Scissors01
Foreword: The setting of this tale is 2003 in Oklahoma during my adolescent years. I am young and carefree and very protective of my hair.
My mother has told me over and over again that if I don’t keep my hair tied back out of my face, she will resort to cutting it off. She says that it is getting way too long and it is becoming a distraction.
I don’t believe my mother, so I always wear it loosely, flowing freely all the way down my back nearly to my waist. I want to let it keep growing to the point that I can eventually sit on it.
My hair has always been long and blonde and well cared for. I like the way that it frames my face like a golden curtain and the breeze tousles it back and forth when I’m outside.
I occasionally stand in front of the mirror for what seems like hours on end brushing it to a magical shine. I feel like a princess and nobody can take away my hair, not even my mother, so I believe.
I am 16 years old and I want to make my own decisions in life. I have a growing interest in boys now and I want to show off my magnificent long hair for them. It is long, blonde and healthy.
My mother says that I still live under her roof and that I still must obey her wishes for several more years regardless of whether I want to or not.
My mother tells me again and again to pin my hair back off of my face, that she is tired of telling me. I don’t listen to her, just like always, and it makes her very cross. I know that I keep tempting fate but every time that she threatens to cut it off, she never follows through so I’m not very worried.
Today my mother is picking me up after our first cheerleading practice after school. I find her already waiting for me in her car near the curb as I step out of the high school into the sun drenched afternoon. I wave good-bye to my best friend Kayla as I climb into my mother’s car.
“Ashley, how was your first practice today?” my mother asked as we pulled away from the curb.
“Good,” I stated as I stroked my long blonde hair. Coach O’Brien says that Kayla and I are her top girls and that we will be co-captains of the Varsity squad this year. She says that my hair is too long and I need to start pinning it up.
“I keep telling you that and you choose to ignore me. So now that your coach is telling you the same thing, are you finally going to listen?” my mother demanded.
“Maybe,” I mumbled under my breath. “If it starts getting in the way, I will.” My mother just shook her head in frustration.
Her blonde hair was the polar opposite of mine, cut very short and styled in a side part. My mother always claimed that the wash and go style was very practical for a middle-aged suburban mom and she never had to waste a lot of time on it.
We continued driving home when all of a sudden, my mother took a wrong turn.
“Where are we going? I thought we were going home for dinner?” I asked my mother.
“I have to make a quick stop before we go home,” my mother said quickly. I stared out the car window at the passing stores when my mother suddenly pulled over to the curb and parked. We had stopped right outside the barbershop. A large sign on the window said “Walk-ins Welcome.” This barbershop looked very, very old from the outside.
“What are we doing her?” I sputtered.
“You are finally getting a decent haircut young lady,” my mother answered bluntly. “I’m tired of telling you about your hair. It is too long and now your coach is telling you about it. Something needs to be done now.”
“I will start pinning it up now,” I beg. “Please don’t make me get a haircut!”
“You will come with me into the barbershop or you will be grounded for a month,” my mother said. “Your choice.”
“Fine, but only if it’s going to be a trim,” I whine.
“Ashley, get out of the car now! I won’t tell you again.”
I cross my arms in front of me and pout. “You can’t make me,” I state defiantly.
My mother gets out of the car, slams her door and comes around to my side. After opening the door, she grabs my slender arm and pulls me out.
“You will march your little butt right into that shop with me and you will not make a scene. If you do, you will be grounded for two mouths. And no more cheerleading,” she added.
I realize that I am cornered and have no choice but to obey her wishes. I reluctantly walk up to the barbershop with her following in case I try to run off.
The bell above the door tinkles as we step inside. The shop is busy and full of men who all turn to watch as we make a grand entrance. My mother directs me to a seat in the waiting area, as she takes the one beside me.
I am petrified being inside this place, with all of the men staring at me, each probably wondering what a girl is doing here with her mother. The inside of the shop is very old, almost musty smelling and matches the appearance of the outside.
I glance around nervously, taking in the atmosphere of the shop, the strong masculine smells, the noises of scissors and hair clippers, the conversation amongst patrons. There are at least six men waiting in front of us for the two barber chairs, and we are going to be here a while. I have plenty of time to ponder what in the heck I am doing in such a place.
“Mother, please don’t make me cut my hair,” I beg. “I promise to pin it up out of the way from now on.”
“Quiet! I won’t tell you again. We aren’t leaving until that mess is cleaned up,” my mother hisses as she scans through a magazine. “You have pushed me too far.”
I just sit still and wait and paw nervously at my golden locks. The entrance is a revolving door as more men come into the shop and take seats while those in front of us get their haircuts and leave. After what seems like an eternity of waiting, a barber finally approaches us and announces that we are next.
“My daughter Ashley here is due for a good chopping,” my mother announces to the barber. “I want something very short, off her neck and cut around her ears. I will leave the style up to you, whatever you think is best, just as long as it is very short.” Then looking directly at me she says, “No complaining from you, just march your butt right up to the chair young lady.”
Butterflies flutter in my chest as I hear my mother speak those words. There is no time to really worry as I am quickly shooed out of my seat and into the empty barber chair all while every man in the shop watches me.
The barber approaches me from behind and ties my long blonde mane into a ponytail at my shoulders.
“I don’t get too many girls in here. You have enough hair for at least two or three girls,” he jokes. “Well your mother wants me to take it all off now so brace yourself.”
I am too terrified to respond. I can only grip the armrests tightly and watch in the mirror as he places a large black cape over me and ties it around my neck. He pumps up the chair so that I am on full display to everyone in the shop. I am now trapped in the chair and I see my mother watching me from her seat in the waiting area.
The barber steps over to his counter and comes back moments later with what appeares to be a pair of hair clippers like the ones that my dad uses. No way this isn’t happening. He surely is not going to use to those on me.
Sure enough, the barber approaches me and stands behind the chair wielding the clippers. He fires them up, sounding like an angry swarm of bees ready to attack my hair. I jump in the chair, grasping the armrests even tighter trying not to pee my shorts.
I shriek as the loud buzzing clippers mow slowly right through my ponytail as all of the men in the shop crane their necks to watch. The barber dangles the severed two foot long blonde hair out in front of me, my pride and joy swinging back and forth, that is no longer attached to my head. I feel sick to my stomach at the sight of it. I just can’t help it, the emotions build up so fast and I began to cry.
“I am saving this souvenir for you,” the barber says to me trying to sound compassionate, but his voice is very distant. The hot tears are flowing as I watch him place my lifeless ponytail on the counter in front of me.
He quickly resumes his position behind me and without any delay, pushes my head forward and drives the clippers in. I feel the clippers attack without mercy as they bite into my hair. I continue to cry softly as I watch the hair falling down the back of the chair. I see my reflection in the mirror, helplessly trapped under the cape while recieving this unwanted haircut courtesy of the barber.
The back of my head gets a whole lot lighter as the shearing continues. I can hear the clippers trying their best to dig deeper into the heavy mass, changing tune as if the long thick hair is too much them to handle.
The clippers just will not be denied as they set forth chewing through my locks on the top and sides of my head. The barber maneuveres them through the endless sheets of blond hair.
My beautiful blonde hair is raining down as I watch sadly in the mirror. I am horrified at what is happening to me but there is nothing that I can do to stop it. The barber is in complete control, focused on completing his task per my mother’s orders. I cry softly as I continue to lose my hair.
It doesn’t sink in just how short he is cutting my hair until the clippers reach the very front. After carving through a path right at my forehead, I see that barely an inch remains sprouting from my scalp. My hair is going to be shorter than my mother’s, I think sadly.
This is a terrible experience, I am stuck in this barber chair while the clippers are eating away my hair. Everyone else is watching while this barber is set on making me look like a boy. It’s embarrassing, I am a 16 year old girl for heaven’s sake.
The loud buzzing seems to go on forever as the barber runs the clippers this way and that across my head all over again to ensure that it is all even. Once he seems satisfied, he switches the clippers off.
The barber returns with a brush and wisks away any loose pieces sending them to the floor. I am relieved that the haircut is finally over but find that I look hideous with short hair.
I glance sadly at my mother in the mirror as she sits there watching things unfolded. She catches me staring and smiles, sending the butterflies through me again.
My relief is short lived as the barber returns to my side still wielding the hair clippers. He tilts my head and begins mowing my hair even shorter on the sides down to half an inch at best. He continues buzzing around my ears and around the back blending the shorter hair into the slightly longer hair.
I am horrified that as he clips off more of my hair, I realize that I am looking more and more like my friend Johnny from school. Please just leave some hair on my head I beg sadly to myself. My mind falls into a daze as the barber continues to work.
Next thing I know the clippers are shut off again and the brush wisks through my hair again. I look sadly in the mirror at my reflection and try to resume crying but my eyes have run completely out of tears. I am devastated that my hair has been taken away from me. My mother is called over to inspect my shorn head, and she approves while tousling the remains.
“What do you think ma’am? Is it short enough?” he asks.
“Yes, I think she looks just dandy,” my mother says as she fingers my hair. “You look adorable in this short haircut, Ashley. What have I been telling you for years? This should have been done a long time ago.”
I can’t even speak, I am so upset at her, at myself, at the barber. I am truly embarrassed as I have been transformed into a boy right before my eyes. What are all of my friends going to say? All of the men in the shop are gawking at me and listening to my mother as I am trying to hold on to some dignity. One man even walks over next to the chair to get a closer view of my cropping.
“I think we are going to keep this look for a while, I will bring her here regularly to keep it trimmed up,” my mother states.
I am terrified. I am now going to be a regular customer in this barbershop? What is my mother thinking?
“No complaining, Ashley. You know as well as anybody that it was high time for you to get something short. Your long hair was becoming a distraction.”
I sit there whimpering in the chair trying not to look at my horrible haircut. I know that I should have listened to my mother because she has told me over and over again that she would cut my hair off. I kept tempting fate until she finally did. I am so mad at myself because in the end, I am the only one who can be blamed for this result.
Suddenly I hear the bell tinkle and the door to the shop flies open. My stomach flutters as I recognize two boys from my class at school enter the shop and look over in my direction. This just can’t be happening to me I think sadly. As fate would have it, the two boys recognize me as well, even without all of my long blonde hair hiding my head. They both point at me and laugh as I desperately try to slouch down into the chair and disappear from the humiliation.
Afterword: Although this experience occurred 20 years ago and I hated every minute of it at the time, there is no doubt that having my locks forcibly shorn under my mother’s orders inside that barbershop triggered something inside of me. I will never, ever forget it. I maintain that my hair fetish, which remains with me to this day, was in fact born as a result of that experience.
After my locks were shorn for the first time in my life, my mother made me keep my hair cut short with regular trim-ups at that barbershop during the rest of my high school years.
At the age of 18, I moved out and went away to college and decided to let my hair grow out for many years. I graduated, got a job in a faraway city and met my future husband. After several years of marriage, I gave birth to my first son.
By this point, my hair had grown down to the middle of my back. I told my husband this tale and how it transformed me. He was fascinated and commented that he wouldn’t mind seeing me in a shorter hairstyle.
We agreed that with current time and money constraints because of our son, that my hair would once again be cut shorter. I decided to let my husband do the honors of cutting my hair, to whatever style that he chose, in the comfort of our own home.
After a heartwarming candlelight dinner prepared by husband, he led me to the chair and cut my long hair to a short pixie cut that was still quite feminine, and gave me a thrilling consensual experience. I have kept my hair in that pixie style ever since, as my husband continues to give me regular trim-ups at my request at home.
