The Girl with the Long Red Hair

He loved my silky, long red hair. It was the first thing he commented on when we saw me at the club in Seattle.

He’d been on stage, bathed in blue light, demonstrating his rope tying techniques on a beautiful volunteer while I watched with a pounding heart. We made eye contact just as he had the girl bent over and tied up. He was explaining how this position was ideal for spanking, and then he looked at me and for a moment, locking into my eyes, he lost his words before continuing on with his demonstration.

After, he’d come up to me as I sipped a drink, and told me that my hair reminded him exactly of new pennies. We hit it off and a few weeks later, I was tied up in his room, screaming from pleasure I didn’t know I could experience.

That was over a year ago. Since then, I’d moved into his house as his partner and submissive. The connection between us defied words—it was powerful. Palpable.

He loved incorporating my hair into our play. It was long when I met him, to my mid-back, but he encouraged me to grow it to just past my waist. It was thick to the ends and every few months he’d have me stand naked in front of him so he could trim the tiniest amount off the ends  to make sure it remained healthy. His gentle attention would send shivers up my spine. He’d tell me his goal was to see how long we could grow it.

During aftercare, he loved to pet it and brush it. He’d tie it up sometimes in certain rope configurations. But most of all, he loved wrapping it around his cock, letting the silkiness slide up and down his shaft. Sometimes I’d do it for him, and he’d always cum all over my hair.

It was a way of claiming me. I loved when he claimed me. Controlled me. I trusted him entirely.

We were both working professionals with normal jobs, so we had to be careful to separate both sides of our lives. But when I was in my collar, he was in charge of me. Body and soul.

We got the news that his job was going to call him away to Anchorage for three months, and while it wasn’t forever, it still felt devastating. We were used to each other’s bodies, and company.

The day before he was set to leave, we spent the entire morning playing in our deeply embedded roles. He wanted to make sure I remembered who I belonged to, so he tied me up in different ways and made me cum so many times I lost count..with his hands, his mouth, a Hitachi vibrator, and finally his cock.

I was on my knees on our basement floor, tied with my arms behind me, completely in a daze with my makeup smeared from pleasure, when he came around to my front and presented his cock to me. Like was our common routine, he took my thick, shiny copper hair in his hand like a rope and fisted it around him, pulling me toward him as he stroked up and down.

“Yes,” he said as he stroked himself with my hair. “That’s my good girl. Such a good little slut letting me use her hair to get off.”

I loved when he talked dirty to me like that. I loved that he was getting pleasure from my hair. I waited for what often came next…for his breath to speed up. For his grip on my hair to tighten as he increased his thrusts. For his release to come on swiftly as he came across my hair, claiming me.

But he just stopped. Dropped my hair around me. I looked up to him, my eyes wide.

“Sir? Is everything alright?”

He just looked at me with a grave expression on his face. “Wait here and don’t say a single thing until I tell you that you can speak.”

It was firm, commanding. A voice that turned me on. I adjusted myself on my knees to have better posture, jutting my naked breasts forward as my copper locks spilled over them. I watched as he left the room and headed upstairs, leaving me in my tied position for at least fifteen minutes, which felt like forever.

I saw his boots step back down the stairs first before the rest of his body appeared. He was carrying a small black bag.

I looked up at him and he continued to eye me with that serious expression. I wondered what he wanted, but I didn’t dare break his commandment not to speak.

He made purposeful strides back over to me and set his bag down on a table beside him. He slowly opened it and removed a brush.

Oh, I thought, relieved, but also a little disappointment that it wasn’t something more dramatic.

As he began to drag the brush through my hair, gently teasing out any tangles, I let out a contented sigh. When my hair was perfectly soft and shiny, like a copper sheet, he brought out another item from the bag. A hair tie.

He took his time brushing my hair into a smooth high ponytail. This wasn’t totally out of the ordinary, I thought. He loved playing with my hair and would often do ponytails and braids for me to help me get ready for work.

He ran his fingers through my high pony and loosened it just a little. Surely just so I didn’t feel too much tension, I thought.

He held my hair in his hands. “God, this hair. It’s mine, right? All mine? You can answer me yes or no.”

I melted into his tender touch. “Yes. It’s all yours, sir.”

He nodded. “It’s mine. Mine to do whatever I want with, right?”

I looked up at him quizzically.

“What’s our safe word?” he asked.

“…Pepitas, sir?”

“Good. Just  checking.”

I looked up at him with a questioning look before he grabbed my impossibly thick and long ponytail and used it to guide my mouth onto his cock. My pillowy lips slid against him as he guided me up and down. I used my tongue around his head just how I knew he liked and I heard him moan.

“Yes, just like that. Good girl.”

I heard him rummage back in the bag, but I was focused on the task of taking his dick deep into my mouth.

I heard the sound first. A telltale slice in the air.

“Hmphhh?” I moaned against his dick in surprise, and he used my hair to pull me away from him and look up into his hand.

He held a long pair of silver metal shears, the ones he used to gently trim my ends in the past, and he was looking down at me with a look of unrepentant lust as he fisted my ponytail in his hand. “You have about three seconds to say anything before I go forward with what I am about to do,” he said.

I was shocked. Was he going to cut some of my hair off? I thought he wanted my hair to grow?

“That was your window of time to back out,” he said before moving my mouth back on his cock, where I resumed my mission of sucking him off. “I just can’t go three months without this hair wrapped around my cock. I can’t. And since it’s my hair, my hair to decide what to do with, I’m going to take it with me.”

I started to cry, which was muffled by his cock as I continued to swallow him. What did he mean “take my hair with him?” How much was he going to take?

And in my heart of hearts, I knew it was his to take. He could do whatever he wanted with my hair. It was his right as my dom. It turned me on to think of him taking it. But I wasn’t ready to say goodbye—my hair was the thing everyone noticed about me. My most defining feature. The girl with the long red hair.

I felt it first, the metal plunge into my high ponytail. Right under my hair elastic, so close to my scalp. He couldn’t be cutting it all off, could he?

But he was a man possessed, just sawing roughly away at my locks, the slicing sound echoing through me as my cries were muffled by his cock. The tension from his tight grasp slowly lessened as I felt short hanks of hair fall against my face and he released more and more of my hair from my head, until the tension disappeared completely and the sound stopped.

I pulled back briefly to look up and saw the look on his face…shocked, in awe, unbelievably aroused…as he held my ponytail in his hands. Seeing it there, multiple feet of thick, shiny red hair in his hands, made it real for me. I was now a woman with short hair. I wondered what I looked like, knowing that from where he cut it so high on my head, it was likely a mess.

He set the ponytail down on the table next to him, and then returned both of his hands to my scalp, running his fingers through my newly shortened ends. “You’ve never been more beautiful,” he said to me, earnestly.

He came in my mouth shortly thereafter and we made our way back upstairs to our bedroom, where he massaged me and then we laid there reminiscing about what just happened.

In the afterglow, I looked at him from my end of the bed. “I bet my hair is a mess.”

He looked at me with a wry grin. “You look beautiful.”

“You always say that, though. I thought you liked me having long hair.”

“Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“One of the reasons I liked your hair so much is that I would always imagine what it would be like to cut it off. What that would feel like, sound like. To see you with short hair. The contrast of seeing so much hair shorn at once. I think about it all the time.”

“Well, now you know what I look like with short hair.”

“Do you want to see it?”

I nodded and we made our way into our en suite bathroom. He held my shoulders as he turned me around in the mirror, and I slowly opened my eyes.

Just as I’d predicted, it was a mess. Choppy, uneven layers with the shortest pieces being only about an inch in length. Longer in the back and shorter on top, like a poorly done mullet. Tears started to well in my eyes as I looked at my destroyed hair, and he looked at me with concern.

“Let’s get dressed. I know a place where we can get you evened out.”

—

And so, after a quick shower and change, we found ourselves in his car navigating the Seattle traffic. I was wearing a long skirt with my well-worn Doc Martens, but I’d shoved one of his faded Mariners baseball caps onto my head, and had to admit the way the short pieces jutted out of the bottom of it looked kind of cool.

Still, I was milking it. “I look like Randy Johnson,” I said sullenly.

He looked at me and burst out laughing, and I couldn’t help but join in. “Like a hot Randy Johnson, at least,” he said.

We found parking along a side street and he grabbed my hand to pull me in for a kiss on the cheek and then led me to walk a few blocks. It was a typical Pacific Northwest day—gray skies with a light, omnipresent drizzle of rain hanging in the air. We rounded a corner, and I saw a spinning red, white, and blue pole jutting out against the brick building.

“A barbershop??” I exclaimed quietly into his ear. “I thought you were taking me to a salon.”

“This is the only place that will be able to fit us in so last minute, babydoll.”

“But I’ve never been to a barbershop before. I don’t even know what to do or say.”

He was already pulling my hand toward the entrance. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll do all the talking.”

We entered the shop and the warmth of it hit me immediately. It was simply but elegantly furnished in a modern way, with exposed brick and brown leather chairs. Chatter and laughter and the buzzing sound of clippers filled the air as a long line of barbers worked on their clients. I was the only woman in the entire place and it felt like all eyes were on me the second I walked in.

An attractive man with a neatly cropped full beard greeted us from his station as he was sweeping the short hairs from the neck of the man in his chair. “Welcome in, how can we help you?”

“Do you have time for a walk-in today?” my partner asked.

“Absolutely, man. Just give me a few minutes to finish up here and I’ll be right with you.”

Of course, he figured it was for him, and not me. My partner clarified. “It’s actually for my girlfriend, here.”

“Oh, well we don’t really do a lot of women’s hair in here, if that’s what you’re looking for,” he said.

“She’s just getting a pretty standard men’s cut.”

I looked up at him with wide eyes, and he smiled warmly down at me.

The barber responded, “That I can do. Be with you folks in a minute.”

While we waited, I whispered in my partner’s ear, “A men’s cut??”

He whispered back, smoothing down the haphazard hairs trailing down the back of my neck and giving me a gentle squeeze. “Trust me, you’re going to look amazing.”

Before long I was in a daze, walking over to take a seat in the man’s brown leather chair. I took my hat off, nearly forgetting how bad my hair looked underneath it.

The barber whistled low. “Girl, what did you do to your hair?”

I froze, not having thought of a good excuse. My partner, standing off to the side, smoothly interjected. “She wanted to donate it to a good cause, but we didn’t really think about what it would look like if we cut the ponytail off on the top of her head.”

“Well, I’ll be honest, folks. You didn’t leave me a ton to work with here.” He secured a long white cape around me, tucking paper into my neck. The tightness around my neck reminded me pleasantly of my collar. I knew there was no turning back. Fear and excitement sent dual pangs through me.

My partner responded, “I figured that would be the case. She and I discussed and we thought a haircut like this might be a good solution.”

He showed a picture on his phone to the barber, who nodded contemplatively in return, studying the photo. The men began just discussing me and my hair, almost as if I wasn’t there.   

“This could work for sure. And I think it would look cool. Do you want the sides faded like this?”

“Yeah, I was thinking like a three down to a one?”

The barber nodded, and they discussed more, but I had no idea what any of it meant. I was dying to know what the picture looked like.

“Alright, let’s do this.” Finally the barber met my eyes and smiled.

“Do you mind if I film some of this? It’s for the TikTok she’s making about her hair donation.” I was impressed by my partner’s sneaky excuse for wanting video proof of this. Also, it was a good excuse for him to get an up close view of the show.

“Not at all, be my guest,” the barber responded as he sectioned my hair and clipped up what was left of the top.

He grabbed a pair of clippers at his station and turned toward me. “Clippers??” I asked. The first word I’d said to him.

My partner interjected. “Yeah, honey. He’ll need to use clippers to get that fade you said you wanted.”

“Oh,” I nodded, making his eye contact. I could see him filming my reaction. “I didn’t realize. Ok.”

I knew I’d end up with a short haircut, but I knew clippers meant SHORT. What would I look like?

I didn’t have much time to ruminate on that because without preamble, the barber gently pushed my head into my chest, and plunged the clippers into my nape, pushing up. The vibrations sang through me and I was suddenly very conscious of the sweet soreness between my thighs from our morning’s marathon. As he pushed row after row, hair trailing down the front of my cape, I felt myself getting wet again. He pushed my ears down to buzz my temples. The clippers stopped briefly and I took a peek in the mirror. The sides of my hair were reduced to basically stubble. And honestly, I liked the way it looked already.

With a little smile, I made eye contact with my partner in the mirror, and gave him a knowing wink, which he returned with a smile.

The barber returned to my hair with a different guard, and then another, taking his time carving the sides of my hair into a clean and perfect fade.

Then, he set his clippers down and took out a spray bottle of water. He unclipped the top of my hair and spritzed it generously with its fine mist. He combed it and then retrieved his scissors, and began slicing through the top. Cut after cut, more hair joined the rest on my lap, until it was even and texturized.

And then finally the barber set his scissors down and put a little product in his hands, rubbing them together and sliding them through my hair, tousling it this way and that before slicking the top back a bit, leaving some softness toward the front. It was a masculine scent, like pine needles and sandalwood.

He took off my cape, sending red locks to the ground in a pile. I sat forward, observing how long my neck looked with this haircut. The contrast between my feminine outfit and my super short hair was exciting. I felt again like every man in the shop was looking at me—some with blatant disapproval, some with shock, and some with appreciation. He held up a mirror so I could see the back, and I raised my hands to feel the bristles at the back of my nape. It felt so alien, but I never wanted to stop touching it.

“I like it,” I said, meaning it genuinely, smiling at both men before standing up to head back out into the world.

___

His flight to Anchorage left super early in the morning, so I made sure to secure my long ponytail in a clear plastic bag and placed in in his suitcase alongside his clothes to ensure that he didn’t forget it on his trip.

I slid into bed next to him and his hands went immediately to my short hair. Neither of us had been able to take our hands off it all day long.

“I always thought I would be a long haired person forever,” I admitted. “But I really like this.”

We kissed, and he said, “Well I guess a barbershop will be one of our first stops when I’m back in town.”

 

[Thank you for reading! As always, I really enjoy any comments or feedback. – LoW]