The Barber’s Choice Club

The Barber’s Choice Club

 

By Shorngirl

 

         Looking back, it all started very innocently.

         It was a Saturday morning, about a year ago, when my husband, Gerry, asked if I would mind if he slipped off to the barbershop for a trim. Bored, after having cleaned up after breakfast, I really wasn’t looking forward to sitting around the house, alone. “Can I come with you?” The question caught him off guard, and I wondered if I’d trespassed in an area women weren’t allowed to tread.

         “Why on earth would you want to do that?” He asked, earnestly.

         “Because I’m going to be bored sitting around the house,” I answered.

         “Take a walk, or a bike ride. You’re going to be even more bored sitting around a barbershop with a bunch of men. Besides, I’ve never seen anyone bring their wives along, down there.”

         “That’s a bit chauvinistic, isn’t it?” I accused, smirking.

         “Fine. Whatever. You want to come with me. Fine.” He submitted. Gerry was annoyed, but then I was always good at pushing his buttons, as it were.

         “Great. Let me put my sneakers on.”

         He tapped his foot while I methodically tied each shoe, under his supervision. It was a sort of ritual, him waiting for me before we went anywhere. “Can we go?”

         “Yep.” I hopped up and cheerfully followed him out to the car, which seemed to annoy him even more.

         Gerry was quieter than usual on the way into the village, and I wondered if I might have pushed things a bit too far. “You know, I can just go shopping while you get your hair cut.”

         “No, you wanted to go; now you’re going.” He spat.

         I’d definitely pushed it a bit far, this time.

         As we pulled up in front of the village barbershop, Gerry sighed. ‘Marty’s Chop Shop’, painted on the large plate glass window, was smack dab in the middle of Main Street. It even had the requisite red striped pole spinning next to the entrance. “Okay. Let’s go.”

         As we entered the shop, I realized that Saturdays must be a busy day for haircutting. A long row of wooden chairs lined one wall, while four large swivel chairs occupied the other. Everyone I the shop looked up as we entered, but did a double-take at me, an invader, apparently.

         Gerry took a number from a rack near the door; a small plastic card, and I wondered if I needed to take one as well. As I reached for one, Gerry pushed my hand away. “Unless you want a haircut, you’ll leave those alone.” I thought about taking one, just to piss him off, but stopped myself.

         “If she wants to take a number, don’t stop her, Gerry.” One of the barbers kidded, as we took a seat in the only two chairs still available. He watched me as I walked toward the back of the shop, and I was certain he had his eye on my long blonde hair.

         It had been quite some time since I’d been to the salon, but I still took meticulous care of my crowning glory. It very nearly reached the small of my back, and it was the source of many compliments from men and women alike. Why did I feel as though it was under threat in that place? Considering the cuts most of the men were getting, I supposed it made sense for me to feel that way.

         We sat there for what seemed like an age, although I was somewhat intrigued as I watched each guy go up and methodically get their hair cut in similar fashion, usually short back and sides, with an occasional buzz.

         When Gerry’s number was finally called, coincidentally by the same barber who had made the comment about my taking a number, he seemed to take special interest in me. The conversation between him and my husband was perfectly audible.

         “Since when do you bring your wife to the shop, Gerry?” The barber asked, who was slightly taller and a tad older than him.

         “She wanted to come,” Gerry explained, embarrassed.

         “Maybe she wants her haircut.” And with that, he looked over in my direction, causing me to fidget nervously in my chair.

         “Nah. She loves her long hair, and so do I, for that matter.” Gerry insisted.

         “Maybe she wants a change. Women do that from time to time, Gerry.” The barber mused. To be honest, the idea of the guy having at my hair sent shivers down my spine. I could never.

         Just then, the strangest sensation began to tickle me between my legs. I was aroused, and that made no sense at all. Was I aroused by the idea of having my hair cut in a barbershop? Not possible, I thought, chalking it up to raging hormones.

         I watched as the barber used the clippers to pare down the back and sides of my husband’s head, far shorter than he normally had it cut. I could see his scalp, white under his dark brown hair, where the clippers had done their job. The barber plowed a border around his ears that seemed to be right to the skin. Why was he having his hair cut this way? Then it occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t even his choice.

         “I think she likes the way I’m cutting it, Gerry.” The barber chortled, noting my undivided attention. “Should I tell her about the Barber’s Choice club, Gerry?”

         “No, no, don’t.” He said, nervously.

         “I’m pretty sure she can hear us anyway, can’t you, sweetheart?” He asked, looking directly at me. “Hubby here joined what’s called the Barber’s Choice Club a while back. He gets a discounted price, and we get to do whatever we want.”

         I watched as he changed the guard on the clippers and promptly ran them straight down the middle of Gerry’s head, leaving a wide path of half-inch stubble in their wake.

         “I think that got her attention.” The barber snickered, continuing to peel away any remaining hair on Gerry’s head. Was he doing this because I was there? I was flushed all of a sudden, and almost fled out the door. At the same time, there was no doubt that my pussy was wet. What the hell?

         As the barber pulled the cape free from Gerry’s neck, I was shocked by the transformation. He’d come in with a slightly shaggy businessman’s cut and was leaving looking like a Marine. “Introduce me to your wife, Gerry.”

         I saw a nervous wince wash over my husband’s face as he motioned me to stand. “Marcus, this is my wife, Sherrie. Sherrie, this is my barber, Marcus.”

         Still a bit dizzy from my strange state of arousal, I shook the hand that was offered, his strong grip not sparing my delicate, feminine hand. “Well, Sherrie, I hope you enjoyed the show. Care to join our special club?”

         Gerry glared at him and then at me, and I swore for a moment I was going to accept. “No, I don’t think I’m ready for a crewcut any time soon,” I replied, shakily.

         I think he sensed my nervousness and laughed. “When you’re ready for a change, Sherie, you know where to find me.”

         Gerry and I hurried out of the barbershop, and I couldn’t get away from there fast enough. I watched as my husband ran his hand over his shorn head, grimacing. “Jesus, what the hell was he thinking?”

         “It seems like he was putting on a show… for me, Gerry.” I managed, as we pulled away from the curb.

         “You’re probably right. Why did I even listen to you?” He sighed.

         “Hey, you’re the one who joined this club, what it was called.” I scolded.

         “Barber’s Choice club.” He mumbled. “I get every other haircut free of charge, and normally it goes okay.”

         “Well, now you look like a recruit. How are you going to explain that at work?” I asked.

         “It’s not like that. Lots of guys have short hair at work.” He explained.

         “You think he was serious about cutting my hair?” I asked, jokingly.

         “Don’t even think about going in there, Sherrie,” Gerry warned. “He’ll do it, and I don’t think I could handle you with a brushcut.”

         “Really?” I fumed. “Is that all I am to you, a pretty girl with long blonde hair?”

         “Of course not. But is it a sin for me to like your hair the way it is?” He countered.

         “I’m glad you like my hair, but it would be nice if you’d love me with or without it.” I admonished.

         “I would hate it, but I would still love you, even if you were as bald as an onion.” Gerry sighed.

         “Well, let’s hope you never have to find out,” I said as we pulled into the driveway. “Now it’s my turn to get used to you being next to bald.”

         “It’s not that short.” He grumbled.

         “It’s pretty damned short, boot.” I kidded.

         Needless to say, Gerry didn’t go back to the barbershop for a good while after that, allowing his hair to slowly grow in. To be honest, I kind of liked the skinned-down look on him, and the way the bristles tickled my fingertips when we fucked. For whatever reason, it seemed to send me over the edge that much faster, which was a good thing as Gerry never did have much staying power.

         It must have been a month since “the haircut” as we came to call it, when a yellow postcard arrived amongst the rest of the junk mail. I was about to toss it with the rest when a certain phrase caught my eye. ‘The Barber’s Choice Club’ was printed in bold letters on one side of the card.

Join

The Barber’s Choice Club

Pay for one and the next cut’s free

Let us make the decision for you

Look great and save

 

Marty’s Chop Shop

4532 Main Street

Willard, Il.

 

         He had to have sent it; Marcus. I frowned and went to toss it into the bin with the rest, when a little devil crawled into my panties and stopped me. What would happen if I filled it out and sent it in? I thought it would certainly give Marcus a thrill, but the strange thing was, it did the same for me.

         Grabbing a pen, I turned the card over and filled in the particulars. Name, address, email, and phone, and no stamp needed. Tickled, I walked down to the corner mailbox, barefoot, no less, and tossed it in. Of course, once it was in there, there was no getting it back, and I immediately had second thoughts.

         What if it were some sort of mandatory thing? Like, you had to go and get your haircut, or there was some sort of breach of contract or something. I couldn’t see any way that they could force me to come down there. Regardless, I couldn’t get what I’d done out of my head.

         That evening, as I cleared the dishes from the table, I asked Gerry about the club. “What is this Barber’s Choice Club, anyway?”

         “It seemed like an easy way to save money. Marcus talked me into it a few haircuts in, and even though he could technically shave me bald, I doubted he would. And the thing is, he didn’t, until you showed up down there.” Gerry was still convinced that it was because of me that Marcus had given him so short a cut.

         “Is there any sort of obligation?” I asked, warily.

         “Sort of. I mean, the longer you go, the shorter they’ll cut it the next time. It’s sort of a gentleman’s agreement.” Gerry explained. “They’ll send out these cards reminding you that you’d better get down there soon.”

         It was then that I realized that the postcard wasn’t even meant for me, it was for Gerry to get his ass down the see Marcus. “Well, it’s been a month, Gerry. Does that mean they’ll cut it short again when you go?” I asked.

         “Well, I haven’t gotten a card yet, so I guess I’m safe.” He mused.

         “Actually, you got one today,” I admitted.

         “Really? I guess I’d better take it down there and save my ass then. Where is it?” He asked.

         “Um… I threw it out.” Not wanting to fess up to what I’d actually done.

         “Okay.” Gerry got up and began pawing through the bin, finding the various other mail that I’d thrown in. “Are you sure?”

         “Why does it matter?” I asked.

         “Because if I show up without the card, it’s another skin job.” He answered, frustrated that the card was missing.

         “What if I told you that I filled it out?” I mouthed almost silently.

         “You did WHAT!” He stood straight up from the trash and stared at me. “You’re joking, right?”

         “Afraid not. I did it as a joke, you know, thinking your buddy Marcus would get a kick out of it.” I sighed.

         “Do you realize what you’ve done?” Gerry seemed deadly serious.

         “It’s not like they can force me to show up,” I said, offhandedly.

         “Jesus Christ, Sherrie. You’re playing with fire, here.” He scolded.

         “Don’t be silly.” But deep down, I was shaking in my proverbial boots.

         The following Saturday, when Gerry returned from the barber, I was surprised to see that they hadn’t skinned him to the bone. My husband was so certain that he was in for a ‘bone job’ as he had put it. Instead, it was a reasonable trim. I was almost disappointed as I wanted to feel that stubble again in the sack.

         “Do you know why they let me off, Sherrie?” He asked, menacingly. “Because they received your postcard. Marcus even showed me. Do you know he has it taped up on the mirror in front of his chair?”

         “Like I said, it was a joke.” I mused.

         “Not to him. He has all sorts of ideas about what he’s going to do to you.” Gerry chortled, without humor.

         “I suppose he told you?” I asked.

         “I had to listen to it the whole time, with the rest of the shop laughing over it; over you.” He hissed. What should have annoyed me, only served to excite. The idea of a bunch of guys joking over what they might do to me, and my waist-length hair had my pussy wet, and getting wetter. “You know what else?” He asked. “If you don’t show up down there before my next haircut, he’s going to shave me bald.”

         “Don’t be silly. Just don’t go. Find another barbershop.” I suggested.

         “Where?” He asked. “The city? That’s an hour drive each way.”

         It was the only barbershop in town, I had to admit, and people came from miles around to go there, so perhaps there weren’t any other options. “Well, I guess you’ll be sporting a chrome dome then.”

         “Fuck you, Sherrie. You got me into this mess. I’ll be damned if I’m getting shaved because of you.” Gerry had never raised his voice like that to me, ever. It was a wake-up call, and I realized that this was indeed my doing, and I had better face the music.

         “Fine. I’ll go down there and sit in Marcus’s chair. Is that what you want?” I spat.

         “No, Sherrie, it’s not. Right now, it doesn’t seem like you’ve left yourself any other options. You know, forget it. Maybe I can live with a shaved head.” He resigned.

         “Gerry, you shouldn’t have to pay for my little… blunder. I joined this stupid club, so I guess I’d better fulfil my… obligation.”

         Well, I knew that when I dropped that damned card into the mailbox, it was a mistake. Now I was on my way down Main Street, dreading what I’d done. I’d walked the mile or so from our house, giving myself time to mull over my options. A few times, I had almost turned around, but knowing the consequences, I couldn’t do it.

         The spinning barber pole came into view, and it was as though I was climbing the steps to the gallows. Strangely enough, along with the fear came the damned arousal again. I walked the last hundred feet at a crawl, and it all seemed quite surreal.

         “It’s only hair,” I muttered under my breath as I reached for the old brass door handle. It was a Thursday, so there wasn’t the crowd that I remembered from that Saturday over a month ago. There he was, giving a haircut to a young kid, who had obviously walked in with a lot more hair than he was to leave with. All around the chair, snippets of blond curls lay on the linoleum floor.

         I looked over at the number rack, pulling a plastic card from the thing and moving to the first chair available. There were only four other men in the shop, and Marcus seemed to be the only one cutting. He looked over at me and smiled. “Hello, Sherrie. Take a number and have a seat.”

         I waved the card that was already slippery with the sweat on my fingers. At least these four would go before me, and I’d have time to think about this once and for all. The thing was, I was there, I had a number, and there would be no escape.

         A few minutes later, a second barber appeared from the back, eyeing me as he called out. “Next.” An elderly gentleman rose and took a seat in his chair. He looked over at Marcus and then back at me.

         “She’s mine, Marty.” Marcus insisted as he finished up the boy, who now sported some sort of Ivy League burr. “Short enough for ya, kid?” The boy rubbed his head, nodding sadly, as though whatever had happened hadn’t been his decision. Barber’s choice, I thought. Perhaps. “Thirty-eight.”

         A young man stood and took his place. I saw the tell-tale yellow card being handed over to Marcus. Another member, I thought. “So, what are we doing, Vince?” The guy opened his mouth, but was cut off abruptly. “Just kidding.”

         Marcus grabbed the clippers and didn’t hesitate at all. The guy cringed as the whirring machine crawled over the top of his head, reducing his neatly coifed hair to stubble. I couldn’t help but think Marcus was doing this for my benefit. Was he skinning this guy just to impress me, or to scare me? If it was the latter, he was succeeding.

         I felt my pussy getting wet, and I knew that if he was going to do that to me, I might just have an orgasm right in his chair. At the same time, I could barely catch my breath.

         A few more guys showed up and took numbers behind mine, all glaring at this blonde girl who had found her way into their shop. None of them missed the fact that I was holding a number. Now I knew there would be an audience for whatever Marcus had planned.

         I looked down at the card in my hand, the number ‘40’ glaring at me like a prison sentence. The older gentleman was finished quite quickly, and the other barber called up the man who had been sitting next to me. Thirty-Nine, I thought. “I’m next, Jesus,” I mumbled under my breath.

         Marcus shook out the cape, the man standing quickly from the chair; a hand wandering tentatively over his freshly shorn head. “You look good and clean, Vince.” He immediately glanced over at me as he cleaned up his station. “I do believe you’re next, Sherrie.” He spun the chair in a mock effort to be polite.

         I looked down at the card and then back at Marcus. “Yes, I am, I guess.” I stammered.

         “No guessing about it, young lady. You are next.” He ushered me into the large leather and chrome chair and turned it back toward the mirror. Gerry was right, there was my card, front and center on the mirror for all to see. “Hold up your hair.” Marcus demanded, all the niceties disappearing from his tone. I did as he asked.

         He wrapped a paper strip around my slender neck, and the elastic of it seemed to cinch almost too tightly. Tiny remnants of previous ‘victims’ clung to the cape as he secured it around my neck. “Can I let go now?” I asked.

         “Why don’t you run your fingers through it one last time, Sherrie?” Marcus suggested, smugly. “You’ll never have another chance.”

         I decided I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “That’s okay, I’ll pass on that.”

         “That’s fine by me.” He seemed a bit annoyed, and I wondered if it was wise to piss off the guy who had complete reign over my appearance. I did as he asked, my fingers finding my hair and running the length of it as it slid back over the red and white cape. “It is beautiful, Sherrie. Unfortunately, it belongs to me now.”

         “It’s still my hair, though,” I commented.

         “You know, your husband was convinced that you’d renege on your club membership. Such a pleasant surprise that you didn’t.” Marcus mused. “Now, who does your hair belong to?”

         I knew what he was looking for, and I fought the urge to resist, knowing that I had better play the game. He was dusting off his clippers as I resigned. “It belongs to you, Marcus.”

         “What belongs to me, Sherrie?” He leaned closer so his face was inches from my own.

         “My hair, my hair belongs to you.” I managed.

         “Our newest member of the Barber’s Choice Club has made the pledge.” He announced to the small audience. There was some polite applause, as though it was a frequent ritual. “I suppose you think I’m just going to hack it all off, just because I can?” He waited for my reply.

         “That’s up to you, Marcus.” I sighed, my eyes drifting away from the mirror and my reflection.

         “Good answer, Sherrie. Good answer.” He flicked on the clippers, which whirred to life. “Time to lose the length now. We’ll need to start there.” I felt the clippers at my nape, the vibration sending chills down my spine, terminating right where I knew they would. Rather than running them up the back of my head, I heard them labor as he pulled them back through my hair, sending a shower of blonde tendrils to the floor.

         “No turning back now, Sherrie.” He said as he continued around, more and more of my hair gathering at the foot of the chair. My eyes were glued to the mirror as a ragged bob began to emerge from my once glorious mane. My hands were resting on my thighs, but my pussy was begging for one of them to find it. How could this be arousing me? It wasn’t a logical question, because it obviously was. Slowly, I allowed my right hand to slide between my legs, the slight pressure through my jeans enough to elicit an internal moan. At least I thought it was internal.

         I caught his eye as he moved around to clip the other side, and a grin appeared on his face. “I think someone is enjoying their haircut.” Marcus made sure everyone heard. “We’re just getting started, Sherrie.”

         When he finished removing the bulk of my hair, he stepped back as if to allow me to absorb what he had done, and how I looked now. Gone was the long blonde hair that had graced my head for years, replaced by a choppy, uneven bob that barely covered my ears. There was nothing elegant about it. In fact, I looked like a ragamuffin. “You’re not going to…”

         “Leave it like that? I could, and there’d be nothing you could do about it.” The clippers roared back to life. “But no, not doing that. You’ll leave with a proper haircut.” He had replaced the blades on the clippers, and I should have been grateful, because he ran them right up the back of my head.

         The suddenness of the action sent another wave of pleasure through my loins, so as he carved in another furrow next to the first, I was finding it difficult to keep the evidence of my arousal away from my face. More hair was cascading down the cape, the ragged bob slowly replaced by a severe taper that ran all the way around and nearly to my crown.

         My ears, which I hadn’t seen, save for when I’d used them to keep my hair out of my eyes, were now exposed completely. Changing blades again, he smiled, carving a wide arch around each of them, and from what I could see, right to the skin.

         The top of my head was still a tangle of blonde curls, looking completely out of place with the shorn and tapered back and sides. To my surprise, Marcus took up a pair of scissors, and I began to have a hope that I’d be leaving there with at least something that could be styled or at least combed.

         He wasn’t gentle at all as he worked around my head, the comb dragging, the scissors hacking, and more hair flying to the floor. It must have been quite a mess I was making down there. Slowly, the shape of my head began to appear through the locks, as they fell short and neat into place.

         Marcus continued to snip until the hair just barely lay down, blending the top into the tapered back and sides. Beneath all those golden blonde locks, the hair was darker, not brown, but decidedly dirty blonde. It wasn’t a good look. Meanwhile, my pussy seemed to be reveling in the show, soaking my panties.

He sprayed down what was left and carved a part into the left side of my head, combing it over so it fell into a very short fringe on my forehead. The clippers came out again, and he carefully worked around my head, taking the back and sides even shorter, and blending it into the short crop that still clung to the top of my head.

“What do you think, boys. Should I leave it there?” He asked the shop. I suddenly realized that the place was almost full, perhaps the men stopping in to witness my undoing. It was all I could do to keep from coming, as my finger strummed my clitoris through the thick material of my jeans. I was being humiliated deliberately by this man, and I liked it. What the hell was wrong with me?

There was a general consensus amongst the onlookers that the haircut wasn’t quite short enough. “Well, Sherrie. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your admirers.” He grabbed the clippers once again, looking around the room. “This won’t hurt at all, sweetheart.” He offered, as he placed them at the top of my forehead.

I was screaming inside as I felt them push back over the top of my head, but it wasn’t out of fear or anger, but ecstasy. I was coming, and I knew that every man in the place was seeing it on my face. In the mirror, the blades left only stubble behind, barely a quarter of an inch at most. He was taking me all the way down, and I was loving every second of it. Gone were the tapered sides now as he evened out the military crewcut I was getting.

I was totally spent when I realized that he had opened the cape and the paper strip. There was nothing feminine about the person staring back at me in the mirror. But as Marcus spread lather over my neck and around my ears, I thought I might orgasm all over again.

“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you, Sherrie?” He asked, dipping close to my naked ear in a whisper. “I could make it even more fun if you want.” He pressed his torso against my arm, and I could feel his rigid cock. Startled, I looked up at him, but in my present state, all I could do was smile.

Backing away, he stropped his straight razor and began shaving me, first at my nape and then around my ears, making sure to scrape a generous border around each. Marcus smiled, rubbing a lotion in his palms before working it into my exposed scalp. It stung like the devil, and woke me up from the stuporous afterglow I was lost in.

Suddenly, it was as though I had lived through a waking dream. Gone was any arousal or excitement, and I was left with the stark reality that I’d just been shorn for the entertainment of a few local men, all of whom had witnessed my complete humiliation. I felt like hiding my face, as the cape was lifted away.

“Well, you were enjoying yourself, weren’t you?” Marcus kidded, looking down between my legs as I stood from the chair, still a bit woozy. Following his gaze, I was horrified by the damp spot that spread from the crotch of my jeans.

“Oh, my god.” I spluttered, only then seeing the mass of blonde hair that encircled the base of his chair. Between being exposed for what could only be considered a slut, and witnessing my once crowning glory lying lifeless in a heap, I felt like running.

“Yes, Sherrie. You are a most welcome member of the club.” Marcus exclaimed. There was some laughter amongst the men as I dragged a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and handed it to him. “And she’s paying us too.” Marcus mused.

“I just need to leave, please,” I begged.

“Next week, little Sherrie, only it’ll be on Wednesday.” Marcus insisted.

“But you’re closed on Wednesday,” I mumbled.

“Exactly.”

I was halfway down Main Street before I realized what Marcus was insinuating. My hands kept finding their way to my head, still not quite believing what had happened. A few cars honked their horns as I made my way home, and I really regretted not driving. How humiliating, thinking back on what had happened in the barbershop.

I was bald, save for a strip of stubble that masqueraded as hair on my crown. What was Gerry going to think? Hell, what were my friends going to say? What if the men in the barbershop talked about me, about what I’d done? “Fuck.” I spat as I turned the corner onto my street. “God, I hope the neighbors aren’t looking.”

Once I was safely inside my house, I ran to the bathroom, verifying how hideous I looked. It would almost have been better if Marcus had finished the job. My ears felt like rubber as I ran my hands around them, searching for any hair at all. The sides of my head were smooth, making my normally delicate ears seem too large. “Oh, look at me.” I moaned, but that gnawing sensation was returning, and I quickly stripped out of my jeans and shirt.

Feeling the full blonde bush gave me some comfort, but it only accentuated my shorn head all the more. “Jesus, I’ve got more hair on pussy than my head.” Almost laughing, as I felt the moisture within. I was thankful no one was home, because I was sprawled out on the bathroom floor, naked and masturbating, one hand in my muff and the other rubbing my denuded skull.

Later, as I sat in the kitchen, I contemplated what I was going to do. Without thinking, I found myself checking my phone. I clicked on Wednesday, and smiled unabashedly when I found it was wide open.