Following cutting Kate’s hair Saturday morning, the day and night that followed had been a time of the unexpected. Seeing Kate’s low fade buzz cut was a constant turn on for me. She knew it and capitalized on it. Now, remembering what she’d done to and with me after the haircut, left we wanting more of her.
Returning from lunch Sunday, Kate took a circuitous route passing by a small barbershop we’d passed yesterday. A barber pole attached to the old, brick building was still. The door, once a brilliant crimson, was now a nameless shade between amaranth and puce, it’s colour faded and lost to the sun, rain, snow, and humidity of the past decade. Closed, yellowed, dust laden blinds, obscured the view through window and door. A once colour poster, illustrating “men’s haircuts”, was little more than blue/grey ink on curled-edge,w paper. And below, a store bought 8”x10”, chair-for-rent sign.
A Woman Full of Surprises
“Let’s go in,” she said. Knowing it was Sunday and closed, I thought it best to say nothing. However, Kate, ever unpredictable, produced a key from her purse, unlocked the door, ushered me in, and relocked the door.
I heard her voice behind me say, “Young man, you’ll be next. Please take a seat in the waiting area. I have to go in back, but your barberette will be with you in a moment. Hang your pants on the hook so you are ready for the barberette.” As I sat, she set her purse on a chair, and proceeded to a curtained doorway at the rear of the shop.
A few minutes later Kate returned from the back room wearing a tight-fitting, deep V-neck faux leather mini dress. It curved perfectly over her hips and left little to the imagination. Her outfit was completed with 4” black heels and a riding crop which she rhythmically slapped against her palm. “I will be your barberette today.” She brought the crop down hard on the red leather seat of the barber chair. The sound reverberated in the small, old, brick shop. “Right up here young man.” She quickly slapped it again, “Now!”
I moved quickly to the suddenly imposing chair, sitting on the cold, red leather seat. She snapped open a pinstriped cape that had been draped over the arm of the chair. It billowed out and settled over my upper body. She reached to the neck strip dispenser and pulled one out, securing the self-adhesive tissue tightly around my neck. Pulling the cape secure, she snapped it closed and turned my face toward her. “Young man,” she said. “You look a little shaggy. Can’t send you out of here like that. Can we?”
I took a chance, not knowing by the way she presented herself what to expect. “Kate, I’m pretty amazed. May I ask a few questions?”
“Of course,” she warmly replied. “As your barberette I am glad to answer questions.”
“Okay, in no particular order. You seem to have the whole routine down pat. How many times have you done this? What is your experience cutting hair? How did you ever manage to get this barbershop? Other than for your pleasure, or my humiliation, why am I wearing no pants? And, finally, what more don’t I know?”
“That’s a lot of questions. I’ll try to answer each, but it’s complicated, so this may not be a ‘50 words or less’ explanation. Here goes.”
“Actual haircutting experience? I have cut my daughter’s hair, trimmed her bangs and split ends for 12 years. I cut my son’s hair for the first fourteen years of his life, and my husband’s a couple more. So scissors and clippers are not totally unknown to me. For my husband and son, every four weeks it was always the same. Depending on time of year, put a #2-#3-or-#4 guide on the clippers and buzz everything to the same length. No tapering or fading, just routine, boring, and impossible to screw up. Contractor husband? Never cared how it looked. Not too many variations between ¼” and ½”. Once my son became aware of girls, he no longer wanted that haircut. Off to a stylist. That’s pretty much all there is to that. I’m not Vidal Sassoon, Alexandre de Paris, or Jose Eber. But, that’s not why you’re here.”
Becoming a Barbarette
“My training as a barberette? First, from what I’ve learned about you, I know you like women with short haircuts. I’m quite sure that’s how I initially caught your attention. Fetish? May be. I deduced you would want to cut my hair at some point. That actually got me thinking about cutting yours. Separate but related, you sent me the movie, ‘Basic Instinct’, which I watched and we discussed. In fact, I watched it eight times.”
“It was clear, as we discussed it, that you liked the Catherine Trammel character. She was beautiful, devious, obvious, manipulating, controlling, a sociopath. I’d never imagined a person like her until that movie. Strangely, I found myself drawn her too. Suddenly, I wanted to be her – your dream, your nightmare, and open to your control. But also, your equal and whether loving or cruel, capable of being in complete control. I wanted to do everything to you that I could imagine her doing.”
“So roles as Catherine Trammel, and as a barberette, became comingled for me. I ‘set the table for’ the events of this weekend, some of which occurred yesterday.
I started months ago from 2,000 miles away. Trying things with you over the phone to get in your head became my daily task and joy. I did things the way I thought she might. Sometimes it was teasing comments; sadistic humor; discussions about B&D and S&M. I varied being sexually suggestive, coy, innocent, or playing dumb. I worked to get you physically turned on over the phone – knowing you’d be left hanging. Discussions about short hair and cutting hair? The thin line between pain and pleasure? You were a pawn in the game, and my toy.
I kept trying to turn you on, setting you up, pulling you in, and you kept coming. I wanted you hooked, obsessed with me so I was constantly on your mind. After every call I wanted you obsessively thinking about me. What would it be like to be with me? And what would I want you to do to me? Or me, to you? I took things further any time I sensed you were in. That was it, and here we are.”
“Short hair and my vast haircutting education? First, you know I had long hair most of my life. I wanted to cut it short for a few years, but my husband always objected. A couple of years ago the guy who cut my hair said 33 was too old for long hair. That became my permission slip to cut it, and ultimately, a way to spite my husband. I went from waist length, to shoulders, to chin length, to pixie in about 8 months. The shorter it got, the more turned on I got. I looked forward to the cutting, the change, the feel and look as it got shorter and shorter. I wanted to go really short after that, but kept putting it off.”
“Then, Friday night, you gave me my first buzz cut. The fade made the vibe complete. I loved the whole process. But I never anticipated the mental and physical rush of what you did to me. You were in complete control. Me? Physically restrained. A rush! The buzz and vibration of the clippers, the extent of my arousal, not knowing what you would do next? God, what a turn on! I reached a point where I couldn’t take any more. I was so physically and mentally turned on that I climaxed, and, I wet myself.”
“You’d gotten me thinking about and I got myself reading about bondage and domination – the how’s, what’s, and why’s. I really liked it and thought about what it would be like while getting my hair cut…or while cutting yours. I wanted you to tie me up and control me and I wanted to do the same with you.”
“But, I went further, darker, and became infatuated with sadism and masochism – reading, watching, thinking. I found myself not just wanting to be in total control, but also thinking about ways to heighten your anticipation, to turn you on, to create abject fear, inflicting pain in a hundred different ways. It’s not what you asked for, but it became part of what I want.”
“I was tired of feeling repressed, ordinary, and a woman who could be taken for granted. S&M appealed to me. Making you mine? Exercising total control? Humiliating you? Doing anything I wanted to and with you? Using fear, anticipation and pain to show love? I got wet thinking about the possibilities.
What did I really want? Simple. When I want to be pleasured, you will pleasure me. When I want to be made love to softly or taken hard, you will. Anything to be done with your appearance? I will tell you. If I want you to massage me or paint my nails, you will. Or, if I want to chain you up, cut your hair, or humiliate you, you will submit without ever questioning me. I will tell you once and you will comply, or you will pay the price.” Her words could have just been an act. But, I found out yesterday they weren’t, and wondered at what I’d unknowingly created!
“I also found an online site, Hairstorynetwork, and read the stories,” she continued, “short haircuts? head-shaving? I found myself turned on by some of those stories. They gave me insight into fetishes, emotions, and motives. I explored the reasons – making a change, revenge, surprises, forced cuts. Sure, it was mostly fantasy, but the stories took me to an unknown world. And I decided I wanted to take on the role of barberette… maybe change careers.”
“I knew I could be trained for and acquire more cutting skills. I wanted to go beyond my prior experiences cutting hair. That wasn’t skill, just clippers, guard length, and a calendar that let me know four weeks had passed. Taking my son to get his hair cut a couple of times was about my only experience in a barbershop. So, hours of YouTube haircutting videos provided a basic online education.
I went to a couple of salons and a barbershop in nearby towns and asked if I could “shadow” hair cutters. My guise? I was considering a career change. No one ever declined. I listened and observed – method and result. Clearly, the interpretation by different haircutters of identical instructions resulted in very dissimilar outcomes. I started to consider the art involved. It wasn’t just a haircut, but the experience. What made a good haircut experience?
I started thinking about how the parties behaved toward each other. I saw bad executions of good ideas; cuts that were completely wrong for the person.
I asked you one time and you said that there are haircutters that can visualize a haircut and those that can execute the cut, but few that can do both. Later, I realized how observant you were.
“Then I got into the psychology – listening to the person, their thoughts, decision making process, and other factors. What shaped their thoughts? But also, how could I could influence and persuade? It was ultimately about control, and I wanted that. And, I decided I would become your Catherine Trammel, and your barberette.”
I paid attention to the potential client relationship. A barberette is in a position not just to suggest or influence, but to control the moment, command respect, induce submission, and sometimes, as crass and intoxicating as it may sound, instill fear. Talking about this, I realize how much time and thought I’ve put into getting us to this place and moment.”
Deciding On A Haircut
Switching gears, she said, “Now tell me, what did you have in mind today?”
“I’m not sure.” I replied. I knew she was going to do anything she wanted. My barberette had set me up. She would have total control of the situation and I would submit. Clearly, there was only one reason my pants were hanging from the coat rack. She wanted to see my erection while she used the clippers.
“I have somebody new in my life,” I told my barberette, “and I know that she would like something different than my current haircut. I don’t think my hair is short enough to please her. She just had her hair cut and she raves about it, so I’d like her to be that excited about me. Since you’re a professional, and very beautiful and stylish, I will trust your judgment on how a beautiful woman would want me to look.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Hopefully I can.” She ran her hand through my hair, mussing it. “This is far too long. I see removing a lot of bulk, and taking it much shorter. If pleasing me will please her, then no further discussion is warranted.”
More Than Just a Haircut
She used her foot to pump the chair up to a height comfortable for her to cut my hair. Spraying water on the hair, she combed through and walked around to inspect. Moving the cape aside, she unbuttoned my shirt. She made a quick, firm pull on the chain connecting the Japanese Clover Clamps that Kate previously attached to my nipples. They held fast. The tension and pain was unexpected, instant, and made me jump. She walked toward the chairs in the waiting area.
“You know, there is one other thing I should probably do,” she said. “I can’t have a jumpy or fidgety customer while I’m trying to cut. I’m sure you understand.”
As she strode to the chairs, I heard the meter of her riding crop against her palm. I’d been looking at it and wondering. I knew she wasn’t anticipating horseback riding today. The rod was about 24” in length. It was thicker at one end, forming a handle. It tapered to a flexible tress and a 2” square leather tongue, or “keeper.” Was her choice of a crop, of that crop, purposeful or random? Why a whip without a lash? More painful? Less cumbersome?
The menacing, steady cadence of crop against palm continued as she walked to the chairs. She opened her purse and removed two sets of handcuffs, leaving the purse on the chair. Returning to the barber chair, she put one cuff around my right wrist, and clicked it closed tight. Then, she cuffed it to the armrest. She moved to the left side of the chair, clicking the other cuff tightly and uncomfortably shut. “Too tight?” she queried as she attached my wrist to the left armrest.
Before I could respond to what I presumed was a rhetorical question, she delivered. Her crop struck my left calf and thigh half dozen times, each strike progressively harder. “Don’t answer,” she said, “I don’t really care.”
She eyed me up and down. Then, as if she’d just remembered something, she said, “I need to get something from the back.” She returned in a minute with what appeared to be a metal rod. Kate undid a strap on one side of the rod, wrapped it around my right ankle and locked it shut. Moving to the left side, she locked the other strap to my ankle. She adjusted the bar, extending the length between my ankles. My feet were now very uncomfortably further apart and off the footrest. “Spreader bar,” she explained. “Saw it in a movie. Thought you might come to enjoy it. I already do! And you’ll be seeing more of this later.”
She looked at my lap, then struck me hard several times on my now spread, exposed thighs. “I seem to have lost your attention,” she said. She used the nails on her right hand to rapidly claw red lines down my already reddened right and left thighs then hit each area again, harder, 3-4 times with her crop.
“I’d enjoy repeating that if it wasn’t enough. I want you fully focused on me.” She reached under the cape and squeezed hard, making sure she had my attention. She released and re-grasped, this time the edges of her blood red nails pushing in. “Thank you. Much better.” She struck my thighs again and released.
“I think the last thing you asked about was us being in this shop. There was a chair-for-rent sign in the window that you might have noticed. I stopped by yesterday, while you were “tied-up” and told the barber I wanted to rent-a-chair for a day. We determined the price, I paid him, he gave me a key, told me to clean up, and leave the key for him. That was that. I rented the shop for the day, knowing I could take as long as I need to create an experience you’ll remember.”
“I’m sure there are other things we and you will want to be doing this afternoon,” she said politely. “So, I guess I’ll take as long as I please, to take you as short as I please, but it won’t be long.” She laughed at her play on words. “You know,” she said, “I had planned to do something disconnected – long on top, short sides and back, or maybe a buzz cut with a fade, but the latter would be too much like mine. Your hair is what, 5”-6” on top? 3”-4” or so in back? So, what I’m going to do will seem like a big change. What do you think?”
I responded quickly, succinctly, and honestly. “I think that whatever you want to do, whatever you think would look good, will be the right cut. I’m clearly not going anywhere – you’ve seen to that already, so if you have a vision, cut it. The words, ‘Trust me’ is all you have to say. Then do whatever you have in mind and we’ll probably both be happy.”
Kate smiled, then laughed, reached beneath the cape to make sure she still had my full attention. She leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Trust Me”.
She turned the chair away from the mirror. The Andis clipper clicked on. She sprayed oil on the head, snapped on a guard, and took it to the hairline at the center of my forehead. She plowed straight back to the crown.
Pass after pass on top and crown, the hair rained down over the cape. The remaining longer hair hung down over my ears. Judging by the breeze from the ceiling fan, I had a reverse bowl cut. Kate brushed off my head, neck, and shoulders so that hair piled up in my lap. She moved behind me and soon reduced back and sides as she had the top. Her hand brushed the hair, gauging length and growth patterns. Buzzing from different directions, she checked, re-checked, and re-buzzed over and over. Hairs missed in prior passes were eliminated.
Reaching under the cape, she grasped me firmly with her hand. “I see I have your attention. You must be enjoying this. I am,” she said, “and, I’m wet.” Kate put the Andis clippers down on the counter and gave a pleased but devilish smile.
Prolonging Her Pleasure
“I don’t want this experience to be over too soon, and, I’m not done with you,” she said. “I like seeing you erect and excited. So, now for some further pleasure, mine.”
She clasped the chain between the nipple clamps, again pulling slowly and deliberately, until tension turned to mild pain. But, she released the chain and walked to get her purse. Returning, she set it on the counter, withdrew a sleeping mask and covered my eyes.
I heard her hand in her purse again. “You can’t see this but you can tell me how it feels.” With that a sting like 1,000 nettles struck my exposed thighs multiple times, then nothing. Her hand grasped me firmly. “I see I still have your attention and I presume on some level you liked that. I did. You looked a bit uncomfortable, but anytime you want me to use that on you, ask for my Kitty Whip. It’s small enough to carry in my purse. Those thin, multiple tails can be titillating to bare skin. Of course, you’ve now seen there are some more intense possibilities. One of those thin lines that separates pain and pleasure.”
“I bought a scorage whip but it’s at the hotel. When I think the time is right, I’ll introduce you.”
Again, she began her slow, deliberate pull on the chain between the Japanese Clover Clamps, ramping up the tension. Letting go, she removed the sleeping mask. “On we go.”
She walked toward the counter and wordlessly, selected a pair of silver Wahl 100 clippers that hung on a hook. Adding an attachment, she walked behind me, and pushed my head down hard, chin to chest. Soon, the low-pitched, buzzing clippers were pushed nape to occipital, effortlessly and further reducing all in their path. She moved to the right sideburn and working quickly, pushed straight up. There was no scooping to taper, just removal to a uniform length. And repeating quickly, she soon reduced sides and the back to her liking. She edged the nape and over the ears with a trimmer.
Satisfied, she set the clippers on the tray by the scissor assortment. She used scissor over comb to blend whatever remained of top and sides. She ran her hand over top, sides, and back of her shorn project. It didn’t feel like much hair separated my skull from her hand.
A hair dryer quickly eliminated any remaining stray hairs. She rubbed a few drops of silicone gel between her palms. Once applied, it spiked whatever hair remained on the top of my head.
She turned the chair to face the mirror. The person I saw had hair shorter than any time since his 12th birthday. She had used #3 and #1 clipper guards. The only variance in the cut was from the ⅜” on top to ⅛” sides and back. Seeing my expression, Kate said, “If it’s too long, we can go shorter.”
She turned my chin with one hand, placed the other on the shorn back of my head, and kissed me deep and long. “Or, it can grow back.”
The barberette undid the cape and shook it out. “My guess,” said my barberette, “is that when the new woman in your life sees your haircut, she will do things to you that you’ve never imagined.”
“That,” I said, “appears to be the constant; and probably an understatement.”
She reached to my chest and clasped the chain between the Japanese Clover Clamps. I clenched my teeth as she again began pulling ever so slowly and continuously. It seemed a battle of will, whether she would stop or I would vent the pain first. But, she released the chain, undid the nipple clamps and let them fall to my lap.
“You know, I’m just getting started,” she purred. “I will enjoy you when we get back to the hotel… in ways you’ve never conceived. I have no doubt you will beg me to stop, ask me for more, and thank me after either request. You do remember how to answer me?
“Yes,” I replied.
Instantaneously her right palm slapped my face, a sting I hadn’t expected. Her pointed, red nails ripped four thin lines across my chest, rivulets of blood appearing, and I winced. “Yes, Mistress; Thank You Mistress; Please Mistress, do anything you like to me.”
Kate smiled, reached in, took me in her hand, and ran a single nail up the shaft to the head. “Very good. I’m glad you remembered yesterday’s instruction.”
She went to the hot towel steamer, removed a towel, wiped off my neck, nape, and over my ears. Then, somewhat sadistically, dropped the steaming towel in my lap. “I have to clean up the shop. Don’t go anywhere. Okay?”
When she had finished, the barberette went in the back to change.
My Kate returned wearing the mauve coloured heels and dress in which she’d arrived. The tight, tan, sleeveless, turtleneck knit dress barely covered her ass. It was exactly like Catherine Trammel’s interrogation scene dress in ‘Basic Instinct’. A subtle message, conveyed with no subtlety.
She set a large grocery bag, containing the clothing and other items she had been wearing or using, in the waiting area. I remained cuffed tightly to the cold, enamel arms of the barber chair. The spreader bar still held my legs wide apart, a wet towel in my lap. “Oh,” she said in mock surprise, “someone forgot to put this wet towel away.” She disposed of it.
Kate walked around to the front. “I really, really like your hair,” she said. “I bet you did that to make me happy. I’d like to hear all about your experience. And for getting your hair cut to please me, I have a reward I’m sure you’ll like. Just stay where you are, okay?!?”
I watched as she picked up a straight razor, inspected the edge, closed it, and set it on the counter. She glanced at the restraints, then in the direction of my lap. She hitched her tight, knit dress above her waist revealing smoothly waxed, glistening skin sans caleçon.
Waking up that morning, I had no idea what the day would hold. I knew even less about what was yet to come.