quality of my work. First with his fingers. Then with his tongue…

We fell asleep close to dawn.

We tried to see each other every day after that and almost always spent the night together — sometimes at my place, sometimes at his. In the mornings he made coffee, squinting against the light, and always forgot to add sugar. I laughed and added it myself. Then I’d go to the bathroom and shave carefully, almost obsessively, making sure not to miss a single hair.

Two weeks later I moved in with him. We were obviously good together. Even talking was exciting, though we hardly had time for conversation. We were constantly having sex. Experimenting, exploring each other. One day Matt carefully asked how I felt about anal sex. I told him I’d never tried it.

“Do you want to?”

With him, I was willing. And I liked it.

Sometimes it seemed to me that around him I agreed to things faster than I actually thought about them.

I don’t remember what we were doing at the time, but casually, almost absentmindedly, he asked whether I had ever wanted to cut my hair short.

“No. I’ve always had long hair. It’s part of my image. I feel comfortable like this.”

“That’s a shame.”

He said it without reproach, but with quiet regret.

After that the subject kept returning again and again. At first in passing, then more often. I started noticing the way he looked at women with short hair. Sometimes photos flashed across his phone or computer screen: women with very short cuts or completely shaved heads.

 

I didn’t want to sound openly jealous, but it bothered me. So I alone wasn’t enough for him.

I asked him directly. He answered honestly.

“Yeah, I like short hair on women. Or no hair at all. I’d be really happy if you looked like that too.”

I snapped.

“If you like it that much, go find somebody else. I’ll stay exactly the way I am.”

We made up quickly, but something inside me shifted.

I caught myself starting to look at my own hair through his eyes.

If the man of my dreams loved short hair so much, was it really worth holding onto my long braids?

It hurt to realize I wasn’t perfect for him “as I was,” but love outweighed it.

On Valentine’s Day I finally decided. He gave me a laptop I genuinely needed, and I gave him a little Valentine card that read: “You can cut my hair.”

That same day we went to a salon. I was horribly nervous, and when I sat down in the chair my heart felt like it was about to jump out of my chest. Matt stood beside me.

“So what are we doing today?” the stylist asked.

Silently, I pointed at Matt.

At that moment I was terrified he’d say, “Shave it all off.” But Matt clearly understood where the boundary was.

“A long bob. And shave the back a little. Somewhere she can’t see it,” he said with a wink.

I sat there tense as a wire.

The stylist lifted the first strand. The scissors snapped. A heavy lock fell to the floor, and suddenly I looked at it as though it weren’t just hair but part of my former self.

Something inside me collapsed and loosened at the same time.

After that it became easier. Like a roller coaster — terrifying at first, then your body adjusts. The front fell to my chin, while the back climbed higher. I could feel the clippers buzzing against the nape of my neck.

Matt was pleased.

We rode amusement rides afterward, laughing and holding hands. And that night we had the most intense sex of my life. He kept touching the back of my neck as though checking whether everything had really changed. I can’t say that alone turned me on, but the new sensations sharpened everything. Though sometimes it felt like he wasn’t kissing me — he was kissing my new haircut.

I wore it and gradually got used to it. I didn’t like it, but he did. He started shaving the back of my neck himself — carefully, almost tenderly. And every time afterward desire flared between us immediately. Eventually I stopped resisting and began waiting for those moments.

I don’t remember how he convinced me again, but one day we ended up back at the salon.

“Short. And blonde.”

The nape and temples were clipped short with clippers. The top left only a little longer. The color almost white.

I felt unfamiliar to myself, uncomfortable. I looked in the mirror and barely recognized myself.

Again, sex became the consolation.

After that it kept repeating. He’d trim my neck, shave the back shorter, bleach my hair. And every time afterward it was as though we were confirming something to each other. It became a ritual.

Sometimes it seemed to me that the moment he loved most was the one when the clippers landed in his hands.

Three years later we broke up.

Too much had accumulated inside me. His fascination with hair had grown into something enormous. I started seeing more in it than there had originally been. I searched for reasons, found flaws, grew jealous — both of women with short hair and women with long hair. The first because he looked at them. The second because I imagined him already mentally reaching for their hair.

After we split up, I couldn’t grow my hair out for a long time. And every time it started brushing against my neck, I suddenly remembered his fingers.

Chapter 2

After that came my career, a few relationships. Some of them even started well, but in the end everything fell apart. And with none of them did I ever have sex as intense as I had with Matt. At some point I caught myself realizing that for the last few years I hadn’t really had orgasms at all — I was mostly moving on inertia, convincing myself I still felt something.

Then came Tinder dates. A lot of men tried hard, some of them absolutely convinced they were incredible lovers. Maybe they were. I just couldn’t feel it.

Everything changed because of one incident .

Dinner with Jeff

I went on a date with a guy named Jeff. I found him irritating almost immediately and wanted to leave from the very beginning. Then he said something that nearly made me walk out of the restaurant altogether. Later he walked me home, and I kept thinking I wished he wouldn’t. And then somehow I invited him inside, and we had sex.

While he moved on top of me, I kept wondering what this was — inertia, obsession, numbness? Had I really stopped feeling so much that none of it mattered anymore?

After he came, Jeff started stroking me and eventually reached the trimmed hair between my legs.

“I like it smooth…”

Something inside me twitched sharply.

“You want that? Then shave me.”

We went into the bathroom. He spread shaving foam over me awkwardly, uncertainly. The razor felt cold, and the first touch against my skin hit me almost like an electric shock. I closed my eyes.

As he shaved me, a wave spread through my body. Jeff himself was still unpleasant to me — but the feeling no longer belonged to him. When he pressed his tongue against me, I could already feel the arousal beginning to fade again. I needed more.

I noticed a pair of scissors nearby and reached for them.

“Now cut my hair.”

“How?”

“However you want. Just cut it.”

At first he timidly snipped the ends. I felt light strands falling onto my shoulders, tickling my skin. But it wasn’t enough.

“More…”

He cut off a large lock.

I moaned.

Then he got into it and started cutting more and more. Hair fell onto the bathroom floor, sticking to damp skin. I wasn’t controlling any of it — but I was accepting it.

And that was what brought sensation back to me. I realized I was coming.

That helpless feeling during a haircut — something you no longer controlled but surrendered to — brought back not Matt himself, but the sensations I’d had with him.

By the time Jeff stopped, my hair had been chopped to shoulder length. The возбуждение still hadn’t faded.

I dropped to my knees and sucked him off. Then we ended up back in bed. I begged him to fuck me in the ass. I hadn’t felt that good in years.

Eventually he exhausted himself and fell asleep. I lay beside him with my eyes open.

I knew for certain I never wanted to see him again. But now I finally understood what awakened those feelings inside me.

The next morning I threw him out.

I looked at myself in the mirror and saw the wreckage of my haircut. I didn’t feel sorry for the hair. I was already thinking about what else could still be done with it. I went to a salon and fixed it properly. And even then I already knew: I would want this again.

On later Tinder dates I started bringing scissors with me. But nothing worked. I slept even with men I disliked, expecting the same sensation, but everything kept falling apart. They became confused, hesitant, passive. And without initiative from them, nothing happened.

That’s when I realized I needed someone who genuinely wanted to cut my hair himself. That was how I found the fetish community.

The transformation continues here →