Pampered & Polished 1 – Proposition from Tamara

Prologue

I stood outside Pampered & Polished following my extended lunchtime drinking session at The Riverside pub with my friends from college. An enjoyable way to bring an end to the academic year, with plenty of banter and alcohol. We drifted through the whole afternoon, lazing in the sunshine, down by the river.

It had been our last day at college before the summer vacation. We appreciated that we were unlikely to all be together again for the next three months. But, if funds allowed, then a group of us would be holidaying at the beach for a couple of weeks before returning to college.

One person that I did anticipate seeing regularly during the summer was Sally, my latest in a line of girlfriends. Standing next to me outside Pampered & Polished, she was gazing longingly up into my eyes.

‘Can we meet up tomorrow evening, Will?’ Sally implored. ‘I really don’t want us to drift apart during the summer.’

It was sweet of her, but I doubted that a couple of days of not seeing each other would affect how we felt about each other. With that in mind, I recognised that she was showing stronger feelings for me than I did for her. Put simply, I just did not feel there was any spark between us. And, unfortunately for me, that had also held true for all my previous girlfriends as well. I often wondered whether that was normal or if there was something wrong with me.

Perhaps, I mused, it was because all my girlfriends looked so similar. They all had straight auburn hair that fell below their waist. The colours in their wardrobe varied, but their style centred on a bohemian chic aesthetic cobbled together from charity shops and the market. They wore long floral dresses, or they paired layered skirts with pretty lace tops. Attire favoured by so many of the female students that left limited scope for individuality. Furthermore, given they all attended the same courses, they all tended to think the same about every subject. The women at college all conformed to a type. And it was a type I found superficially attractive. But stimulation was lacking, and the longed-for spark had, so far, never ignited.

‘Sure, let’s go for a drink,’ I finally answered with all the enthusiasm I could muster, running my fingers through her long hair as if seeking a strong incentive.

‘Let’s make it a meal to celebrate,’ Sally enthused, although I was unclear what we were supposed to be celebrating. I had mentally totted up the cost of a pub meal and contrasted that with the dire state of my bank account. It was a harsh reminder, yet again, that I desperately needed a summer job to top up my funds. My expression must have given away my concern. Sally sighed. ‘It is, after all my turn to pay.’

‘Oh, okay,’ I agreed ponderously.

‘Don’t get too excited, Will,’ she said, sarcasm lacing her words.

Thoughts of cash prompted me to consider what I could do for a summer job to bolster my finances, but nothing had come to mind. Although my dad was fairly wealthy and was happy to pay for all my essentials, including college tuition fees, he was keen for me to recognise the value of money. If I wanted a vacation at the end of the summer, then I would need to fund it. Given I was studying computing at college and considered something of a geek, I was confident I would find rewarding employment to fill not only my summer days but also my empty bank account.

‘So, I’ll meet you at The Riverside tomorrow at 6 o’clock,’ Sally joyfully confirmed. ‘Now, Will, don’t let that wicked stepmother of yours do anything outlandish to your lovely hair when you’re inside that awful place.’

I obediently nodded my agreement, and my girlfriend grinned. Ruffling my shoulder-length locks, she plastered me with kisses before wandering off, across the market square, turning to blow me a kiss every few steps. It was sweet of her, especially when I was too bashful to reciprocate.

When I could no longer see her, I turned around. I saw the artfully presented Pampered & Polished sign that sat above the large window, with the text in a tasteful shade of grey, outlined in dusky pink.

As I looked through the glass, I saw that my “wicked stepmother” had been observing us, smirking in her habitual way. I sighed and, against my better judgement, stepped inside the salon.

Wicked

‘Ah, William, how lovely to see you,’ Tamara gushed, pecking me lightly on both cheeks.

She made it sound like a great surprise. However, that morning she had offered to give me a lift home at the end of the day. I had told her about that the scheduled session at the pub with my friends from college and she had correctly surmised that it was likely to drift on into the afternoon. Dad was away on business for the rest of the week so, as I could not ask him to pick me up, I had accepted Tamara’s welcome offer.

Although Tamara was my stepmother, she was not “wicked” as Sally had jokingly suggested. My girlfriend’s hippy-like outlook on hairdressers was that they were all intrinsically evil. She believed that hair should simply grow however long it wanted rather than permitting scissor-happy stylists to regularly chop it off. Although I did not hold such strong views as her and her friends, I sympathised with their viewpoint.

I had been going to same hairdresser as my mother from an early age, initially taken by her and, as I grew older, on my own. When I decided that I would like to present a more dashing and free-spirited look to fit in with my scruffy mates at college, the hairdresser was happy to follow my directions. So, whereas my mates were scruffy through a combination of poverty and laziness, I followed their lead by expense and design.

Anyway, Sally’s general stance on hairdressers was the reason she wanted me to prevent Tamara from touching my wavy, shoulder skimming locks that Sally held dear. I had no strong feelings about my artfully adopted style. However, girls had always been wild about my artfully maintained long and shaggy locks. So, for that reason alone, I would have been extremely foolish to have it all chopped off.

My stepmother was the owner of Pampered & Polished, a beauty salon that offered a range of services to the wealthier ladies about town. In my mind, I always added “& Pretentious” to the salon name to not only add further alliteration, but also to describe it with greater accuracy. However, I kept that thought to myself. Having no need of the services provided by such a place, I had rarely been inside. And I always quickened my step if I found myself passing by.

Tamara was resplendent in a tailored outfit that, as always, reflected the colours that not only decorated the salon’s interior, but also its external façade. The palette comprised a tasteful shade of matt grey as the foundation, trimmed with a dusky pink, and accented in pale yellow.

I had previously noted the junior employees all wore identical uniforms that not only met those criteria but were also functional and stylish. However, the senior staff, while keeping to the same colour combination, incorporated greater individuality in their attire. On this occasion, Tamara wore a fanciful pink blouse of a silky material with daring sheer panels. It clung to her curves and had a plunging neckline. She had paired it with grey pencil skirt that was far too short and had a slit up the back. A matching blazer nipped in at the waist completed that day’s ensemble.

I held the view that her attire was far too young and flirty for the manager of an enterprise. Furthermore, the riot of blonde curls that surrounded her face, bounced down her back, and approached her waist was unsophisticated for a professional businesswoman who was now in her thirties. But, there again, what did I know about ladies’ fashions.

Irrespectively, I still considered my real mother was far more attractive and stylish than my stepmother, despite her being so much older. Or perhaps, it was because she was so much older. I always assumed that my dad had fallen for Tamara’s bubbly, flirtatious air, and by her youth. I found it mildly embarrassing that her age was closer to mine than his.

As Tamara smiled at me sweetly, I felt a bit sick. I was still unable to fathom why dad had left mum for such an airhead.

Joining her in the car for the journey home, was not something I was looking forward to, but I reminded myself that it was preferable to catching the bus. I just wanted us to get going so the journey would be over more quickly.

‘So, sweet William,’ Tamara trilled, being the only person amongst my friends and family not to shorten my name to “Will”. ‘I have just got one more customer scheduled who I am expecting imminently. She will not be here for long, so we will soon be able to enjoy a pleasant drive home together.’

Good, I thought to myself, as I did not want to spend any more time than necessary making small talk with Tamara. It is not that we did not get on, but we just had nothing in common. However, we had maintained a cordial relationship for the past four years and that kept my dad happy. But chatting with Tamara was always a trial rather than a joy.

‘Fine,’ I said, while she busied herself doing whatever salon managers did when they had no customers. With it being so quiet, I gathered that all her other staff had already left for the day.

I slumped down in a comfortable chair by the window and watched Tamara flit around the salon. To pass the time, I tried to find a suitable magazine amongst a collection neatly fanned out on a nearby coffee table. However, learning the finer points of manicure was not exactly gripping me. If there had been one featuring young models flaunting their neatly trimmed and nicely conditioned long hair, then it might have held my interest for slightly longer.

‘Sweet William!’ Tamara called out, using that irritating epithet that I had told her not use ever since she had become a part of our lives. Although feeling annoyed with myself that I had reacted to her summons, I still looked up from the magazine. Following her gaze towards the large salon window, an astonishing sight completely took my breath away.

Attracted

Pacing up and down outside the salon, yelling into her phone, was a stunningly attractive woman. She wore a red polka dot minidress with puffed sleeves. Her outfit did not look expensive, but it clung to her in all the right places, and she wore it with great style. And flowing down her back, past her pert bottom, she had a long and thick ponytail that swung back and forth as she moved. My eyes widened. She was easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, especially with her long mane of glorious blonde hair. ‘Just your type, I imagine,’ Tamara piped up, smirking, once I had got an eyeful.

I blushed and looked away. ‘I have a girlfriend, thank you,’ I said haughtily, and Tamara just laughed, sensing my embarrassment at her catching me out.

Returning to my fascinating study of acrylic nails, I was discovering the new season’s range of colours. However, hearing the door open interrupted my research. I was astonished to see the woman in the red dress entering the salon, stabbing the screen of her phone to silence the tinny screams emanating from it.

‘Hello, I’m Emily,’ the woman announced to Tamara. ‘Sorry, I’m late,’ she apologised, holding up her phone, signifying that her phone call had been the reason.

‘No problem, Emily,’ Tamara said. ‘Was that your boyfriend trying to talk you out of it?’

‘How on earth did you know that?’ Emily asked plaintively. ‘I mean, we had gone through it, over and -’

‘It happens all the time,’ Tamara shrugged dismissively. ‘So, are you still going ahead?’

I pretended I was not listening but, even so, I had no idea what hair or beauty service they were discussing. However, given that Tamara said she would not be long, I assumed that Emily was there for something quick and straightforward.

When Tamara directed Emily to a styling chair, I presumed that she was there for a straightforward trim of the ends of her hair. Sally often went on about her troublesome “ends” although, like Emily’s, the line of her hair was always even and perfect. Given the magnificent length that Emily’s hair had grown to, I doubted she had had anything more significant than a trim in her whole lifetime.

I settled back with the magazine on my lap. Only pretending to read it, I was happy to have an excuse to ogle the long-haired woman seated directly in front of me. I was keen to see Emily’s locks released from the ponytail so I could discover whether it reached down to her knees when worn loose. The freedom of legitimately observing a woman’s long hair in a salon made a pleasant change from doing so when queuing in the supermarket. There, I was always finding myself guiltily averting my eyes when, inevitably, the woman spotted me gawping at her.

To my surprise, Tamara was adjusting Emily’s ponytail rather than releasing her tresses. Before, she had gathered it loosely at the nape, but Tamara had manipulated it upwards, so it was sitting tight against her scalp, high on her crown. Furthermore, she had secured it more firmly by fitting a second rubber band close to the one that had originally held it. It seemed like a strange procedure for trimming the ends of her hair. But then the practices performed behind closed doors in a beauty salon were a mystery to me.

Enjoying frequent covert glances, I was satisfied with the delightful view I was able to enjoy. I had even contemplated awarding Emily’s hair a “Perfect 10”, recalling a silly game I had played in the past. But I settled on a “9 plus”. I had always had a fondness for a high pluming ponytail scraped back from the forehead. But only when a woman had the need to style her long hair for practicality as I preferred a woman to wear her long hair unconstrained and free.

With Emily’s hair looking so magnificent and with me having the good fortune of being so close to it, I felt a distinct warmth developing down below. By contrast, my college friends would ignore a girl’s hair and proudly focus on her big knockers, passing lewd comments amongst themselves. Whether it was simply youthful bravado, I was never sure, but raging hormones and no sense of responsibility appeared to make it acceptable behaviour.

While the sight of a woman’s long hair mildly aroused me, I kept my strange predilection to myself. I accepted that I was unique and nobody else would react in the same way to such an unusual and ridiculous stimulus. That aside, I admit that I also found fulsome breasts an attractive proposition too, and their impact always overrode my mild interest in long hair.

Surprised

Bright, shiny scissors suddenly appeared in Tamara’s hand, interrupting my musings. She held them high above Emily’s head, between two fingers. Then she repeatedly opened and closed them as if assessing them for ease of use. The overhead lights reflected brightly off the glinting blades, suggesting they were extremely sharp.

I had never seen a woman’s long hair trimmed before, so I had an interest in the proceedings. However, I was still confused by why Tamara would be trimming her hair with it bound in a ponytail. After all, I reasoned, with Emily seated, it would require Tamara to kneel uncomfortably behind the chair to accomplish the task. Surely, I thought, Tamara would be able to do so more easily if she asked Emily to stand.

‘Is he, er … staying?’ Emily questioned abruptly as she rudely jerked her head in my direction, her voice trembling.

Tamara looked amused. ‘Yes, Emily, he is.’

Emily looked unimpressed. ‘Oh … er, I see …’

I could not fathom why she was apprehensive about me watching Tamara trim her hair. After all, she did not know how weird I was!

‘You looked worried, Emily,’ Tamara remarked, lightly running her fingers down the length of the woman’s extraordinary ponytail. It was catching the light beautifully, like a shaft of gold plunging down the back of the chair.

‘Yes, er … yes, I am … well, er, a bit,’ she replied hesitantly, a distinct tremor in her voice.

Really, I wondered, as I stole a glance towards the chair. Why was having a little trimmed off that magnificent mane so worrying. Her demeanour had not previously suggested she was so lacking in self-confidence.

‘That’s fine, Emily,’ Tamara said sweetly, before adding in a more chilling tone, ‘as there’s every reason you should be.’

I quietly sniggered when overhearing Tamara’s unfortunate bedside manner. However, my amusement soon subsided. Without warning, Tamara wound a couple of loops from the top of Emily’s ponytail around her wrist. She tugged hard, pulling the hair taut between her hand and Emily’s head, with sufficient force to pull her up from the chair. Emily looked startled, her eyebrows raised and her eyes wide.

Tamara positioned the blade of the scissors around the base of Emily’s ponytail. Not the ends of her hair as I had expected to enact a trim but, ominously, between the two rubber bands that held the hair close to her scalp.

‘What? Why should I be worried?’ Emily whimpered after Tamara’s less than comforting words had put her even more on edge.

‘Because, Emily, I will soon be relieving you of your burden,’ Tamara cackled.

Unburdened

What burden, I contemplated, alarmed by my stepmother’s chilling words and her detached laughter. What I was seeing and hearing was making no sense.

Tamara pulled her lips tightly together in deep concentration, the tip of her tongue just peeping out. Then, with considerable effort, she forced the blades of the scissors together. A terrible crunching sound accompanied the horrendous action. Tamara’s lips turned up at the corners with a smirk of satisfaction.

I gawped, using all my mental reserves to stop myself calling out to halt the unbelievably awful scene that was unfolding before me.

‘It’s putting up a valiant fight, Emily,’ Tamara cooed, ‘but do not worry, my scissors are exceedingly sharp! They will soon have cut through all your lovely thick hair. Any thoughts of resistance are completely useless.’

Unable to contain myself any longer, I let out a pitiful strangled cry before quickly covering my mouth. But my stepmother heard. She caught my horrified stare in the mirror and, unaccountably, she winked at me, still smirking.

Averting my gaze, I saw Emily’s anxious face reflected in the mirror. I watched her head moving rhythmically back and forth, straining against Tamara’s relentless hold on her ponytail, and the constant jerking motion of the scissors through her thick hair.

All manner of emotions flitted across Emily’s features. One second, she was wide-eyed, looking on in horror, while the next instant she had screwed up her eyes in painful disbelief. Incoherent sounds had emerged from her lips, initially expressing fear and sadness, but slowly mingling with utterances more closely resembling pleasure.

Emily had casually moved her hands from the arms of the chair, resting them in her lap. I noted her fingers surreptitiously playing with the hem of her red polka-dot dress and gently, but unobtrusively, touching her thighs. I squirmed in my seat, unsure whether it was more appropriate for me to continue watching, effecting nonchalance, or to avert my eyes. Ultimately, the latter option seemed the more polite course of action. But as I stole covert glances, I was amazed to see her long fingers gliding even higher between her legs. Captivated as I was, I was unable to make any sense of what has occurring right in front of my eyes.

‘Your prized possession that has taunted so many, Emily, will soon be mine.’ Tamara ratcheted up her unpleasant diatribe to accompany Emily’s moans. ‘And, finally, here we are!’

Relieved

Tamara held aloft Emily’s magnificent ponytail like a trophy, a ridiculously short stump emerged from her crown to mark its passing. Emily stared then suddenly squealed, whether in abject pain or sensual pleasure was unclear. I suspected the latter, but whatever it was that was happening in that chair was way outside my experience.

What was also outside my experience was the extreme, almost painful, tightness in the crotch of my jeans. I thought Tamara’s behaviour was cruel and savage but, incredibly, it was turning me on!

I had only just turned twenty and teenage hormones were still coursing through me. It meant that all manner of things could stimulate me, occasionally at inopportune times. This included, to a moderate degree, the sight of long hair and the sensation of touching it. However, I had never experienced such a sudden and powerful arousal, and certainly not in public!

None of it made sense to me. Given my self-professed love of long hair that was rigidly attached to a woman’s head, what I had just witnessed had to be viewed as my worst nightmare. But there I was, unable to move in my chair with any degree of comfort. And, even if I could, then I would be embarrassed that I might be tipped over the edge from the stimulation it was receiving. The beauty magazine, arranged carefully over my lap, usefully disguised my extremely awkward predicament.

Emily looked flushed, eyes half closed, her rapid breathing starting to slow.

After the final thrust of her scissors, Tamara had stood back. Remaining silent, she had observed Emily squirming in the chair with an amused, knowing expression.

‘Now to tidy you up, Emily,’ Tamara announced as soon as Emily had calmed down.

My stepmother released Emily’s remaining short stump of a ponytail from its band and reached for a set of huge red hairclippers that hung from a hook by the mirror.

I could not believe she was seriously going to use those on the poor woman after all she had been through. Even when I had shorter hair, my hairdresser never used those horrid things on me.

‘Oh, no …,’ Emily beseeched, clearly not wishing Tamara to use them on her. ‘Please …’

‘It will be my pleasure, Emily,’ Tamara grinned, misinterpreting her pleading, deliberately I surmised by her mirth. ‘The only question is, shall we use a three? Or, maybe, a two? Or, perhaps, go with even less?’

I had no idea what Tamara meant by those numbers, but Emily’s wide-eyed concern suggested that she was fully aware of their meaning. ‘Three!’ she squealed.

‘Good choice!’ Tamara chuckled, slipping a plastic attachment over the end of the hairclippers before draping a large cape over Emily’s shoulders. ‘And we can always buzz you shorter afterwards, if we decide that would look better.’

Reduced

I tried to get my head around the scenario of Tamara buzzing Emily’s head. Surely, my stepmother did not mean that, did she? An insistent roar from the hairclippers added fuel to my assumption that it was what she meant.

Cupping the back of Emily’s head with her spare hand, gripping the remnants of her hair, Tamara positioned the hairclippers at her forehead. Without showing emotion other than mild amusement, Tamara forced the blade backwards. It effortlessly carved a furrow along Emily’s crown, short bristles springing to attention in its wake. It was a sad and despondent sight.

Repeatedly, Tamara pushed the hairclippers through the hair remaining on Emily’s crown until she had reduced it all to a uniform fine pelt. Adjusting her position, Tamara forced Emily’s head downwards and speedily reduced the hair on the back and sides to the same uncompromising length.

‘Believe me, Emily, it is looking so lovely. Crisp, and neat, and even. Just like velvet,’ Tamara sang out with professional pride, ‘just you wait and see.’

Throughout her quick and efficient buzzing, Emily never spoke. But a series of low moans and groans suggested that her body was reacting to the rough treatment she was receiving.

My head swam as Tamara buzzed what remained of Emily’s once bounteous tresses to an uncompromising crewcut. She did so with a fast and fluid motion that could only come from experience. I swallowed hard, my turbulent mind and tight jeans making me feel faint.

‘I’ll just fade the back and sides to sharpen up the style,’ Tamara stated pleasantly, as if it was nothing unusual, ‘then we’ll be done.’

After Tamara flicked off the guard from the clipper blade, I bit my lip hard to avoid any inadvertent noise. I had not known what fading meant, but I soon found out. I was aghast as my stepmother shaved away the short bristles around Emily’s hairline. A contrasting border of pure white skin was all that remained along Emily’s tanned neck and around her pretty ears. For a considerable time, it would function as a stark reminder that Emily had visited an enthusiastic barber.

Compensated

Tamara whisked away the cape that had protected Emily’s red polka-dot dress. Then she counted out a wad of cash into Emily’s shaking hand. ‘There, that should help lessen the upset with your boyfriend,’ Tamara chuckled, before holding up the severed ponytail once more. ‘And this will be the source of some delightful extensions to adorn the head of one of my wealthy ladies.’

Emily snatched a final glance at the long tresses that had so recently adorned her own head. Flushed from her experience, the freshly buzzed woman rose unsteadily from the chair. Remembering that I had been watching everything that had occurred, Emily’s gaze faltered when our eyes met. Looking embarrassed, she rushed out of the door.

Turning in my seat to look through the window, I caught her standing with her back to the salon, absently rubbing her crewcut, before sloping off.

‘Well, aren’t you the dark horse,’ Tamara laughed, interrupting my final observation of the recently buzzed Emily.

Awakened

I wondered what my stepmother meant when I turned back to face her. I saw that she was smirking, her eyes locked on the magazine in my lap. A magazine that was no longer lying flat but raised, tent-like, mirroring the obvious erection still straining in my jeans.

‘Er … um …’ I murmured idiotically, not knowing what to say or what to do in relation to her observation.

‘Well, sweet William, what can I say?’ Tamara conjectured, pursing her lips and tapping her chin thoughtfully with her forefinger. ‘There was me thinking all this time that you liked long hair on women,’ she postulated, pausing for dramatic effect, ‘but it seems watching it chopped off is more your thing.’

‘No, well … er, I did … I mean, I do like women with long hair,’ I stuttered, ‘but that -’

‘But that is what you like even more,’ Tamara cackled as she completed my sentence. Given how my body reacted to what I had seen, I was unable to contradict my stepmother with any sort of conviction.

My face burned. ‘How often do you do that … that thing?’ I asked, attempting to deflect her attention away from my crotch. ‘And why?’

‘Hair harvesting? Well, it varies, but usually at least once or twice a day,’ she explained, in a tone suggesting chopping off woman’s ponytails was a perfectly normal activity. ‘Although, I remember once,’ she added wistfully, with obvious pride, ‘I chopped off the hair of a group of seven women, one after the other’.

‘Every day?’ I questioned, astonished, my mind reeling.

‘It’s how we get the hair for our hair extension business,’ Tamara continued, business-like, ‘and that is an extremely lucrative service for the salon. We have a reputation for paying a fair price to the donors of the hair and it is how we get the privilege of harvesting so much of it. But the price we can charge prosperous ladies for supplying and fitting their extensions far exceeds what we pay the less affluent donors, and hence we earn an excellent profit.’

‘You do that every day?’ I shivered, shaking my head in amazement. ‘But it is so cruel. Brutal even,’ I protested. ‘That seemed really intense for that poor woman.’

‘Oh, William, it’s what she wanted,’ Tamara said sweetly. ‘Although by the sounds of that phone call, I’m not so sure about her boyfriend,’ she sniggered.

‘Really?’ I questioned uncertainly.

My stepmother sighed, as if listening to the criticism of a young child. ‘Every woman reacts differently to the loss of their long hair,’ she explained dispassionately. ‘For many, it is simply a haircut. They have had long hair and then they want it short. No drama or emotion, and the cash softens the impact even more. For others long hair is an intrinsic part of who they are – their identity – and it plays a significant role in how they perceive themselves, how others see them, and in their sexual relationships.’

Shocked as I was by my stepmother’s candour, I nodded sagely. I pretended I was a worldly person who completely understood what she was saying. But I think the doubt clouding my features must have betrayed me.

‘Oh, sweet William, you are so young and naïve with so much to learn,’ she continued. ‘When Emily made her harvesting appointment, she hinted that she was not simply after having her hair cut for cash. She subtly indicated that her long hair played a part in her lovemaking. Perhaps she enjoyed having it pulled, or maybe it something else, I don’t know. But with all my experience, I can pick up the vibes of something more as I am cutting, and I am happy to provide a little bonus,’ she chuckled. ‘I’m guessing she had it cut to pay back her boyfriend for something – that happens quite often – but there are so many variations of a hair fetish.’

I was not sure if I had heard my stepmother correctly. Fetish? Thoughts of dungeons, handcuffs, leather, and whips whizzed through my mind … amongst other things! But I had no idea what all that had to do with hair. ‘Are you saying the action of having her hair cut off, turned her on,’ I said, feeling brave with my brazen explanation, and hoping I had not made a fool of myself.

‘Ah, bless … yes, you’re getting there,’ Tamara giggled.

I momentarily felt pleased with myself and terribly grown up.

‘And for some people the act of watching hair being cut off, turns them on,’ she added, raising a mocking eyebrow as she studied the magazine still pointedly raised over my lap.

After briefly feeling grown up, I suddenly felt like an embarrassed schoolboy.

She took pity on me. ‘Nothing to worry about, William. It is natural. Normal. It is what it is,’ she concluded as she turned off the salon lights, preparing to leave.

I felt queasy at her offhand explanation and the casual cruelty that she had shown earlier. Yet, I found myself getting even more aroused as I replayed, in my mind, the salient points of the harvesting of Emily’s gorgeous hair.

‘Once or twice a day,’ I murmured under my breath. What I would do to see her do that just once more, however unlikely that would be. I was all over the place emotionally and physically.

‘Well, I need to get my car,’ Tamara said, smirking at my still bulging jeans. ‘Are you coming with me, sweet William?’ she giggled. ‘Oops! Perhaps, under the circumstances, an inappropriate choice of words …’

I blushed. ‘Er, yes please,’ I stammered. ‘I mean, yes I would like a lift and … woah!’ the pitch of my voice suddenly rising abruptly.

‘Oh, sorry, William, I was just reaching for my car keys under the counter,’ Tamara sniggered.

While we had been talking, I had slowly and very carefully got to my feet and leant against the reception counter, trying to look relaxed and acting nonchalant. As Tamara’s hand was allegedly reaching for her car keys, she managed to lightly brush against my crotch giving rise to my urgent exclamation.

Whether Tamara’s motion had been deliberate or inadvertent, I was unsure. However, my concern over the disconcerting event caused the discomfort in my jeans to subside. Under the circumstances, I was relieved as it could have resulted in an even more embarrassing incident in front of my stepmother!

‘Before we leave, I’ve got a proposition for you,’ Tamara said, narrowing her eyes, the smirk not leaving her lips.

Proposed

My stepmother was not really the type of woman I found attractive. Furthermore, she was much older than me. But my hormones were raging, and I was not proud. I was willing to accept relief from my predicament by whatever method she preferred.

I did consider how my dad might react if he was aware of his wife’s kind offer to her stepson. But it was only a passing concern as, at that moment, I was in a crisis. I nodded casually, like the sophisticated person that I was not, attempting to convey that I was open to her thoughtful proposal. I smiled in acknowledgement but, as it turned out, it was fortunate that I had not given voice to my thoughts.

‘How would you like a summer job helping around the salon?’ she asked. ‘There’s one or two people on vacation every week for the next couple of months, so we could use the extra help.’

I stopped myself from laughing at my misjudgement, relieved I had not made a fool of myself. I needed to earn money during the summer to help me through the next year of college. However, an hour earlier, the mere suggestion of working in a beauty salon would have seemed absurd. It was not something I would have considered in a month of Sundays.

As I mulled over the idea, thoughts of what my friends would say or even Sally, my girlfriend, tempered my racing mind. My mind filled with visions of Tamara harvesting other women’s hair. My body, once again, excited by such crazy thoughts.

No, the notion was preposterous. I stared at Tamara, my mind ravaged by competing thoughts.

‘William?’ my stepmother prompted, perhaps confused by my silence and the conflicting emotions reflected in my expression. ‘Did you need more time to -’

‘When do I start?’ I found myself asking, ignoring all the warning bells in my head.

‘You can drive in with me tomorrow and start straight away,’ my stepmother beamed.

Against my better judgement and contrary to our past relationship, I found myself giving Tamara a spontaneous, if rather awkward, hug. And then, with both of us smiling and her arm linked through mine, we set off for home.

To be continued