The House Across the Street

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To be honest, I never thought I’d ever meet someone in my life who shared my fetish for hair. Not for real. I think like many of us, I’d just accepted the sad reality that I’d only be able to indulge such a hot and integral part of me in private—watching videos, reading stories, and maybe at most chatting with some other folks anonymously in the community before losing my interest, or my nerve. Finding someone who not only got and accepted the specific nuances of my already niche fetish, but was also someone with emotional depth that I could see myself feeling safe around, seemed like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

Every time I’d ever brought my kink up with past partners, they reacted with disinterest at best and shocked disgust at worst. (You’d think we were into something way weirder than we are with the way some people react to it—it’s just hair, right? But, I digress.)

I certainly never thought I’d stumble across someone who shared my fetish out in the wild. But often life has an uncanny ability to bring you what you most desire just when you’ve completely given up hope.

For context, picture me as I was then: a woman in my early thirties with thick, wavy brown hair to my waist that I took immaculate care of and fantasized about chopping off every day of my life. At the time, I lived in a quaint suburb in Texas, where the prospects for dating were slim enough even without having all these extra desires bubbling up inside me.  The loneliness in the feeling that I’d never meet someone who really got me was like carrying around a backpack of bricks in it my entire life—it was a heavy load to carry, but I didn’t know any different so it was calibrated to be my normal.

I lived by myself in a ranch style home just off Main St, across the road from a house that had an old, slightly shabby beauty salon attached. The house had been unoccupied for over six months—I guess people aren’t as interested in having their businesses attached to their homes like that anymore.

It felt like a shame to me. When I’d bought my house, part of what sold me was the idea of watching women walk into the little home salon and walk out different—often in subtle ways, but sometimes in dramatic ways. A woman named Elena ran the operation back then. I’d sit on my front porch and pretend to read on my days off, peering through dark sunglasses at the storefront every time I saw a particularly long-haired woman walk in. If it was dark out and the lights were on inside the salon, I could peek right in from my vantage point across the street and no one could see me. Elena would sometimes take clients late into the night, often plying them with wine and convincing them to go short. I loved watching scissors and clippers tear through head of hair after head of hair.

But then, Elena decided to move in with her boyfriend in the city, leaving me without my daily and nightly live shows.

I was peering out my living room window, reminiscing about those days when I saw a moving truck pull up to the house. A handsome man stepped out and begin to haul boxes inside.

The handsome stranger’s arrival quickly became the talk of town. Would he be re-opening the salon? Or would it be a barber shop? He hardly looked like someone who specialized in women’s hair. My neighbors put in bets, hoping that maybe he’d convert the business space to a bar or a coffee shop. Was the man single? From my perch across the street, all I could tell was that he was tall and looked to be in his forties, with short salt and pepper hair neatly styled and strong arms. I hadn’t seen anyone else around him, so I let herself daydream that maybe he was single. Even if he didn’t have the fetish like me, being with a man who could cut my hair would be a major boon, if he indeed intended to re-open the shop.

I’d sneak peeks between the blinds to look at him again as he worked on refurbishing the outside of the property—sanding, painting, cleaning. He looked good with his hands, and I let my mind wander to thinking about what they would feel like on me, and my hair. The thought hit me with a jolt of arousal and at that exact moment, the man looked right at my house, and right into my eyes. I could see him quirk a smile to me and lift a hand to wave, but I was too mortified to do anything but jump back from my window.

*****

A couple months passed and I still hadn’t talked to him, even though we had a few close run-ins. I was always too nervous and chickened out at the last minute. I walked to my job at the bank down the block every day and I swore sometimes I could feel his eyes on me in my buttoned-up attire.

Finally, after tons of renovations, he ripped off the paper that was covering the inside of the windows and posted his business sign out front. “Charlie’s Salon” it read, with a small postscript: “Specializing in transformations.”

What did that mean? I wondered, thrilled that he was reanimating the old salon space.

That night, I was sitting in the dark on my porch when the light flicked on in the salon across the street. My heart started to race as I realized I could still see right in. I could see that he’d done major improvements to the place. New chrome chairs, brand new decor. Fresh everything.

My attention was immediately diverted to watching Charlie himself walk over to his computer. The angle was perfect—in the reflection of the mirrors, I could see everything he was watching on his large monitor. At first, it looked like he was just doing some administrative tasks. But then, he clicked to a video. I had to squint to see from my distance, but I could see the video was of a woman, whose hair looked surprisingly like mine—dark and long and wavy. She was sitting in a salon chair in the video, with a man behind her. The stylist in the video pushed her head forward and took a large pair of shears out and sawed her hair off, right at the top of her ponytail. My heart was racing—was he really watching this?? Could this be happening?

Then I remembered. Duh, he’s a hair stylist, I admonished myself. Of course he’s watching this video. It’s educational for him—I’m the one making it a sexy thing.

But then I looked down, and I saw the telltale motion of him stroking himself as he watched the video, and I immediately realized I’d found one of my people. Even though I knew I should look away, respect his privacy, I watched the whole display until he came, my chest alive with excitement and hunger and arousal.

I’m not alone in this after all, I thought with a warmth spreading through me. Now I just have to find a way to talk to him.

*****

A few mornings later, opportunity knocked. Literally. It was a Friday and I was getting ready for work—hair down and loosely curled, billowy white button up with subtle gold jewelry and nice jeans.

I heard a distinct rap on my front door just as I was putting on the last pass of my lip gloss. By the time I made it to the door, he was walking back down my driveway. He turned around to meet my eyes and my whole body was filled with an excitement I hoped wasn’t reading as desperation on my face.

“So sorry to be stopping by so early,” he said, raking a hand through that salt and pepper hair. He was wearing a faded black band t-shirt with jeans that cupped his ass just right, scholarly glasses, and worn-in brown leather boots. Even hotter up close, I thought. Just my type. “I just wanted to introduce myself properly. I’m Charlie. New neighbor across the street.”

He walked back up to my door with his outstretched hand and when our hands met in greeting, I wondered if he also felt the sudden and palpable zing emerging from the contact of our skin. His hand enveloped my small one, warm with slightly calloused knuckles.

“Of Charlie’s Salon,” I said, “I like the new sign out front, by the way. I’m Jules.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Jules,” his smile was warm and genuine.

“Speaking of your sign, what does it mean to ‘specialize in transformations?’” I said, using air quotes.

He met my eyes. “That actually brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I have been working for years as a hair stylist and barber, and I’d amassed a loyal client base back in the city, but I know I need to rebuild from the ground up here. And while I do all kinds of cuts and color, what I’m known for and what I do best is giving and maintaining transformative looks. Long to short, vivid colors. It’s just my favorite.”

My pulse sped up. I tried to keep it cool. “I bet that can be exciting.”

“It can be,” he nodded. “It is. Anyway, I’ve noticed you walking by my house most mornings and I couldn’t help but notice how long and lovely your hair is.”

I ran a hand along its length, blushing. “Well, thank you.”

“I thought you might be a perfect ambassador for my new business.”

“But I thought you specialized in short cuts?”

“Yes. And no pressure at all, but if you were interested in letting me do your hair, really chop it off and dye it, I would do it for free. For advertising purposes. It would be the perfect dramatic transformation for my marketing. I really want to attract the right clientele.”  I could watch his eyes drink in the lengths of my hair.

Even though my greatest fantasy literally just dropped on my front door the prospect of actually DOING it, actually having my hair chopped off, scared me as much as it aroused me. “Well,” I said, “A free haircut sounds like it could be nice. Could I think about it?”

He nodded. “Of course! No pressure at all, as I said. But either way, would you be interested in coming over for dinner tonight? I have yet to make any new friends in this town.”

Ahhhh, I was inwardly screaming, but I maintained what I hoped was a pleasant expression when I responded, “That would be nice. What time would you like me to come over?”

He considered. “Seven?”

“Seven works for me.”

“You don’t need to bring anything other than yourself. I’ll see you at seven.”

And then I swear to God he winked at me before walking back across the street.

*****

Standing in front of his driveway later that evening felt strange, like I was about to cross the threshold into a new reality. I took tentative steps up to the front door of his house.

He opened the door and had a dish towel slung over his shoulder. While tidy, the house looked like a work in progress, with some unfinished painted walls and boxes still out. “Come in!” he said, “And please, excuse the mess…I’m still working on projects inside the house. Most of my energy has been going toward getting the salon up and running.”

I walked in and the scent of garlic and onions cooking hit my nostrils. “Mmm, that smells good. What are you making?”

He waved his hand. “Just some pasta. I hope you like it. Let me grab you a glass of wine?”

“Just some pasta” turned out to be pasta he’d made from scratch, with a green salad on the side. It was amazing. We sat at his kitchen table, having an an amazing conversation about everything. Turns out, we had a ton in common. We were laughing so much I’d hardly realized it when I was starting to get pretty wine drunk.

“I’ve got to be honest, Charlie. I’m a little tipsy.”

He laughed, standing up to get me a glass of water and putting it in front of me. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“Can I tell you something, and you promise not to judge me?”

He paused. “I mean, that’s a loaded question. You could have killed someone or something.”

I laughed. “It’s not like that, but it is a little embarrassing.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“The other night,” I began, “I saw you.”

He looked up, a quizzical expression on his face. “Saw me what?”

“I saw you in your salon. Saw what video you were watching. Saw what you were doing while you watched the video. My house is perfectly angled to see inside your salon, and at night it’s lit up like a fishbowl.”

His face reddened. “I was just watching educational videos,” he said. “Gotta keep up on the latest techniques.”

“No, Charlie,” I insisted, the wine slightly slurring my speech. “I SAW you. I saw you touch yourself. And I just want you to know, I’m the same as you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

And so I explained, in a torrent, all the things I’d never been able to fully explain to another human. I explained how I had a hair fetish since before I could remember. How I felt so alone in it. What kinds of things turned me on. The nervous look on his face softened into a kind of giddy shock as he admitted that he, too, felt the same way.

We talked for a long time, explaining what we liked and didn’t like. Laughing about things that had always been a private joke with ourselves, like why do so many of the videos for this kink start with over-the-top jazzy music? Who decided that was hot?

I hadn’t laughed that much in years, and it was mixed with a deep and developing arousal as we moved closer and closer to each other at his kitchen table.

There was a lull in the conversation, and he reached out with both hands to run them through my hair, which was still hanging in loose curls down my front. “You really do have lovely hair,” he said. “I can’t believe a girl with a haircut fetish had the willpower to grow it this long. How have you not given into temptation?”

I thought about that for a moment. “I think I wanted to save it for the right moment. For a person who got it. It’s not the same when just some random person cuts your hair.”

He raked his fingers through it, letting the silkiness slide against his hand before giving it a gentle tug. His touch made me feel as drunk as the wine had. “I will never pressure you. But know, I get it.”

I closed my eyes and relaxed into his touch. “Can I see the salon?”

He smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

He grabbed my hand and led me through a door on the side of his kitchen that lead directly into the salon.

*****

Once inside, he made sure to close all the blinds. “Turns out, people can see right in here at night,” he explained and we both laughed.

I took my time looking around the small salon. Touching things, lifting products and reading labels. There were two stations with black leather and chrome chairs with full length mirrors in front of them.

“Can I see if they are comfortable?” I asked him.

“Of course,” he smiled and took my hand to lead me to sit in the chair nearest him.

He stood behind me and rubbed my shoulders a bit as we both looked in the mirror. “Is it weird that even just sitting here in this chair is so hot to me?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, because just seeing you sitting there is so fucking hot to me.”

I pulled his hand to guide him around to my front so he was facing me, and he leaned in for a kiss. Our lips touched sweetly at first and then built to a nearly explosive energy as our hands ran all over each other’s bodies.

Just kissing him felt hotter than any sexual experience I’d ever had. I think it was because I knew this was a person I could be totally honest with about my desires. Then, he did something that nearly sent me over the edge. He leaned into my ear, grabbed the length of my hair firmly like a rope in his fist, and whispered in my ear, “Let me cut this off, Jules. I know you want me to.”

His words, his tone, the wine, my quaking desire—they were the magic stew that made me decide to agree. To face my fears in pursuit of my deepest desires. I nodded. “OK.”

He pulled back just enough to look me in the eyes and really read my expression. “OK? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. You can do whatever you want. I trust you.”

“What I want is to take you short.”

I looked him right in the eyes. “I know.”

A look of extreme pleasure and arousal clouded his face, and he set about gathering his supplies quickly, as if afraid I’d change my mind.

“First,” he said, “we need to take some before pictures. For my marketing.”

I refreshed my kissed-off lipgloss and headed over to where he had a light set up and backdrop. I looked at him and posed as he guided me to turn this way and that. To lift my hair in my hands, knowing it was about to be gone. He had me put it up in my last ponytail, my last bun. He took breaks to kiss me, touch me.

Eventually, when he decided he had enough pictures, he said, “It’s time.”

He led me back to the chair and caped me in a white cape. “I like how it’ll show the contrast of your dark hair sliding against it really well,” he explained, and the image made me shiver.

“I’m not going to fully buzz you today, or even take you to the super short pixie that I want to eventually take you. I want to savor our sessions together. Is that all right by you?” he asked.

I nodded, secretly grateful he was already thinking about future transformations. I didn’t want this to end after today. He brushed out my hair and spread it around my shoulders. A gleaming brunette curtain that I’d always hid behind. What were people going to say when they saw me looking so different? What plans did he have for me?

“I’m going to cut the bulk off before we move to color. No use in wasting bleach on hair we’re just going to get rid of.”

He took a pair of large shears in one hand and cupped my cheek with his other, looking me right in the eye. Tenderly. “Are you ready?”

I couldn’t speak, could only nod as my heart thumped out of my chest. He turned me around so I couldn’t see myself in the mirror. He smiled and brought the shears to my chin, right in front of me, cold against the side of my face and so close to my ear that I heard one of my favorite sounds in the world as he brought his fingers together and clamped down, slicing a thick tendril of my hair in the front. I watched as it slithered down my cape and gathered in my lap. My breathing was short and shallow as he lifted another piece, sliced, and dropped it to join the other. He took his time, seeming to savor the thrill of chopping through all of my long, dark hair. I imagine he was watching my face as it began to contort in quiet pleasure with each chop.

After what felt like an eternity, the cutting stopped and I felt the last tendril join the impossibly large pile of hair that had accumulated in my lap. Charlie stepped back to admire his work and smiled, pulling out his phone to take a picture of me.

“You look so beautiful. I know you’re going to want to see this later and remember tonight,” he explained. “Now let me turn you around.”

He slowly spun me around so I could finally see what I looked like in the mirror. My hair had been cut into a short bob, resting just at chin length. He took a smaller pair of shears and began working on some detail work, texturizing and shaping. Each pull of him slicing my hair made me even wetter than before. “You know,” he said from behind me. “Your hair is so thick, it’s a little bulky back here. I’m going to need to take care of that.”

He sectioned off the top half of my hair perfectly straight, right at my occipital bone, and clipped the top part up. I wondered if he was going to do what I thought he was going to do.

I heard a click and then a whirring sound I knew all too well. “Tilt your head into your chest,” he commanded, with a firm but gentle hand pushing my head forward.

“I’ve never felt clippers on my head,” I admitted. “I’m a little scared.”

His voice was a low rumble, thick with desire. “I can’t wait for you to feel it after.”

I felt him push the clippers into my hair, up my sensitive nape, and felt as the cold air touched a part of me that had always been hidden. The metal of the clippers raked through the bottom half of my hair, reducing it to nothing but the shortest stubble.

“Feel it,” he said once he turned the clippers off, and I did as he commanded. It felt impossibly short.

“What guard did you use?”

“A one. I wanted you to have a little texture left to rub.”

His hand joined mine in rubbing my freshly denuded undercut and the sensation through my body was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I was on fire with arousal.

“I wanted to give you an undercut like this so if we’re out in public together I can rub it and you’ll know it’s our secret sign that I’m fantasizing about shaving your whole head.”

I let out a breath of air. “That’s such a hot image.”

“And you can rub it when I’m not around and think of me and how fucking sexy I think you are.”

I smiled and we kissed some more, one of his hands grabbing what was left of my hair in a firm grip and the other running his hands over my undercut.

“Now,” he said, looking like it pained him to pull away from me. “Time for color.”

I’d almost forgotten about the color. I’d been a brunette my entire life. What would I look like? What color would he choose?

He mixed up the bleach in a bowl and applied it with foils, one after the other. With my hair so short and half shaved off, it didn’t take long to apply bleach to my entire head. I tried to imagine how long it would have taken to dye my long hair before—hours, probably—and it really drove home how different I was going to look.

I sat for a while, watching the parts of my hair that were exposed become sapped of their milk chocolate color. We sat and chatted some more while we waited. When enough time had passed he held my hand to stand up and what was left of the huge pile of hair in my lap fell to the floor with a faint thud.

He brought me over to the sink to wash out the bleach, taking his time to rinse it all out. He applied toner while my hair was in the bowl, which needed to sit for ten minutes. While we waited, he knelt in front of me as I was reclined in the shampoo bowl, and he spread my knees wide, and slid off my pants underneath my cape, and my panties. “I can’t wait any longer to taste you,” he said as he began to lick my clit and finger my pussy. I was so aching with need that I came almost immediately, writhing in my reclined position and moaning out his name.

After, he rinsed out my toner and brought me back to the chair. My hair was unrecognizable. A little too warm in tone, but bright blonde. He turned me around again. “This last part is another surprise.”

I felt him brush more product all over my short hair and wondered what it was going to be. It could be literally anything. Would I look OK?

He rinsed me again, and then blow dried me, all while I still couldn’t look. Once I was dry, he went back in with scissors to do some finishing work. He told me to close my eyes, so my sensations of touch and sound were heightened. He decided I needed some face framing curtain bangs, so he cut those in at my cheekbone. Feeling the coldness of scissors that high up on my hair was exhilarating, but I was getting anxious about what I was going to look like. He took his time cutting and playing with my hair and every second of it was hot and passionate for me, and I imagine him as well.

Finally I felt him turn my chair around. I felt him unbutton my cape. Felt a big fluffy brush against my neck, and my front, and my now exposed thighs. “Ok,” he said. “Now you can open your eyes.”

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. The person in the mirror was totally unrecognizable. My long dark hair was gone, and what remained was a short pink bob with cute curtain bangs and a significant undercut.

“I fucking love it,” I said, and he kissed the top of my head.

“I’m glad.”

We had sex for the first time that night, right there on the floor surrounded by my discarded hair. We couldn’t make it back into the house before jumping each other’s bones. Knowing that a secret we’d both carried throughout our entire lives was lying exposed to the other person was exciting beyond measure.

And that night was only the beginning.

[Thanks for reading! Let me know your thoughts. -LoW]

9 responses to “The House Across the Street

  1. Wow that was an amazing story! I loved the chemistry between Jules and Charlie. I also loved that Charlie pleased Julie orally after cutting and dying her hair! It’s great to read a story about two people who meet each other and they discover that they share a fetish for all things related to hair and haircuts.

    You are an incredible writer who seems to get better with every story that you write, and I have a tremendous appreciation for your stories and all the effort you put into them!

  2. Hello LadyOutWest,

    I am loving your writing & being a fellow fetish enjoyer & a barber n’hairstylist I know too well the woes of speaking of such matters to potential partners!!…your current writings had made me write some more of my memorable cuts that I have given throughout my career!!

    Thank you!!

  3. What a wonderful story, and so well written. I don’t say this often, my dear, but you are a wordsmith. There is something so refreshing in reading a titillating tale that is also concise and well constructed. Bravo.
    Claire

  4. Apparently I missed a few stories this last Q of 2022… , as by coincidence I re-encountered yours: on my tablet I can not make bookmarks, but marked one of your stories as “favourite” to be able to access this site easier… happily I did that and now can enjoy more of your enticing stories. It kept me distracted from what I was about to do … “just see what this story is about” … before long I was sucked inside the scenery and urged for another one. Lot of words to say: thank you, well done, I love them and will read everything else you wrote soon. Can’t wait to do it, addiction on this site is rare lately!

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