Eric Longhairbarber
When I turned sixteen, I started growing my hair out. Until then, my parents had always put pressure on me to visit the hairdresser every month. From then on, however, they gave me free rein. I gratefully took advantage of that freedom and gave the hairdressers a miss. To be honest, I did this mainly for convenience at first.
Eventually, though, it became a conscious choice. As time went on, it turned out that my hair had all along possessed an unexpected, hidden beauty. In other words: it looked much better now that it was longer. It was deep brown, full and thick, yet easy to comb. It also had a lovely wave to it, giving it a silky sheen. My girlfriends and my sister therefore encouraged me to let it grow even longer. And my male friends? Well, some of them too would occasionally cast a furtive glance at my new look and locks, but they said nothing. I had to guess at their (disapproving, jealous, covetous?) thoughts.
My sister, one of my hair’s biggest fans, trimmed the ends after a year so that my hair was all one length, and did the same again a year later. By the time I went to university, it reached just past my shoulders. My wavy, silky, glossy mane was a feast for the eyes – if I do say so myself – and I cherished it. I loved running a brush through it and wore my luxuriant hair loose or in a ponytail, but always well-groomed. My hair was an eye-catcher and my pride and joy.
Then something strange happened.
One evening, I was sitting on the sofa in my student room, flicking through the channels. I unexpectedly stumbled upon a TV documentary about hazing practices. Among other things, it featured a scene set at a US Navy base. Boys my age – I was nineteen by then – were subjected to a ruthless haircut as recruits. One by one, they had to take their seats in a barber’s chair. They were shouted at to sit still. Then, with a sweeping gesture, the barber ran the clippers through their locks. For some, locks as long as thirty centimetres fell victim to the clippers. Alongside this scene, there were also scenes of first-year students with long hair, where fellow students took up the scissors – with obvious sadistic pleasure.
A strange sort of fascination came over me. Yes, I felt an unprecedented thrill at these images. I identified with the barbers and enjoyed fantasising about how I would wield the clippers on the recruits or get to work with the scissors on the first-year students. But what really unsettled me was that I also put myself in the shoes of the shorn victims themselves – and felt a strangely pleasant tingle at the thought that I myself might be subjected to the same treatment. It was confusing.
Since then, these thoughts and fantasies have returned time and again, for example when I stood in front of the mirror brushing my hair – or simply in moments of boredom. I could no longer deny that the arousal was of a sexual nature: the spontaneous erection I got at these thoughts spoke volumes. I tried to shake it off, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to control myself and that I would turn fantasies into actions – in whatever way. And however exciting this thought might be: it would be a terrible sin. But the fantasy of a – preferably involuntary – haircut kept intruding on my thoughts. Eventually, I could no longer suppress it, but could only calm it by masturbating whilst letting it run its course. That calm would then last a few days.
However, the restlessness would be fanned into an uncontrollable fire. A point of no return was approaching.
***
One day in April, as I was cycling home from university, I found myself on a street I’d never been down before. My eye fell on an old barber’s shop. I couldn’t resist stopping for a moment to look inside. It was quiet in the shop. Judging by the interior, not much had changed since the 1950s. The barber, a balding man in his sixties, was attending to an elderly customer, but apart from that there was no one else in the shop. I suspected that the clientele, too, was a dying breed.
My gaze fell on the promotional photos on the wall, showing boys and young men with so-called short, close-cropped haircuts. Unintentionally, a film played out in my head: these boys might well have had long hair once too, and had then been sent by their parents to a barber like this one. And before I knew it, my beloved, yet troublesome, imagination took on a new dimension. The familiar scene, in which I myself played a starring role with my luxuriant hair, shifted from the army base to the barber’s shop. The hazing scene became a visit to this 1950s-style barber’s. Wouldn’t it be lovely to place my fate – and that of my locks – in his hands? Just imagining it sent a rush of blood to my groin.
Whilst I was daydreaming, two people parked their bikes outside the barber’s. They appeared to be a father and his son. The boy was about sixteen and had a thick head of blond hair that fell over his ears and brushed against the collar of his polo shirt. His fringe came to just above his eyebrows. Father and son went inside.
I had a sudden thought and looked around. Across the street, a little further on, there was a bench. I cycled over to it and sat down to wait, restlessly reading a book whilst keeping an eye on the shop door. A lot depended on this.
My wait was rewarded. After half an hour, father and son came out again and I couldn’t believe my eyes. The boy had undergone a massive transformation. His hair had been shaved at the sides, by his ears and at the nape of his neck, whilst the top of his head had been left slightly longer, though no more than three centimetres. There was no trace of a fringe.
A strange sense of hope and excitement welled up inside me. This hairdresser wasn’t just cut out for his trade – but perhaps also for a role in my dream scenario. I might well have come to the right place with this hairdresser to make my unwanted, sweetly angry dream a reality. My heart was in my throat.
There was, however, one problem. Somehow, it naturally had to appear as though I was having my hair cut against my will. If I were simply to walk in as a customer and politely request a transformation, and if the hairdresser were then to kindly oblige me as a customer: in that unlikely scenario, the sensation would be far less intense and exciting. I wanted to be forced and humiliated. That’s why my dream also included the image of the hairdresser visibly enjoying cutting my hair. It would be a huge disappointment if the hairdresser were merely going through the motions. His pleasure had to be noticeable, audible and visible in everything: his voice, his gestures, his eyes – yes, even his crotch. In any other scenario, I would simply have lost my beautiful head of hair, my greatest pride – and, on top of that, several illusions as well.
However, I did have a plan. I jumped on my bike and hurried home. I looked up the hairdresser’s number and grabbed my mobile. I could feel my heart pounding. I dialled the number and waited, my nerves racing up my throat.
“Taylor Hairdressers,” came the reply. I cleared my throat and tried to put a grown-up tone into my voice. “Good afternoon, Reid here. I’m not calling for myself, but for my son. Can he come in this afternoon?” “Oh yes, of course,” came the reply, sounding slightly surprised: “I don’t work by appointment. There’s always a slot available. I’m open until half past five.” “Okay,” I replied, playing the part of my father: “Just one more question. My son has quite long hair, down to his shoulders. I’ve finally managed to persuade him to have that mop sorted out. So please do give it a good trim.” There was a brief silence on the other end. I could feel the tension rising inside me.
After a moment’s silence, caused by surprise, awkwardness or confusion, hairdresser Taylor cleared his throat and continued: “Well. Of course, I’d prefer your son to come of his own accord. But anyway. If he’s really made up his mind, then I’m happy to give him a haircut.” “Oh, you can rest assured. He’s not exactly thrilled about having his hair cut off, of course, but he’s resigned to it. So, I can count on seeing him back with a short cut?” “In that case, certainly, sir. And I’d be delighted, in fact. It’s been ages since I’ve had a mane like that to work on, and I’d love to let my creativity run wild again – as a professional, I mean.” “Haha, I can well believe it. Well then. He’ll be round in an hour. His name’s Joris, by the way.” And after a perfunctory exchange of greetings, the phone call came to an end.
“Yes!” I thought. That had all worked out perfectly. I walked to the bathroom, undid my ponytail and began brushing out my hair, which I’d washed that very morning. It seemed to shine even more beautifully and feel even smoother than usual. It begged for mercy – and at the same time screamed for it, to be trimmed by the ruthless Taylor. At this thought, I got the usual erection that made my tight jeans stretch.
This drew my attention to another, minor problem that needed resolving. I walked over to my wardrobe and picked out a pair of loose-fitting skater trousers that I hadn’t worn for a year. I turned the pockets inside out, took a pair of scissors and cut large holes in them, big enough to stick my hands through. Then I took off my jeans and underpants, put on a pair of loose-fitting boxer shorts and the modified skater trousers. I also swapped my T-shirt for a loose-fitting sports top. Relaxed enjoyment was guaranteed. I forced myself to stay calm, walked down the stairs, closed the door behind me and jumped on my bike. With my locks of hair fluttering in the wind, I cycled to Taylor.
***
As I locked my bike in front of the shop window, I looked inside. The shop was empty. The hairdresser had apparently stepped out for a short break. I took a deep breath, crossed myself, opened the door and stepped inside, as a bell chimed. As the glass door clicked shut, an ominous silence descended. I could hear my heart beating and saw myself standing in the full-length mirror by the coat rack: a very odd one out indeed. I brushed my hair out of my face. Wasn’t it such a shame, after all, that my locks would soon end up here on the floor? Yes, it was – and that was precisely what upset me so much.
I made the most of the calm before the storm and tried to get into character: the submissive son who reluctantly surrendered himself to the stern barber, with whom his father had hatched a little plot. For a moment, however, I considered that I could still turn back. Suddenly, though, footsteps sounded in the room next to the barber’s shop. I swallowed and took another deep breath. Taylor appeared.
When he saw me, he raised his eyebrows and suppressed a pleased little smile. “Good afternoon, young man!” he said, sounding slightly elated. “Hello, sir,” I said, my voice cracking. A sense of naturalness and a touch of embarrassment washed over me, which were no longer feigned. I stood there paralysed. “What’s the matter? You want a haircut, I take it?” said Taylor with a slightly sarcastic grin. I nodded silently, staring at the floor. “Why don’t you take a seat, then,” said the barber briskly, pointing to the chair. As if hypnotised, I followed his instructions.
Once I was seated, Taylor stood behind me. He ran the fingers of both hands through my hair in a combing motion, from the crown of my head right down to the tips. I shuddered briefly. I felt a tingling sensation that was as eerie as it was pleasant. The barber’s hands then rested on my shoulders and, with an intense gaze, Taylor looked at me through the mirror. “You must be Joris, surely?” I still couldn’t get a word out and nodded again. “I thought as much. Your father has already told me you were coming. Right. Let’s have a look, then.”
Taylor used his hands to gather my hair into a loose, thick ponytail and ran it through his palms as he examined it critically. He repeated this movement several times. “Well, that’s quite a mop of hair, lad. It must have been a long time since you last set foot in a hairdresser’s, hasn’t it?” he asked. He placed his hands on my shoulders again and looked at me intently. I swallowed, shrugged my shoulders and tried to look as indignant and defiant as possible. Then he let my long locks slide through his hands again several times, whilst he looked at them with relish.
“I suppose your father has told you what’s expected? Anyway, he told me.” I nearly sank into the ground again, but I wanted to challenge Taylor and said, surprised at my own reproachful, cheeky tone: “Yes. That’s just the way it is. So, for heaven’s sake, do your job!” The hairdresser frowned briefly, looking surprised and offended, but then laughed scornfully: “Hm. I see. That’s clear, then. Right. Let’s see what we can do.” And with a look of relish, feigning disdain, he gazed at my lovely long locks, which he was still running through his fingers. “It’s certainly no luxury to give this a proper trim, hmmm!” The tip of his tongue glided over his upper lip. Full of shame, I looked down at my knees. Until then, I hadn’t realised just how blissful humiliation and powerlessness could be.
Taylor took a few steps to the side, took the nylon cape from the hook next to the mirror, draped it around me and fastened it at the nape of my neck. He pulled my long hair up out of the neckline so that it fell widely across my shoulders. He then walked over to the shelf beneath the mirror, took a brush, slipped a comb into his breast pocket and, after searching for what seemed like an age, selected a pair of scissors. Once he’d made his choice, he held up his gleaming tool – a long, tapered pair of scissors – defiantly and triumphantly. “Shall we use these?” he asked me in a sarcastic tone. Reluctantly, I played along with his sadistic little game and nodded meekly once more, though with reproach in my eyes. I cast a furtive glance at his groin and thought I detected a certain tension there.
Taylor tucked the scissors into his breast pocket like a weapon, next to the comb, and stood behind me once more, the brush in his hand. With long strokes and clearly relishing the moment, he now began to patiently brush out my hair. After every stroke of the comb, my hair fell rustling back onto the cape. The sound of the brush mingled with a satisfied, grunting “mmmmm”. The realisation that there was now no turning back paralysed me and filled me with pleasure. With my hands, I felt my way through the holes in my pockets towards my penis, which was making full use of the space in my boxer shorts and skater trousers.
Taylor put down the brush and, with the skilful dexterity of a barber, took both the comb and the scissors in his right hand. “Well then, let’s give you a nice, fresh haircut. You won’t regret it! And if you do…” – he made a few snipping motions in the air – “tough luck!” And before I knew it, he had combed a thick, long strand of hair from the top left of my head with his right hand, then held it in place with his left hand and sank the scissors into it, a centimetre from the scalp. I squeezed my eyes shut and heard a grinding sound that sent shivers down my spine. The first long, thick strands of silky hair fell onto my lap with soft but clearly audible plops – whilst I felt my member emptying in spasms in my hands. Almost simultaneously, Taylor paused his work for a second, closed his eyes and groaned softly – before resolutely continuing his work.
* * *
(Translation from a Dutch original)
