Kimberly Seeks a Release from Her Locks

Prologue

As I looked at my long, chestnut brown locks in the mirror, I could not help but feel a sense of embarrassment. Over the previous three years I had received nothing more than a trim, and my hair fell below my waist. My hair was the longest in college and, even with the ends thin and uneven, there were many people who admired it. However, I always felt self-conscious next to my friends with their stylish bobs, trendy crops, and funky highlights.

I only had myself to blame as I had always followed the path of least resistance when it came to my hair. But as I entered my twenties, with college ending and job interviews looming, I needed to release myself from the past and adopt a meaningful change for the future. I wanted to look more fashionable, more stylish. However, every time I thought about cutting my hair, even a little, I experienced a sense of fear. But also, more worryingly, a tingle of excitement.

My embarrassment over my hair’s length would increase whenever I secured it in ponytails or plaits, a practical necessity for a variety of activities due to its length.

‘Hey, Kimberly, let us release you from all that hair,’ friends would taunt, playfully mimicking the action of scissors around my braid. ‘Chop, chop, chop!’

While their words scared me, I found myself becoming turned on each time they suggested it. I would blush and feel a flutter in my chest, wondering if this strange reaction to the idea of having my hair forcibly cut was a peculiar kink that was manifesting itself.

But, in my youthful naivety, I dismissed the idea. After all, what normal woman would have a bizarre fetish about having their hair cut?

Seeking Change

With my desire to adopt a more stylish appearance, fuelled by peer pressure, I set out on my admirable mission. However, not coming from a wealthy family like my friends, expensive restyles and costly highlights in fancy salons were not a consideration. A less ambitious plan was necessary to fulfil my yearning.

It was a warm day, so I had slipped into a short yellow dress decorated with light blue flowers. And I topped it off with my worn denim jacket. Unwilling to face any jibes about ponytails and braids from anyone I met, I piled up my hair into a messy updo, casually secured with a single large clamp.

I trudged towards the Top Cuts unisex salon at the back of the shopping centre. It was a place where you just waited until a stylist was available. It was the establishment I had frequented ever since starting college. I would visit, every six months or so, for a trim … whether my hair needed it or not!

During each visit I had sat in the waiting area, feeling nervous and out of place among all the women with their stylish hair. When finally called forward, a hairdresser had asked what I wanted done. And I had rolled out my stock phrase of “a good tidy up”. So, the uninterested stylist had done just as I asked, and my boring style had never changed. Every time they had cut less than had grown in the previous half year, so my hair simply grew longer and longer over the years. Each time I left the salon I had felt relieved that they had not cut too much off but, conversely (or perversely), disappointed that they had not cut enough!

On this occasion, Top Cuts was extremely busy, and they indicated a wait of over an hour. Unwilling to wait but remaining intent on a change, I decided to check if there was somewhere else in town that could make my hair look more presentable.

Pursuing Change

I wandered aimlessly along the high street, the summer sun beating down on my head, a constant reminder of the heavy mass clinging to my scalp. The exorbitant prices charged by the flashy salons with their elegant interiors mocked me. I dismissed them immediately, each one a testament to my lack of wealth.

Peering along a fancy arcade, a less pretentious establishment beckoned. I even dared to enquire inside and, while staring at my casual updo, they informed me they had no appointments available that day with a barely concealed smirk.

I had reached the end of the high street – the end of the road – and I was about to give up. However, I spotted a narrow lane that I had never had reason to enter before. Although there were several shops selling artisan products, it was noticeably quiet, and the road appeared to lead to nowhere. However, my eyes rested on a faded sign that swung eerily, back and forth, at the end of the lane. A sign that proclaimed, in faded script, that the establishment was a hairdresser.

With all my other options exhausted and my thrifty mind deciding the remote location would be inexpensive, I entered the lane. The solitude was disconcerting after the bustle of the high street, but the swinging sign lured me forward. As I got closer, the faded sign revealed the premises housed Bartram’s Hairdressers. At the lane’s end, bathed in shadow, stood the unpretentious salon, seemingly untouched by the passage of time.

The worn paint on the exterior looked uninviting. Frosted glass prevented me from peering inside and checking it out. So, I hesitated for a moment on the threshold, wondering if I should turn back, a flutter of apprehension in my stomach. It was quite unlike any establishment I had seen before. It felt different. Not bad, exactly, but different. But what did I have to lose by entering and determining what they could offer?

Finding Possibilities

I took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and a loud buzzer above the door announced my arrival.

I stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind me, isolating me from the outside. The small shop was completely empty. A voice echoed from behind a door at the back of the shop. ‘Please take a seat and I will be with you very shortly.’

There were only two styling chairs, both facing large mirrors, and a dark sheet covered one of them. So, I edged towards the vacant one by the window, where the frosted glass let in light from the lane but prevented me from seeing outside.

As I settled into the ancient chair, its leather cracked and its metal worn, the reality of my situation began to sink in. Although the sign had proclaimed the establishment to be a hairdresser, I deduced that it was not a salon. Not even a unisex salon. It was a men’s barbershop, pure and simple, and an old-fashioned one at that. The kind where men had come for decades for no-nonsense short back and sides. A wave of unease washed over me, and I considered bolting to the door ahead of the owner of the disembodied voice appearing.

However, the shop – a museum of forgotten styles – held a certain fascination. My eyes studied the line of heavy-duty electric clippers hanging on the wall, each one displaying a sleek blade with a menacing sheen. These were not the delicate rechargeable trimmers of modern salons, they were powerful tools of precision and authority.

Combs, scissors, and razors adorned a shelf below the mirror. The walls, tinted yellow with age, displayed stark photographs of gentlemen with severely cut hair, to match their severe appearance. Dusty shelves held jars, tubes, and packets of indeterminate purpose.

Studying this strange anachronism, a shadow suddenly fell across the room, making me jump. A lofty man had emerged from the door at the back of the shop.

‘Good afternoon, Miss,’ he said, his voice surprisingly soft. ‘I am Mr Bartram.’

Bartram

‘Hi,’ I replied breezily, but perhaps a little too quickly, trying to hide my anxiety. ‘I’m Kimberly.’

Mr Bartram was an anomaly. Tall and lanky, he wore a smart, tailored waistcoat over a crisp white shirt and tie, an ensemble that seemed both overly formal and strangely out of place.

But it was his head that drew my attention. It was completely bald, a smooth, glass-like expanse of skin that gleamed under the dim light. Not shaved, but hairless. As if no single hair had ever dared to grow there. I felt a peculiar urge to reach out my hand and judge the smoothness of Mr Bartram’s shining dome for myself but, fortunately, the demands of social restraint held me back.

A small, neatly trimmed beard framed his mouth, and round, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He could have been aged anywhere between thirty and sixty, a man lost in the mists of time.

Mr Bartram showed no surprise at my presence. A woman with long hair styled in a messy updo, wearing a short summer dress, and perched on his large, old-fashioned barber’s chair. I suddenly felt self-conscious and exposed. My dress, far too short, with its thin straps, seemed childish in this setting. I felt small and vulnerable in the oversized chair, my feet dangling inches above the floor. I wished, with sudden intensity, that I had worn jeans.

Mr Bartram moved with a quiet efficiency, unfurling a cape and draping it over me. The fabric was heavy and stiff, an almost suffocating weight. It reached the floor, a tent of oppressive material that trapped me in the chair.

He pumped the chair higher, raising me up until I was eye-level with him. Given his height, I accepted it was likely to be his comfortable working level. But it only amplified my feelings of vulnerability. The cape felt like a prison and, with me perched precariously above the ground, I felt utterly incapable of escape.

‘What are we doing with your hair today, Miss?’ he asked politely, his eyes critically examining my messy updo, his pained expression showing a reluctance to touch it.

A Tidy Up

‘Oh … er …’ I stammered, caught off guard. Had I even said I wanted to proceed with a trim in this peculiar and unwelcoming environment? Despite feeling trapped, this was the moment I could have elected to leave. ‘Um, just a tidy up … er, I guess?’ I requested, true to my past form with hairdressers. ‘I mean, it is summer, so …’

He nodded, his bald head reflecting the light. ‘A tidy up,’ he repeated, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. He tugged on one of the artfully crafted tendrils erupting from my updo that I used to frame my face. ‘Yes, your hair certainly does need a good tidy up. And, yes, with summer approaching …’ he paused, a strange glint in his eyes.

‘Er, yes …’ I murmured, feeling disconcerted by his behaviour but unsure why. ‘And also, I wanted to look more presentable for some upcoming job interviews …’

‘Ah, yes, job interviews,’ he echoed, nodding wisely. ‘Well, Miss, with all that in mind, perhaps we should consider doing a little better than a simple tidy up. After all,’ he added, his voice taking on a menacing edge, ‘this is a barbershop, and not one of those confusing establishments you will find along the high street,’ he scoffed.

A wait of over an hour in a confusing place like Top Cuts – likely referring to its unisex credentials – suddenly felt like a far more sensible option. A chill snaked down my spine. ‘Yes, well, a modest trim would be fine,’ I asserted, but with little conviction in my voice.

‘A trim?’ he questioned haughtily. ‘A modest trim,’ he repeated coldly. ‘May I remind you, once again, Miss, this is a barbershop. And, as you have said, we must consider the untidiness of your hair, the onset of scorching summer days, and your imminent job interviews,’ he emphasised, with an unsettling finality.

Mr Bartram was keen on reminding me I was in a barbershop – his barbershop – and I realised that it was necessary to ask myself if I wanted to be in his barbershop. Or any barbershop, come to that. Somehow or other, I had found myself perched high off the ground under a heavy haircutting cape. And I was feeling increasingly anxious under his piercing gaze and his demanding words.

‘No. Please. Wait,’ I managed to say, but he seemed not to hear me. I wanted to ask what he intended, to clarify, but the words caught in my throat.

As he produced a pair of large, gleaming scissors from his waistcoat pocket, an unexpected jolt of electricity flowed throughout my body as I anticipated what would happen next.

A Little Better

As the large scissors glinted in one hand, I recoiled instinctively as he unclamped my casual updo. The large bundle of hair tumbled down to my shoulders and then flowed like a waterfall down my back.

Mr Bartram held my gaze in the mirror and raised an eyebrow. It was the greatest show of emotion I had seen from him, but its meaning was unfathomable. Was he impressed by the length and thickness of my hair, or did he simply believe I had too much of it?

Without brushing through my hair, he lifted a long tendril from the crown, held it taut above my head, and placed the large blades of the scissors around it. Not at the ends, or even a modest distance from the ends, but less than ten centimetres from my scalp.

The cold steel shone in the dim light.

‘No! Stop!’ I wanted to shout, but I could not. My breath hitched, accompanying an intense warmth suffusing my body. It was the same feeling I experienced whenever my friends mimicked cutting my hair. But this time, it was real, and Mr Bartram had no qualms about doing what he believed was necessary.

Snip! The crunching sound echoed in the silence of the shop, sharp and decisive.

A slight curling of his lips gave the slight suggestion of a satisfied smile as he released the severed tendril. It floated past my eyes, fell on the cape, and slipped to the floor.

He selected another long lock, measured it against the one previously cut, and snipped it off to the same length. His pace quickened to a steady rhythm as he scooped up another, then another, dispatching each one to the floor with grim satisfaction. Although he was precise in his action, his demeanour suggested that rather than meeting my requirement for a summer hairstyle he was simply intent of ridding me of my long hair.

The scissors clicked, the practiced rhythm creating a macabre symphony that sent shivers down my spine. I could feel the weight of my hair diminishing, strand by strand falling onto the cape. Panic bubbled inside me, a cold, rising tide. It was going to be far too short. I decided I wanted my hair to be long again.

He moved around me, snipping away with relentless precision. First one side, then the other. He stood in front of me, lifting the long strands that framed my face.

The hair fell onto the cape, creating a dark, tangled mass that mocked me with its finality.

Each snip of the scissors triggered a strange memory, a drunken evening with friends where they pretended to cut my hair, teasing and laughing. But something else was happening. A strange heat was blossoming between my thighs, a disconcerting arousal that mingled with my fear. My breath hitched, and my skin prickled with a strange, unwanted desire.

My hand, hidden beneath the heavy cape, crept under my dress, my fingers brushing against my skin. The sensation intensified the confusion, the conflict between fear and pleasure warring within me. The sounds of the scissors continued.

Eventually, Mr Bartram placed the scissors back in his pocket. My hair was, for want of a better description, a layered bob that barely reached my chin. Not what I had anticipated before entering the barbershop, but not a complete disaster. I hoped, with a desperate prayer, that he had finished and he would allow me to leave.

But then, Mr Bartram reached for the largest of the hair clippers, its red metallic body looking purposeful, barely disguising the contained power. I could not believe he was serious but, if anything, he looked even more determined than before.

A Little More

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. ‘Er, I … I am not used to having hairclippers, Mr Bartram,’ I stammered, my voice barely a whisper.

He raised a single eyebrow, a silent gesture that spoke volumes. It signified that he recognised I had been unfortunate in the past, but he was keen to help me become accustomed to having hairclippers used on my hair.

The situation had become ridiculous. I knew, with sickening certainty, that I had to get away. I struggled in the chair, thrashing against the suffocating weight of the cape. But the chair was too high, my feet dangling uselessly in the air. I remained trapped.

Mr Bartram stood back, his gaze cold and unwavering as he waited for my struggles to subside, my tantrum to fade.

I felt a sense of relief. An opportunity for me to bring the unexpected and unfortunate events to a close. ‘Mr Bar -’

With a sudden movement, he placed his hand on the back of my head, pushing it forward with surprising force, my chin touching my chest. I felt the cold metal of the clippers against the nape of my neck. A shock ran through me.

The hairclippers buzzed to life, a high-pitched whine that filled the shop. He sheared away the hair on my neck, I felt it falling in a fine, tickling rain against my skin before it tumbled to the floor. I shuddered, imagining how short it must be, but the increasing warmth between my thighs momentarily distracting me from the reality of my situation.

With the hair on my neck shaved close to the skin, I could feel the cool breeze from the fan overhead, the cold metal of the clipper blade pressing relentlessly against my flesh. This was not the “tidy up” I had envisioned. And yet, despite my fear, an electric jolt of pleasure surged through me, pulling me in two different directions.

Mr Bartram moved to my side, easing my head the opposite way, before thrusting the hairclippers up the side of my head. He peeled away the hair, leaving white skin bordering my ear. He forced my head in the opposite direction and repeated the action.

Changing tactics, Mr Bartram used a comb to lift the short lengths of hair remaining on my crown, before running the hairclippers across the comb’s surface with a loud clattering sound. Fine snippets filled the air, while he reduced all the remaining strands to a uniform length, each standing perfectly erect.

He performed the same levelling action repeatedly, using clippers and comb, until the hair left on my crown all stood to attention like a stiff brush. On the perimeter, the strands and blended into bald skin on the back and sides of my head.

Eventually he silenced the hairclippers and presented me with a hand mirror to allow me to see what he had done from every angle. My breath caught in my throat, a gasp of disbelief escaping my lips. The woman staring back at me was a stranger.

He had shaved the back and sides of my head down to skin, my scalp gleaming white, reflecting the overhead lights. The back and sides lengthened into the stiff brush of hair that stood erect on my crown.

I had never had a haircut so short, so severe. Indeed, I struggled to believe any woman had ever had such a haircut. I had certainly never seen one. My face flushed with shame, humiliation, and a rising anger … but, also, something else …

‘There we are, Miss. Tidied up with a nice, smart flattop,’ Mr Bartram claimed, his voice filled with pride. ‘Perfect for keeping cool, and suitable for attending job interviews.’

A Little Lost

I wanted to scream, to tell Mr Bartram that I had never asked him to shear off all my long hair and scalp me. But the words caught in my throat, replaced by a confusing, unwelcome, and untimely swell of arousal.

But I had not told him to leave hair long! I had just asked for it to be tidied and, indisputably, that is what he had done. He had released me from my locks.

I carefully retrieved my warm, clammy hand from under the heavy cape. Tracing the shaved skin at the back of my neck with my fingers, the smooth expanse of bare flesh felt cool to my touch. I bounced my palm gently against the precise level surface of the brush-like hair on my crown. I expected an unresisting softness, so I was surprised by the delicious sensation of the unyielding hair prickling my palm. The contrast between the stiff erect bristles and smooth bare skin was a potent combination exhibiting a stark freshness that I could not deny.

‘Is that tidy enough for you, Miss?’ Mr Bartram asked, his voice devoid of irony. However, a gentle smile fluttering on his lips suggested he knew more about what was occurring under the cape than he had let on.

My mouth was so dry, I could barely croak out a reply. ‘Yes, er, thank you, Mr Bartram.’

‘Excellent, Miss. Now, if you would excuse for a short while,’ he apologised, ‘but I do believe I heard the telephone ringing from the back of the shop.’

‘Oh … er, right,’ I sighed, increasingly frustrated that my demanding body was struggling to contain my peaking excitement until I reached home. Now I would have to delay for longer, despite not believing the phone had even rung.

I slipped my exploratory hand back under the cape surreptitiously, but a movement not missed by Mr Bartram’s keen eye.

‘Relax while I am away and I will help release you when I return, Miss,’ he said softly, a knowing glint in his eyes, ‘unless you have released yourself beforehand.’

He drifted away, towards the back of the shop and I heard him pull the door firmly closed. Had he sensed my musky scent? Or had he noticed my furtive movements, even beneath the heavy fabric. If so, could his words have been a subtle suggestion to indulge my mounting excitement before he returned?

Very Much Found

Irrespective of what Mr Bartram had meant, I stretched out on my lofty perch, high in the chair, adjusted my hands, and took in my striking appearance in the mirror. Stimulated, my breathing came faster and faster. I squeezed my eyes shut, and then I released my mind to surf on waves of unbridled pleasure.

Hearing the door click open, I opened my eyes and pulled myself together, readjusting my exhausted body and my joyful expression.

I managed to snatch my hand from between my thighs just before Mr Bartram removed the cape and lowered the barber’s chair.

‘There we are, Miss,’ he smirked. ‘You are released.’

‘Very much so,’ I murmured as I failed to stifle a giggle.

As I paid for the haircut, the price surprisingly low, my eyes fell upon the photos on the wall. It was a varied assortment of men’s hairstyles ranging from flattops like mine through to crewcuts, and more, all meticulously cut and presented.

‘Can a woman have any of those styles, Mr Bartram?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

‘Yes, Kimberly,’ he said, using my name for the first time, his gaze unwavering. ‘We can even shave you completely bald, just like me,’ he added, rubbing his hairless dome.

A shiver ran down my spine. ‘Mr Bartram, how often must I come … er, that is, return?’ I bit my lip to prevent a giggle escaping.

‘At least every two weeks, Kimberly,’ he insisted, wagging a finger at me, his expression stern. ‘Ideally, I would like you to come weekly, but certainly no more than two weeks between visits. Is that clear, Kimberly?’

‘Yes, Mr Bartram,’ I squeaked, my voice betraying my fear of the unknown. ‘I will see you next week.’

Epilogue

I stumbled out of Bartram’s Hairdressers, the sunlight feeling harsh and unforgiving on my newly exposed neck. I raised a hand to my head, touching the short, bristly hairs, feeling the smooth, cool skin beneath. Despite my fear and confusion regarding my experience, a part of me was extremely excited.

As I made my way home, people stared at the attractive young woman, in the pretty summer dress, with a severe flattop haircut. The contrast was jarring but I grew increasingly comfortable as I caught glimpses of my reflection in shop windows. One woman stopped me and commented on how brave I was to wear my hair so short. One did not to need to be brave, I said, one just needed a Bartram!

Mr Bartram had changed me, irrevocably, both in appearance and deep inside. But I saw him as an agent, releasing me from my locks and allowing me to flourish in ways I had never previously imagined.

The End