BarberBrad
After that transformative summer night, Brad and Stella settled into a new rhythm. Brad, now hooked on the sleek, clean feel of his shaved head, turned it into a daily ritual. Every morning, he’d stand at the bathroom sink, razor in hand, methodically scraping away the faintest hint of stubble until his scalp shone like polished marble. He’d grin at himself in the mirror, flexing his neck to admire the look—bold, unapologetic, and, as Stella often said, sexy as hell. Stella, meanwhile, let her hair grow out a bit. The initial thrill of her shaved head lingered in her memory, but she was curious about a new style. Over weeks, her scalp sprouted a soft, dark fuzz that morphed into a short pixie cut—uneven at first, then shaped by Brad’s clumsy attempts with scissors into something resembling a tousled crop. She liked it well enough; it was light, practical for the lingering heat, and framed her face in a way that made her feel sharp and alive. But as she ran her fingers through it, she found herself missing the electric buzz of bare skin, the raw sensation of nothing between her and the world.
Stella couldn’t keep her hands off Brad’s head, though. She’d roll up behind him in her wheelchair while he cooked dinner, reaching up to rub his smooth scalp, her fingers tracing lazy circles. “You’re my personal stress ball,” she’d tease, and he’d laugh, leaning into her touch. It became their little ritual, a quiet intimacy that grounded them. One lazy Sunday, they sprawled on the couch, watching an old army movie flicker across the TV screen. A scene caught Stella’s eye: a tough-as-nails female soldier sporting a flattop—short sides buzzing up to a crisp, flat plateau of hair on top, like a miniature landing strip. It was striking, precise, and undeniably cool. Stella sat up straighter, her gaze glued to the screen. “Look at that,” she murmured, nudging Brad. “That’s badass.” The image lodged itself in her mind, replaying as she drifted off that night, her fingers itching to feel that texture.
The next morning, over coffee, she couldn’t hold it in. “Brad, what if I got a flattop like that girl in the movie? You think you could cut it for me?” Her tone was half-joking, but her eyes sparkled with real intent.
Brad snorted, nearly spilling his coffee. “Me? Stel, I’m no barber. I can barely trim your pixie without making you look like you lost a fight with a lawnmower. A flattop’s precision work—unless you want to end up bald like me again, you need a pro.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I’d butcher it, and you’d hate me.”
Stella laughed too, swatting his arm. “Fine, ruin my dreams, why don’t you?” But the idea didn’t fade. It buzzed in her head like the clippers had months ago, insistent and alive. The next day, she wheeled herself out for errands—groceries, a pharmacy run—her mind still turning over that flattop. As she rolled down a quiet side street, something caught her eye: a faded red-and-white barber pole spinning lazily outside a tiny shop she’d never noticed before. The sign read “Peter’s Barbershop” in chipped gold letters, and a smaller plaque boasted “Since 1992.” Curiosity tugged at her, and she maneuvered her wheelchair up the cracked ramp to peek inside.
The door jingled as she entered, and a small, wiry man with a gleaming shaved head looked up from sweeping clippings off the floor. His name tag read “Peter,” and his thick Italian accent rolledක
rolled out as he greeted her with a warm, “Buongiorno, bella! What brings you to my shop?” Stella hesitated, then blurted, “Do you know how to cut a flattop?”
Peter threw his head back and laughed, a rich, gravelly sound. “A flattop? Best in town! White sides, landing strip on top—you want the classic, sì?” He gestured to the barber chair, his hands already itching to work.
Stella didn’t fully grasp the barber lingo—white sides? landing strip?—but his confidence was infectious. “Yes!” she said, grinning. “Exactly that.”
Peter helped her from her wheelchair to the chair, his hands steady and practiced, then spun her away from the mirror. “No peeking,” he warned, his tone playful. “Trust me, you’ll love it.” The clippers hummed to life, and Stella felt that familiar thrill as they bit into her hair. Peter worked with the focus of an artist, buzzing the sides and back down to a pale stubble—those “white walls” he’d mentioned—then tapering up to a perfect plateau on top. He switched to scissors for the crown, snipping carefully to level it flat, then ran a straight razor along the edges for crisp lines. Hair rained down around her, a soft patter on the tile floor. Stella sat still, her heart thumping, anticipation building with every pass.
When he finally spun her around, she gasped. The flattop was shorter than she’d imagined—barely a quarter-inch on top, the sides so tight she could see scalp. It was severe, almost military, but undeniably striking. She reached up, rubbing the flat top with her fingertips, feeling the stiff bristles give way to velvet-smooth sides. A slow smile spread across her face. “Holy crap, Peter, this is amazing.”
He beamed, brushing off her shoulders. “Told you, bella. Best in town.”
Stella paid him—tipping generously for the masterpiece—and wheeled home, barely containing her excitement. When she rolled through the door, Brad was sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels. He glanced up, then did a double take, his jaw dropping. “Stel—what the hell? You actually did it?”
She struck a mock pose, hands on hips. “Meet your new flattop wife. Like it?”
Brad was on his feet in an instant, crossing the room to run his hands over her head. His fingers grazed the buzzed sides, then flattened across the top, and a grin split his face. “Like it? I can’t stop touching it. You look hot—like, dangerously hot.” His hands lingered, tracing the sharp edges, and she shivered under his touch, that old spark flaring back to life.
Before she could say more, Brad bent down, scooping her gently from the wheelchair into his arms. She laughed, looping her arms around his neck as he carried her to the bedroom, his grip strong and sure. “Guess I’ve got a new fetish,” he murmured, laying her on the bed. Their laughter faded into kisses, urgent and deep, his hands never leaving her flattop as they tumbled into each other. The night stretched on, fueled by the raw, electric pull of her new look—sharp, bold, and theirs alone.
In the days that followed, Stella caught herself rubbing her flattop constantly, loving the contrast of textures, the way it made her feel fierce and free. Brad, too, couldn’t keep his hands off her, and their summer—once a slog of heat and struggle—turned into something wild and alive, all because of a haircut and a little barbershop magic.
