My Husband Wants My Hair

Honestly, the first emotion that came to my mind when my husband of five years first admitted to me that he had a fetish for watching long haired women get their hair cut off was sadness…I was sad that he hadn’t felt comfortable to tell me about his turn-ons earlier in our relationship. I’d always strived to be an open and communicative partner.

“Thank you for trusting me with this,” I’d said as I took his hand in mine. “But why didn’t you tell me about your fantasy sooner? I mean, I thought you enjoyed my long hair?”

He’d more than enjoyed it, I thought as I recalled all the memories of him running his hands through the lengths of my thick, highlighted dark blonde hair as I rode him, or him caressing and tugging my hair with his free hand while he drove the car. When we first met, my hair hung a few inches past my shoulders and he’d done nothing but encourage me to grow my hair longer and longer. Every night before bed, he’d brush my hair for me and would play with it and braid it, tell me how pretty it was. How soft it was in his hands.

He’d actively encouraged me to grow it, in fact. Told me I should see how long it could get. Would buy me little treats when it met growth milestones, like hitting my bra strap (he took me to get my nails done for that one), the small of my back (he took me for a weekend away that time), the top of my ass (my dream vacation to the South of France).

“I’ve loved watching you grow your hair long for me,” he said, stroking the ends of my waves with his fingers. His gentle tugs sent a wave of sensation through to my scalp. “But I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t sometimes picture all of this on the floor.”

I put my hand on his chest and could feel his heart pounding. He was obviously nervous to tell me something this vulnerable, and it moved me that he was being so honest and raw. We were on the couch together, and I climbed atop him, straddling him, so we could really face each other. “Oh yeah?” I said, slowly rocking against him. I was wearing a sundress and I could feel the friction of him hardening in his jeans against my panties. “Tell me more about that.”

He spoke softly in my ear, his voice raspy: “It’s a bit of a contradiction—long hair turns me on, but the reason it turns me on is because the longer it is, the more dramatic it would be for me to simply slide my scissors wherever I chose and clamp down. To watch all that beautiful hair we’ve both spent so long tending fall to the floor. Years and years of growth, gone in minutes. It would be so exciting to see it lying on the ground, surrounding you. Covering the floor with its mass. But maybe it would be even better to cut it all off in a long ponytail, so we could hang it above our bed, like a trophy. A symbol of what you gave to me. Every time I looked at you with your short hair, I’d remember it. Plus, you’d look so hot with it short.”

My heart was beating now, as his words both intrigued and scared me. “How short would you cut it?” I asked. “I’m not saying I’m willing to entertain this, but like in a no-limits, fantasy way…what would you do if I let you have your way with my hair?”

I felt him get even harder beneath me as he trailed his fingers up the length of my hair to lightly scratch my scalp, “I’ve thought about this a lot, and I like a lot of short cuts. As much as I like to watch videos of women getting their hair buzzed and shaved all the way off…”

I gasped. “Really? You’d want me to go that short?” I grasped my hair protectively.

“Maybe one day,” he nodded. “You’d look so cute with a little crew cut. Your big blue eyes and big pouty lips just completely in focus, removed from the distraction of all this hair.”

“Wouldn’t you miss playing with it? Pulling it during sex?”

At that mention, he wound his fist around the lengths of my hair like a rope and pulled my head back to kiss my neck, his free hand massaging my breast, my hard nipple sending heat to my core. “Hair grows back. Eventually, after I’d kept you shorn like that for a few months, I’d decide it was time to grow it back out. Just like how this time, I’d give you your treats for each milestone. I’d miss it while it was gone, but I’d also love to rub your buzzed head. Feel the little bristles left behind when I took all this from you.”

I shivered.

“But no,” he continued. “Speaking in purely fantasy terms, as you asked. I wouldn’t buzz you today, at least not all the way. If I felt I could have my way with your hair, as you said,  I would have played with your hair all morning. Washed it for you, dried it, brushed it how you like. I wouldn’t tell you what I was up to, but you would notice I was giving your hair extra attention today and wonder…is today the day? I would have taken you out to get a coffee and a stroll around the park, just so I could get some pictures for you of the last day of your beautiful, stunning, ass-length hair that we’ve both spent so much time taking care of. When we got home, I’d lift the dress you were wearing over your head. Kind of like this,” he said as lifted my dress over my head in real life, my thick mane making the process much more difficult.

He then kissed me with so much passion my eyes sank back and I moaned, low and guttural. He moved my panties aside with his hand and found my clit, which was aching for him. I arched my back into a better position on his calloused fingertips as he circled around my clit and dipped his finger into my soaking wet pussy. He continued to rub my clit with his thumb while he entered me vigorously with his fingers, exactly how he knew I liked, firmly against my g-spot. The practiced fingers of an attentive man who’d been making me cum for years, but this time was somehow even better than it ever had been before. We felt so connected.

Just as I felt my orgasm begin to rise inside my body, he stopped, edging me. He said, “I’d get you worked up like this, and then when your eyes were like this—“ he trailed his fingertips across my temples, “cloudy with desire and need, I’d tell you to follow me into my office. I’d lead you there, and you’d be unsteady on your legs, but you’d follow me. Like the good girl you are.”

I shivered again. I loved when he called me a good girl.

“When you got into the office, you’d see I had it all laid out. The stool, sitting in the center of the room, with all my instruments laid out on my desk: a comb, a pair of scissors, and the part that would have your heart racing most of all…clippers. I’d lead your hand to sit down on the stool, and you would. I know you would. I’d spend some time admiring your beautiful naked body, and all your gorgeous hair, spilling around your shoulders and down to your lap. I’d then take my time combing your hair out, feeling it’s weight and softness in my hands one more time before I tied your hair into a low ponytail,” he rolled the hair elastic that was on my wrist off of it and expertly tied my hair up in real life, too.

“Right to about here,” he tugged on my ponytail at the nape of my neck and loosened it a bit.

“How short would it be, then?” I asked, my voice a whisper.

“A bob, for sure. Right above your shoulders.” His hands moved to the top of my shoulders to motion how short it would be.

“Babe, that’s so short! Well, at least I could still fit it in ponytails.”

“I wouldn’t stop there, though.” He nuzzled his face in my neck, his hand firmly gripping my ponytail right above the hair elastic. Right where he said he would cut. “It would be ragged, uneven. I’d take my time meticulously cutting off several more inches of your hair until it was a sharp, straight line. Above your chin, definitely. Maybe to here,” he mused, using his hands to rest against the side of my face where he’d cut—it fell somewhere around my jaw. He moved it up a bit, so it was in line with my lips. “Or even here. Yes, I could definitely see you pulling off a little bob like that.”

I shivered as he looked at me with such raw desire, my clit still throbbing from him not letting me cum earlier. “You really think I could pull off a haircut like that?”

He nodded. “You’d be unbelievably hot. I wouldn’t be able to take eyes off you. Your hair would be quite thick that short, though, and your nape would be a mess. I’d have to clean those short, wild hairs up.”

“How would you go about that?” I asked breathlessly.

“First, I’d take my comb and carve in a parting into what was left of your hair.” He took my ponytail down then, spilling my hair around my shoulders, and drew a line against my scalp from ear to ear. “Right about here, and I’d clip up the top part. And then, I would flip my clippers on, push your head firmly into your chest, and shear off everything below that parting, give you a proper undercut. Pass after pass, just watching your hair pile up more and more. I wouldn’t use a guard. Imagine how that would feel under your fingertips for the first time as you felt the short ends of your bob dance against your bare skin.”

My heart was racing. “Is that where you’d stop?”

He nodded. “At least for today, yes. And then I’d…” he moved my panties aside again, and unzipped his jeans, and brought me down to sit on his cock, which was harder than I’d ever felt it, and gripped my hips in his hands as we fucked right there, on the couch in our living room, until we both came, harder than we’d ever had before.

****

After he’d admitted his haircutting fascination with me, it slowly became a part of our role-play routine. When he’d brush my hair, he’d tell me how he would cut it on that day if he could. The fantasies changed, depending on his mood. Sometimes he would say he’d brush my hair for a while and then give me a trim, or just cut short, blunt bangs into my otherwise long locks. Other times, he’d say he’d tied me to a chair and buzz it all off. Sometimes it was him doing the cutting and sometimes he said he’d march me into a barber shop to have a barber shear me, or a nice salon with a scissor happy stylist. Sometimes he’d make me beg him to cut it all off, and other times he’d make me beg him not to as he ruthlessly ignored my pleas.

Every time the fantasy of him controlling my hair, of cutting it all off, got hotter and hotter to me. I found myself beginning to look at short haired women on the street and wonder what it would be like to stand out like them. To lose my security blanket of hair. To have my neck exposed. To see how much the experience turned my husband on. To hear the crunch of scissors and the buzz of clippers, so close to my ears. I slowly realized that it wasn’t just a fantasy for me…I wanted it in real life.

I decided I needed to take a bold step.

****

It was his birthday morning when I rolled over and threw my arm around him while he was slowly waking up. “I’m ready,” I whispered in his ear.

“Ready for what?” He whispered sleepily as he turned around to face me and draped his arm across my middle.

“For you to do whatever you want to my hair. For real. You can pick the day, the time, the method, the cut. I want you to surprise me. I want you to have free rein to do what you want to it.”

That jolted his eyes wide awake. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I said, nodding my head.

“Because please know that by giving this freedom, you aren’t just going to have a trim. You know that, right? This ends with your hair cut off. Most of it.” He subtly growled and kissed my neck, grabbing my hair in his hand.

I nodded again. “I love you,” was all I said, and we began his birthday morning by fucking under the early morning light that was streaming in through our windows.

****

He didn’t take me on my offer right away. I wondered when he would do it—would it be right then? When I told him? Maybe that evening? But no, he would just make little comments about it for days after my initial proclamation. He’d do things like touch my braid as we walked and say things like, “Sure won’t be able to have a braid again for a while, will you?”

Or maybe as he performed his nightly routine of brushing my hair before bed, he’d sigh and say things like, “We won’t be dealing with these tangles for much longer.”

Or he’d look up from his morning coffee across the breakfast table and say, “You should start thinking about what prizes you want to earn on your next grow out. Goals for when it hits your shoulders, the top of your breasts. I’ll want to keep you short for a while, but eventually I’ll want it long again.”

I’d responded to that one, “So you can cut it short again?”

He grinned. “Eventually. When I’d had my fill of playing with it long.”

I realized through these conversations that we could endlessly indulge in this now shared fantasy. It wasn’t like he’d cut my hair off and the fantasy would die. Hair grew. It was about him, controlling my hair and me, joyfully helpless to his whims. It never got old. I was so afraid of what he was going to do to my hair, but it also turned me on so much. Our relationship was closer than ever. All of our interactions felt rife with a kind of electricity.

****

It was about a week later when I wondered if he was spending extra attention on my hair that day. He’d washed it in the shower for me, like he always did, but he was spending an inordinate about of time blowdrying it and brushing it.

He could just be playing with me, I thought when he asked me to put on a cute outfit and took me out for coffee, and on a stroll around the park. It wasn’t out of character for us to spend a Saturday doing this, but ever since he admitted his first fantasy to me…my pulse quickened when he said he wanted to take some pictures of me.

“You just look so beautiful today,” he told me with a sly smile as he snapped pictures of me. “Pull your hair in front of you,” he coached, and snapped a picture. He then turned me around and instructed me to shake my head for him. “This is a video,” he explained. “Look how long it is, babe. Fuck—it’s to the middle of your ass.”

He stroked a hand over my ass, squeezing as the ends of my hair fell under his touch. My hair was the longest it ever had been, and I loved it. I got compliments on it everywhere I went. Some people instinctively hated it, even though it was healthy to the ends, and would unprompted tell me I should cut it. But most of the time it got me positive attention. I knew that by letting him cut it all off, I’d be giving that up. I’d have to find different ways to stand out. It was scary, but it was exciting.

“Why do you want to take pictures of me today?” I asked, skeptically, trying to see if he would admit what he was up to.

“You just look beautiful,” he said as he continued to take videos and snap pictures of me and my hair from every angle. To his credit, he always took amazing pictures of me.

When we got back to the house, my heart began to thud in my chest as soon as we pulled into the driveway. Was it about to happen? Or was he just teasing me, like he’d been teasing me for days?

He led me into the living room and closed the door behind me. He grabbed my hair in his fist and pulled my head back to kiss me passionately. He sat me on our couch and spread my legs wide for him, pushing my dress up around my hips to roll down my panties, and licked my clit until I was begging for him to let me cum, and then, just like he said he would that first fateful day—he stopped. In my cloud of lust, I almost forgot what was going to come next, but as soon as he began leading me to the door to his office, I remembered. Fear washed over me—sure I talked a big game, but was I ready for this for real?

He looked at me and then said, “I almost forgot,” before lifting my dress fully over my head, leaving me completely naked just standing there in the hall. “Don’t want to get hair on your dress, do we?” he asked before flinging the door open and confirming my suspicions.

Just like what he described in his first fantasy, a stool was placed in the middle of the room. On his desk—all his implements. A comb, a sharp looking pair of shears, and most ominously of all…a hefty pair of Oster clippers.

I looked at him, and got into character. “Babe, what’s all this for?”

He looked down at me and smiled, his eyes mirroring the desire in mine. “I’ve thought about all the other scenarios and I keep coming back here, to this room. At least for this first time. This is how it all begins.”

Just like he said he would, he led me to sit down. “What begins?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Your hair. It’s mine, is it not? Mine to do with what I wish?”

“Yes, of course. I grew it so long for you…” I said, demurely.

“Yes, and that was very good of you to be so obedient through every step of the growing process. But today is your last day as a long haired woman for a very, very long time.”

“You’re going to cut my hair?” I gasped, pretending to be completely unaware of his intentions…but my fear was real. What haircut was I going to be leaving this room with?

He just nodded as he began to brush through my thick, shiny hair one last time until it was shimmering perfection. “Almost a shame,” he said as he ran his fingers through it. “Almost,” he added devilishly. “We’re going to start with your bangs.”

“Bangs!” I said. “I haven’t had bangs since I was a kid.”

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll make them short enough that they are out of your eyes.”

Short bangs! I felt as a thick swathe of my long locks were combed in front of my face. I didn’t even have face framing cut into my lengths, just long, all one length hair. I felt his scissors position themselves far above my eyebrows, right in the middle of my forehead, as he clamped down and impossibly long tendrils of my beautiful hair fell into my lap. The sound of the scissors alone was unbelievably arousing, but also terrifying.

It was then that I noticed that he had a mirror set up in front of me, and as the curtain of my hair was cut away, I saw myself revealed. My long, long locks and short bangs. “I wanted to see this contrast,” he explained. “So long against so, so short.” I already didn’t look like myself, and I knew he was only beginning.

At that point, he grabbed a hair tie off his desk, and I knew how he’d be cutting off the bulk of it—not free flowing, but rather in a ponytail so we could keep a trophy. He tied my hair into a low ponytail and reached for his shears again. He pushed my head firmly into my chest and told me to breathe.

For what felt like forever, he sliced through my thick ponytail. The crunching of the scissors had my heart racing. He whispered words of endearment as he removed my beautiful hair from me. “You’re being so brave,” he told me. “Stay still now, love, the hard part is almost over…”

The snip-snip sound of his shears echoed through my ears as the tension of his firm grasp on my ponytail finally freed completely and I felt the shortened ends of my hair fall against my face. I looked up and I saw him holding my ponytail in awe—just feet of perfect, honeyed locks that used to be on me just moments before. I stole a glance in the mirror and saw a woman in my reflection that had a ragged bob above my shoulders and short bangs. He handed me my ponytail and I marveled at how thick the rope of my hair was, brushing my fingers against the blunt cut end, and draping the long ends against my bare thighs. It all didn’t feel real yet, but I was turned on beyond belief.

“Now,” he said, “to clean this all up.” He was seriously focused as I sat perfectly still and he chopped still more hair from my already shortened locks. Slice after slice until it rested above my chin line, hair falling all around me to join the long pieces from my bang massacre. “Now, we really need to remove some weight from this hair, don’t we?” He turned my face to look directly in the mirror. It was excessively bulky, my thick hair being that short and bluntly cut.

He parted the top of my hair up and secured it with a clip. His parting went slightly above my ears. When he fired those clippers up, I jumped. The clippers were the part that scared me the most. “You sure you have to give me an undercut?” I asked, fear in my voice.

“Yes, darling. It’s just far too bulky,” he smiled at me patiently before his clippers entered into my hair, right at my temples. He hadn’t put a guard on and the heavy duty clippers made quick work of my sideburns as he continued around my head, making pass ofter pass as he reduced what was left to fine stubble. The experience of the clippers working against my skin was unlike anything I’d ever felt before—it send shivers through me and felt so alien. I was used to a long curtain of hair, and now I could feel the air against my shorn nape. When he was done, he flipped the clippers off, and blew air on my neck. The feeling sent goosebumps through my body.

“Feel it,” he said, and guided my trembling fingers to my fresh undercut. I was terrified to touch it, but the bristly feeling under my fingertips was unbelievably arousing. He then took his time rubbing his hands along my nape, clearly pleased with his work. He unclipped the top of my hair and my newly shortened ends fell abruptly, covering some, but not all of my new undercut.

I looked in the mirror and saw a completely new woman, and while it was a shock, I liked it. I couldn’t wait to have people gasp when they saw me, hear their comments. “Why did you cut off all your lovely hair?” or “Did you have to go SO short?” And I could remember this moment in time, this intimate fantasy fulfilled with the love of my life.

Later, after we spent hours having our fill of each other, my husband mounted my ponytail on the wall above our bed, just like he said he would.

A reminder, he told me. That this was all just getting started.

Author’s note: Thanks for reading! I haven’t written a story in a while (life has been busy), but I hope this one resonates with people. I’ve been growing my own hair out IRL and thinking about the contradictory nature of this fetish…wanting long beautiful hair, but simultaneously wanting someone to cut it all off. I wanted to explore what that dynamic could look like in a relationship through this story. Hope you all are well!

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