Just a Small-Town Barber II

Story Categories:

Story Tags:

Views: 6,090 | Likes: +76

Just a Small-Town Barber II


By Shorngirl


Chapter Two – Backlash and Redemption


So, I’d just divested three young ladies of their long girlish tresses. What could possibly go wrong? Let me enlighten you.

I suppose it had been about two hours since Meredith, Susie, and Anna had walked out of my shop. Still recalling their jovial faces as they joked with one another over their bold new styles, I was taken aback when my front door burst open. I suppose I should have expected it.

A rather burly man rolled through the door, his eyes red with fury. I wondered to which girl the angry father belonged.

“What gave you the right to cut my daughter’s hair like that?” He seethed, walking up to my chair. It had been a few minutes since my last customer, and I had just settled in to read the evening paper.

“If you’re referring to the three young women who walked into my shop this afternoon, I only gave them what they asked for,” I explained. “Which was your daughter?”

“Her name is Meredith. I’ve already given ‘her’ a piece of my mind, now it’s your turn!” The man stepped closer, invading my space a little too much for me to remain comfortable.

I stood from the chair and walked to the counter, pretending to clean. “When someone asks for a haircut, I’m not in the habit of questioning their motives or whether they have permission. She said she wanted to donate her hair, and then showed me a picture of her brother.”

“You’re joking.” He exclaimed. “Damned kid.”

“Yeah, they can give you a run for your money.” I sympathized.

I think he suddenly realized he was only shooting the messenger right about then, and his angry scowl softened into a frown. “Jesus. Her mother is just about beside herself. Look, I know you’re only doing your job. I don’t know what I was thinking, storming in here like that.”

I saw an inroad and took it. He looked a little rough around the edges. “How about a free haircut to soften the blow?”

The guy ran a hand over the back of his head and down his neck, realizing that he could use a good trim. Shaking his head, he chuckled and took a seat in my chair. “Nothing as short as my daughter’s mind you.” He smirked.

Twenty minutes later I sent a very satisfied father on his way, looking way better than he had when he arrived. I’d even convinced him to go easy on his daughter in the process. I was sure he’d be back as a paying customer.

The following day I had a similar visit from Anna’s father, ending much the same way. I tried not to imagine myself gaining new customers in this fashion. It wasn’t good for my heart.

A few days had passed, and I was a bit surprised that Susie’s father hadn’t come in to read me the riot act. She was the one, after all, that ended the worst for the change, in the end.

Wednesday, I tried to duck out early in hopes of getting a line into Hawthorne Creek. I’d yet to break out my fishing tackle since my arrival and the weather that day was ideal; a little overcast, and cooler than it had been.

I’d thrown on my jacket and was about to lock up when a rather attractive woman appeared on the stoop in front of the shop. Any hopes of going fishing were dashed when she stepped through the door.

“Can I help you?” I asked, cordially, hoping to hide my disappointment.

“Hi.” She said, obviously nervous about being there. “I believe you cut my daughter’s hair the other day.”

‘Oh, great.’ I moaned inwardly. I was about to get another earful, only this time with no useful ammunition on my belt. “I’ve cut a few girls’ hair since I’ve been open.” Not a lie.

“Her name is Susan. Her friends call her Susie?” She stepped farther into the shop, looking around curiously.

I imagined I was about to be scolded for ruining her daughter’s looks, but that was hardly my fault. How was I to know what lay underneath the girl’s mousy fringe? “Yes,” I admitted. “She came in with two friends. They all got haircuts.”

“Yes. Meri and Anna. I can’t tell you what gets into their heads when they get together.” She complained, shaking her head.

At this point, I figured I was off the hook. This was hardly the rant of a disgruntled parent. “So, what can I do for you, Miss…?”

“It’s Melody. Melody Barnes.” She blushed. “So, as I was saying, I don’t know what gets into those girls’ heads when they get together. What I do know, is that it’s a bit contagious.” Melody admitted, bashfully. She ran her fingers through her shoulder-length hair, very similar to her daughter’s, in most respects. “Do you have time to cut mine?”

Suddenly, fishing seemed a bit droll compared to having at this woman’s hair. As I had said, she was quite attractive, and I imagined Susie must certainly have taken after her father.

“To be honest, I was about to close up.” She nodded and made a move towards the door, as if having been granted a reprieve. “But…” I added, stopping her in her tracks, “I certainly have time for one more customer.”

Melody smiled, almost guiltily, as if she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t. “Are you sure? I can always come back.”

“Wouldn’t hear of it.” Insistent, I ushered the woman into my chair, quickly wrapping a cape about her shoulders as I might net a fish that was about to shake the hook. I helped free her hair from beneath and ran a comb through the well-cared-for locks.

In the process, I lifted the chestnut curls away from the side of her head, relieved that she sported a lovely pair of delicately fashioned ears. I began to wonder whether Susie was actually her daughter, as there was absolutely no resemblance. Not wanting to be disturbed, I walked to the door, flipping the sign over to closed but stopping short of locking the woman in. She was already skittish.

I spun the chair to face the mirror as I returned, giving her a look at her own reflection. “So, Melody. How do you want me to cut your hair?” I leaned back against the counter, relaxed and hoping to calm her obviously frazzled nerves.

“Well…” she struggled, “…I just can’t get over how easy it seems for Susie now, with her hair all bobbed like that. I mean, she’s like one of the boys.”

I could see how uneasy she was, but there was no mistaking the longing in her eyes, either. I saw my opportunity to be just a little bit naughty. “Melody?” She glanced up, her eyes meeting mine. “Something tells me ‘you’ want to be like one of the boys too.” I pressed. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Her face must have turned several different shades of red before she finally nodded her head. “Please.” Melody managed, the word just barely a whisper.

“Well, I’m thinking we probably ought to get rid of all this then.” I casually ran a hand over her hair, still professional, but only just. I looked up at the old haircut chart that still graced the wall beside the mirror. It was such a classic that I just couldn’t take it down when I cleaned the place up. Now I was glad I hadn’t.

Pointing up at the poster, I simply pointed to the longest of the four styles, looking back to her for approval. She blushed but dutifully shook her head no. I moved my finger to the next shortest style, which resembled a business cut, the sides tapered but a healthy amount of hair still to comb.

“No, not that one either.” She mouthed sotto voce. I had to admit to feeling just a little excited as I moved my finger to the ivy league style, with its severely faded sides and cropped top.

She frowned for a minute, but to my amazement shook her head once again. The only style left was the crewcut, if you could call it that. The picture was representative of a very short buzzcut, the sides shaved to the skin and the top nothing but stubble. “Last one.” I insisted. Her smile said it all.

“I cut your daughter the same way, you know,” I told her as I clipped the number two blade on my Oster Classic 76.

“Niece, actually.” She sighed. “I adopted her when she was little.” And then, as if an afterthought, she added, “I’m not married.” I saw a look of momentary horror sweep over her face as she realized what she had said, instantly looking down at her hands, only to find them concealed by my cape.

My suspicions confirmed, I switched on the clippers, the whir coinciding with her deep breath in. I leaned down and flipped her hair back over her pink little ear, whispering into it. “Are you ready?”

Another breath in, this one more of a gasp. I saw movement beneath the cape and knew that her right hand had settled between her legs. Women always think we can’t see what’s happening under there, but to an experienced eye, it’s as plain as if she were sitting there, naked.

“How about, we start…” I raised the clippers so that they were poised at the top of her forehead. “…right here.”

There was no mistaking the gasp this time, as I slowly, almost painfully pushed the blades back into her lustrous mane. A delicate cascade of mahogany strands slid over the cape on both sides, folding over once before scattering on the floor of my shop.

Melody’s eyes grew wide as saucers as she inspected the two-inch-wide trail of stubble the clippers left behind. Her scalp shone through as plain as day, and I knew that this was what she was marveling at.

It may have been forward of me, but she’d been the one who insisted she was single. Reaching under the cape, I lifted the hand that had been covertly pressed to her center, resting the fingertips against the damage the clippers had wrought.

Her fingers danced gingerly over the stubble, front to back and then back to front. An audible moan escaped her lips as her hand slipped silently back under the cape. I smiled knowingly in the mirror, as our eyes met, hers darting away self-consciously, as though I knew every thought she was having.

Her hair still tucked provocatively behind her ear, just as I had left it, I leaned down once again. “You enjoy this now.” Her body physically jerked with those words, and I knew she knew. Returning to the haircut, I laid down another path of stubble next to the first.

There was no doubt now, and Melody made no effort to hide it, either. The cape vibrated, agitated by the back of her wrist as she pleasured herself. Not wanting to disappoint I stepped up the pace, my Osters well up to the task. Row after row of chestnut tresses fell away from her head as I relentlessly reduced her to the boy she so desperately wanted to be.

As the last of her mane was peeled, Melody came, hard and long. Her face flushed, skin prickling with the finest sheen of perspiration. I had to adjust myself, the spectacle having had the predicted effect. I may be a barber but was certainly not immune to what had just happened in my chair. The clippers fell silent, Melody’s labored but unabashed breathing replacing their drone and I had to step back and admire her.

“So glad you enjoyed that.” I grinned. Her eyes went straight to my crotch and there was no hiding the fact that I was excited.

“I see you did too.” She chuckled. Sobering for a moment, Melody turned her head from side to side, surveying the bristled fur that remained on her head. “You’re not done, are you?”

“Not if you don’t want me to be.” For the moment, I collected myself, removing the number two blade and replacing it with the zero. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Once again, the clippers whirred to life, Melody’s attention more concentrated on the action now. Stripping the quarter-inch stubble from the sides of her head, I worked my way around to the back, carrying the line a bit higher than I normally would. She wanted the knob on the poster, and I was going to give it to her.

Once the back and sides had been peeled down to the skin, I set about blending the top, leaving very little alone, save for a narrow strip at the center. This was far shorter than the cut I had given her niece. I watched her in the mirror as I cut; the more I removed, the wider her smile.

Of course, the best was yet to come. I dispensed a large dollop of lather from the machine and spread it liberally over the back and sides of Melody’s freshly exposed scalp.

“That feels nice.” She sighed, pressing her head against my hand as I worked the lather into the barely perceptible stubble. I looked down, my shoes trodding carelessly over her once-glorious mane. At the same time, the tenting in my jeans was more than obvious.

Slipping a fresh blade into my straight razor, I slowly and methodically shaved her. There would be no dancing around the edges for Melody. The strokes were long, and sure, removing any trace of hair from the back and sides of her head.

I was almost sad when I finished. I held the hot moist towel against her scalp, knowing how hot she had been, and probably still was. The straight razor lay open on the counter as I un-caped her, her scent intoxicating as she stood.

“Now,” I grinned, “…you’re just like one of the boys.”

Melody smiled, running two fingers over herself. “Not exactly.” She lifted the straight razor from the counter.

“Careful,” I warned.

She looked down to where her fingers still touched the dampened material of her slacks, then up to where her eyes met my own. “You want to… finish the job?”

I raised my eyebrows, leading Melody up the stairs to my loft. The fish would just have to wait.


7 responses to “Just a Small-Town Barber II

  1. Salut Claire!
    I‘ve been wondering what would happen when the Marines landed…
    You do a good job of writing in the character of a man. Not everyone can pull that off, changing sex, so to speak as an author.
    Are you familiar with the work of the French author Marguerite Yourcenar? She was the first woman elected to l’Académie Française. Her acceptance speech included an eloquent browbeating of l’Académie for having taken 150 years to notice that women were writing in French that is nothing short of brilliant! Her best known books are Mémoires d’Hadrien et L’Œuvre au Noir both of them written in the character of men homosexuals both.
    Here is the link for the little museum dedicated to her in the north of France, not far from where she was born:


  2. Another incredible story! I love it when you write about very severe haircuts like recons, high and tights, military cuts – there’s something just so erotic about the transformation from long, feminine hair to a hard butch look.

  3. Thank again for all the kind comments. I am enjoying writing in this genre, and hope to add a few more chapters in the adventures of the small-town barber.
    Pour Stan,
    Je connais très bien les écrits de Marguerite Yourcenar. On notera L’oevre au noir, le Prix Femina ainsi que Novelles Orientale. Je pense qu’elle est née à Bruxelles, d’où sont originaires beaucoup de mes proches. J’ai donc un lien particulier avec elle. Merci pour la référence, c’est très gentiment pris.

Leave a Reply