The Personal Ad

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The Personal Ad
By H2O2_4U
It was my kids who talked me into placing the ad in the personals section of our local alternative newspaper. I always thought that the personals were for losers who couldn’t get dates through normal channels, but the kids were insistent.

“Dad, it’s been two years since Mom died,” Billy said. “You need to get out. You know that’s what Mom would have wanted.”

Anna was a petite Italian beauty, barely five feet tall. Her fiery personality offset my more laidback disposition. She loved to dance and always sang while working in the kitchen. While I enjoyed outdoor sports and puttering around the house on small fix-up projects. Everyone agreed that we were perfectly matched. Her death hit me hard. We had been together for fifteen years and I couldn’t see myself with another woman. I still slept on my half of the bed as if I expected her to return any day. Dating seemed like a betrayal of her memory.
But I had to admit that Billy was right. During the last months of her cancer, Anna insisted that it was okay with her if I dated again after she was gone.

“Carl, I don’t want you sitting home alone,” she would say. “You’ve been a good husband; never gave me cause for complaint. I know you can make another woman very happy and I want you to be happy too.”

Finally my daughter Joanie sat down and helped me write the ad.

“Widower 35 seeks active woman who loves outdoors for friendship/companionship. Join me for hiking, biking, canoeing, and skiing.” This basic information was followed by my post office box number.

“That’s not very romantic, Dad,” she told me. “It sounds like you’re looking for a training partner, not a girlfriend.”

“That’s about right,” I answered. “Your mother was the love of my life. I know I won’t find another one like her. I’m looking for a companion, someone who shares my interests, not someone to share my bed.”

“Okay, Dad. Have it your way,” she said, “just as long as you send it in.”

I guess she felt like she had accomplished something by persuading me to write the ad. After she was gone, I added one more line: “blonde hair preferred.” If I was going to take this route I wanted the women reading my ad to know exactly what I was looking for. Anna always kept her hair bleached quite blonde, even when every other woman her age wore their hair in a more natural shade. She knew it was a big turn on for me. I couldn’t imagine dating a woman with dark hair. It wasn’t something that appealed to me.

Three days after the ad appeared the first replies arrived in my Post Office box. I couldn’t believe how many letters came, nearly fifty in all. Some women enclosed photographs; others wrote long letters describing their personal qualities. Several were divorcees with young kids who wanted me to be a father to their children. A couple said they were good in bed, apparently thinking that I was mainly interested in sex. Mostly they sounded kind of desperate, just like I expected. I never bothered to reply but did renew the ad for two more weeks.
In the third week a letter arrived that caught my eye.

“I am thirty-two years old and never have answered a personal ad before,” she wrote. “My marriage ended in divorce ten years ago. I now live alone except for my golden retriever. I am a lawyer in private practice. When not working, I enjoy all of the outdoor activities mentioned in your ad.”

She went on to explain that she was interested in “a mature companionship,” not necessarily in romance. She sounded like my kind of woman. I wrote back the next day telling her more about myself. I included my phone number and asked her to call if she was interested in getting together. I didn’t know what to expect, but two days later my phone rang and it was her.

“Hello Carl. This is Jasmin,” she began.

Right away I liked the sound of her deep, confident voice. We chatted for nearly half an hour exchanging information about careers. I learned that she had traveled to Switzerland for hiking and each winter flew to Wyoming to ski at Jackson Hole. We agreed to meet the following Saturday at a park near her home.

“There’s just one more thing you should know,” she said, before ending our conversation. “I have dark hair. I hope you don’t mind.”

I assured her that the color of her hair was not a problem. Blonde hair was my preference, not an absolute requirement. Everything else about Jasmin seemed perfect. I wasn’t going to let my fondness for blonde hair stand in the way of meeting this appealing woman.

I rose early on Saturday morning, nervous as a schoolboy preparing for his first date. I showered, shaved, and fretted over what to wear. The frayed jeans I usually wore hiking seemed too ratty. Because I wanted to make a good first impression, I decided on a freshly ironed pair of khakis and my favorite blue pullover. Onondaga Lake Park, where we would meet, was half an hour from my home. We had not exchanged photos, so I had no idea what she looked like.

“Look for the lady with the golden retriever,” she told me.

Only a few other cars were in sight when I pulled into the parking lot. In the distance I spotted a tall slender woman tossing a stick to an enthusiastic retriever. That must be Jasmin, I thought. She was dressed in slacks and a sweater. Her hair was tucked under a baseball cap. I couldn’t tell what color it was.

When we spoke over the phone I had pictured a woman with brown hair, a few wrinkles, and a well-padded figure like most of the middle-aged women of my acquaintance. Jasmin was none of these things. She was the kind of woman best described as “handsome” in a sort of Katherine Hepburn way. She greeted me with a warm smile and a firm handshake.

“Hello, Carl,” she said. “I’d like you to meet Lady.” Her friendly dog leaped up to welcome me.

“We had goldies when I was growing up,” I told her. “I always thought they were the best pets to have around children.”

Our mutual love of dogs got us off to a good start.

“Lady’s eager to get started,” she said, as she fastened a long leash to the dog’s collar.

It was a gorgeous afternoon in mid-October. Many of the leaves had dropped from the trees overhead, creating a carpet of crimson and yellow on the lakeside path. I found it easy to talk with Jasmin. We shared interests in music, books, and sports. I learned that she was named after her mother’s sister, who was a local politician

“Yes,” she laughed, “my folks were big fans of the local political scene. They hoped I would pursue a career in politics after law school. Instead, I married Ralph and he wanted me to start making babies. I don’t think they ever got over that.”

I quickly discovered she was a good listener. Although she had a flourishing legal practice specializing in family law, she was more interested in hearing about my publishing business.

She described her ex-husband with a note of bitterness.

“Ralph was always the ambitious one. He had big plans. One day he decided that this town was too small for him; he needed room to grow. I didn’t want to move. I had worked too hard establishing my practice and had dozens of clients who depended on me. He asked for a divorce and I gave it to him. It sounds rather cliché, but I guess you could say that the love had gone out of our marriage. The day after the decree became final he moved to California. Within a year he found a trophy wife ten years younger. I seldom hear from him; just a note at Christmas, that’s about it.”

“It was hard at first, keeping my office open and riding herd on a legal practice. Now that I’m living by myself; well I guess that’s why I bought Lady.”

After an hour and a half we returned to the parking lot.

“I brought lunch,” she offered. “I hope you’re hungry.”

I spread a blanket while Jasmin unpacked the picnic hamper. She had packed ham sandwiches, aged cheddar cheese, crisp apples, and a bottle of Yellow Tail Shiraz. Lady frolicked around us as we ate, only too happy to consume the crusts of our sandwiches. As we drank the last of the wine, she told me how her friends had urged her to begin dating.

‘You’re too young and too attractive to sit home alone every Saturday night,’ they told me. They arranged a few blind dates, but the men turned out to be colossal duds. I had almost given up until I read your ad. It was very straightforward. Most men brag about how handsome, charming, and talented they are. Yours didn’t boast and I liked that.”

“I’m so glad you responded. It’s been a pleasure getting to know you,” I said sincerely.

With that she grew serious. “Carl, I’ve really enjoyed being with you today. I hope we can spend more time together. But there’s something I need to ask.”

“Sure, fire away,” I answered, unsure where she was headed.

“Your ad said `blonde hair preferred.’ I found that rather curious. Most men, if they have a preference, like women with natural hair. Can you tell me why you included that?” she asked.

I felt a little like a witness being cross-examined, but she had raised a valid question; she deserved an answer. “I’m sure that seemed a little strange,” I admitted. “Anna, my late wife, always bleached her hair fairly light; my daughter’s too. I guess I just got used to being around women with blonde hair.”

“Are you sure there isn’t something else?” she pointedly inquired. It seemed she wasn’t satisfied with my explanation. Perhaps she sensed I wasn’t being completely honest.

“Well,” I hesitated, “this is a little awkward for me.”

“Carl, you don’t have to worry,” she assured me. “In my line of work I hear all kinds of stories. I’ve learned to be non-judgmental.”

Although I had met Jasmin only a few hours earlier, I felt I could trust her with my secret, something I kept hidden from everyone else. “I don’t know why, but there’s something about bleached blonde hair on a woman that I find very attractive, very sexy,” I confessed. “I`ve been this way for as long as I can remember. Anna understood and had her hair bleached blonde soon after we married. Her friends couldn’t understand why she would bleach her dark curly locks. She rationalized her extreme hair color by saying that light hair made her feel younger, but the real reason she kept her hair blonde was to please me. When cancer was diagnosed in her cervix, she teased me that if her hair fell out in chemotherapy she knew that I would lose interest in her. In fact, she speculated that I probably wouldn’t find her appealing at all as a baldy. No matter how sick she was, she never lost her sense of humor. Unfortunately, her cancer had spread too far. The doctors said chemo wouldn’t help.”

“You must miss her very much,” she said.

“I do. It’s been two years but I still look for her when I come home from work each evening. I hope you don’t think I’m peculiar; about the hair thing, I mean.”

“No, Carl. What you describe is not so strange. Your condition is called a fetish; a strong sexual attachment to some object like shoes or leather and lots of people have them. Occasionally they get out of control and cause problems, but it sounds like yours is in check. I thought it might be something like that. In case you wondered, I was a psychology major in college,” she explained. “I admire your honesty. I know it’s not easy sharing this with someone you hardly know.”

“Aside from Anna, you’re the only person who knows my little secret,” I confided.

“I’m flattered, Carl,” she said. “I’m glad we can speak frankly. At our age there’s no need for subterfuge.”

Then she removed her cap and shook out the thick mane that had been hidden beneath. It tumbled down her shoulders and stopped at the middle of her back. I stared in amazement at the rich tawny brown color; it appeared to be completely natural, not the kind that came from a beauty parlor. It was obvious that she lavished a lot of time and effort maintaining its appearance. Not many women of thirty two could display such a magnificent head of hair. She looked me directly in the eye and asked, “Do you think I’m unattractive, Carl?”

I was unable to restrain my enthusiasm. “I think you’re incredibly beautiful, Jasmin,” I gushed.

“I’m glad to hear that, Carl,” she replied, “because I really like you and hope we can get to know each other better. But before things go any further I need you to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“I know you like blonde haired women, but promise that you won’t ask me to bleach my hair,” she said. “I hope you can get used to being around someone with dark hair.”

“I can do that,” I answered truthfully. Although the prospect of Jasmin’s hair being bleached gave me an instant erection, I knew that I would have to hold my tongue.

“I’d like very much to see you again.”

Before going our separate ways we made plans to get together for dinner and a movie the following Saturday. Several times during the week we exchanged late night phone calls. I thought I would never be interested in a woman other than Anna, but Jasmin was intelligent, witty, considerate, and darn good looking. I looked forward to spending time with her. Our relationship quickly deepened. We dated every weekend and in November she invited me to share Thanksgiving dinner with her.

At Christmas I introduced her to my children. Billy and Joanie were delighted.

“See, Dad,” my daughter teased, “that personal ad was a good idea.” I had to agree.

Jasmin’s hair was a source of endless fascination. Anna had worn her hair in the same basic style throughout our marriage. Jasmin seemed to have an endless repertoire of styles. When we hiked she usually wore one thick braid hanging down the middle of her back. A couple of times she sported a pair of braids, one over each shoulder; I teased her saying they made her look like an Indian maiden. When going to a concert or charity benefit she gathered it in an elegant twist. Lounging around the house she often pulled it back into a high pony tail. But I liked it best when she let it flow loose around her shoulders.

On New Year’s Eve Jasmin invited me to spend the night at her house. After toasting in the New Year, she led me into her bedroom. As we made love I buried my face in her fragrant tresses. When we arose she invited me to brush the tangles from her hair. I made no effort to hide my arousal.

At breakfast she surprised me with a challenging question. “Carl, what would you say if I bleached my hair?”

“Jasmin, I thought you said you would never bleach your hair,” I exclaimed.

“No, that’s not what I said,” she corrected me. “I told you not to pester me about getting my hair bleached. But if it’s my idea, that’s another story.” She waited a moment for her words to sink in and then repeated her question. “Well, what would you say?”

“I’d say don’t do it,” I protested. “Your dark hair is lovely; it makes you look glamorous and sets you apart from other women. It would be a mistake to bleach it.”

I thought I would never try to talk a woman out of bleaching her hair, but I didn’t want Jasmin to sacrifice her looks on my account. I didn’t want to make the color of her hair a test of her love for me. Though the thought of bleaching her hair was never far from my mind, there were a couple of compelling reasons to oppose a bleach job. First, I was thoroughly enjoying the novel sensation of making love with a dark-haired woman. Jasmin was fully aware of the potent erotic stimulant she possessed. I discovered she was much more uninhibited than her conservative business suits and sensible shoes suggested.

She was not shy about using her power to goad me to explosive expressions of my passion. Her favorite position was sitting astride my hips, lowering her head, and slowly dragging her flowing locks across my face and chest. It was a provocation I could not long resist.

Then there was a negative reason. What if she bleached her hair and then hated the result? I was confident she would look gorgeous with platinum locks, but I realized that my judgment was deeply skewed. She might well decide that blonde hair did not suit her. It would take three or four years to restore her hair to its natural color. I feared that her dismay at a botched bleaching would sabotage our blossoming relationship.

“Is that what you really think, Carl?” she continued. “What happened to your fetish?”

“My fetish hasn’t gone away,” I admitted. “It’s still there, but you shouldn’t bleach your hair to please me.”

“Carl, if I ever decide to bleach my hair, it will be for my own reasons, believe me,” she admonished. “Besides, I’m sure you’ve noticed those gray hairs that are creeping in. I’d pluck them out if there weren’t so many. There’s nothing glamorous about long graying hair; it looks so witchy.”

I was surprised at the vehemence of her complaints. Nothing she had said in the previous months hinted at any dissatisfaction with her hair.

Jasmin said no more about bleaching her hair in the following weeks. I assumed that her outburst that morning had been little more than a fleeting expression of frustration. Despite my declaration favoring blonde hair, I must admit that the thought of her sporting a head full of platinum hair was terribly arousing. Nights when I had difficulty falling asleep, I masturbated while fantasizing about Jasmin’s hair being bleached and her luxurious pale blonde locks falling onto my chest as we made love.

Then, one Wednesday afternoon in mid-March she called my office.

“Carl, can you stop by my house after work this evening?”

Her request was unusual. Normally we stayed in our own worlds during the week and only spent the weekends together. “What’s up?” I asked.

“I have little surprise for you,” she said flirtatiously.

“Sure, I’ll be there around seven,” I replied. I had no idea what this surprise could be. My birthday wasn’t for two months and Jasmin didn’t usually keep secrets.

When I pulled into her driveway I saw that the lights in her living room were turned down low. I rang the bell and heard her call from the back of the house,

“Come in, Carl. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

I took a seat on the couch. Soft jazz was playing on the stereo and scented candles burned on the mantle above the fireplace. Whatever her surprise, it was clear that she wanted to create a romantic atmosphere. I could hear Jasmin fussing in her bedroom. After waiting a few minutes I heard her footsteps approaching.

“Close your eyes,” she cooed seductively. I did as she said and waited until she stood in front of me. “Okay, you can open now.”

I looked up at my lover.

“Ta-da,” she said as she playfully tossed her head from side to side. I could hardly believe what I saw. The ends of her hair flew out across her face. The beautiful dark brown colored hair that used to hang to the middle of her back now stopped just above her shoulders and it was bleached a buttery blonde. It was carefully styled with the ends curled under into a modified page boy look. Instead of being parted down the middle of her head, she now sported a side part with one thick strand draped dramatically across her brow. She looked fantastic.

“Jasmin, you’ve cut and bleached your hair,” I gasped. My shock was so great I couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say.

“Well, what do you think?” she teased.

“It looks great, when did you do it?” I asked.

“Just today,” she informed me. “I couldn’t wait to show you

“But why?” I stammered, trying to recover my composure.

“I told you, it would have to be my decision. This style is going to be so much easier to care for. I just have to get the color touched up once a month. After ten years I decided it was time for a new look,” she announced proudly.

I could tell she was pleased with herself for making such a major change. She obviously expected me to share her happiness.

My response caught her unawares. “I wish you hadn’t,” I said.

“Carl, I don’t understand. I thought you would be thrilled. Isn’t it light enough to satisfy your fetish?” she asked accusatorially.

“No, that’s not it,” I told her. “I love your new blonde hair, I think it looks fantastic. I just wish I had been there to see it happen.”

“What did you say?” she looked confused.

“You see, a big part of my fetish is seeing the hair being bleached,” I explained. “Of course, I love the result, but it would have been far more exciting if I had been there to witness your makeover.”

“Oh honey, if only I had known, I would have been happy to invite you along,” she assured me. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think you really were serious about bleaching your hair,” I confided.

“I’m so sorry. When I bleach my hair again I’ll be sure to bring you along,” she promised.

I nursed my disappointment for a few days, but it was impossible to stay mad at Jasmin. Besides, she looked so amazing in her new cut and color. Although she no longer could lash my bare chest with her dangling dark locks as we made love, she invented new ways to activate my fetish. The most effective technique involved placing her head between my outspread legs and gently stimulating my eager shaft with her tongue while guiding my hands through her freshly bleached tresses.

Over the summer our relationship continued to ripen. We saw each other nearly every day and by September we were talking of marriage.

“What will your kids think?” she asked.

“My kids will be delighted,” I told her. “When Anna realized that her cancer was terminal she told everyone that she wanted me to marry again. She teased me saying that I never would be able to survive eating my own cooking, but I think she was concerned about my happiness. My kids both say I’m much more fun to be around since we started dating. They think you’re really cool. I can’t imagine that they would object.”

We designed a simple ceremony with only our closest friends and immediate family in attendance. Jazzy, as I now called her, made a beautiful January bride; with a crown of delicate white flowers decorating her beautifully bleached blonde hair and a short dress that showed off her shapely legs.

We headed for Breckenridge, Colorado for a skiing honeymoon. The mountains were buried in a deep blanket of snow and several inches of fresh powder fell each night. For four days we skied from early morning till the lifts closed late in the evening.

On the fifth day of our stay we decided to sleep in. Both of us were bushed; we needed a break. After breakfast we enjoyed soothing hot stone massages at the spa across the street from our condo. We hadn’t made plans for the afternoon.

“What shall we do?” I asked over lunch.

“I noticed some interesting shops in the town,” Jazzy suggested. “Why don’t we go shopping?”

Soon we were headed toward the center of the small resort village. Jazzy found a ski sweater on sale she couldn’t resist and persuaded me to purchase a pair of western boots. She was happily singing a show tune as we walked back to our condo arm in arm. Suddenly she tugged me toward the entrance of a mini-mall.

“Let’s look in here,” she suggested.

I obediently followed. The shops were full of the usual tourist junk,-t-shirts and souvenir coffee mugs, nothing particularly interesting. We quickly reached the back of the mall. The last storefront appeared to be a beauty salon. My bride continued walking toward the entrance.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“I’d like to check in here for a minute,” she explained.

I followed, not really understanding why she was going inside. Her hair looked lovely. It had been touched up and styled the day before the wedding. Jazzy definitely didn’t need the services of a beautician.

The shop didn’t appear very busy. My bride approached the young blonde receptionist and inquired, “Do you take walk-ins?”

“Yes, we do,” she answered. “Would you like me to see if one of our stylists can take you?”

“Yes, that would be great,” my wife replied eagerly. The receptionist rose and disappeared into the back of the shop.

I turned to my wife. “Jazzy, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Just be quiet.” she cooed, pressing her finger on my lips to stifle any further questions.
The receptionist soon returned. “Ashley is finishing up. She’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Wonderful,” Jazzy exclaimed, taking a seat in the small waiting area while pulling me into the chair next to her. She doffed the knit ski cap she was wearing, shook her head, and ran her fingers through her lustrous hair.

“Jazzy, what are you doing?” I repeated.

“I think my hair needs a little attention,” she informed me.

“Your hair looks just fine,” I protested.

“You let me be the judge of that,” she retorted.

Before I could say anything else, a freshly coifed middle aged woman emerged from the back room accompanied by a beautician in a blue smock.

“Thank you, Ashley,” the patron said, pressing a folded twenty dollar into the beautician’s hand.

Ashley looked to be around thirty. Her medium length brown hair was fashionably streaked with dramatic platinum highlights. She seemed cheerful and pleasant.

“See you next month, Mrs. Beardsley,” she called as her client exited the shop.

Then she turned to my wife. “Hi, I’m Ashley,” she announced. “You’re next.”

Jazzy rose from her seat. “Is it okay if my husband comes with us?” she inquired.

“Are we doing his and hers haircuts today?” Ashley asked, apparently amused at the prospect.

“No, he’d just like to watch,” Jazzy matter-of-factly informed her.

“I guess that’s okay,” the stylist answered. I could tell this was an unusual request, but the stylist didn’t want to discourage a new customer.

We entered the back room where four hairdressing stations stood vacant. Jazzy was the only customer. The hairdresser showed us where we could hang our jackets and directed me to a seat in the corner.

“What are we doing today? A bit of a trim?” they stylist asked.

“No, I’d like to try something different,” my bride announced.

This was news to me. She hadn’t given any hint that she was unhappy with her current style.

“So, what did you have in mind?” Ashley inquired.

“Something lighter, but just around my face.” Jazzy said firmly. Was my wife going to get the white blonde color I had been dreaming about? My fetish was instantly engaged.

“Any particular color?” the beautician continued.

“I’m not sure,” Jazzy responded. “What would you suggest?”

“Why don’t we look at the color swatches?” Ashley said, reaching for a thick binder resting on a shelf behind her.

“That sounds like a good idea. Carl, come over here,” she called. “I’d like your opinion.”

I rose from my seat and stood looking over her shoulder, hoping that the bulge in my pants was not too conspicuous.

The beautician pointed to an almost colorless swatch called white passion. “This color would look good on you,” she suggested.

I grew more excited at the prospect.

“I don’t know,” Jazzy pondered. “Would you like my hair that light?”

Was I hearing her correctly? Was she contemplating a seriously white blonde hair color?

“What about this one?” she asked, pointing to a more champagne blonde color.

“That’s nice,” she said noncommittally. Ashley saw this wasn’t Jazzy’s choice and continued flipping the swatches. Each one was a little variation of pale blonde. Any one of them would have satisfied my longing to see her with very pale hair.

“Wait. Go back,” my wife commanded.

The stylist returned to the stark white blonde swatch that first caught Jazzy’s eye

“Hmmm. Now that’s what I call a nice color,” she exclaimed approvingly. She turned to look at me.

“What do you think, Carl? Just around my face. Shall I do it?

I couldn’t believe what she was saying. This wasn’t a tease. My wife had selected the palest, most daring color in the entire collection. It was a look that would turn heads and stop traffic. Although my heart pounded at the thought of her submitting to such a radical color. My mind raced. Was this the same woman whose dark hair reached the middle of her back only ten months before? What had come over her? Why was she doing this?

“Yes, I think so, Carl,” she said sweetly. “I think it’s just about the right shade of blonde.”

Then she spoke to the stylist. “Ashley, can you get my hair this light? I, no, WE would be so grateful.”

Not only had Jazzy declared her intention to undergo another major transformation, she seemed to be relishing the prospect.

“Um, sure. I guess so,” the young woman answered tentatively. “I mean, if you’re sure this is what you want.” She obviously was reluctant to administer such a radical color on an older client. I’m sure she never expected Jazzy to select such a radical color.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want,” she assured her stylist. “What’s more, I believe my husband would love to see me with my hair that color. Isn’t that right, Carl?”

Both women fixed their gaze on me. Jazzy was calling my bluff. She knew that my protest was only for show. My fetish wouldn’t allow me to stop her. She was going to force me to acknowledge that the stark white blonde she had selected was my choice as well.

“Yes,” I said trying to hide my enthusiasm. “If that’s what you want, my Love.”

I watched the stylist glance at the now obvious bulge in the front of my pants. She leaned over and whispered something into Jazzy’s ear. Jazzy nodded, as I felt my face beginning to flush.

“He’s got a thing for bleached blondes.” Jazzy said, winking at the stylist. “So, let’s get to work, I’ve got big plans for this evening.”

“Why don’t you let me give you a nice edgy cut to go with your new color? I think I have the perfect cut for your face shape.” Ashley suggested, “And I have something very sexy in mind that will work perfectly with the color you have chosen. In fact, I have a little twist that I think your husband will find to be very exciting.”

“Sounds good,” Jazzy replied. “I’m nervous, but anxious to get started.”

I took my seat as the young stylist used a spray bottle to dampen my wife’s hair in preparation to begin the cut. She parted her hair on the left side and proceeded to comb the hair straight down against her cheek. Then, she took her scissors and precisely cut the hair at an angle from chin level to just above her ear. I watched with concern as long strands of bleached hair tumbled down onto her cape. Combing the remaining hair over the top of Jazzy’s head and down against her right cheek, she began another precision cut from midway between her shoulder to just below her right ear. She then cut a blunt angle connecting the two cuts across the back of Jazzy’s head.

Ashley sensed her customer’s distress. “We’re not done yet,” she assured Jazzy. “I’ll fix the back after I’ve finished the rest. I’m giving you an asymmetric angled bob, longer on one side. We’ll come back and apply your color after I’ve clippered your nape.” Ashley said, selecting a pair of clippers.
Jazzy jerked when she first heard their menacing buzz and began to object.

“I just need to neaten up the back, that’s all.”

Ashley began tapering the back by lifting Jazzy’s hair with her comb and repeatedly running her clippers across its teeth, stopping just short of the longer hair she had previously cut. This was the same technique I had seen my own barber use many times, only now it was my wife’s hair that was being shorn. The stylist worked deliberately, buzzing Jazzy’s nape less to than an inch at the longest point. The longer blonde hair stopped abruptly over the newly clippered hair on Jazzy’s nape.

My penis throbbed as I observed a fine shower of Jazzy’s bleached blonde hair falling onto the black cape covering her shoulders.

Finally, Ashley silenced her clippers. After touching up the angles with her scissors and blowing her hair dry, she announced, “Time for some color.”

After mixing a bowl of bleach, she parted my wife’s hair across the top about two inches back from her hair line. She then combed the remaining hair back and secured it with a clip. Combing the hair forward, she laid it carefully on aluminum foil and began to apply bleach to all her frontal hair.

By now, my manhood was straining against my pants, as I watched my wife’s hair actually being bleached right before my eyes.

After she was content all her frontal hair had been covered, she announced that while Jazzy’s hair was processing, she would begin dyeing my wife’s clippered nape black.

Before Jazzy could object, Ashley pointed out that the contrast would be striking against the buttery blonde hair hanging over it.

“I guess we have to trust you. But I’m sure Carl will be happy.” Jazzy replied, glancing over at me.

“That’s the idea.” The stylist responded sarcastically. I know you have big plans for the evening.”

She finished applying the black dye to Jazzy’s nape and stopped to check the progress of the bleach on the front. Happy with the amount of lift, she announced it was time to shampoo the bleach from the front of Jazzy’s hair while the dye was still processing on her nape. This involved an awkward front shampoo process, but was accomplished and soon, she was blowing the freshly bleached hair dry in preparation for the white toner.

I was amazed at how light the hair already was. I could only imagine how striking the finished color would be. Once the toner was applied and both colors finished processing, it was back to the shampoo bowl for the final time.

Returning from the shampoo bowl, the stylist then began blowing all the hair dry and the final styling began. She pulled long side around her face to create a soft feathery effect. As Ashley skillfully coaxed each strand into place the promised style began to emerge. My wife’s smile returned when she saw herself beginning to realize how sexy this radical style would actually be.

The toner we picked left a snowy white halo of hair surrounding her face against the buttery blonde that was made even sexier as it transitioned over the sultry jet black buzzed nape of Jazzy’s new hairstyle.

This was a very feminine hairstyle. She turned her head to inspect the sides and rubbed her hand over the shortest hairs on the back of her head.

Ashley stood with hands on hips, anxiously awaiting the final verdict.

“I never thought I’d see my hair this short,” she proclaimed “but I love it. You’ve done a marvelous job, Ashley.”

“I’m glad you like it,” her stylist replied, greatly relieved to hear her customer’s approval.

“You’ll have to show me how to keep it looking nice,” Jazzy requested.

The young stylist eagerly demonstrated styling techniques and suggested alternative looks that Jazzy might try.

“Of course, you’ll need to return in four or five weeks for a trim to keep the color looking fresh,” she volunteered.

“I won’t be back here any time soon,” Jazzy laughed, “but I think we can find someone in Syracuse to do the job.”

The promise of monthly haircuts for my wife was a tantalizing possibility.

Now that the haircut was complete, Ashley removed the cape from around Jazzy’s shoulders and dumped a pile of her severed hair to the floor.

I tried to be inconspicuous as I reached down and selected one long lock as a souvenir.

Jazzy stood up from the chair and said, “Pay her, Carl. And be sure to include a good tip.”

I gladly did as I was told. I complimented Ashley on her excellent scissor work as I placed a fifty dollar bill in her hand. She beamed at us as we left the shop, sensing that her haircut had strengthened the bond between Jazzy and me.

Despite the cold mountain air, Jazzy didn’t don her ski cap as we walked through the gently falling snow toward the condo, she didn’t want to spoil her new hairdo. My bride clung to my arm and snuggled close to my side.

“Do you like my new haircut, lover?” she asked like an innocent young schoolgirl.

Of course, she knew it was driving me wild.

“I think it’s simply amazing,” I gushed. “And I’m so glad I was there to see the whole thing from beginning to end.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice,” she confided.

“There’s one thing I need to know,” I asked. “Was this a spur of the moment decision or something you had been planning for a while?”

“A little of both,” she confessed. “I’d been thinking about it for several months. When I saw how much you liked that first haircut I knew that eventually I would go shorter. It took a while to decide how short it should be. When we went to a concert or a movie I watched your eyes follow those women with really brief haircuts. I could tell the styles that you found most attractive. I decided that I could be happy with short hair. I wanted it longer for the wedding, but resolved to do it sometime when we were alone together. Originally, I planned to delay until summer, but when I saw that nearly empty beauty shop I decided there was no good reason to wait. Consider it my wedding gift to you.”

I reached out and playfully dusted the snowflakes accumulating on the cropped top of her head.

“Won’t you miss your long hair?” I queried.

“Oh, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh. “But we’re starting a new life together and this haircut is a sign of our new beginning.”

At that moment I realized how lucky I was to meet this terrific woman. Jazzy would never replace my dear Anna, but I marveled at my good fortune to find such an understanding and beautiful partner.

“You’ll have to get used to me staring at you,” I told her. “I’ll be doing a lot of that.”

“What would you like to do next, lover boy?” she asked provocatively.

“Let’s go back to the condo,” I said. “I need to check out your haircut from a closer angle.”

Jazzy grinned. She knew some passionate lovemaking was ahead.

“What are you waiting for, slowpoke?” she called over her shoulder as she skipped ahead of me down the snow-covered street.

The End

2 responses to “The Personal Ad

  1. Thanks. I enjoyed your story too! Not to many of us bleach lovers out there. I have a few more stories in various stages of development as well as a couple I’m rewriting, that I posted years ago on other sites. Stay tuned…

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