SORRY, I thought you were closed ……

1 Star2 Stars3 Stars4 Stars5 Stars (13 votes, average: 4.31 out of 5)
Loading...

Story Categories:

Story Tags:

Views: 2,000

OKAY, FIRST I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY.
I CAME ACROSS IT ON “”HEADSHAVE AND HAIRCUT STORIES”.
THIS SITE HAS A NUMBER OF STORIES I HAVE WRITTEN, AS WELL AS A NUMBER OTHERS WHO WRITTEN STORIES AND POSTED THEM HERE.  I HAVE NOT SEEN IT POSTED HERE.  NO AUTHORS NAME IS SHOWN, JUST A DATE IT WAS POSTED SOMEWHERE.
THE NAME OF THE AUTHOR IS NOT SHOWN, NOR DO I KNOW WHO THE AUTHOR IS.
AFTER READING IT I THOUGHT IT WAS ONE OF THE BEST STORIES I HAVE READ AND SEEN POSTED ANY WHERE.
SO, I AM POSTING IT HERE FOR EVERYONE TO ENJOY.

 

headshave and haircut stories

Sunday, 3 July 2016

I was finishing up my work day, just packing up my car after leaving the last office of the day (I’m a sales rep for a major pharmaceutical company and I have to visit various medical offices each day).  The medical group I was leaving was across the street from a small strip mall. As I opened the driver’s door of my car and tossed my purse over to the passenger seat, I looked over the car’s roof at the strip mall. There was a bagel shop, a nail salon, what looked like an insurance office, and a barber shop. Since I always have an eye out for barber shops I was surprised I hadn’t noticed it on the way in. One of my favorite diversions as I drive around every day is driving by barber shops and trying to see what is going on inside. I don’t get to see much, but I am always hopeful.

For a few years now I have had a sort of obsession with getting my long locks cut short. My hair is quite long, nearly to my waist, and has been long for most of my life. I have found myself growing more and more intrigued with the thought of having someone else take charge of my hair and decide to cut it short. It used to be that I would constantly fantasize about going to a salon for a trim and then the stylist would just decide to give me a Posh bob or even a pixie, all without asking me, of course. I still fantasize about that, but recently I started having other fantasies as well.

A few months ago I was in a hair chat room on the Internet and I started chatting with another woman who said she was in her early twenties (I’m in my thirties.) She emailed me a YouTube video of a young man at basic training in the Marines getting his induction haircut at the post barber shop. When I first got the email I wasn’t too interested in watching the video, since I really don’t find guy’s haircuts all that interesting; I am very much into being submissive about my own hair, but not really into watching other people get their hair cut. But I clicked on the link and watched the video. I am also not into watching headshaves or thinking about having my own head shaved. I understand why some people might like it, but it just isn’t my thing.

To my surprise, the video was absolutely hypnotic – I don’t know how else to describe it. I watched it over and over again, focusing intently on the poor young man’s fear and nervousness, along with the obvious helplessness and submission he must have been feeling. The barber just started the haircut rather ruthlessly, pulling the young man’s head back and running the clippers straight back from his forehead so the shorn hair all fell down behind him. I must have watched that video a hundred times in the next few days. The combination of the big, intimidating barber chair, the rather forceful, unapologetic barber and the way he just pushed the victim’s head around, the obvious fear, anxiety, helplessness, and submission the victim was displaying and feeling, and the mercilessly short buzz cut the poor young man wound up were tremendously interesting and exciting to me.

 

Just to clarify, I wasn’t the least bit turned on by the young man in the chair, or by the older man who was doing the barbering. Rather, I kept picturing myself sitting nervously in the big barber chair, gripping the armrests with white knuckles, feeling deliciously helpless and submissive and looking fearfully into the mirror as my long, dark, silky, beautiful hair was ruthlessly shorn into a half-inch or quarter-inch buzz cut!

 

Of course, realistically speaking, getting a buzz cut made no sense at all. There is simply no way on earth I could ever do it. I have a professional job and I have to look professional. I dress in business suits and make sure that my jewelry and my make-up are both understated and conservative. Even though many of the other women in my field have opted for what I call the “corporate bob” (a slightly layered cut that falls between chin-length and collarbone-length and looks completely boring and unattractive, in my opinion) I have kept my hair very long, but I always make sure it looks neat and well-maintained. My usual hairstyle is a French braid with loose bangs, which I think looks both very attractive and very professional. I’m known for my long, thick, healthy, shiny hair; female staffers and doctors in the medical offices I visit often ask me what products I use on it and what I do to keep it looking so great. I have to admit that I love the attention I my hair gets. People mention it nearly every day and comment favorably about it. Aside from my mother and my sisters-in-law, I don’t recall anyone ever suggesting that I would look more attractive or more professional if I cut it into a shorter style. The whole issue with my mother and my sisters-in-law is a story for another day…

So, although I was thoroughly enjoying my recurring fantasy about nervously sitting in a big barber chair, in a real barber shop, and whimpering softly while I watched in the mirror as my long dark waves of hair were ruthlessly buzzed off, I couldn’t see myself ever actually doing it. My other fantasies, where I went to a regular salon and asked for a trim, but had the stylist decide on her own to give me an angled bob or a pixie hairstyle, seemed more realistic to me. Sort of… They were realistic in the sense that I could see myself living with the results, but not truly realistic because I didn’t think it was all that likely a stylist was going to completely ignore the instructions of a client with nearly waist-length hair and give her a pixie when all she asked for was a trim. I also wasn’t interested in getting my hair cut short just for the sake of getting it cut; I wanted to feel helpless and submissive in the chair and have my hair cut against my expressed wishes for a very small trim. I have thought about the possibility of just going to a salon and asking for an angled bob or a pixie, but there’s really nothing about that scenario that excites me. I fantasize about feeling helpless and being meek and submissive as my long hair is cut, not just about asking for and getting a short haircut. I don’t know if that makes any sense; I have a hard time understanding my motivation myself.

One of the scenarios I like to play out in my head is going to a barber shop and asking for a trim, because I believe (whether it is true or not) that in a barber shop a half-inch trim will certainly involve a lot more than a half-inch of hair being cut. However, up to this point I have not had the guts to go into a barber shop, not even to look around. The closest I have gotten is to routinely drive by the barber shops in my sales region and peek inside, hoping to catch of glimpse of what goes on inside.

 

One of the reasons I have never gone into a barber shop is that I am quite afraid of being completely embarrassed by this fetish of mine. I don’t really understand why getting my hair cut (over my protests, so to speak) turns me on so much, so I am sure I’d never be able to explain myself if someone called me out on it. I have tried to imagine going into a barber shop to ask for a trim, but I always worry that the barber (whom I imagine would be an older man) would brusquely ask me what I was doing there and why on earth I would want to have a barber cut my hair. I also imagine a bunch of other men, sitting in the waiting area, all staring at me and wondering what sort of weird twist I must have to want to have my beautiful long hair cut in a barber shop instead of a salon.

 

Despite all of my worries, which were so routine I hardly even noticed them anymore, I got into the car and drove across the street and into the parking lot of the strip mall. I planned on driving slowly by the barber shop, trying to casually look inside, and then driving home. I do this all the time, with lots and lots of barber shops; it was pretty much a habit of mine at this point.

 

As I drove by the shop another car was backing out of a parking space, so I had to stop and wait for them. This gave me a chance to look into the shop for more than just a passing glance. It was a fairly small shop, but I could see there were two of the big barber chairs that I fantasize about so often. There were a few chairs up against the opposite wall from where the barber chairs were facing a long mirror that ran nearly the entire length of the wall. I didn’t see anyone in the shop; both barber chairs were empty and so were the chairs against the opposite wall. All of the lights were on inside, and there was a neon “OPEN” sign illuminated in the front window, not far away from the illuminated, revolving striped barber pole adjacent the front door. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just a couple of minutes past five in the afternoon, but I didn’t see a sign with the shop’s hours posted anywhere.

 

It didn’t really matter if the shop was still open or not, I thought to myself, since I wasn’t going in even if it was. I giggled a bit at myself and the way I was always so ready with excuses, and was just about to drive away when I saw a woman walk out of a back room of the shop and toward the front door. She looked to be in her mid-to-late thirties (the same as me) and was slim and attractive. She stopped to grab something off the counter and turned her back to the door for a moment. Her hair was actually a lot like mine. It was black (mine is dark brown) and was in a long French braid that hung down her back, almost reaching her belt. She had long bangs that were swept to one side, again, just like mine. She was wearing a black hairstylist’s smock, but I could see that she had on a dark-colored skirt that barely reached her knees, very similar to the one I was wearing. I could also see that she was wearing dark nylons and had on medium heels, which was, again, very similar to what I had on. I watched as she walked to the front door and reached up, apparently for a switch, as the “OPEN” sign went dark and the illuminated barber pole also went dark and stopped revolving.

 

She started to turn away and then suddenly stopped and looked out the front window. She smiled and I actually turned to look behind me to see who she was smiling at; I didn’t realize at first that she was smiling at me. As I turned back toward the barber shop I heard the sudden blast of a car horn behind me, making me jump. I looked in my rearview mirror and saw there were two cars behind me, waiting for me to go. The car that I stopped to let pull out of the parking space was long gone and I had been sitting there in my car, gazing stupidly at the barber shop, for what was probably well over a minute.

 

Thoroughly flustered, I automatically pulled into the vacant parking spot to allow the other cars to go by. I could feel my face getting red with embarrassment even though there was no logical way either of the drivers stuck behind me could possibly know I was daydreaming about walking into a barber shop to get my hair cut. I put my car in park and took a deep breath to steady my jangled nerves. As the cars drove by behind me one of the let out another couple of blasts with the horn, just to let me know they didn’t appreciate having to wait while I sat there spacing out. Despite myself I jumped again at the sound of the horn; I must have been feeling like I was caught doing something wrong when the other drivers saw me blocking the parking lot, gazing into the barber shop.

 

I looked up at the window of the barber shop again and saw that the woman inside was no longer at the door; she was bustling around the shop with a broom, apparently tidying up for the evening. After the car horns made me all jumpy, I decided what I needed to do was indulge my fetish just a bit before my drive home with what was certain to be a futile attempt to go into the barber shop to get my hair trimmed. It was obvious that the woman in the shop was closed; why else would she have turned off the sign and the revolving pole? Knowing that made it a little easier to get out of the car and walk briskly toward the door.

 

I envisioned myself trying the handle and finding it locked. I figured the woman inside, already busy cleaning, wouldn’t even look up as I rattled the doorknob of her obviously-closed shop. But just the fact that I tried would enable me to fantasize tonight that I would have gone in if I hadn’t gotten there after closing time. Smiling to myself, I walked past the long front window and put my hand on the doorknob, fully expecting to find it locked.

 

To my surprise the doorknob turned easily and I pushed the door open a couple of inches before I could stop myself. A small bell suspended over the door rang the door opened; even though it was a relatively small bell it sounded embarrassingly loud to my ears. Completely flustered again, I panicked a bit, trying to decide if I could just close the door and run back to my car without completely embarrassing myself. The woman in the shop looked up as soon as she heard the door, smiling the same friendly smile I had seen in the window, and started walking toward me. I couldn’t see any way to turn and run without looking like a total idiot, so I pushed the door open the rest of the way, trying to act as casually as I could, and took a step inside.

 

“Hi,” the woman said brightly, still with the same friendly smile on her face. “Can I help you?”

 

“Oh… Ummm… I’m sorry, but I thought you were closed…” I tried to act casual, but I could feel my face reddening in embarrassment at my nonsensical statement. Why would I be trying the door if I thought the shop was closed? I tried to think of something intelligent to explain myself, but I found myself stammering more nonsense. “I was going to come in for a quick trim, but then I saw you are already closed…” I realized how lame that must sound, that I ignored that she had turned off the “OPEN” sign, shut off the revolving barber pole, and then I only realized the shop was closed when I encountered an unlocked door. I froze for a second or two, trying to come up with something, anything, to say that would let me off the hook, but I couldn’t think of a thing. Starting to back out the door, I stammered, “That’s okay. I’ll come back another day.”

 

Kindly, but in a firm way that left no room for refusal, the woman placed a hand on my shoulder and led me into the shop, closing the door behind me. “Nonsense!” she said in a friendly tone, still smiling at me. “You’re here now; there’s no reason to make you come back another day. Let me see what I can do for you tonight.”

 

I felt like there was no way I could back out now, but curiously enough I was feeling a little less worried about embarrassing myself. There were no other clients in the shop, and the woman I was speaking to was certainly not some gruff older man who was going to ask me uncomfortable questions about why I wanted to get my hair cut in a barber shop. Her similarities with me in her hair and in the way she was dressed seemed to be subconsciously putting me at ease for some reason. I let her lead me into the shop as she closed the door behind me and locked it. When I raised an eyebrow at her locking the door she just smiled and said she didn’t want any more walk-ins, but that she was happy to take care of me.

 

“I’m Michelle,” she said in a friendly way, smiling over her shoulder as she lowered the blinds on the front window and the front door. I could no longer see my car in the lot, or any other cars for that matter, but no one could see into the shop, either. I could feel the same familiar anxiety and helplessness welling up inside, the same feelings I always got whenever I went to a salon, even for a minor trim. I could also feel myself getting excited, thinking that maybe this was actually going to happen and I was actually going to get my hair cut in a real barber shop! Even though Michelle seemed perfectly nice, she was still a barber, and I imagined that when I asked her for a half-inch trim she would probably take off several inches, at least. Just thinking about that made a bloom of heat spread through my body, and I tried to smile and act casual to hide the fact that I was blushing furiously.

 

“Hi, I’m Kathy,” I said, reaching out to shake her hand. “Thanks so much for staying open for me, but I really don’t want to be a bother.” I didn’t want her to change her mind, now that I was actually inside the shop and there were no gruff male barbers or rude, gawking clients to spoil my fantasy, but I wanted to her to think it was no big deal to me if she changed her mind and I didn’t get my hair cut that evening.

 

“Please, honey,” she said, taking my purse and my blazer and setting them aside. “It’s no bother at all!”

 

Even though she hadn’t asked me why I was coming to her barber shop, I felt like I had to explain myself so she wouldn’t think I was weird or something like that. So I started stammering out an explanation, which I’m sure made me sound exactly as nervous and flustered as I actually was.

“It’s just that my regular stylist is on vacation for another couple of weeks, and I have this big meeting tomorrow at work,” I started walking toward the big barber chair, then stopped suddenly as I realized I had no idea if I should just get into the chair or wait. I continued with my no-doubt lame-sounding explanation, speaking quickly and, I’m sure, sounding like I was making the whole thing up. Which, of course, I was.

 

“I need to look perfect at this meeting so I thought I’d just get the ends of my hair trimmed, no more than half an inch. Hopefully less, you know, since I’ve been growing my hair out for a while now, but a half inch is okay if that’s what it takes.” Michelle just nodded and kept smiling, and seemed to be in no hurry for me to finish my rambling discourse. “So with my stylist on vacation and me needing a trim I was going to look for a salon, but I don’t think they’re open right now, because it’s so late.”

 

That was brilliant, I thought. I can’t go to a salon because they’re all closed, but I push open the door of a barber shop that is obviously closed. I should stop talking now, I thought. But I didn’t.

 

“So I was driving by and saw your shop here and thought, what the hell, it’s just a trim. There’s no reason why I can’t go to a barber shop for a trim, right?” My voice trailed off and I laughed nervously. Michelle was kind enough to join me in the laugh, shrugging her shoulders in a sort of ‘why not?’ gesture to agree with me. She patted the seat on the big barber chair farthest from the door and smiled at me again, inviting me to sit down. Slowly, nervously, I approached the chair and gingerly sat down, trying to seem casual, like I sat in barber chairs every day. As I watched myself in the mirror as I hesitantly sat in the big barber chair, I couldn’t help my natural reaction. To my chagrin, I let out a very soft, hopefully inaudible moan as I sat in the barber chair, seeming very small in the big barber chair and immediately feeling a tantalizing sense of helplessness and submission.

 

I shot a quick glance at Michelle to see if she had heard my little moan, but she didn’t seem to have noticed. I could feel the flush and heat spreading up my neck again, a combination of embarrassment over my reaction to the long-fantasized-about barber chair and my excitement over the exact same thing. I barely felt it as Michelle lifted up my thick French braid and started letting it out, but after a few moments I realized what she was doing and I found myself growing even more nervous and even more aroused as I thought to myself that this was actually going to happen! I was actually going to get my hair cut in a barber shop! Even if she trimmed exactly half an inch, and not a millimeter more, I was still completely thrilled, terrified, and excited to be sitting in a big barber chair, in a real barber shop, getting my hair cut. I was still hoping that, despite my instructions to trim a half an inch, and no more, Michelle was going to take off quite a bit more because she was a barber and (I assume) that’s what barbers do. With a shudder I imagined her taking off six inches and casually telling me that if I wanted a tiny trim I should have gone to a fancy salon instead of a barber shop. I could feel myself getting even more aroused as I thought about it, so much so that I didn’t even notice Michelle had finished letting down my braid and was asking me a question.

 

“Kathy?” she asked, apparently not for the first time. “You just wanted a half inch trim to even out the ends, right?” She was still smiling in the friendliest way, not the least bit put out by my inattention or daydreaming. She apparently hadn’t noticed my blushing face or the little sound I made when first sitting down, since she hadn’t said anything about it and didn’t seem the least bit uneasy or even curious.

 

“Yes,” I said, my voice cracking a bit. Embarrassed, I swallowed and tried again. “Yes, please,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just a half inch at most. I’ve been trying to grow it out and I don’t want too much taken off.”

 

Michelle just smiled and nodded and started brushing out my thick, glossy hair. “No problem,” she said as she brushed with long strokes, going from the top of my head all the way down the length of each lock. She appeared to be watching me in the mirror, out of the corner of her eye, as she brushed, and I began to worry that maybe she had heard my moan or noticed how flushed I became when I sat down in the big barber chair. I was trying to think of something casual to say, to let her know this was no big deal to me, when I felt her sink her hand into my thick locks and give a firm, but not overly rough, tug that pulled me rearwards so my back was against the chair and my head was tilted back very slightly.

 

I couldn’t help myself when I felt the firm yet gentle tug pulling me back and forcing my chin up a bit – before I could catch myself I let out a soft whimper and closed my eyes for just a moment, swept away briefly by the feeling of submission that overwhelmed me in the instant I felt her grab my hair and, to my mind, exert some control over me. I think I smiled momentarily as well, and I probably would have made some other sound if given another second or two, but then the pressure vanished as quickly as it had appeared as Michelle let go of my hair and nonchalantly resumed brushing.

 

I opened my eyes and looked at her questioningly in the mirror, trying to gauge what had just happened. She met my eyes and gave a little shrug, smiling and acting completely casual, and said, “Sorry, honey. I was admiring how thick and strong your hair is and just couldn’t help myself, so I gave it a little tug.” She seemed so casual about it that I began to think maybe she hadn’t noticed my reaction, so I decided not to try to explain it. I don’t know what I could have said anyway, so it was probably best that I didn’t have to try to stammer through an explanation that would have sounded ridiculous.

 

I tried to sound as casual as she did when I answered her. “Oh, no problem,” I shifted a bit in the chair as she kept brushing my hair. “I’ve actually had lots of other people touch my hair before; some of them have even given it a little tug just like you did.” I laughed a bit to show her it was no big deal, but in reality I don’t really remember anyone ever tugging on my hair before like that. I’ve had people, usually women, occasionally touch my hair softly and compliment me on how long and healthy it is, but I don’t think anyone had ever just grabbed a handful and tugged. At least, not outside of the bedroom…

 

I felt the growing heat between my legs and realized how turned on I had become when Michelle had grabbed my hair and tugged my head back. I’m completely heterosexual, and I wasn’t the least bit interested in Michelle, but the feeling of being dominated, of being helpless, of being trapped in this big barber chair, inside an intimidating barber shop, about to have my long beautiful hair cut by a real barber, was almost overwhelming me. I felt my breathing getting faster and for a moment I was afraid I was going to have an orgasm right there in the chair as Michelle brushed my hair, which would be horrendously embarrassing to say the least.

 

I shot a quick glance in the mirror at Michelle and saw she was still concentrating on my hair, carefully brushing it out so she could trim the ends. I concentrated on the normalcy of that, of her brushing my hair so she could trim a half an inch, and tried to calm down. I was feeling a bit giddy, actually, because I was so thrilled to be feeling so intensely excited while at the same time so deathly afraid of what was going to happen to my long beautiful hair in this barber shop. I slowed my breathing down a bit and the threat of an immediate orgasm seemed to pass. I noticed that I was gripping the armrests of the barber chair so tightly my knuckles had turned white. With a conscious effort I relaxed my grip and let go, trying to appear calm and casual as I folded my hands in my lap.

 

Falling back into my normal routine, I mentioned again to Michelle that I only wanted a half inch trimmed and no more. I told her (again) that I was trying to grow my hair and that I only wanted a tiny trim to even out the ends. Michelle cheerfully told me it would be no problem. She finished brushing my hair out and walked in front of my chair to lay the brush on the counter. As she put the brush on the counter she paused for a moment and then laid her hand on a set of big black clippers that were laying on the countertop. My eyes went wide and I think I gasped just tiny bit, but other than that I tried very hard not to react. On the inside I was feeling a fresh bloom of heat between my legs and rising up my neck – ‘No way! Surely she couldn’t be planning to use those clippers on me!’ I thought to myself, both dreading and hoping at the same time (but mostly dreading!) I don’t think Michelle noticed my slight reaction, though I thought I might have seen her glancing at me in the mirror. But all she did with the clippers was pick them up and hang them on a hook at the end of the counter, all without saying a word or reacting to my little gasp. I relaxed a bit, relieved and disappointed all at the same time. Realistically, there is no way on earth I could ever let someone buzz my hair – I have to go to work and make a living, and I am sure my supervisors would have a major issue with a female sales rep who sported a buzzed haircut! But… Oh, the jolt that went through me for just an instant when Michelle’s hand touched the clippers and I thought, for just the briefest moment in time, that she was going to pick them up and use them on me while I sat helpless in the big barber chair, asking for a trim but being ignored and having my beautiful long hair mercilessly shorn from my head instead! I closed my eyes for just a moment as I imagined it, but quickly had to bring myself back to the present as I felt the familiar wetness between my legs and the heat spreading out from the core of my body. I didn’t want to embarrass myself, so I knew I had to calm down a bit, no matter how overwhelming it was to finally be in a real barber shop, about to get my hair cut…

 

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was just going to get a half inch trim, and that I should be proud of myself for having the guts to (sort of) venture into a barber shop to fulfill this particular fantasy of mine. Even if Michelle cut off precisely one-half inch I already knew I was going to leave here completely turned on and dying to get home. If she cut off a few inches, maybe three or four inches, despite my repeated requests for a half-inch trim, I was actually worried that I’d be so aroused I’d be unable to wait until I got home to my husband and would have to take care of myself in the car in the parking lot…

 

Michelle took a folded cape off the shelf and shook it out in front of me. The cape was white with red stripes and with a flourish she swept it out and settled it over me, quickly securing it in the back. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and, to be honest, I think I whimpered again, albeit very softly. Seeing myself nervously sitting in the big barber chair, trapped under the cape, with all of my long beautiful hair hanging loose and vulnerable made me feel extremely submissive and extremely aroused. I felt like I suddenly had no control over what would happen to my hair, and a part of me was very glad indeed that I had already instructed Michelle multiple times to cut off no more than a half-inch.

 

Michelle made sure the cape was arranged properly, and she didn’t seem to notice my soft whimper when I saw my helpless and submissive reflection in the mirror. She stepped over to the counter, presumably to collect a few of the big plastic hair clips from the cardboard box on the countertop. My thick hair is always a challenge for stylists to pin up and they usually have to use several clips to keep it all on top of my head while they trim the rest.

 

The box with the hair clips in it was at the end of the countertop, and Michelle reached toward it with one hand. However, instead of reaching into the box, she reached past it to another box, the contents of which I couldn’t see. She dipped her hand into the box and brought out several unfamiliar objects; they looked a bit like very small combs, but they were thick and only a couple of inches long. She spread them on the counter and I could see that there were three of them, all similar but slightly different in size. They looked vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place them right away.

 

Then Michelle reached over and lifted up the big black clippers she had earlier hung on the hook. I felt an immediate flush up my neck and between my legs; my eyes went wide and I gave little gasp of shock, anxiety, and terrified excitement. I knew now that the little combs were actually attachments for the clippers and it seemed she had set them out with the intention of using them!

 

I started to ask what she was doing, but all that came out was a little breathless, strangled-sounding gasp. I knew I had to say something; I had to let her know that there was absolutely no way I could let her use those clippers on me! I have to go to work tomorrow! What on earth could she be thinking?

 

Michelle glanced up in the mirror when she heard my gasp, but she didn’t say anything at first. She tapped her fingers on one of the clipper attachments, then another, then finally on the third. I didn’t know what she was doing, but I didn’t care. I had to say something before this all went too far…

 

I swallowed hard, my eyes practically glued to the big black clippers held casually in Michelle’s hand, and tried again to speak.

Hesitantly, in what I’m sure sounded like a very small, very scared voice, I began, “I don’t think…”

 

“Shhhhh!” Michelle said in a very firm, but not unkind tone of voice, without turning around. Her casual dominance cut right into me and I realized I was obeying her without even thinking about it. A part of me was feeling excited and aroused as she ordered me to be quiet, but another part of me was in full-blown panic mode and I knew I had to say something before anything drastic happened.

 

I tried again to speak, but as soon as I took a breath and opened my mouth Michelle said, “Quiet, now,” very calmly and firmly. I found myself closing my mouth, feeling like I was unable to say anything more after having been told to be quiet. My eyes were wide and I’m sure my face was bright red by then with the flush of excitement and fear that was spreading through me in waves.

 

Michelle selected one of the attachments and snapped it into place on the big black clippers. She turned from the counter to face me, holding the clippers casually in her right hand. I must have looked like I was going to try to speak, or perhaps she thought I was about to leap out of the chair, because she said, “No more talking, now. And sit very still.”

 

I felt myself trying to lean back in the chair to get away, and I heard myself whimpering softly as she stood in front of me with the clippers in her hand. I swear I almost had an orgasm right then. I could feel the wetness between my legs and I knew my panties had to be soaked. I felt completely trapped and helpless; dreading what I was afraid was about to happen to my beautiful long hair yet completely and totally unable to do anything about it.

 

If she had asked me any type of question… If she had said “Are you ready?” or even more simply, “Ready?”, then I would have spoken up to save my hair and would have told her, “NO!” If she had done so much as looked at me with one eyebrow raised in a questioning manner, I would have been adamant in my refusal to go along with this insanity. “NO WAY!” I would have practically yelled, “No way are you going to use those clippers on me! I came in for a half-inch trim, and that’s it!”

 

Even if she had said something ambiguous, that wasn’t really a question, such as, “Alright, let’s get started” or “You obviously want more than a trim” I would have felt like there was an opening for me to protest and save my beautiful, long, silky, dark, wavy hair. Any sort of opening, any sort of semi-question or somewhat ambiguous phrase would have been enough for me to shout out a protest and refuse to go along with this completely crazy and unrealistic idea.

‘I have to go to work tomorrow!’ I kept thinking to myself. ‘I have to stop this! There is simply no way I can let this happen!’

 

But, oddly enough, I truly didn’t feel like there was anything I could do. Michelle didn’t give me the slightest opening; she didn’t ask me for permission, didn’t suggest that she’d only do this if I agreed to it, didn’t do anything like that at all. She did absolutely nothing that made me feel like I had any say in what was about to happen. And, odder still, even though I was so scared I could hear and feel my heart pounding in my chest, I absolutely loved it! I was terrified and I hated it the thought of something happening to my beautiful long hair, but I loved it, too. I felt helpless and trapped, completely submissive and meek, totally afraid of what I was sure was about to happen to my beautiful long hair and yet enjoying the feelings so much I almost couldn’t wait for it to happen.

 

‘No, wait!’ I thought to myself, trying to snap myself out of it before it was too late. ‘You have to stop this! You can’t go to work tomorrow with no hair! Get a hold of yourself and tell her this has to stop!’

 

With a look of desperate pleading on my face, I gazed up at Michelle as she stood next to the chair, reaching up and running the fingers of her left hand through my hair, starting with my bangs and raking her long red nails back toward the crown, as though she was assessing it. I didn’t speak (since she’d told me to be quiet, and for some reason I didn’t feel as though I could disobey her) but the desperate look in my eyes had to have been obvious. My frightened squirming in the chair and the soft sounds of whimpering coming from me didn’t seem to give her pause. Despite my arousal and excitement, I was still fervently hoping she would say something that would leave me an opening to put this nonsense to a stop before anything really happened.

 

Michelle had to notice the pleading look in my eyes, and the tremble in my lower lip as I looked up at her. I must have looked like I was about to cry; I felt like at any moment I was either going to burst into tears at the thought of having my silky, dark, waist-length hair mercilessly buzzed off, or I was going to have a monster orgasm thinking of exactly the same thing! But, whatever the expression on my face, Michelle was resolute; it seemed that nothing was going to faze her.

 

“I decided to go with a #8,” she said, sounding calm, confident, and completely at ease. There was not the slightest trace of a question in her tone, and it was abundantly clear she was not asking my permission or waiting for me to give her the go-ahead. She was telling me what she was going to do, not asking me if she could do it. She ran her fingers through my hair a few more times as I locked my hands onto the armrests of the chair with a death grip and bit my lower lip in anxiety. “The #8 means you’re getting a one-inch buzz cut. But I’ll taper the sides and the back a bit shorter.”

 

As soon as she actually said the words, as soon as I heard the no-nonsense tone and the confidence and complete dominance in her voice, the look of pleading flew from my face as I closed my eyes and tilted my head back, unable to suppress a moan as I was overwhelmed with the feeling of how utterly submissive I was, completely helpless to do anything to save my hair, even when I was being told in advance that I was going to be getting a ruthlessly short buzz cut! I felt the orgasm that had been building for the past several minutes come to a crest with a flash of heat and pleasure radiating through my body, and I shuddered uncontrollably; I could feel my legs muscles quivering and my head snapped forward and then to one side as the orgasm rocketed through me.  My hands were still locked tightly on the armrests, and after only a moment or two, with the waves of heat and pleasure still tingling through me, I felt Michelle’s hand grabbing a handful of my hair in back, gently but irresistibly pulling my still-trembling body back so I was sitting up straight in the chair again. She seemed completely unfazed by what must have been my very obvious orgasm, and she firmly pulled my hair up and back, being firm but not the least bit rough, until I was sitting straight up in the chair and looking straight ahead into the mirror.

 

Michelle ran her fingers through my hair one more time, lifting it up and letting it fall, almost as if she was letting me take one last look at it before it disappeared. Despite the aftershocks of the orgasm lingering in my body, I felt a new rush of fear, anxiety, terror, and almost unbearable excitement as she grabbed another handful of hair and irresistibly pulled it down from behind, forcing my head back until I was looking up at the ceiling.  In a state of near-panic I tried to look up to see what she was doing, and then tried to look down so I could see in the mirror what was happening. I couldn’t see much of anything except the clippers as Michelle lifted them up until they were poised above my upturned face, a mere eighteen inches or so from my beautiful hair. I could feel my already-tight grip on the armrests getting even tighter, and I started to whimper uncontrollably, making small, high-pitched, unintelligible sounds. I tried to scrunch myself down lower in the chair to escape the approaching clippers, but after only scrunching down a bit my head was up against the headrest and all I could do was squirm my hips a bit back and forth and awkwardly jiggle my feet in agitation. As I heard the click of the clippers being turned on, and heard the droning buzz of the blades, I bit my lower lip in anxiety and my whimpering got even louder, interspersed with very soft, barely-audible whispers as I pleaded, over and over, “No! No, please! Please!”

 

Continuing to ignore me, and moving very slowly, either to make the moment of terror last as long as possible for me or to savor the moment of complete dominance for herself, Michelle brought the big black clippers with the #8 guard on them closer and closer to my forehead. My head was tilted back, and my long bangs were swept back from my forehead and mingled with the rest of my hair. I was still whimpering, perhaps even a bit louder now, but as the clippers got closer and closer my voice failed me and I stopped whispering my pleas for Michelle to stop. I felt myself squirming a bit more in the chair, and I tried to pull my head back a little, but I was trapped in place by the headrest and unable to do anything but futilely squirm my hips back a forth a bit. I was gripping the armrests as tightly as I could, and even though I could have let go at any time for some reason I felt like my wrists were bound to the armrests, holding me in place so I couldn’t escape.

 

Even the slight, nervous squirming of my hips stopped, though, as the clippers came closer, and I found myself simply freezing in total submission, like a gazelle cornered by a lion, as the clippers got to within an inch or so of my gorgeous, dark, waist-length tresses. I was still moaning and whimpering softly, and the expression on my face was that of a woman literally frozen in fear and terror, but none of that stopped Michelle. I was too focused on the approaching clippers to take note of what expression she was wearing as she prepared to shear me, but her behavior up to this point was a pretty good indication that she was calmly enjoying her dominant role in tonight’s major haircut.

 

Without a word, Michelle placed the clippers at my hairline in the center of my forehead and ruthlessly drew them back into my thick, dark locks, sending waves of silky hair cascading to the floor. I heard the sound of the clippers change in tone as they began shearing away my beautiful dark hair; I closed my eyes in ecstasy and my whimpering changed to a breathy, husky “Ohhhhh!!!!!” as another orgasm exploded through my body, causing my legs to quiver uncontrollably once more and my hips to squirm back and forth with pent-up energy. I kept my death grip on the armrests, and my head probably would have snapped uncontrollably to one side or the other except for the fact that Michelle was still holding a handful of my hair to keep me in place.

 

The only indication Michelle gave that she noticed my second very obvious orgasm was to pause after completing the first swath through my hair with the clippers. Patiently, and without saying a word, she maintained her grip on her my hair with her left hand while holding the clippers poised over my upturned face with her right. After more than a few seconds of moaning and grinding my hips a bit in the chair, I managed to steady my breathing a bit and open my eyes. When I did and saw the big black clippers hovering over my face, I immediately felt another rush of heat and excitement. Michelle brought the clippers to my forehead again and calmly cleared another path down the top of my head, moving from my forehead to the crown, and sending another cascade of silky, wavy waist-length locks sliding to the floor. I was sort of moaning and whimpering at the same time, feeling the most delicious combination of fear, excitement, dread, arousal, and outright terror as Michelle once again brought the clippers to my forehead and ran them down my scalp for a third time, sending more sheets of gorgeous hair sliding down the back of the chair to the floor. I continued whimpering and moaning as she used the clippers a third time but, curiously, I hadn’t said a single coherent word (other than my barely audible pleas as Michelle approached with the clippers) since Michelle had very calmly and dominantly informed me she would be giving me a one-inch buzz cut.

 

I felt the tension ease on my head as Michelle released her grip on my hair. I was actually a bit disappointed that she wouldn’t be “holding me down” any longer, even though to be honest she hadn’t been holding that tightly to begin with. But it had certainly enhanced the feeling of helplessness to know that she had a grip on me and was figuratively restraining me.

 

As Michelle let go I was able to lower my head from where I had been forced to stare pretty much straight up, to where I could look straight ahead into the mirror. I couldn’t help but gasp in excited and terrified shock as I got my first look at my hair after the clippers.

 

From the my forehead to my crown there was a four- or five-inch-wide path of inch-long hair sticking straight up, bordered on each side by my normal, silky, thick, dark, waist-length hair. The contrast was dramatic and I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of my beautiful hair that so many people regularly complimented me on. I felt a flash of regret begin to well up in me but, before it could take hold, Michelle rather firmly grabbed a handful of the long hair on the left side of my head and pulled it down, forcing me to tilt my head a bit to my left. My hands were still gripping the armrests tightly and I once again felt like I was being restrained and was “trapped in the chair.” All feelings of regret disappeared instantly from my mind and I found myself moaning and whimpering once more as Michelle lifted the clippers in her right hand while firmly holding me in place with her left.

 

Even though I’d already had quite a bit of hair sheared off, I hadn’t actually been able to watch as it happened, though the mere sound of the clippers shearing through my hair had been enough to bring me to orgasm. Looking ahead in the mirror now, instead of straight up at the ceiling, I could see what was happening this time. The actual sight of the clippers buzzing through the waist-length, wavy locks on the side of my head as I sat, helpless and submissive, biting my lower lip and whimpering softly as the dark sheets of my glorious mane were ruthlessly sheared off and slid down the cape to pool on the floor was overwhelmingly arousing to me. Before Michelle could even begin a second pass with the clippers I was lost in yet another orgasm, closing my eyes and curling my toes in ecstasy as my whole body shuddered and my head lolled forward and back and a brief but high-pitched “Yes!” escaped my lips.

 

Once again, Michelle didn’t comment on my obvious orgasm, but merely waited patiently until I stopped my excited squirming, my breathing returned to near-normal, and I opened my eyes. I should have been completely mortified after having multiple orgasms in a barber chair while letting a complete stranger buzz my hair off, but for some reason I was completely comfortable with Michelle. Maybe it was her similarities to me in appearance, or maybe it was how she seemed completely comfortable with the whole scenario herself, and seemed to know and be willing to do everything I wanted even if I didn’t really know I wanted it.

 

When she was satisfied I had calmed down, Michelle gave a little tug on my hair (not too hard, just enough to re-establish that I was being “restrained” and that she was in charge) and resumed shearing the right side of my head. I felt more waves of heat and pleasure pulsing through my body as I watched her heartlessly buzzing off locks of my gorgeous dark hair that were over two feet long – hair that would literally take me years to grow back. After a few more passes with the clippers the right side of my head was reduced to an inch-long carpet, barely long enough to touch my ears. As I looked at the shorn side and top of my head in the mirror I suddenly felt the urge to run my hand over my head and feel the velvety-looking softness for myself. But before I could even lift my hand Michelle laid her hand on my forearm, quite firmly, and calmly said, “Sit still.”

 

Once again I felt like I was simply unable to disobey her, feeling like I was simply incapable of moving my hand after she had told me to sit still. My submissive instincts were obviously exceeding easy for Michelle to read and tap into, as she had quickly figured out exactly how little restraint I needed to become totally compliant.

 

Michelle moved to my left side, pushing my head rather roughly so that it was tilted to my right, and then placing her left hand on the top of my head, firmly and in a no-nonsense manner, to hold my head still. This time she began by running the clippers from bottom to top, starting in front of my left ear and slowly moving them up until they emerged at the already-shorn hair on the top of my head. Watching the clippers effortlessly shearing through my thick hair, sending sheets of my wavy dark locks spilling down the cape to the floor, again sent shock waves of heat and pleasure coursing through me.

 

I was absolutely transfixed by the image I was looking at in the mirror; I saw myself sitting in the big barber chair, looking very small and helpless, with a red-striped barber cape securely tightly around my neck, looking and feeling completely “trapped under the cape”, biting my lower lip softly and whimpering in anxiety as the firm barber used the clippers to ruthlessly buzz my gorgeous waist-length hair into a brutally short cut! With each pass of the clippers, as more sheets of my silky dark hair slid down the cape to pool on my lap or on the ground, I felt a new pulse of heat throbbing through me.

 

Once she had reduced the left side of my head from waist-length locks to an inch-long pelt, Michelle moved behind the chair and rather forcefully pushed my head down until my chin was on my chest. This completely submissive posture, with Michelle standing behind me in a position of power, sent even more heat and pleasure radiating through me. I tried to look up as much as I could, and I was just barely able to watch in the mirror as Michelle ruthlessly ran the clippers from my nape up to my crown, sending the last few remaining sheets of dark, wavy tresses slithering down the cape to collect in my lap in a pool of raven-dark silk.

 

When I felt Michelle’s hand finally lift from its controlling position on the top of my head, I lifted my head and gazed upon my fully shorn head for the first time. My long, beautiful hair was gone, almost completely; only an inch-long pelt of velvety fur remained, uniformly covering my scalp. I turned my head slightly to the left and right, assessing my new look that I never would have agreed to and would have denied (vehemently, forcefully denied) ever being the slightest bit interested in. I looked like a completely different person! I felt unexpectedly daring and confident, and I inexplicably felt the urge to put on a slinky dress and go out on the town.

 

As I sat there, unable to tear my eyes away from the unfamiliar reflection staring back at me, Michelle popped a new attachment on the clippers and took a step back to assess my new look. Without a word she stepped behind the chair again and roughly pushed my head down until my chin was on my chest once more. I felt my heart leap into my throat and I gasped in renewed fear as I worried that she was going to shave me completely bald!

 

With a knowing smile that I could just barely see in the mirror, Michelle used the new attachment on the clippers to taper my hair in the back and around my ears, just like she had said she would when she first picked up the clippers. She was making the taper rather short, so I could easily see skin peeking through the clippered hair as she firmly pushed my head this way and that, buzzing away at the sides and the back without so much as a word as to how I might like it done. After a few minutes of fine tuning, she removed the attachment on the clippers and buzzed my sideburns into perfectly-shaped vee’s, which I would have thought looked too severe but, when I saw them in the mirror, actually set off the super-short yet totally feminine and sexy buzz cut quite nicely.

 

Michelle laid the clippers down on the counter and put a dab of hair gel in her palm, rubbing her hands together and then working the gel through my super short hair. She pinched tufts together here and there, and flattened out some portions while standing other sections up in spikes. After just a few moments she was done, and I couldn’t help but be amazed at how it took her about twenty seconds to style my hair, when I always had to allow myself at least an hour to wash, dry, and style my hair when it was long.

 

Michelle unclipped the cape and swept it off of me, throwing huge piles of my shorn tresses to the floor in the process. I sat perfectly still, looking in the mirror at the unfamiliar reflection of a petite, athletic woman in an expensive business suit, with conservative jewelry and understated make, topped off by a brutally short yet completely feminine and sexy buzz cut. I don’t think I moved or even breathed for a full minute as I sat transfixed by this new image of myself that I saw in the mirror.

 

With that knowing smile still on her face, Michelle leaned over as though to whisper in my ear. As she opened her mouth to speak I heard the blare of a car horn and the cacophonous shout of, “Hey! Lady! What’s the matter with you?”

 

With a start I found myself back in my car, still in the parking lot and still blocking traffic. The man in the car behind me was leaning out his window, one hand on the blaring horn and the other gesturing angrily towards my car.

 

“What’s your problem, lady?” he yelled, giving his car horn another blast for good measure. 

 

Completely disoriented, in a panic I reached a hand up to my head and felt the thick and totally familiar French braid that began just behind my bangs and continued down my back. I pulled the braid over my shoulder and saw that it was just as long as it ever was, reaching well past my breasts. The blaring car horn behind me sounded again and I quickly pulled into the empty parking space, my face turning red with embarrassment. The gentleman in the car spun his tires as he pulled out and gifted me with another blast on his horn and a rude gesture as he tore by.

 

I put my car in park and took a deep breath to steady my jangled nerves. I had day-dreamed the entire thing! I couldn’t believe it. I kept touching my nearly waist-length braid to reassure myself it was still there and I hadn’t done anything crazy in a momentary loss of sanity. Smiling to myself, I took another deep breath and leaned my head back against the headrest, taking a moment to collect myself.

 

After a few moments, I looked up at the window of the barber shop and saw that the woman inside was bustling around the shop with a broom, apparently tidying up for the evening. The “Open” sign in the shop’s window was dark and the striped barber pole was dim and no longer spinning slowly around and around. Clearly she was closed for the evening.

 

As I sat there, smiling to myself at the memory of my daydream and trying to decide if I was crazy, I saw the woman in the shop stop sweeping and walk over to the window. She glanced out the window in the general direction of my car and smiled. Without thinking I started to look behind me to see who she was smiling at, but before I could she very definitely pointed at me with her index finger, and then crooked her finger at me in a very friendly but unmistakable “come here” gesture. Still with the same smile on her face, she went to the door of the shop and opened it a few inches, leaving it ajar like that and then returning to the window.

 

As I looked at the woman standing in the window, smiling warmly and confidently at me, I ran my hands over my thick braid again, and then a few more times. I put my hand on the door handle to open it, but then paused, unable to decide if this was all just another day dream or if it was really happening. With one hand on my thick, dark braid and the other on the door handle, I took a deep breath and tried to decide what to do.

2 responses to “SORRY, I thought you were closed ……

Leave a Reply