The Strict Barberette Captivates the Hippie Chick

Prologue

Crazy as it may seem for anyone that knows me, the hum of the hairclippers had always been my siren song. Not just any hairclippers, mind you, but the ones wielded by an artist, carving away the mundane to reveal something stark, bold, and utterly redefined.

For as long as I could remember, I harboured a secret fascination for dramatic haircuts. The kind that stripped away softness, revealing an almost brutal vulnerability, yet paradoxically, a fierce strength. My specific obsession was the bowlcut but not the cute, innocent kind that stylish people might consider transiently fashionable, but the drastic, architectural renditions that hugged the head with a defiant severity.

By day I was friendly and outgoing Carly, always happy to help. Online, I was HippieChick, a nom de plume that was a delicious irony given my hidden desires. But a nickname appropriate for my remarkably long locks and one that friends had casually bestowed on me as my hair grew longer. While I browsed all manner of forums and blogs related to my specific interests, one author of haircutting stories captivated me above all others, the aptly named StrictBarberette.

Her tales were exquisite, chilling prose spun around unsuspecting subjects, drawn into a world where the blade accepted the sacrifice of their luscious locks. Reading her words, I felt a pull, a tremor of both longing and dread. StrictBarberette described the fear, the shame, the ultimate, undeniable arousal that accompanied such transformations. Each narrative resonated deep within my core, igniting a potent mix of excitement and a terrified anticipation.

I often found myself daydreaming about being one of her characters, undergoing a life-altering haircut that would, I was confident, change everything. Something about relinquishing control, about letting someone else dictate such a fundamental part of my appearance, was intoxicating.

After months of lurking admiration, gathering every scrap of courage I possessed, I messaged StrictBarberette. I wanted to know more about her. I needed to know more, and to understand where she found her inspiration to produce such captivating tales. My fingers trembled over the keyboard. To my astonishment, a reply pinged back within seconds.

First Contact

‘A pleasure to hear from you, HippieChick! I love your name, my dear, and I have often wondered if, when you have expressed enjoyment of my stories, it relates to your appearance?’ There was a distinct pause, that I knew she wanted me to fill. Although I may have thrown caution to the winds by contacting her, I knew it was unwise to disclose too much personal information. I remained silent. ‘So, which of my narratives has resonated with you the most?’

‘I am really drawn to the stories about transformation,’ I confessed, my reply more honest than I had intended. ‘Especially the ones where the person is hesitant at first, but then … then, they just let go. It is like they are scared, yes, but also incredibly thrilled at the same time …’

I waited. I was being clever, or so I believed, trying to draw her out and reveal the muse that fed her writing. Although I loved her stories, I craved to know more about her and her inspiration.

‘Ah, yes, that exquisite paradox!’ The response by StrictBarberette was immediate. ‘That is precisely where the deepest thrill lies.’

‘Exactly, StrictBarberette!’ I agreed, finding it awkward to use the only name I knew her by. Despite the connotations of her online handle, I accepted it was only a designation she used for her story writing, rather than specifying a physical role she undertook. ‘Yes, it unlocks so many possibilities. Producing so many concepts to explore, and so many ideas to discuss,’ I elaborated, building on her enthusiasm, attempting to impress her.

During an online chat that continued long into the night, we discussed a variety of aspects of her stories, but we shared little of a personal nature other than finding out we lived in the same country. Therefore, she caught me off balance with her sudden proposal.

‘I tell you what, HippieChick, why not catch the train to where I live? We could meet for a meal, have a proper chat. Get to know each other better?’

My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate for flight. This was it. The opportunity I had fantasised about for so long, yet a terrifying leap into the unknown. The thought of speaking in person to someone who understood this hidden facet of my being was overwhelming. However, I knew it would reckless, even dangerous, to accept such an invitation from a stranger. I struggled to formulate a polite reply.

‘Just a meal, HippieChick. You will be perfectly safe,’ she filled the space, reassuringly answering my unasked question. ‘And we can assess how we get on … and see what develops …’

The last line was both a promise and a subtle challenge. It ignited a spark of defiance and craving within me. After a day of frantic pacing and internal debate, I booked my train ticket.

First Meeting

The journey felt endless, each mile bringing me closer to a precipice. Arriving in the city, an unfamiliar sprawling metropolis, I was a bundle of conflicting emotions, comprising exhilarated anticipation warring with a gnawing anxiety.

StrictBarberette had booked a restaurant in the quaint bohemian quarter, quipping that it would be appropriate to my nickname. I gave the address to the taxi driver and promised myself, as a precautionary measure for my safety, I would remember the route. After ten minutes, he dropped me off by a narrow, cobbled lane, indicating premises nestled at the end. With a maelstrom of thoughts vying for attention in my mind, I had no recollection of the journey.

I slowly walked down the alley, drawn by light spilling into the cobbles and the murmur of contented patrons. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door and stepped inside. As soon my eyes had adjusted to the lighting, I saw a hand gently waving from a dimly lit corner. As we had not exchanged photos or even our real names, I had wondered how we would recognise each other and make contact. I had decided to trust to fate, justifiably it seemed.

As I drifted through the restaurant, the atmosphere was intimate, with hushed conversations punctuated by the clinking of glasses. She had chosen wisely. As I approached her table, I saw her for the first time, and she was every bit as I had imagined. A woman in her forties, striking, her dark hair pulled back severely, revealing sharp cheekbones. She wore a tailored leather jacket over a delicate lace top, a stark, alluring contrast. Her eyes, dark and intelligent, held a knowing glint. She was as I imagined, simply because she was the living embodiment of a recurring character from her stories.

‘Hello, my dear, so lovely to finally meet you in person,’ her voice was a low purr, smooth as silk. She extended a hand, her grip firm and confident.

‘It is … it is so wonderful to meet you too … StrictBarberette,’ I stammered, feeling utterly out of my depth, yet thrillingly alive. ‘Er, you can call me Carly,’ I offered, not wishing to put her in the same awkward situation of having to use my online epithet. ‘How did you know it was me?’ I asked, intrigued.

‘How many women have you seen recently with delectable thick and glossy black hair passing below the hem of their charming dress?’ she questioned, head cocked to one side, eyebrow raised, smirking.

She had a point I realised. My hair was loose, as was my preference when I could, although I usually kept it braided or bunned for practicality. A stylish red hairband kept my locks back from my face, the colour perfectly matching the base shade of my dress. My polka dot dress was a little on the short side but, as my hair currently reached my knees, then it was easily capable of descending past the hem. A worn denim jacket contrasted with the formality of the dress, giving the informality to my appearance that I had targeted. But, having noted my companion’s far more conservative appearance and the restrained ambience of our surroundings, I realised I had dressed far too youthfully and casually, leaving me feeling unsettled.

‘I have not seen any women with hair as long as mine,’ I tittered. ‘So, yes, you make a good point as there are not that many hippie chicks around in the city,’ I concurred, forcing the quip so it sounded tortured.

She had the good grace to laugh at my poor attempt at a joke. ‘To be fair, Carly, I was not sure how accurate your nickname was, as it was not something we had discussed in any detail. After all, there are so many naughty fibbers on the internet,’ she chuckled. ‘That said, I am delighted to see how accurate your nickname is.’

Without comment, she filled a wine glass before me from a bottle of Shiraz that was already open, and then she topped up her own. She took a sip, and I followed with a much larger gulp to bolster my confidence.

‘I feel I know you quite well through your writing,’ I ventured. ‘So many wonderful stories.’

‘Do you?’ she said, with an edge to her voice, her expression passive, suggesting she was uncomfortable about having revealed too much to someone she had just met for the first time.

I realised I needed to be more circumspect with my praise for her work. ‘But what is uncanny is how your tales resonate with my own feelings,’ I quickly went on.

It was like throwing a switch. The smile returned and she became animated once more. ‘Thank you, Carly. That is so sweet of you.’

I took another glug of wine. ‘I am not sure they really need to include those pictures though. Use of AI is so -’

‘Thank you!’ she snapped, frowning, the edge returning to her voice. Feeling wary, I concluded I also needed to more circumspect with my criticism for her work. Our conversation was becoming more stilted than I had expected.

‘I just meant your writing is so brilliantly illustrative,’ I flattered, ‘you conjure up beautifully detailed images in the reader’s mind …’

I held my breath. She held my nervous gaze with her piercing stare, and gave an almost imperceptible nod, before smiling once more. I relaxed.

As the evening wore on, the wine flowed, loosening my tongue and melting my inhibitions. StrictBarberette was a captivating conversationalist, her insights into human nature and hidden desires both profound and unsettling. She spoke of courage, of self-discovery, of the liberation that came from embracing one’s true self.

‘To new beginnings, wouldn’t you agree, Carly?’ she abruptly proposed, raising her glass containing the last of the wine, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

‘Absolutely,’ I replied, my voice a little breathless, but having thoroughly enjoyed the evening. ‘And to, um … whatever happens next,’ I added, a nervous laugh bubbling up, not really knowing what I meant but feeling that it sounded suitably eloquent.

‘What time is your train, Carly?’ she asked, after calling the waitress over to take an order for coffee.

I had been having such a wonderful evening, I had lost all track of time. I looked up at the clock on the wall. ‘It is … oh, shit!’ I exclaimed, in a rare bout of swearing, brought on, no doubt, by the copious quantities of alcohol we had consumed. StrictBarberette raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry, but even if I left now, I would miss my last train.’

A taxi all the way home would have been prohibitively expensive and, although there were hotels in the immediate vicinity, I had not packed a bag for an overnight stay. Before I got too down on myself, my companion interjected. ‘No problem, Carly,’ she chirped, ‘you can come back with me, and I have a room where you can stay overnight.’

Five minutes later, with the city lights blurring through the taxi window, we headed towards my new friend’s home. I was still feeling immensely grateful as I relaxed next to her, my eyes drooping after a long day and too much wine. As the car slowed, it pulled onto a curving gated drive that swept up to a grand looking house, fronted by a large wooden door. I was impressed.

However, the moment we stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted.

First Sight

The polite, engaging author I had dined with transformed into someone far more commanding. StrictBarberette took my arm, her face expressionless, and led me from the grand hallway, her heels clacking on the tiled floor, to a darkened corridor in one corner. As we moved, I could see other rooms leading away from the hall but, as they had only subtle lighting, their use was not clear.

At the end of the narrow corridor towards the back of the house, there was a substantial door. It was more functional than decorative, with a keypad alongside. It was an odd room for housing guests, I mused. As she tapped in a code, the door clicked open, echoing ominously around the empty house.

The room beyond was an enigma. Not a dungeon in the traditional sense, but certainly an intimidating space designed for specific purposes. Dimly lit by strategically placed spotlights, it contained a gleaming barber chair, its black leather pristine and inviting, its reflective metal menacing. Positioned centrally in the room, it did not directly face a wall or any mirror. Alongside, a wheeled metal trolley had a plethora of haircutting equipment – hairclippers, scissors, combs, and more – meticulously laid out on it. A shiver, both of dread and exhilaration, traced its way down my spine.

Until that moment, I had no reason to believe that the stories StrictBarberette crafted were anything other than a construct of her imagination while sitting at her desk. I had never entertained the notion that she would have a physical stage on which to visualise her fantasies taking place. It seemed a peculiar extravagance but, for a woman who was clearly wealthy, it was a harmless indulgence to improve her writing, even if it was just inspiring scenery that remained used.

I tried to convince myself this room represented normal behaviour, even for someone of her precise interests. However, despite my best efforts, I felt distinctly unsettled.

‘Just relax, my dear,’ StrictBarberette encouraged, her voice calm but resonant with authority, as she allowed time for me to absorb my surroundings. ‘You are in the most capable of hands. Trust me.’

It did not escape my notice that “safe” might have been a more welcoming, and less threatening, word at that moment than “capable”. However, before I could fully process her words, she eased the denim jacket from my shoulders, plucked the red band from my hair and, with an arm around my shoulders, guided me slowly but inexorably towards the chair.

I lowered myself into it, my mind buzzing, adrenaline coursing through me. The leather was cold against my thighs, as my short dress had ridden up even higher as I sat. I breathed heavily imagining myself as a character in a story written StrictBarberette.

Suddenly, a pair of substantial leather cuffs appeared, looping around my wrists, securing me to the armrests. My ankles received the same treatment, and a wide belt around my waist kept me pinioned to back of the chair. Panic flickered, sharp and cold, but the intoxicating thrill of the unknown, amplified by the wine, held me captive as much as the restraints.

With the absence of any mirrors, I tried to imagine how I appeared trussed up in the chair. A sudden flash of light revealed that StrictBarberette was snapping pictures of me. I was not sure how I felt about that but, given what happened next, I pushed that thought to the back of my mind.

First Touch

‘I hope you are enjoying my little surprise,’ StrictBarberette murmured from behind me, her fingers threading through my long hair, assessing its thickness, its texture. ‘Magnificent,’ she murmured, slowly easing it all forward, so that it collected in my lap. ‘Sumptuous,’ she added, softly hauling it all back, so that it cascaded down behind the chair.

Throughout, her touch was surprisingly gentle, yet firm, sending shivers all the way through me. As her fingers danced through my locks, they would occasionally brush my sensitive nape, sometimes trace my nipples through the thin material of my dress, and more than once slide down between my thighs. Her unhurried exploration was as unexpected as it was intrusive. However, rather than voice any complaints, I could do nothing other than succumb to the glorious sensations I was experiencing and softly moan. A wave of heat washed over me, a strange mix of shame and an undeniable surge of arousal.

Without warning her motion ceased, and StrictBarberette glided in front of me, standing tall, with a hand on each hip. She looked striking, powerful, as her piercing eyes stared down at me.

My breath hitched. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm. ‘I am confident that I am satisfying your needs, Carly, and I can assure you that what you are experiencing now will only get better. However, should you wish me to stop then simply say “HippieChick”. I will then escort you to my comfortable guest room where you will be welcome to spend the night alone.’

She waited for me to speak, maintaining her commanding pose. What was occurring was unbelievable. It had gone far beyond any expectations I might have had for the evening. So, had it gone far enough, I mused. Should I voice the specified codeword and retire to her guest bed on my own, I wondered, imagining what might have been. I licked my dry lips, prepared to take the sensible course of action but I remained silent. And, despite my lingering concerns, I smiled invitingly.

‘Good girl,’ she purred, smiling back.

First Cut

StrictBarberette reached for a menacing set of red hairclippers hanging from a hook on the wall. Exuding latent power, they displayed a fearsome metallic blade that glinted threateningly under the spotlights. Her expression changed to that of a predator stalking its prey, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.

A loud click preceded a loud whining growl, increasing in volume as she moved closer brandishing the device. Despite having read so many stories, it was the first time I had ever heard the primal sound of hairclippers. In the back of my mind, I still clung to the notion that the room and its accoutrements were simply props for her stories. I still wanted to believe that she was acting, and her name had no bearing on her fictional occupation. However, StrictBarberette dispelled that myth when she forced the whirring blade in the hair above my right ear, as she stared deeply into my eyes.

As StrictBarberette pressed the cold metal to my skin, the sound of the hairclippers was incredibly loud and the vibration of the blade through my scalp felt incredibly powerful. In my peripheral vision, I saw the first strip of my long hair fall, a dark, silken waterfall, pooling on the floor beneath me. My astonished gasp was barely audible.

StrictBarberette was methodically dismantling my long hair, my pride, my lifelong “Rapunzel” identity. She worked with a meticulous precision, her movements fluid and confident. She moved behind me and sheared the back of my head just as efficiently as the space around my ear, all the time to the constant hypnotic rhythm of the buzzing hairclippers. The hair covering my right ear met the same fate. Without a conveniently located mirror and unable to assess what she had done by touch, I could only imagine how different I looked.

Returning to directly face me once more, she combed down the last remaining long strands, so they obscured my eyes. With confidence, she placed the clipper blades against my forehead and pressed decisively. The hair fell away, and I found myself staring directly into her piercing eyes from below my newly fashioned short blunt fringe.

She tilted my head down, so my chin touched my chest. I felt her using the clippers in long sweeping movements, shaving away any last semblance of hair from my neck and the back of my head. Tilting my head to the side, she cleared the hair from around each ear. She was systematically moulding my head into a shocking new shape. One I had fantasised about for so long but had never anticipated receiving.

Finally, she levelled the perimeter around my head, continuing the blunt line of my fringe to form the harsh lines of a bowlcut. Sensing the cool breeze from the air conditioning overhead chilling my shaved skin, I gathered it was not a soft bob-like style but a stark bowlcut, both drastic and severe. One that I was desperate to see but still hidden from my view.

First Appraisal

‘I can feel it, I can sense it, but I need to see it,’ I whispered, my voice thick with a mix of awe and disbelief.

StrictBarberette leaned in, her eyes sparkling with a dark amusement. ‘Oh, my dear Carly, you look incredible. Not only that, but soon you will also be feeling more aroused, more liberated, than you ever have before.’

Fear and trepidation had cloaked my deepest, innermost feelings, preventing me from fully embracing what she had been doing to me. Like a sledgehammer blow, when I looked down and focused on the huge mound of severed hair surrounding my feet, I realised my long-held fantasy of succumbing to a bowlcut had come true.

I let out a primal cry, not because of pain or loss, but due to the sudden jolt of electricity that was coursing up and down my body as my mind caught up with the reality. I squirmed in the chair, frustrated that I was unable to use my hands to further stimulate my thrumming arousal.

Quietening myself, I felt the gentle breath of StrictBarberette whispering over my nape, soothing me. Then I sensed her fingers slinking over my bare shoulders, pulling down the straps of my dress, and lovingly fondling my breasts. I held my breath, attempting to put my feelings on hold, never wanting the experience to end.

She circled the chair, then knelt on the carpet of my severed hair piled in front of me. Gently brushing away the hair clippings that had settled on my dress, she began massaging my thighs through its thin material. She lifted the hem of my dress, allowed her fingers to trace my skin, and I arched my back, urging her onwards.

My breath quickened, a flush spreading across my chest. My hidden fantasy was manifesting in the most primeval way. She stood once more and her teasing, while frustrating, skilfully enhanced the all-consuming pressure building within me.

As I laid back in the barber’s chair, half-naked with my dress awry following her enthusiastic ministrations, an inane grin on my lips, StrictBarberette camera phone flashed. Those saucy images would contribute to those she had been snapping throughout the process, capturing every stage of my stark transformation.

First Anxiety

‘These photos are going to be absolutely perfect for my online portfolio,’ StrictBarberette teased, a smirk playing on her lips as she caught my wide-eyed expression cutting through my obvious arousal.

‘Wait! What?’ I stammered, a jolt of alarm spiking through the haze of my dazed pleasure. ‘You are going to post these publicly?’

‘Perhaps!’ she replied, a low chuckle escaping her throat. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘But, trust me, that will only occur if you fail to maintain your immaculate new haircut, my dear. Provided you do that, then they will be secure in my private portfolio.’

‘I will maintain my haircut!’ I eagerly confirmed, a note of panic lacing my tone. ‘That’s what I want, so I can enjoy coming here regularly for you to -’

‘It requires trimming every two weeks,’ she interjected. ‘At least every two weeks! But I fear that will be too often for you journey over here to see me, Carly.’

A mental calculation confirmed that the cost of the rail ticket that frequently would be prohibitive. Besides that, even finding sufficient time to travel might prove difficult. ‘Maybe, but I would find a way to -’

She raised a palm to silence me. ‘You will go to a local establishment to refresh your exquisite appearance, my dear. After each visit you will send me photographic evidence that they have restored your bowlcut to its former glory.’

My internal calculator suggested the economics of her proposal was far more feasible.

‘No problem,’ I quickly agreed. But then an ominous thought struck me. ‘But when do I get to see you again?’

‘When the time is right, my dear … at the appropriate juncture … in the fullness of time,’ she quoted pleasantly, as if it were of no great concern of hers. ‘And, who knows, perhaps that time will arrive more quickly if you choose to have your hair trimmed every week,’ she added.

‘Oh, but …’ was the best response I could manage.

Piling on further pain to my fragile ego, her smile darkened. ‘If, for any reason, you fail to provide me with suitable photos at the prescribed intervals then I may release your photos to a wider audience. Furthermore, if you decide to let the style grow out, then I may take the same action. Imagine the reaction, Carly. Imagine the questions.’

‘But that’s not fair -’

‘Earlier,’ she interrupted, ignoring my protest, ‘you mentioned the pictures I occasionally use to illustrate my stories. You alluded to them being AI images, whereas they are real people, such as yourself, who have enjoyed my hospitality but not kept their end of our agreement. The wider audience I spoke of for your photos would be, as a minimum, the readers of my stories.’

My heart sank, a leaden weight in my chest. This was far more than I had bargained for. The full, terrifying realisation of what I had consented to, what I had allowed to happen, washed over me. The exquisite thrill of transformation now intertwined with a chilling sense of submission, a horrifying, yet undeniably exhilarating, vulnerability I had never anticipated. StrictBarberette had satisfied my hidden desire … but at a heavy price.

‘Are you serious about this?’ I stammered, as my gaze remained locked on her unyielding face.

‘Deadly serious, HippieChick,’ she said, her tone hardening, shifting to something utterly authoritative. ‘But do not fret, my dear. You will adjust to my demands. You might even find yourself genuinely loving this new existence. After all, my dear, this is the new you. The one you secretly yearned for.’

First Impressions

With the completely unexpected revelation by StrictBarberette concerning the potential use of my photos, I had forgotten that I had yet to see my finished bowlcut.

With a masterful flourish, she removed the restraints, leaving my wrists aching slightly, a small, tangible reminder of my captivity. She then held up a mirror, forcing me to gaze into my reflection. Staring back was a stranger who looked bold, exposed, vulnerable, yet somehow, paradoxically, utterly liberated. My new bowlcut framed my face with a starkness that was both shocking and undeniably captivating.

As I processed the dramatic change, the bare skin of my neck and temples exposed, I felt my suppressed arousal intensify, culminating in a primal climax that I desperately tried to prolong, my cheeks blushing fiercely.

This was only the beginning of a journey I had always longed for, yet now found myself terribly, thrillingly trapped within.

First Failing

In the weeks that followed my adventure with StrictBarberette, I desperately tried to embrace my new identity. The severe bowlcut, with its precise lines and shaved back and sides, became a symbol of my newfound, if coerced, confidence, a strange badge of honour marking my willingness to step into the unknown. Left to myself, despite my fascination with the style, I would have allowed my hair to grow out, drawing less attention from friends and strangers alike.

However, overriding that goal, was to continue being worthy of the attention of StrictBarberette. My original haircut at her hands, in her home, had proved exhausting for both of us. That night we had shared her guest bed companionably and, the following morning, I had clarified that I was keen for our physical relationship to grow. I had hoped that the hurtful restrictions she had imposed the night before were simply a clever fiction, one she might weave into one of her stories, and not a barrier to keep us apart. However, over breakfast, she had confirmed she was resolute. She reminded me that I must have my hair cut at least every two weeks, and she would decide when we would see other again.

But life outside the lair of StrictBarberette was complicated. My friends and family struggled to understand the drastic change in my appearance. ‘Oh, Carly, what happened to your beautiful long hair?’ my mother had wailed, her eyes wide with dismay. ‘Are you, er … feeling alright?’ was a question I heard from friends and colleagues. I never revealed the true reason for my astonishing transformation and why I kept the same style, but their baffled looks remained a constant, silent judgment.

For thirteen days after our meeting, I was concerned that the photos of me in compromising positions might appear in the public domain, despite the reassurances from StrictBarberette. However, all was well. However, although I may have suffered shame and embarrassment, I was far more worried about causing upset and delaying when StrictBarberette would agree to see me again.

First Appointment

When I returned from my evening with StrictBarberette, the first thing I did was make a haircut appointment at my usual salon. Patrick, my usual stylist, always popular, was kind enough to squeeze me into his busy schedule on the two-week anniversary of receiving my bowlcut.

Leading up to my appointment, I had anticipated that one redeeming feature of my surrender to the demands of StrictBarberette would be regularly visiting the salon to keep my haircut trimmed. After all, the bowlcut was the style I had desired for so long and I adored its severity and unchanging appearance. However, my first cut caused me to reconsider that opinion.

Being a “regular” at my usual salon was something of a misnomer as, previously, I had the ends of my long hair trimmed every four to six months, whether it needed or not! Even so, the receptionist and I had always chatted like old friends whenever I arrived.

‘Shit, Carly, I didn’t recognise you,’ was the disappointing welcome I received on this occasion. ‘Who did that to you?’ I decided it was easier to remain silent. ‘I’ll get Patrick for you,’ she chirped urgently, rushing off, as if prompt action from my regular stylist might resurrect my hair. Patrick’s greeting was only a little less rude.

I explained in detail what I wanted from him, while listened with a bewildered furrow on his brow. As this took place, I overheard the receptionist and another stylist discussing whether I had become a lesbian since my last visit, despite wearing my red-and-white polka dot dress to emphasise my femininity.

‘Carly, why do we not let it grow a little. We can soften the look with layers, and we can then graduate the sharp step, so it is less harsh,’ Patrick beseeched. ‘And we can stick to comb and scissors, rather than those nasty clippers, so it will look less … well, less shaved.’

I stood firm and, under duress, he did exactly as I asked. I can only imagine it was because I was a “regular” client. However, he relegated me to the corner of the salon, away from the window where I knew he preferred to work. I presumed he did not wish his other regular clients seeing that, overnight, he had become a barber.

He made his disapproval abundantly clear when I asked him to snap photos on my phone. When I sent them to StrictBarberette, she said she was satisfied but thought his hairclippers did not shave the back and sides down to my skin. Next time I was to ask him to use a foil shaver on the relevant areas so that they gleamed.

But there was to be no next time with Patrick as I could not face the condescension from him and his colleagues. Even if I accepted that he meant well, it was my hair to do with as I wished. One might say it belonged to StrictBarberette, but it was not his!

First Revision

Two weeks later, I found myself in a branch of a chain of salons. You walked in, waited your turn and, when free, a hairdresser would cut your hair. Anonymous and without embarrassment … or so I thought.

I had worn a short floral summer dress to pre-empt any doubts regarding my sexuality. The young woman who called me forward shared Patrick’s furrowed brow and made her disapproval of my haircut obvious. Her silence spoke volumes when I provided detailed answers to her hesitant questions.

Eventually she agreed to do as I asked but then she attempted to soften the lines without even asking. Furthermore, she introduced a slight graduation through the back and sides. When she showed me what she had done, I rudely demanded that she should do exactly as had I asked. I had to as I knew StrictBarberette would disapprove. She finally completed it to my satisfaction, although it was not perfect.

The stylist’s unhappiness was plain to see, and she stated that she would not tolerate my rudeness in her establishment again. I did not leave a gratuity!

When I sent the photos to StrictBarberette, I heard her disappointment immediately. She said it was “acceptable” – not even “satisfactory” – and insisted that I find someone else to cut it properly next time. Worryingly, I detected a note of exasperation in her voice. I hoped her obvious irritation would not lead to her releasing my saucy photos to the public or, far worse, never wanting to see me again.

First Success

During the next two weeks, I had scoured local listings for potential salons that might prove more agreeable. I had checked online reviews, but they were of little help as none praised, unsurprisingly, the skill of stylists at giving stark and severe bowlcuts. Eventually I booked a place that sounded that edgier than most away from the high street, although I did not hold out any great hopes that they would do any better than the others.

As I followed directions to the premises, I was formulating a desperate plan. I would go the city where I had met StrictBarberette and attempt to locate her home, then throw myself on her mercy. As I had relied on taxis on my last visit and I did not have her real name, I imagined it would not be an easy task. Even if it succeeded, I suspected she may not welcome my uninvited appearance. But I was desperate. I had to do something.

The directions led me into a warren of narrow lanes in the less salubrious part of town. I even considered retracing my steps and finding an alternative route. But then I saw it at the end of one of the alleys. A traditional barber’s pole slowly rotating. Drawn by the historical artefact that I had only known from haircut stories, I approached slowly, with trepidation. A narrow storefront appeared, the red paintwork peeling, the sign above the window proclaiming it to be Old Town Barbers faded.

I had stumbled upon the class of establishment that StrictBarberette had so often described in her stories. I realised that I should avoid it all costs but, before my brain was fully engaged, I opened the door and stepped inside.

Given the dated exterior of the shop, the scene inside was precisely as I might have expected. A smartly dressed barber in his fifties, sporting a short-back-and-sides haircut and neat beard, loomed over a younger chap draped in a white cape, wielding noisy hairclippers.

The barber – Bernard, I noted, from the name badge on his trim waistcoat – rewarded my appearance with a cursory glance and an expression that offered no judgement. Without a word, he jerked his head towards a row of empty wooden chairs to suggest I should sit, then wait for his attention. I did not have to wait long.

‘Aw’right, love’, Bernard said in greeting, gesturing to his chair, as soon as he had finished scalping the young chap and receiving payment.

I scampered over and lowered myself into the chipped and worn barber’s chair. I prepared to expound my well-practiced speech for how I wanted my hair cut. But he prevented me from doing so by flicking open a billowing white cape and allowing to settle over my body, before securing it around my neck. I was about to start again, when he levered the chair up much higher making me jump.

His vigorous actions were unsettling, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable. And, unlike those frigid appointments I endured in the salons, I felt a delightful flicker of arousal.

He carefully combed through my bowlcut then held my gaze in the mirror. ‘A trim, or something else, love.’

‘Trim, please,’ I said timidly, wondering how I had ended up in his chair and if it had been such a clever idea.

‘Aw’right,’ he concurred. ‘Needs taking up a fair bit, with more of an undercut so the tops curves under more neatly and then shaved down to the bone on the back and sides.’

Momentarily stumped by his sudden loquaciousness, and preparing to argue with each of his ideas, I suddenly realised that he had expressed exactly what I wanted!

‘Aw’ right,’ I consented, resulting in him firing up his hairclippers and going to work.

I marvelled at the practiced way he raised the level of the bowl so that it far better balanced my face. He diligently undercut the perimeter so that the ends of the bowl curved under just enough to improve the outline immeasurably. The way he precisely snipped my fringe gave my eyes far greater allure. And all completed in one smooth, professional operation, unaccompanied by any starchy words of complaint or sighs of exasperation.

Surprisingly, Bernard’s strong and silent approach led to my body thrumming to the same rhythm that StrictBarberette had stimulated. I could not wait to get home to examine my revised haircut and enjoy the consequential arousing emotions.

Believing he had nearly finished, nothing had prepared me for what happened next. I heard an unfamiliar swishing sound behind me. Then he smeared copious quantities of a creamy white substance around my ears and along the back of my head. Seeing an old-fashioned razor in his hand clarified what he was about to do.

The cold metal scraping at first, then gliding over my scalp, was an exquisite sensation, a rush of tingling emotion that sent shivers through my whole being. I felt an arousal coil deep within, a secret pleasure that I had to mask behind a carefully neutral expression until I was safely home. Only when gazing at my stark reflection, feeling the smoothness of my skin, would I allow the suppressed feelings wash over me.

‘Aw’right, love?’ he asked, awakening me from my pleasure-filled trance.

I nodded my enthusiastic agreement as he showed me the back and sides with a hand mirror. He had crafted my style to another level when compared with the haircuts I had received previously. He lowered the chair and removed the cape, allowing me to pay the remarkably small fee he requested, when compared with the price of my usual salon.

‘See you again, love,’ he said, a genuine smile forming on his lips, enhanced by the well-deserved tip I placed in his hand.

‘Aw’right,’ I agreed enthusiastically as I left.

I had forgotten to ask Bernard to snap photos of my transformed appearance. So, instead, I propped up my phone to do one of those cheesy short videos showing my severe appearance from every angle. StrictBarberette was delighted and demanded to know who had my hair so perfectly.

‘Your video, enticing as it was, will not have done justice to Bernard’s magnificent work on your hair,’ she said, rather ungraciously I thought. But my heart sang when she continued. ‘So, Carly, we will need to check diaries and see if we can arrange a couple of days for you to visit me again. I wish to enjoy a closer inspection of your immaculate bowlcut.’

Epilogue

Predictability, StrictBarberette weaved my experience, my coerced transformation, into one her delicious haircut stories. She captures the essence of a women who embraced change, discovered unsettling desires, and found herself in a labyrinth of delightful surrender.

The story was up to her usual exemplary standards. I was pleased there was nothing to suggest that I was the subject of the transformation. Therefore, I did not even mind that she included an image of me. Taken from the rear, it disclosed no more than a whisper of my appearance, illustrating the stark and severe bowlcut received by the character BowlCutChick. I was highly flattered and most amused.

My story, forever etched in the annals of her online tales, was a living, breathing testament. It was not about resisting hidden desires, but to the terrifying, thrilling, and inescapable consequences of succumbing to them … no matter what the cost.