Seeds of Descent

Seeds of Descent

 

By Shorngirl

 

         I was always told I was a brat when I was younger. I don’t remember being particularly abrasive or hostile to anyone, but this is what I’ve been told, from numerous sources.

         My memories basically consist of my relationship with my father and three brothers, as my mother left the family when I was four. Despite numerous attempts by me to locate her through the years, we’ve remained estranged.

         One of my earliest memories was of my father carting us all down to the local barbershop one Saturday morning. I’m not sure how old I was, but I think I may have been six. My brothers were all older than me and picked on me incessantly, probably because I was the odd one out.

         I remember sitting there along one wall of the place, amongst a group of others, all men and boys of course. I do remember that one of the barbers seemed to take a particular interest in me, smiling at me whenever our eyes met. Was it weird, a girl in a barbershop? I suppose in those days, it was.

         One by one, my brothers would take whatever seat would open up, and as I remember, there were five chairs. Each was given the same haircut, skinned up on the sides with a bristle top that seemed to stand on end.

         “What about the other one, there?” I remember the one barber chiming in, as my father paid for the three haircuts my brothers received.

         “She’s a girl, goofball.” My father answered. “You don’t want to get your haircut in here, do you?” He said to me, looking down.

         Of course, all the way home in the backseat of the Buick, my brothers would razz me about getting my haircut, and how much better I’d look bald. As much as I hated their comments, all I really wanted was to blend in with them. I think it was more out of self-preservation than anything else.

         Each time we would end up at the barbers, it would be more of the same; the short haircuts for them, and the hassle of dealing with their comments all the way home. That’s the way it went, until one particular Saturday.

         I was a bit older, and it was the beginning of summer. School had just let out for the long hot summer recess, and I was feeling a bit ornery that I had to go with them, again, to the damned barbershop. I think I was in fourth grade, so I must have been eight or nine.

         As I sat there next to my father, a bug was creeping around inside me, one that would change the shape of my life from then on. I looked up at him, my hair pulled back into a long ponytail, trying to get his attention as he read his car magazine. “Dad!”

         “What is it, Krissy?” He growled, annoyed by my attitude that day already. My name was Christina, but for as long as I could remember I was Krissy to my dad and my brothers.

         “I wanna get my hair cut,” I said, insisting that he listen to me.

         “Don’t be silly. They don’t cut girl’s hair here. If you want, I’ll drop you over at your aunt’s after and she can trim you up. How’s that?” He suggested

         “No, Dad. I want to get my hair cut here.” I insisted.

         Apparently, one of the barbers overheard my demand, and smiled in my direction. It was the same one, his eye glinting at the prospect of cutting my hair, I thought. “I can cut her hair, Sam.” The barber insisted.

         “You do that?” He asked. “I didn’t think it was even legal.”

         “Last time I checked, my license says I’m allowed to cut hair, it doesn’t say anything about men or women.” He informed my dad, who raised an eyebrow in surprise.

         “Well, how would you cut it? I mean, she is a girl.” My father asked.

         “I can cut it however she wants it, but to be honest I think she’s wanting something short.” The barber said, intuitively.

         He looked down at me and winked. “Yeah, Dad, I want it short,” I said.

         My father huffed a bit, but eventually relented, saying that I could get something longer than my brother’s flattops. When it was finally my turn, the butterflies in my tummy were going overboard. I felt a bit lost in the large chrome and leather chair, but the barber simply pumped it up so that I was just a bit lower than eye-to-eye with him.

         “I’m thinking maybe a little boy’s cut.” He pointed to an old poster, particularly to an image of a boy sporting a comb-over style, his ears plainly visible and the hair trimmed short around them. I nodded my approval. I think I giggled a bit as I saw my dad simply shrug his shoulders and shake his head in disbelief.

         “Cut it like that,” I remember saying as he had me lift my long blonde hair, cinching some crepe paper around my neck and the pinstriped cape following that. I particularly remember the cold metal clip he slid into the cape, that held it tightly around my long thin neck.

         “Do you want to keep this?” He asked as he slipped the baubles from my ponytail, allowing my hair to drape over the cape. I shook my head no, and watched as he tossed the pink plastic beads into a garbage can. There was something so significant to that action, that I still remember a chill running down my spine.

         “I won’t be needing that for a while, will I?” I asked, sheepishly.

         “Seeing as you won’t have any hair to tie back, I guess not.” The barber kidded as he readied his tools. “Now let’s get this cut to a more manageable length, what do you say?”

         Nodding, I watched as he stepped behind me in the large mirror, scissors in hand. Two of my three brothers were sitting with my dad, tittering over what I was doing. I think he was trying to ignore what was going on, but when the crunch of the scissors began, and my hair started falling to the floor, his eyes came back to me.

         The cold steel of the blades rested against my neck, as they worked, open and closed, the sawing action seeming to take a lot longer than I imagined it would. The butterflies were back, and I wondered what I would say to my friends when they saw me. Somehow, it just didn’t matter at that moment. I was intent on watching my hair fall away.

         When the last of the hair had been cut, I was left with a short bob that fell forward, framing my face. I shook my head to get it out of my eyes, but it only fell back again, annoyingly.

         With the scissors set aside for the moment, I heard the unmistakable whir of clippers being turned on, shivering as they slipped up under what remained of my hair. Using a comb, I could see the barber push upward against it, severing my hair in a tapered edge right at my hairline.

         This continued all the way around, until the result looked far more masculine than feminine. This thrilled me, for some reason. Seeing my ears pop out for the first time also seemed oddly exciting, revealed from beneath the mane of hair that had hidden them all my life.

         Then the work of the haircut began, as the barber worked the scissors over the comb, over and over, lifting and cutting, lifting and cutting, until my hair seemed to mimic the shape of my skull underneath. He combed down the front, whetting it with a sweet-smelling liquid, and then cut in an angle across my forehead.

         Then the sharp edge of the comb ran along my scalp, cutting a part on the left side of my head. He combed it over, taking the angled bangs with it, and forming a neat curl back that screamed ‘little boy’.

         To my surprise, the barber then picked up a different set of clippers and began to work all along the edges of my hair, trimming it close to the skin and blending it with what he had already shortened so drastically with the scissors. My skin was plainly visible through this new tapered cut, and any trace of femininity had been erased from me then and there, if it hadn’t already been.

         I thought he surely must have been done, but I was wrong. He held a warm towel along the back and sides of my head, removing it after a moment or two. The cold air of the shop felt strange against my newly exposed skin, but as he spread lather along my nape and around my ears, I realized that he was going to shave me.

         The butterflies were back as I felt the razor slide against my neck with practiced precision. Short, angled strokes slid into a long sweep to my shoulders as he removed any peach fuzz that might have been hiding under my long hair.  He carved in a jet-white border around each of my ears, accentuating their stark visibility.

         My head was swimming at that point, so as the barber swung the cape away declaring me done, I had to take a moment to stare at the ‘boy’ gawking in the mirror. There was no going back, it was done. I made no effort to avoid stepping all over my severed hair as it lay in a pool around the base of the chair.  A little symbolic I supposed, but it felt good to do it.

         My father thought I was crazy and said about having lost a daughter and gained a son, if I remember correctly. Of course, my brothers were no less cruel in the car, razzing me for how short my hair was now, and that my ears stuck out funny. I shouldn’t have expected acceptance, simply by cutting off my hair. The thing was, I wasn’t sad about it all.

         It took some time to get used to, but I certainly didn’t miss washing and brushing my long hair. There was something to be said for just hopping out of the shower and scrubbing my head with a towel. A quick run-through with a pocket comb was all it took to tame my ‘little boy’ haircut.

         My friends were strange about it at first, saying that I was crazy for doing it, and how would I ever get a boyfriend now. Being nine, I really hadn’t thought of boys much, other than a distraction. I supposed I didn’t have to worry about them at all. I couldn’t put a finger on it back then, but I was enjoying the snubs and the embarrassing questions about my boyish appearance. The butterflies in my stomach were a frequent companion that summer.

         At my father’s insistence, I was forced to grow my hair out over the summer, so when I returned to school that fall, it had fallen over the tops of my ears and curled up ever so slightly in the back. I still got some guff from people I hadn’t seen since June but had to admit to missing my little boy’s haircut.

         I stopped going to the barbers with my brothers, and that made me sad. Gone was any opportunity to talk my father into another cut. With my teenage years approaching, I simply put the entire experience behind me, growing my hair out to a reasonable shoulder-length lob.

         I couldn’t lie though. Any time I walked past a barbershop, I would remember the time I let them turn me into a little boy.

         I was good in school, I won’t deny it. I graduated high school with honors and went on to medical school in the end, becoming a forensic pathologist with a city police department a few states away. It was a good job, and one I enjoyed doing. Somehow the idea of catering to sick people didn’t appeal to me, something I discovered during my residency.

         I frequently returned home to look in on my father, who had since remarried. I didn’t care for my new ‘stepmother’ something I never really accepted as such. My father seemed happy though, so I tolerated her.

         During this visit, I had a few extra days, and I had been exploring. So, as I walked along the old Main Street, I was surprised to find the old barbershop still very much a going concern. Mischievously, I thought, I stopped in front, peeking inside. The five-chair place had been pared down to three, but those chairs were full, with people waiting as well.

         I’d never gone back to so drastic a cut as they had given me in my childhood but maintained a professional bob, that was well off my shoulders. Resisting the urge to step inside, I continued my explorations. About a half hour later I was back, and the urge with it; stronger than ever. I recognized the butterflies in my stomach for what they actually were as they sank into my sex, making me thankful that I’d worn a panty liner that day.

         Gathering my courage, I pushed through the front door, a small bell tinkling above. Heads turned for a moment, but then returned to their task or their phones, the days of magazines long gone. Long gone too were the days when a woman in a barbershop was an oddity. I gingerly plucked a plastic number tile from the rack near the door and took a seat.

         An older gentleman that was seeing to one equally as old, looked up from his work for a moment, his eyes lingering a bit too long on my face. Was it him? I asked myself. It had been so long that I couldn’t remember.

         Every so often his gaze returned to me, until finally, he smiled, as if a lightbulb had lit up in his brain. “Is that little Krissy?” He mused.

         I hadn’t heard that name in years, at my insistence. “Christina.” I corrected. So, it was him. I wondered if my luck would have me back in his chair, all over again, like an errant child returning for her comeuppance.

         As it happened, another barber called my number, but as I went to stand, there was a conversation between them. Forced to wait a few more minutes, I was then guided back into that same chair, with the same barber.

         “I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you in here again, Krissy.” He mused, not listening to my previous correction. “I see your brothers every once in a while, but what a surprise seeing you.”

         I felt the rasp of the crepe paper against my neck as he caped me, that same cold clip sliding in against my skin. “I’m not really sure what I want to do,” I said, suddenly nervous.

         “Why don’t we make things simple? I can give you the same cut you had the last time you were in my chair. How would that be?” He pointed to that same poster, a bit yellowed and faded, but that same image shot out at me as rested his finger against it.

         What had I expected would happen? I asked myself, as I sat there pondering the future of my hair. I watched as his finger slid up to the next image, considerably shorter than the one below it, and much less juvenile. “Maybe a Princeton would be better for you now?” He suggested, suddenly walking away from the poster.

         Everything I remembered about my ‘little boy’ haircut came rushing back, and my arousal spiked dramatically. I remembered the acute embarrassment of being seen with my hair shorn off, and how I had to explain it over and over to my friends. Most of all though, I remembered how much I enjoyed the haircut itself. Now he wanted to cut it even shorter.

         Every sensible bone in my body was screaming for me to jump out of the chair and run out of that shop, but the one thing that stuck me there fast was the same curiosity that had pulled me into it. I was either going to submit to this overwhelming fetish that seemed to have wormed its way into my psyche, or I wasn’t.

         The barber raised an eyebrow, seeing the consternation on my face. Finally, with my clitoris throbbing between my legs, I gave in to it. Unable to form any words just then, I simply nodded my approval to the man, who cracked a knowing smile. He’d seen this before, I was sure. How many women had sat in this very chair and submitted to this unhinged desire to be shorn; having their femininity stripped from them so absolutely? I couldn’t have been the only one.

         I watched as he cleaned his clippers, the long cylindrical machine so simple and yet so powerful. Moving behind me he switched them on, that familiar whir tickling my senses as blades slashed against one another, ready to do their job.

         He pushed my head down so my chin nearly rested on my chest, slipping the clippers under my sensible bob and without any hesitation, ran them up the back of my head. All the way to my crown they rode, the vibration against my skull sending shivers that seemed directly connected to my sex. “Oh,” I murmured quietly.

         “Yes, this will be a lot shorter than last time, Krissy.” The barber imparted, laying down a second pass that was equally as titillating as the first. He carved away, each pass of the blades sending cascades of golden strands floating to the floor. All eyes were on me, I noticed, the men waiting for their turn in the chair, decidedly interested in what was happening to me.

         When he was done with the back, he pressed the clippers into my temple, the blades growing hot with their task. He stripped the sides just as he stripped the back, all the way to the crown, leaving almost nothing in their wake. I felt his breath against my exposed ear. “Don’t think I don’t know how much you’re enjoying this, little Krissy.” He whispered.

         That realization almost sent me over the edge. He’d been reading me all the while, seeing the expression on my face and undoubtedly my body language in the chair. Had I been squirming while my hair was being shorn away? Unconsciously, perhaps I had. I know I could feel the moisture between my labia as I shifted in the chair slightly. I didn’t reply. What could I say? I’d been caught dead to rights.

         Satisfied with the back and sides, for the time being, he set to work on the top. He disconnected the blades from the machine retrieving another set from a drawer, the teeth looking longer. With a distinct click the blades locked into place, and he fired them up. When I was expecting him to use a comb, he shocked me by running the clippers straight down the middle of my head.

         I watched in the mirror as the tuft of blonde hair still attached to my head was bisected by a furrow of longish bristles. A quiet gasp escaped my lips, eliciting a little chuckle from the barber, obviously enjoying himself as he ran the clippers this way and that over the top of my head, leaving me with what looked like something my brothers used to get.

         By now, most of the guys in the shop had started to lose interest, perhaps the most dramatic part of my transformation being complete. There was one guy who couldn’t look away, his eyes locked on me throughout the whole thing. I met his gaze in the mirror, and he averted his eyes, but they returned to me as soon as I was distracted. I wonder if he knew me, all those years ago.

         The barber had switched blades again and began to shorten the back and sides all over again, this time, peeling what little hair I had there right to the skin. There would be no taper or gentle arc cut around my ears this time. No, now pink fleshly cups were stranded in a sea of naked skin. The back must have been just as short, I imagined. The reality of being shorn so ruthlessly made me even hotter, as though the embarrassment of it was feeding my arousal.

         I could feel the fans that swirled the air around the barbershop, tickling my freshly exposed scalp and that alone nearly sent me over the edge. Again, the guy in the chairs was intently staring. Did he know how I was feeling? This time when our eyes met, he didn’t look away.

         Slowly but surely, the haircut took shape, the barber shortening the back of my crown to almost nothing, while leaving me a tuft of fur at the front that looked almost ridiculous. He’d blended the sides into the top, the defined curve of my skull becoming plain. He rubbed some cream into the small crescent of hair and combed it over, the hair struggling to stay down. I desperately wanted to tell him to just get rid of it, but it was all that remained of my hair; the last morsel of style left from this skinning.

         After struggling with it for a few minutes, he looked at me, raising both eyebrows, expectantly. Had he cut it too short deliberately? I looked away, and without asking he whisked away the last bit, leaving me with what could only be described as a crewcut. “That’s better.” He mused, rubbing his fingertips over the desperately short bristles that stood straight up at the front.

         I wonder if he knew that I had come, right there in his chair, my panties certainly soaked with my juices. That last humiliation, the clippers effortlessly rendering me next to bald, had sent me over the edge.

         The thing was, orgasms like that, the ones where nothing has physically stimulated, tend to float, waiting to emerge all over again. So as he covered the back and sides of my head with shaving lather, I felt myself rising all over again.

         Would he shave me that high? I asked myself. My question was answered soon enough as he laid the honed edge of the razor against my scalp just below the curve of my crown. Each stroke of the blade sent ripples through my sex as I watched in the mirror. He carefully shaved around my ears, folding them over to get as close as possible. I could feel his wet fingers against my scalp, slipping along its glass-like surface as he razored the back, the blade sliding all the way to my shoulders. He wanted me that way; shorn hairless.

         I felt another wave of orgasmic current running along my body as his fingers tested the surface, looking for any evidence of stubble. By the lack of resistance I could tell that there was none. I was powerless to stop the moan that escaped my lips as I fell over the edge once and for all. I didn’t care who was watching, or what they thought of me.

         “Well, little Krissy, it’s a bit shorter than we planned, but I think you like it this way.” He announced, everyone in the shop surely hearing him.

         “It’s fine.” I managed after a moment, sneaking a hand from under the cape to feel the nakedness of my scalp for the first time. My fingers ran up my nape, and then to the side, touching my ear which felt rubbery in comparison to the taught flesh of my scalp. The stubble that still remained on top was barely enough to call hair, but it was a sharp contrast to the back and sides. It felt rough against my fingertips as it stood out, stiff and unyielding from my scalp.

         The man in the chairs who had been so interested in my undoing was gone, and I wondered if he had only come in to watch. Again, unable to avoid it, I stepped all over my severed locks as I rose from the chair, stopping one last time to gawk at the person in the mirror.

         The attractive woman who had entered the shop was gone, just as it had been the first time when I was only a girl. “You stop back in any time, Krissy.” The barber mused. I ran a hand over my pate one last time before paying the man, satisfied that I had been sufficiently shorn. I dusted the stray hair from my skirt and stepped back onto Main Street, heart racing and acutely aware of my impending humiliation.