Olivia Succumbs to Hair Dreams

Prologue

The glow of my laptop’s screen illuminated my flushed features as I lay sprawled across my bed. Outside, the city hummed, oblivious to the secret thrill I was about to indulge.

Watching the cutting of other women’s hair had been my guilty pleasure ever since I gave moral support to a misguided friend in college. She had gorgeous long hair past her waist, and I had watched it cut into an allegedly fashionable, but sadly unflattering, cropped style. By the time my friend had left the stylist’s chair, it was me who needed her support after witnessing such a mind-numbing primal act.

At that time, my own hair had been even longer than hers and, ten years later, it still reached my hips. I had never entertained the idea of cutting mine short, but I had developed a peculiar and carefully guarded secret. Memories of my salon voyeurism frequently resurfaced which led me to discover the world of online haircutting videos.

Observing other women on my laptop screen with long hair like my own was intriguing. Watching them transformed, sometimes drastically, from the privacy of my apartment was an indulgence I found both enjoyable and stimulating. As my peculiar tastes developed, the more extreme changes were increasingly piquing my interest.

Unfortunately, the videos I purchased lacked the degree of authenticity I sought. While their cost was not a significant issue for me, they were too polished, too predictable, and too repetitive. What I craved was the raw, unscripted drama of a dramatic live haircut like the one I had seen on my friend in college. But one performed to my precise specifications.

HairDreams

Discovering HairDreams was, in simple terms, like a dream come true. It was an app that catered to a distinct niche. A community of voyeurs who, like me, sought a particular kind of release when witnessing transformation, however drastic.

For months since learning of HairDreams existence, I had studied examples of the service they offered and read testimonials. Admittedly they were expensive, but they did precisely what their clients requested. Furthermore, they guaranteed confidentiality. I had finally decided that, despite the significant cost, I would indulge and see if it could satisfy my burning hunger for greater stimulation.

So, lazed across my bed, I brought up the candidate search form and typed in my criteria. A woman with long hair, preferably like my own dark colour. I wanted her to look like me, so I specified that she should wear a short summer dress that I favoured, floral and delicate to emphasise her long-haired femininity. And, most importantly, I ticked the No Limit box that required a candidate to accept any extreme hairstyle of my choosing. A simple trim or a modest restyle would be of no use to me. That stipulation attracted a hefty premium on the fee demanded by HairDreams. However, I would get exactly what I required, and the brave candidate would receive more in payment for the freedom she offered me.

Search

I pressed Search and then watched the app go to work, scouring the city, its overhead drones and intricate camera network seeking a match. It was not long before they located a potential candidate, and the app displayed her details on my laptop screen for me to review. She would have previously registered herself on the HairDreams, seeking an opportunity to earn extra cash during the difficult financial times that were affecting the whole country.

A panel on the right of my screen gave basic information about her. The remainder of the display was a live stream of Charlotte strolling through one of the city’s markets. She was younger than me and extremely pretty, smiling at people she passed, as if she had not a care in the world.

The young lady had a cascade of glossy hair that was much longer than mine, flowing down towards her knees. It was the same shade as mine, a rich, chestnut brown. And, eerily, she was wearing a noticeably short, floral dress with a plunging neckline, that was almost identical to one in my wardrobe. A worn denim jacket contrasted with the brightness of her dress and her hair, and it was just like the one I frequently wore.

Charlotte could have been a younger version of me, plucked from a parallel universe. A shiver of anticipation ran down my spine as I realised that she was a perfect match for my desires.

Accept

With little thought, I clicked the Accept button. The extortionate basic fee appeared on my screen initially. Then the extras I had specified racked up. Finally, an eye-watering total appeared. I gulped. It was much more than I could really afford on my modest salary, but I accepted it was the price of admission to the enticing spectacle that I was anticipating.

The screen flickered, switching to a wider view of Charlotte’s surroundings. I saw a sleek, black car pull up beside her as she appeared from the market. Two women in identical black business suits emerged, their faces expressionless. One of them held out a computer tablet for Charlotte to peruse. I saw her hesitate, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. But finally, she nodded, then placed her index finger on the screen to confirm her acceptance. Without showing any emotion, the women ushered her into the car, and they drove off.

I had carefully studied HairDreams FAQs, so I knew what was happening. Charlotte would have registered on the app in the hope of making a little extra money, a desperate ploy in these economically bleak times. She had agreed to have her hair cut, no matter the style, in exchange for a fee. The women would have confirmed the amount before she signed on the tablet.

The contrast was settled.

My laptop screen switched to a view of the inside of a hairdressing salon. And a timer appeared at the top of my screen; “12 min. 15 sec. to Razor’s Edge”.

My heart pounded in my chest as I waited.

Razor’s Edge

A woman with a predatory smile marched into the salon and on to my laptop screen. I felt her intimidating presence, dressed as she was in a black leather miniskirt and a pretty lace corset, her hair carved into a precise shoulder skimming bob. Her appearance alone was sufficient to cause me a frisson of arousal.

‘Hello, Olivia,’ her voice boomed from my laptop speakers. ‘My name is Emma at Razor’s Edge and, when Charlotte arrives, I will be cutting her hair to your exact specification. I see you have your video and audio muted which is acceptable, but please type into the message box to let me know that you can see and hear me.’

“Yes,” I entered, confirming that I could.

‘Excellent,’ Emma acknowledged, her smile widening. ‘Charlotte has agreed to have her hair cut exactly as you have requested. You have paid, she gets paid, and I get paid. Everyone wins … or loses, depending on how you look at it.’ She chuckled huskily, a sound that sent another jolt of excitement through me. Do you have any questions before the lovely young lady arrives?’

“No”, I typed, so we waited. Emma readied her haircutting tools, the silence broken only by my breathing and the ticking of the timer on my screen.

Suddenly, as the timer hit zero, the door of Razor’s Edge swung open, and Charlotte walked in, her long hair swaying behind her like a silken curtain. She looked even more vulnerable in the sterile environment of the salon, the harsh lighting emphasising the uncertainty in her eyes.

Charlotte

Emma greeted Charlotte with a practiced air of professionalism, taking her denim jacket and leading her to a chair, treating her as if she would any client. ‘So, what are we doing for you today, Charlotte?’ she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

Charlotte swallowed hard. ‘Er, I … I am not sure,’ she stammered. ‘They said -’

Emma chuckled. ‘Yes, well, it’s probably best that you don’t know beforehand.’

‘I just know it’s supposed to be … er, different,’ Charlotte went on, as if reciting from a script, before the stylist’s words registered. ‘Hey, what do you mean it’s better that I don’t know beforehand?’ she asked, her voice trembling.

‘Different is my specialty, darling,’ Emma purred, deliberately obtuse, maintaining the pretence of a “normal” hairdressing appointment for my benefit. ‘Trust me, Charlotte, you’re in good hands to receive … er, something different … indeed, something drastic,’ she cooed.

‘Drastic?’ Charlotte queried, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Exactly, and you’ll stay nice and cool too, as your sponsor has requested no cape be used today,’ she explained, discarding the sheet she had been holding. ‘We don’t want to obscure that pretty dress of yours.’

‘No cape?’ she echoed, her whining repetition increasingly irritating.

Emma laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. ‘Your sponsor has, shall we say, specific tastes. She wants to see the hair fall on your dress, on your skin. A little bit messy, a little bit … well, primitive, don’t you think?’

‘Er … well, yes,’ Charlotte acknowledged, her face growing pale as if, unlike me, she considered my messy primitiveness was not a good thing.

Charlotte, nervously, looked at me down the camera lens as if searching my soul to determine my motivation. Her eyes were pleading for help. But there was no escape. This was the deal she had made.

Emma picked up a pair of scissors, the blades gleaming under the harsh lights. ‘So, Charlotte, let’s begin, shall we?’

Emma

The first snip made by Emma was surprisingly loud, a clean, decisive cut that severed a thick chunk of Charlotte’s hair, level with her ear. It slid over her bare shoulder, snaked past her cleavage, and landed with a soft thud on her dress, a dark stain against the floral print.

‘Such lovely thick, healthy hair, Charlotte,’ Emma praised. ‘It always provides a wonderfully delicious spectacle and sound. Your sponsor will be delighted,’ she brightly informed, looking up at the camera and winking at me. I wholeheartedly agreed and, although the act was lacking purpose, I found myself winking back.

Emma continued to cut. Working enthusiastically and methodically, each snip more brutally revealing than the last. Charlotte’s waterfall of hair had become a blunt unflattering mass encircling her head and exposing her ears. Long strands covered her bare shoulders. They caught between her breasts, and they accumulated in her lap. Whenever the collected mass was too great, a bundle of severed tresses tumbled to the floor, gathering in a dark pool around her feet. The air crackled with tension, with the silence only punctuated by the rhythmic snip of the scissors.

More slowly, and with greater precision, Emma began to shape Charlotte’s future hairstyle, one that was both unflattering and unforgiving. The stylist combed down the hair around Charlotte’s face, so that it covered her forehead. Emma boldly sliced through it, high above her eyebrows, creating a blunt and unbecoming fringe.

‘There we are, Charlotte,’ Emma said brightly. ‘Now you will be able to see your new style taking shape far more easily.’

‘I’ve never had any sort of fringe before,’ Charlotte whined.

‘No worries, Charlotte. You have now and, even without a trim, it is so brazenly short that it will last you for a considerable time,’ the stylist giggled.

Emma exchanged her scissors for hairclippers and then turned them. Charlotte flinched. The hungry blade shaved all the hair surrounding Charlotte’s ears and along her neck, continuing below the short cap of hair to carve a severe undercut.

‘I imagine it is some time since your skin has been exposed to the world, Charlotte,’ Emma noted with a chuckle. ‘It’s so pale and pristine where I have clippered it bare.’

Charlotte flinched as Emma’s finger brushed away stray hair clippings that clung to her bare neck. ‘No, never … er, exposed,’ Charlotte quivered. ‘Really, it’s bare?’ she added with a whimper.

‘Yes, of course,’ Emma confirmed proudly. ‘And you have beautifully shaped ears,’ Emma continued, her voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Fully on display and, compared with some horrors, they’re not really all that large and protruding,’ she declared, unable to stifle a cruel chuckle.

Charlotte flinched, tears welling up in her eyes. She looked like a wounded animal, trapped and helpless.

Progression

‘Coming along nicely, don’t you think, Charlotte? Emma suggested.

Her eyes flitted upwards briefly. ‘No,’ she whimpered.

‘Yes, it’s kind of trendy?’ Emma remarked. ‘Very avant-garde, although it does looks very out of place with that pretty floral dress that you’re wearing!’

Charlotte looked defeated by Emma’s mean and uncalled for comment, remembering how fresh she had looked when she had entered the salon. ‘Yes, but I had long hair when -’

‘With your dark hair,’ Emma interrupted, ‘there is a mild shadow across the clippered areas, so I need to shave you “down to the wood” as we say in the trade.’

‘To the … er, wood?’ Charlotte groaned.

The stylist filled her palm with foam and liberally slathered it over the back and sides of Charlotte’s head, before brandishing her razor. ‘Don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt,’ Emma said as her client tried to back away in the chair, causing a waterfall of severed tresses to gather with the pile already collected at her feet.

Charlotte looked horrified. ‘Yes, but shaving -’

Emma began to razor the back of Charlotte’s head. ‘Yes, exactly, shaving feels so different, doesn’t it?’ the stylist asked. In reply, Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut and remained silent. Emma chuckled as she exposed another patch of white scalp. ‘There, that is so much better, Charlotte. Dazzling white skin and not one hair apparent.’

‘Do you have to?’ Charlotte moaned.

‘Oh, yes, of course, and I’m sure you’ll get used to it,’ Emma said, but her tone did not sound reassuring in the least. Unlike Charlotte, she was enjoying it, as indeed was I.

As I continued watching, my breath was coming in shallow gasps. The sight of Charlotte’s distress, the drastic transformation, the cruelty of Emma’s words – it was all a potent cocktail, a forbidden pleasure that sent shivers down my spine.

As Emma shaved the last section of Charlotte’s head, she spun the chair around to face the mirror. ‘Ta-da!’ she announced, her voice dripping with false enthusiasm. ‘So, sweetie, what do you think of your lovely bowlcut?’

Resolution

Charlotte stared at her reflection, her eyes wide with horror. The bowlcut I requested had turned out even more severe than I had imagined. The short glossy cap of hair perched on her crown, the ridiculously abbreviated fringe far from her hairline, and the expanse of dazzling white skin below the perimeter of the bowl, all added to the severity.

The harsh lines of the bowlcut made her face look harsh and angular, vastly different from the softness resulting from her former long hair that had beautifully framed her features. Her overly large and slightly protruding ears, once disguised by her bountiful long hair, jarringly stood out from the white skin on each side of her head. The delicate floral minidress, with its thin straps and plunging neckline, simply looked weird with her extreme haircut that would have been cruel even on a naughty schoolboy.

A whimper escaped her lips. ‘It’s … it’s awful,’ she choked out.

‘Awful?’ Emma feigned shock. ‘But it is so … unique! You will be the talk of the town. Besides, your sponsor is thrilled. Aren’t you, Olivia?’

I did not respond. It was not possible for me to do so. Completely lost in the moment, a perverse combination of pity and exhilaration consumed me. I watched a disconsolate Charlotte in the mirror, picking at the severed locks that still clung to her dress. Witnessing the emotion in her reddening eyes, I felt safe and secure in my bedroom.

My heart was throbbing, and my breaths were getting faster, as I was approaching the climax of this experience.

I watched as Charlotte touched her head. She could not help it. There was so little hair left now, and the shape of the cut was incredibly harsh. ‘It’s so … so, short,’ she whimpered, and her eyes reddened.

‘Yes, it is,’ Emma confirmed proudly, stepping back to admire her work. ‘It is meant to be short!’

The sight of Charlotte’s tears, the realisation of what I had done, finally hit me. A wave of guilt washed over me, but a surge of intense pleasure quickly replaced it as I writhed on my bed. I closed my eyes, surrendering to the sensation, the forbidden thrill of witnessing Charlotte’s horrendous transformation.

The climax hit me hard, a release of pent-up tension that left me weak and trembling. When I opened my eyes, Charlotte was still staring at her reflection, her face contorted in a mask of despair.

Emma had gathered up longer lengths of Charlotte’s severed hair and assembled a long and thick ponytail of her former locks. Smiling broadly, she held it up for me to admire, winked, and the live feed darkened.

A message of appreciation for my custom appeared on my screen, along with the inflated cost of Charlotte’s ponytail should I wish to purchase it. Slowly the screen faded, leaving me alone and feeling flushed in the silence of my room.

Epilogue

Despite my buried desire, I knew I could never get that same haircut. I could never consider inflicting that kind of pain on myself. But the fantasy, the possibility, would always be there. And, one day, when I had saved enough money, I would log back onto HairDreams and pay for another unfortunate woman to visit Emma at Razor’s Edge. I had no doubt that Emma would be eagerly waiting.

What I hoped would be a cathartic experience, liberating me from my years of fantasy, had turned out to be what I realised was just the start. I knew the cycle would continue, repeatedly fuelled by my secret desire, my dark, twisted obsession.

The End