A Few Healthy Trims

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(I used a random number generator and coin flipper for the outcomes throughout, so I had no control over the choices made. Just FYI.)


A Few Healthy Trims


It was equal parts the morning light and the soft memory of her stinging ass that caused Heather to wake from her luxuriously deep sleep. Stretching languidly in her bed, her naked body half covered by light thin blankets and half covered by her wealth of red curls, she let out a long, slow, satisfied grunt and giggled softly to herself, thinking back on the lovely spanking she’d received from her boyfriend and master the night before.

It had been delicious, and so well earned, though not difficultly so. 

With the half smile on still on her face, she rolled to her side and opened her eyes, finding Bret looking down at her, his stance still very much that of her master. It sent a delightful shill through her, and she instinctively reached to her neck to play with the delicate collar she wore.

“It’s about time you woke up,” he said, his slender yet cut form silhouetted in the light through the window. He was clothed, which disappointed her a little bit, but at the same time the power difference between that and her completely nude vulnerability wasn’t the worst thing in the world…

“Up,” he said.

She stood, moaning again as she arched her back and stretched the last of her sleepiness from her slender limbs. Her hair, long and wild and riotous, tumbled all around her, hiding her left eye and both breasts and tickled her reddened ass. Her master shook his head slowly, and she couldn’t help but smile back at him, biting her bottom lip in anticipation of a continued punishment.

He’d warned her what would happen if they were late to his friend’s wedding last night. He told her more than once what the it started and begged her to start getting ready in plenty of time… and yet they were still almost an hour late, all because she couldn’t decide whether to wear her hair loose and free or in a fairytale braid. 

Could he really blame her for wanting to look her best on his arm?

The handprints on her pale ass suggested the answer was ‘yes.’

Still, it was her nature to be a brat. He knew that. He should have expected her to mess up.

“You’re hair has gotten ridiculously long,” he said.

She bit her lip and nodded, clasping her hands behind her as she swayed her shoulders from side to side. “But you think it’s pretty, don’t you, master?”

“I think it caused us to be late last night. Don’t you agree?”

“I wanted it to look nice for you.”

He made a sound that suggested he didn’t quite believe her. “Unfortunately, it seems like it’s more than you can handle.”

He took her hand, and half-pulled/half-guided her in front of the large mirror above their dresser. She was a tumbleweed of ginger curls with legs and one dark green eye. Her breath hesitated in her chest as she looked at his very serious reflection, wondering what he was planning on doing with his completely naked little brat…

His hand grabbed her wrist, lifting her hand so her palm faced upward. In it, he placed a six-sided die.

“Roll it,” he ordered.

She did, sending it clacking across the dresser top. When it stopped, three small dots looks up at her.

“Okay,” he said, rather ominously. Then he smiled, and stepped away. “Get your shower and get dressed. Comb your hair, and we’ll go out for brunch.”

Before he left the bedroom, he glanced back at his precious little tumbleweed with legs. “Wear your hair down.”


Heather treated herself to a luxuriously long shower, hoping the hot steam rising around her would soothe the nerves that the die roll had given rise to. They did not, though. The fact that Bret had given no indication of what the result meant refused to let her her focus on any other thoughts, constantly nibbling t the corner of her mind no matter what else she tried to think about.

After her shower, she pulled a thin white tank top over her head and matched it with a light blue skirt. Then some scrappy shoes and, finally, she tugged off the extra-large shower cap and let her curls fall free so she could comb them as ordered, eventually herding them into some semblance of a purposeful style. She was no longer a tumbleweed, but she still looked like the silky lengths could possibly outweigh her. She gave brief consideration to whether some careful layering would lighten the load and enliven her natural ringlets, but it was just a fleeting thought.

Quickly, at Bret’s behest, she grabbed a purse and linked her arm in his as they walked out to their car.

Brunch itself was lovely, taken at a bistro in a city center plaza, with people quietly going about their Saturday morning errands around them. Bret had actually bought a newspaper from a nearby stand before they sat down, though he didn’t bother to look at it while they ate and drank and just looked into each other’s eyes and enjoyed the morning.

Eventually, though, Bret looked at his watch and smiled.

“So,” he said. “Your hair.”

Heather blinked in surprise, gathering a few locks in front of her shoulder and running her fingers through it protectively. “I should apologize for last night. I just wanted to look good for you, and…”

“But we can agree it’s a bit long, right? That maybe it’s time for a healthy trim?” As he spoke, he pulled something from his pocket and set it on the table in front of her.

Her collar.

She looked down at it, and then up at hime, and down at it again and then up to him again. He raised an eyebrow.

Slowly, Heather reached forward and took the collar, lifting it around her neck and under her thick hair and clasping it in place.

“So?” He asked.

She lifted the end of the locks she played with, and swallowed nervously. “Perhaps, Master,” she whispered.

“I’m glad we agree.” He nodded past her shoulder. 

When Heather turned to look, she saw a small, cozy-looking salon across the plaza. 

“You have an appointment in five minutes. I want you to go get a healthy trim.”

When Heather turned back to look at Bret, he was holding the newspaper and motioning for the waiter to refill his coffee.

Heather’s heart dropped, and somehow she felt chills of dread and hope waves of excitement at the same time. “Y- yes, Master,” she said, even as the waiter stood there pouring the coffee. The young man shot her a look, but then quickly recovered and went about his day, barely concealing a grin.

That brief exchange made her squirm in her seat in the best of ways. “How… how much is a healthy trim, Master?” She asked. “Two or three inches?”

Bret shrugged. “That’s the fun part, my little pet. You’re to tell them you want a healthy trim, to get that mess under control. But they decide how much to cut.” He lowered the page of the paper and gave her a stern look. “Do you understand? Last night showed you shouldn’t be left to make decisions about your hair, so we’ll have others make the decisions for you. Now hurry up, or you’ll be late. And we’ll have to add yet another appointment to your punishment.”

Another appointment?

Heather’s brow furrowed as she wondered what that meant, but Bret had his nose back in his paper and clearly was not in the mood for more questions. So, slowly, she rose from her chair and started walking toward the salon, gathering the wealth of red curls that rested against the curves of her tight little ass forward as she did, stroking and holding them close as she approached her… first? .. appointment.

The salon itself was cute and clean, with a middle-aged receptionist and several stylist within a few years of her age working the chairs behind her. They all looked stylish enough, but none of them had very long hair and Heather suddenly had the horrible feeling she was about to live a scissor-happy nightmare.

“Hi,” she said shyly. “I’m Heather. I believe I have an appointment.”

“Oh, yes!” The receptionist replied. “Kitty’s waiting for you.”


To say Kitty’s eyes lit up when she saw Heather and her horde of red curls would have been an understatement. The stylist, her own dark hair cropped in something of a soft bowl cut, couldn’t stop praising Heather’s long locks as she guided the young woman into the back of the salon.

In time, Heather was standing next to the stylist’s chair with a dark cape wrapped around her slender shoulders and her long curls splayed out across it as Kitty ran a comb through their length from crown to tush. The strokes were long and slow and magnificent, and Heather couldn’t be sure whether she or the stylist was enjoying the process more.

Finally, the strokes grew even slower. “So, what were you looking to have done today?” Kitty asked. “Just a trim?”

Heather wanted to nod; a trim was probably less than an inch. Enough for Bret to notice some had been cut, but not enough for most other people to. He didn’t have to know she didn’t actually request what he wanted her to…

But her stomach squirmed at the thought of lying to him after she’d already gotten in trouble.

She looked at Kitty’s reflection in the salon mirror. “A healthy trim,” she said, her stomach squirming for a different reason. She swallowed a nervous lump, and forced herself to say, “I need to get this mess under control.”

“Oh! I can understand that,” Kitty said with a smile. She combed a few more times, and then pulled her scissors from her shirt pocket. Heather’s eyes widened as she focused on the glint of light reflecting off their sharp length, and she suddenly wanted to get up and run. “How much would you consider a healthy trim to be?”

They decide how much to cut, Bret’s voice said in her head.

“I… I’ll leave that to your professional opinion.”

Kitty took a step back, her eyes narrowing as she considered Heather’s hair. She then started running er fingers through it all again, gathering the full mass behind Heather’s shoulder’s and making thoughtful sounds as she considered it all.

“There certainly is a lot to get under control, that’s for sure.”

Heather’s heart began to race as Kitty focused in on that one phrase, rather than the part about it just being a trim, even if a healthy one. Heather wanted to say something, wanted to shift the stylists’s focus back to just a trim, but words were failing her.

For most of her life, Heather would remain standing while having her hair done. The stylists would either sit or couch down, and a dusting of the shortest red clippings possible would float to the floor as her lush, lovely mane was tended to with the utmost care.

But this time, Kitty remained standing. She stood behind Heather and gathered the thick, red curls back and began hacking. There was a terrible tugging, not in a painful sense just just in the sense that it was happening at all, followed by a soul-cringing crunching that signaled an undefinable loss of length. It took a moment for Heather to realize Kitty was simply chopping off a ponytail, but that she couldn’t be sure how much of one it was. The crunching nd the tugging just kept going and going, with the only hint of progress being the gradual loosening of the curls on her right side, and then the slow, slow loosening of those on her left until the blades Kitty’s brutal scissors finally clacked close against one another. 

Heather’s breath froze in her chest for a long moment, and was joined with a horrified gasp when Kitty stepped around her to snap a rubber band around a thick, beautiful ponytail that was almost a foot and a half in length.

“You can have a seat now, sweaty, and I’ll neaten things up.”

Heather numbly did as ordered, feeling Kitty move behind her to fluff what remained of her curls. Her brow wrinkled with worry and fright again when she saw her reflection as the curls were brushed in front of her slight shoulders, their thick, full ends resting against her breasts but reaching no further. 

“This will definitely be easier to take care of, don’t you think?” Kitty asked.

Heather nodded mutely, remaining still as Kitty began to section and lift her thick mane, gathering most of it up and out of the way so she could meticulously trim what remained to one manageable length.

“You still have long hair,” Heather told herself again and again. “Your hair is still long and beautiful.” 

But as more and more clippings and sniping fell to her lap and to the floor around her, it was clear that this hadn’t been a trim no one would notice. Everyone would notice this. This had been a chop, and a brutal one at that, leaving her hair shorter than it had been since she was a toddler. 

She loved being a redheaded Rapunzel. She’d always been a redheaded Rapunzel. 

Until now, at least.

The lengths of locks being shorn away continued to get longer as Kitty worked, releasing section after section and snipping it into an orderly style. Fortunately the stylist never went overboard, and the carefully placed layers managed to balance the need for Heather’s heavy mane to be thinned with her implied desire to not lose any more locks than necessary.

When Kitty finally pulled the cape away and sent the second stage of chopped locks tumbling to the floor, Heather had to admit that the cut itself really was quite lovely. Far shorter than she’d ever have considered going herself, but at least it looked like something she might have anted on purpose, rather than a terrible accident or miscommunication.

When she reached the front desk again, with her relatively shirt but still quite long curls softer and bigger than ever around her face and shoulders, Heather realized that by waiting outside, Bret had made sure not only would she be requesting her beloved mane get chopped, but that she’d be paying for it, too. 

Just like she was paying for making him late the night before.


Work on Monday was as horrible as Heather had expected — on top of being physically sore from the resulting marathon of fucking that occurred when she and Bret got home on Saturday, she had to be reminded of just how drastically she’d been punished whenever anyone noticed how much shorter her hair was. She’d actually planned to gather it all up in a loose, casual bun to hide the chop until she got used to it, but Bret was waiting at their font door with her prettiest collar as she left, and informed her she wasn’t allowed to wear it up again until he told her so.

So not only did she have to deal with her coworkers unknowingly reminding her of how hot her weekend had been every time the complimented her shorter, livelier curls, but she also had the pretty, choker-like collar making her squirm and wriggle her thighs under her desk as her fingers insisted on toying with and tugging it when anyone asked why she went through with the cut.

Tuesday was almost as bad, with a few meetings beginning with an apparently necessary focus on her “new look,” even though the only real difference was in her hair’s length. It wasn’t like the change had been that drastic, you know?

At least it hadn’t been until Bret texted her toward the end of her work day.

Appointment #2, it said. There was an address, a time, and Ask for a healthy trim.


The salon he sent her to this time was much trendier than the last, with images of a-line bobs and undercuts plastered in the windows and along the walls. It was the sort of place Heather would have crossed the street to avoid in the past, but today, with two fingers hooked in her pretty little collar to remind her of her place, she went inside.

The blonde, ponytailed stylist who she was booked with smiled just as brightly as Kitty had, but Heather noticed there was much less excitement involved. She shouldn’t have been surprised, she reminded herself — it’s not like she was walking in with an amazingly unusual amount of hair. No, hers was probably very run of the mill now, and there wasn’t even any doubt that she’d be asked to sit in the chair, rather than stand, when she reached the blonde stylist’s station.

Also new was the fact that the stylist didn’t try to get out of washing Heather’s hair — there was no concern of how much there was or how long it would take. The stylist just went about it, her fingers gentle and soothing as the worked, and soon enough heather found herself staring at a drowned-rat of a young woman whose soaking wet red curls still couldn’t reach far past her breasts. 

As Kitty had, the pretty stylist asked,” What are we doing today?”

Heather took a deep breath, and replied, “A healthy trim, please. To get this mess under control.”

The stylist tilted her head curiously, but then seemed to decide against asking whatever question had entered her mind. With the usual small talk passing between her and Heather, the stylist combed Heather’s thick locks and begin pinning them up, section by section, out of the way. 

“Okay, one nice, healthy trim coming up,” she said in a sing-song tone, tilting Heather head forward so she was looking down into her lap rather than into the mirror. The blonde stylist’s comb slipped through the long locks at Heather’s nape, down past her shoulders, and stopped just an inch or so from the ends. 

Heather closed her eyes as the snipping began, a swell of relieving bursting free in her chest as a smile crossed her face. She lost track of the conversation at several points as the stylist work, so filled with relief was she as the one-inch locks of red hair rained down around her. The woman worked with expert precision, combing and lifting and cutting so the slowly-drying curls sprang to life around Heather shoulders, thick and full and shiny and almost unnoticeably shorter.

It moved along so perfectly, and Heather had to fight to keep control as the minimal trim gave rise to a different — but just as potent — type of excitement as the previous cut. She tried to keep her wriggling subtle and hoped the stylist couldn’t hear her heart pounding as her nails picked at the arm rests of the chair. 

It was when the cut trim was nearing its conclusion, when the snips and slips were fewer and farther between, that the stylist took a step back from where she was in front of Heather and squinted her eyes. 

“You know,” she said as she stepped forward again, running her comb through the long curls framing Heather’s face, “I know you said you just wanted a trim, but I really think your features are way too cute…”

She combed the face-framing curls forward…

“To keep hidden….”

She gathered them all between two fingers and twisted them around…

“Behind all of this.”

The stylist lifted her scissors and began to chop away at the captured curls, letting their still formidable lengths fall into Heather’s lap as Heather watched in stunned silence. Once released, what remained of the shorn length sprang back into their natural curls, falling into place across her forehead in a set of raucous bangs that were somehow a mix of blunt and curly, straddling the line between thick and wispy. Several more precise, specific snips were made, with a few more long locks being sacrificed in the name of Heather’s new bangs, but just before Heather gave into full-blown panic, the stylist stepped away.

“Perfect,” the pretty blonde said.

She then whisked the cape away, spilling Heather’s shorn bangs to the floor, and arranged Heather’s soft locks until they fell in graceful curls well past her shoulders.

Heather found her smile again as she looked at the results. Aside from the new bangs, she barely looked any different than she had that morning. 

Walking toward the front door to pay, it suddenly dawned on her that Bret had referenced this being Appointment number 2. 

She had rolled a three on that die Saturday morning. 

Suddenly nervous again, she wondered whether she was lucky enough to get another conservative stylist the next time, too.


In a matter of hours, Heather became grateful for the bangs the blonde stylist had added — without them, she wasn’t sure Bret would have believed she’d gone through with step two of her punishment.  Admittedly, she may have been a little more evasive than necessary when answering his questions about it, resulting in an interrogative ass-fucking that drove her hard into the pillows of her bed, but such was the life of a brat. What was the point of making things easy for the master?

Wednesday and Thursday at work were almost as bad as Monday, with exclamations of praise for her adorable new bangs and proclamations that she looked so much younger — as if her actual age of 26 was ancient by any means. In addition to all of that, there were new questions of whether this was becoming a habit and whether they’d walk in to see her with a crewcut some day. 

The end results were panties that were soaked by the end of the day and a boyfriend/master who was becoming exhausted by his oversexed girlfriend/brat, but she just made sure to have plenty of Gatorade and carbs on hand. 

This was all his own doing, after all.

It was on Friday, the one week anniversary of her defiant misbehavior, that another text came across at the end of her day.

One more time, it said. There was an address, but no appointment time. And, of course, Ask for a healthy trim.


Upon arrival, Heather realized why there was no appointment time. The place was called Walk-Ins Only, so it was only natural there’d be no set time. This salon looked like quite the indie set up, with band posters mixed among all kinds of posters showing off hairstyles ranging form normal to extreme.

Only two stylists were working despite there being three chairs set up; one being a handsome sort0of0middle aged fellow wearing a tight, slicked back fade with a full beard and sleeved tattoos, and the other being a younger woman with a mop of dark hair that was too long to be short and too short to be long. Both worked quickly, running through a small herd of what looked like college bros as Heather sat quietly, her feet bouncing back and forth nervously.

Finally, after a time, the woman called her back. 

“Hi, I’m Diana,” she said as she flicked her hair out of her eyes. She patted her seat for Heather to sit down, and then turned it toward the mirror. “So what are you looking to have done?”

Heather looked at her reflection, sighing inwardly. She really loved how her hair looked at the moment. Neither the length nor the bangs were choices she’s have made on her own, but they worked well for her, especially when she sneaked wearing it in a cute, bouncy ponytail at the office the day before.

“Just a healthy trim,” Heather replied. “To get it under control, you know?”

Diana nodded. She reached out, running her fingers through the silky, graceful curls. “So you usually wear it shorter?”

Heather shook her head. “No. It actually used to be quite a bit longer.”

“Oh.” Diana raised one eyebrow. “So when did you last get it cut?”

“A couple of days ago.”

Diana raised both eyebrows, and Heather wished she had tried to lie.

“And you already want it cut again?”

Heather squirmed. In any other instance, she’d have welcomed such careful attention from a stylist, but… not this time. “Just… a healthy trim,” she repeated.

“Okay. So not like a trim to make it healthy, but a decently sized trim?”

Heather swallowed nervously, and then squeaked as she nodded. “Yes? I think?”

Diana’s reflection just smiled, and then disappeared behind a dark cape that was whisked around Heather’s shoulders. The stylist gathered up the thick mass of graceful curls and asked Heather to hold them up, pinning the cape into place before letting the lush locks fall free again.

Once more, Diana started running her fingers through Heather’s hair, gathering it all back and playing with the resulting ponytail. Keeping hold of it with one hand, she brushed Heather’s bangs to the side with her other and considered the result in the mirror.

“This looks really cute, doesn’t it?”

Heather, thinking of the reactions her bouncy ponytail got at the office the day before, nodded as much as she could.

“I think so,” she said.

Diana nodded. “It definitely does.” Picking up her shears, she clicked the sharps blades together a few times. “And since most women I know who gradually take their hair shorter and shorter wind up with it really short, I think you’re ready to cut out the middle man, so to speak.”

The stylist didn’t move fast — in fact, she moved downright casually, slipping the horrifying blades around Heather’s adorable ponytail and closing them. Heather wanted to scream, but what little air was in her lungs refused to move. Frozen in place, she could only watch the reflection of Diana’s thumb and forefinger opening and closing those terrible shears again and again, almost deafening Heather with the thunderous crunching and schnickt schnickt schnickt sound as short, wild curls began to spring free to fall around her right ear, sweeping forward as their mass grew until they were brushing against her jawline. 

It seemed to go on forever — a torturous eternity — but then the pace of the crunching picked up and suddenly the shears snapped closed. Heather’s eyes were locked on the stranger in the mirror with the rough, uneven bob of red curls until Diana stepped forward, wiggling a magnificent, foot-long ponytail of beautiful curls. The curls bounced and danced in her hand, and then coiled in on one another as she set them on the counter in front of Heather.

Without a word, Diana moved behind Heather and began herding thick hanks of crimson curls between her fingers, almost laying her hand against Heather’s head. The stylist sheared away anything that managed to spring between her fingers, creating a constant waterfall of lush locks that spilled down into Heather’s lap. Heather’s breath came in short quick gasps as she watched the sacrifice of her beloved mane grow and grow in her lap. Diana worked swiftly, and by the time Heather was able to look at herself in the mirror again, barely more than an inch of her once impressive locks remained atop her head, with even her newly received bangs having been shorn away to almost nothing. 

Soon, her right ear was laid naked for the first time in her life, followed by her left. 

Eventually, Diana did set her scissors down, but that was only to replace them with a hulking, bulky set of pink clippers. Heather bolted in her seat when they roared to life, jostling her collar loose from where it’d been hidden by the cape. The sight of it, and then the feel of it as Diana’s heavy hand pressed against the crown of Heather’s head and forced her to look down, reminded her why she was in this horrible situation. It was as if Bret himself was holding her head down, Bret himself was pressing the cold plastic of the clippers to her nape and Bret himself lifting the hungry, angry clippers upward to shear away the very last remnants of her once proud, beautiful mane.

All of these roiling thoughts and emotions created a thunderstorm of desire inside of her, and Heather had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from either crying or cumming as Diana continued to savage her nape with the angry clippers, lifting them from her nape to up and over her crown again and again, dumping the thick tufts of lovely red hair down into Heather’s lap.

Soon, Heather was silently commanded to lean her head to the left so her right side could be dutifully shorn to almost nothing, and then the left as well. Nothing of her once lush curtain of red locks remained; it was, at best, a soft, velvety covering that let plenty of her shockingly pale scalp peer through. Afterward, her nape was attacked again, though not as high as her crown, and then again, with the strokes stopping still lower. 

When the clippers finally quieted for good, Diana lifted Heather’s chin so she was forced to take in her shorn reflection. And as Heather tried to comprehend just how much had happened to her, as she tried to keep the tears from streaking down her cheeks and to keep the rest of her body from betraying her in a violent orgasm, Diana began to sweep through the wheat field of one-inch locks that remained between her crown and her forehead with a pair of thinning shears. The texture that gradually appeared as the singular length was replaced with ramshackle variation had more of an impact than Heather could ever have imagined, taking her from looking like a punished, shorn schoolboy to something of an uncontrollable vixen; a sex kitten that might be at home on Fury Road.

Her dark green eyes seemed bigger, if less bright without the wild curls framing and contrasting them, with her perfectly petite nose and sharp jawline taking center stage. Her ears were bigger than she ever thought they were, but… more for Bret to nibble, right?

“Do you want wild, or tamed?” Diana asked.

“Wild,” Heather whispered. 

Diana nodded, a sly smile creasing the corners of her mouth as she rubbed some styling wax between her palms and then ran it through what remained of Heather’s hair. Tiny, spritely spikes formed, and then were rumpled into something a bit more frisky and less threatening by the stylist.

“There. A perfectly healthy trim, right?”

Heather couldn’t take her eyes off the stranger in the mirror before her, even as the dark cape was lifted away and her once lovely curls were spilled around her. Now, seeing herself with the femme crop and soft white cardigan and plaid skirt, she was a living contradiction of herself. Already she dreaded the return to the office on Monday and what people would say, what they would ask, and what those questions would bring out in her as she tried to avoid thinking about how her master had properly punished his self-centered brat of a girlfriend.

Hooking a finger in her delicate collar and gently tugging it, she followed Diana to the cash register and obediently paid for the shearing she never wanted. The stylist, meanwhile, simply smiled and said, “Enjoy your weekend.”


It was such an unusual feeling, riding her master and pinning him to the bed without having an overwhelming curtain of bouncing, dancing red curls surrounding her, but Heather kind of loved it. She loved being able to throw herself around, being able to be thrown around, without worry of painfully landing on an errant lock. She took full advantage, attacking her beloved master like a feral kitten, savoring every caress and touch and kiss on her naked neck as he rolled her over and drove her down against the mattress with eager thrusts. 

And when they were finally spent, finally exhausted, she purred happily and nestled close as he caressed the near-nonexistent covering of hair at her nape. She never, ever wanted to be a short-haired girl, much less a cropped and buzzed one. But she could deal with it, if her lover wanted her to do so. That was her lot in life. Despite desperately wanting her swingy ponytails and dramatic, elegant updos back, she’d live without them if it made him happy.



Caressing Heather’s clippered nape as she drifted off to sleep, Bret sighed softly. He never imagined a few ‘healthy trims’ would go this far. At most, he assumed the end result would be an easily-grown-out bob that he could live with for a year or two. But this… This would take forever to grow out. Did he really want to wait years for that?

But he couldn’t break up with Heather now. No. He’d have to wait at least a little while. A few weeks, maybe. He’d start laying the ground work, and then once the raunchy excitement of this drastic change wore off, he’d get out.

As he fell asleep, he wondered whether the gorgeous brunette with the long ponytail who flirted with him at the gym a few weeks ago would still be interested…



Thank you for reading, and I hope you liked it. Any comments/critiques or tips are appreciated, as always.

4 responses to “A Few Healthy Trims

  1. Great story! I loved the idea of Heather being in control of her haircuts as she fulfilled the requirements of her punishment. Bret struck me as a man that got what he wanted, regardless of how it affected his partner. I was certain he knew exactly what sort of cut Heather was in for at her third appointment, although his reaction was a surprise. I wonder how Heather would react to being dumped because of what he would insist was her choice of haircut. A bitter pill, I think. Wonderful writing, as always.

    1. Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’m thinking Heather would be quite heart broken indeed, with an added dread of wondering whether she’d be able to find someone new without her trademark Rapunzel curls. Bret, meanwhile, would secure his place as being quite the a-hole.

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