Male Haircut Stories

"I think you should go shorter."

"Well, I don’t know."

It gets so frustrating at times. I mean, I know he wants to get his hair cut short, he knows he really wants it short, and everyone knows he’ll look better with short hair, but we go through this little drama. I looked through the window over at Joe and gave him one of my ‘why did I ever become a barber’ shrugs.

The client was Derrin, a middle aged man who had been coming to my Dad’s shop for years. He had then somehow become my client, and over the past twelve months, we played this game where I would suggest he go shorter, and he would argue, and then I would end up taking a bit more off than last time.

The thing was, he was thinning out fairly quickly on top, and the short buzzed cut would make him look a lot better than the straggly few hairs that were left. I know it’s a big thing to lose your hair (and God forbid it should ever happen to me), but if it’s going to go, make the best of it. Announce it to the world with pride - don’t hide your head in the closet.

So here we were again, and I was determined to take the last of his hair down to a fine buzz all over. But it was like landing a fish - lots of pulling here, backing off there, and waiting for him to tire himself out and just give in.

"It would look so much better short. And you wouldn’t have any trouble drying it after you’ve been swimming, either."

As we continued to dance around the subject, I looked up to see this young guy walking towards the shop. He had dark blond hair, parted in the middle and falling in two waves across his forehead and back behind his ears. It was the kind of haircut that makes a guy look ‘cute’ and young. Of course, I was immediately jealous of how thick and wavy it was - especially after I had just finished thinking about going bald.

(For those of you who don’t know, my hair is baby fine and the only body it has is what the shampoo and gel give it. If it’s not styled, it falls over my face and makes me look like the Beaver. The last thing I need is to look younger. But my fine hair could start disappearing like my Dad’s, and as any fetisher knows, there is nothing worse than hair on the pillow. Unless I’ve cut it off of a helpless Joe, of course.)

Anyway, this young guy is walking toward the shop and he’s working his tie off as he approaches, and undoes the top button of his blue business shirt. He comes through the door, and he can see there’s only one chair and it’s occupied at the moment. I’m afraid he’ll leave and take all that hair with him, and I wonder what Derrin would think if I kicked him off the chair and hustled him out of the shop...

But, miracles happen.

"Ah, I was in a bit of a hurry. How long will I have to wait for a cut?"

"Well, we’ve just started here..."

Then Derrin says, "That’s okay. I’m not in any hurry. And I have to think about what sort of cut I want, anyway." I could have kissed the guy’s bald head at that moment.

"Thanks. I appreciate it."

The blond guy then changes places with Derrin, and I cape him up and start running my hands through his hair. Nope, there’s nothing in there. Those waves are natural. That colour is natural. That thickness is natural. What a pain. I hope my boner is not showing too much.

"So, what can I do for you. Just a trim?"

"Nope. I need it really short."

"How short is ‘short’?"

"I’m meeting this girl for the first time tonight, and I told her on the Internet I was a marine. I need a haircut like that."

Now, the mention of a girl is depressing, but the idea of this guy going military is a sort of compensation.

"Do you want it really high and tight like a new recruit, or do you want something you can wear to work on Monday?"

"Maybe a flat top, like they have in the movies."

"Okay. I can do that."

So thick-haired blond guy wants to go short. I hope Derrin is paying attention.

I start out by using the scissors to get rid of some of the bulk. This leaves a whole pile of curled locks on the floor around my feet. Some of the length I cut off the back was at least three inches. As more hair fell, I could start to get a feel for his head shape, and I could plan what I was going to do with the clippers.

I was like a sculptor, chipping away the outer stone to reveal the inner flat top. A good barber is an artist, and I had to visualize the best lines for the hair on his head. Not every skull can handle a strong diagonal, and some foreheads cope well with a high fringe.

I don’t know whether Derrin was a real hair fetishist, but I noticed him looking on with avid interest. So was Joe. So was I, for that matter.

Once the bulk of the hair was gone, I got out the clippers and tightened the head. I started off with a big comb to set the maximum length for the top. Then I put down the comb and ran a bit of gel through the top hair, just to get it standing straight.

Then onto the back. This is a serious step, because it is here that the little blemishes can reveal themselves. Scars that you got as a kid and forgot about. Moles. Bald patches. Birthmarks. All things that can spoil the look of the buzz. However, our blond would-be marine had a clear, clean scalp, and so I took it in a little tighter.

I started off around the ears with a basic short buzz, and then used the clippers to sort of grade the sides up, giving them a taper. Because his hair was so thick, the strands kept clogging the blades though. I went back to the scissors and did the rest by hand.

There were lots of stray hairs that need to be clipped. There was a lot of work to be done on the top. I used the flat top comb to give me a level, and there was plenty of running my hands through his short hair to make sure it was all standing up. Hey, it’s my job! Someone’s got to do it.

At one stage, I almost slipped on some of the hair on the floor. There seemed a hell of a lot of it, and I kicked a pile of it off to the side before I ended up sliding and putting a permanent part in the guy’s skull.

Finally, it was finished. A nice crisp cut. Not too high, but definitely tight. I stood back and admired the transformation. The hair didn’t make him look older, but it definitely made him look more mature, if that makes sense.

When he stood up, the white scalp and blond hair looked good against the blue shirt. He thanked Derrin, and paid me. I was sorry to see him go, and suggested he came back soon for maintenance.

Then I got Derrin back in the chair. I was still on a bit of a high from the flat top, but I had to get back to business. I was just about to start the process of convincing Derrin to go short, when he said,

"I’ll have what he’s having."

So, I couldn’t give him the flat top, but I got stuck into taking the sides down a bit before he changed his mind. Okay, I probably made it a bit too short, but I was on a roll. Anyway, he seemed to like it. And it suited him. I ran my hand over the short, soft hairs, and I think he got a kick out of the feel himself.

"That’s much better," I said.

"Yeah, I think that’s great." By the time he paid and left, I was feeling a little ‘buzzed’ out. It must be easier to be a barber when you don’t have to spend half your day with an erection.

When I went to sweep up, I found that the blond curls were mixed with the salt and pepper ends from Derrin. I kept one of these ‘peppered’ locks for my scrapbook, and wondered whether I would see the blond guy again. If he was that willing to change his hair, maybe I could interest him in experimenting in other areas. Who knows.

Anyway, I hope to see all you long-haired hippies in here soon for the same treatment.

Labels: LNHB

I was on my way home the other night after a slow time in the shop, when I spotted a familiar car full of friends, who were waving frantically for me to stop. I pulled over and they piled out and crossed the road to meet me.

"Jerry, hey, what’s up?"

Jerry was a local volunteer for the Safe Sex campaign, and worked the beats handing out condoms. We had met over a weekend class, and got to be friends. He was usually the nicest of guys, but the look on his face made me step back a bit and do a quick revision of every word I had ever said about the guy in public. He was furious.

"Listen, we need a favour. I don’t want to get you involved, so I understand if you don’t want to know. We just need to borrow some equipment."

"What’s up? If you’re all going to shave yourselves for a prank, you can’t do it without me! No way am I missing that."

"Nah, it’s nothing like that," said Jay, one of Jerry’s slow but steady helpers.

"We just caught a guy and figured we’d teach him a lesson, that’s all."

I looked back at Jerry, and he looked away.

"Hey, Jerry, what’s going on?"

"Okay, it’s like this..." Jerry then explained the situation (with an occasional ad lib by his impromptu chorus.

It seems he was patrolling the beat, giving out the condoms, lube and clinic telephone number, when he and the others heard some screaming off in the bushes. Now, screaming is nothing new in that area, but this was different enough to send a group of them over to see what’s up.

When they got there, they found a huge bikie doing a job on a poor young kid. The kid was homeless, and decided to walk the streets looking for an overnight, when the drunk and dirty bear had decided to do a bit of chicken snatching.

The pink brigade were straight to the rescue, though, and took the villain in hand. Apparently they had carried him off to a deserted underground car park, and had tied him down to be dealt with.

"And that’s where I come in?"

"That’s right," said Jerry. "This guy is filthy and absolutely covered in hair. We decided that we would handle the incident on our own. A little shave..."

At this the other guys broke into a series of bad jokes dealing with shaving cream and various positions. I asked a few more questions (mainly about the mental state of the young boy, the needs of the ‘posse’ and the ultimate legality of the situation).

"Don’t worry. You don’t have to get involved. Just give us some scissors or clippers or something, and we’ll take it from there."

Now, as any true hair fetishist would realize, you don’t loan your clippers to no-one, no-how. And who would pass up an opportunity like this anyway?

"You wouldn’t do it right, and would probably end up cutting him to shreds. I’ll come along and see that the dirty deed is done right."

I climbed back in the car, and we headed off to find where they’d left their prize catch.

When we got close, I could see what they meant by him being a dirty bear. They'd stripped him of his leathers and denim, and had tied him with ropes and handcuffs (and I didn’t ask who had handcuffs handy at that time of night). He was dirty, though, and stank of alcohol and stale sweat. But the most amazing thing was the amount of hair on him.

It grew in thick black strands from his feet to his head, with massive bushes under his arms and between his legs. His face was hidden behind his fringe, moustache and beard, so all you could see were his blurry eyes. He was well muscled though, so he probably did a lot of hard work during the week ( I couldn’t imagine him joining a gym and doing aerobics).

"There’s no way I’m letting any of my equipment near him until you clean him up a bit. Otherwise we won’t get an inch before the clippers clog up."

Then there were suggestions about how to clean him. Most of them were impossible at that time of night in an underground car park, but some seemed strangely well informed. One posse member in particular seemed quite the expert in washing down bound bikers.

In the end, they got a hose from the back wall and a bar of soap from the local men’s room, and started lathering him up. It was either the cold water or the unexpected places they used the soap, but our prisoner started sobering up very quickly, and his bellowing soon had us backing off and looking over our shoulders.

Then one of the pink brigade produced a fairly awesome looking rubber ball gag from somewhere (probably the same place the handcuffs came from) and soon our bear was quiet again.

Then I became foreman, and we set to work. I had a couple of the guys start with the scissors, cutting off hairs wherever they could, being careful not to damage the skin beneath. We figured as long as we didn’t actually cut him, we couldn’t be had up for assault. Yeah, right.

Then I moved into a cleared area with the clippers, and took it closer to the skin. Then another set of guys would follow with soap lather and some disposable razors I had in my glove box. (Okay, so some guys carry handcuffs, I carry disposable razors. Leave me alone - it’s my fetish.)

Pretty soon he was smooth skin from the chest down. The cold water rinses were making him shiver a bit, but it wasn’t a cold enough night for him to catch so much as a cold. He had actually stopped struggling after a while - I think it was when they were working around his dick and were making jokes about Bobbit.

Anyway, we then started on his head, cutting off great hanks of his beard and head hair. By this time there seemed to be a massive pile of hair on the ground, and we were kicking it aside to get in close. Some of the guys were really getting into it, and would have made good barbers. I was sure some of the others had taken turns going behind one of the pillars to ‘relieve’ themselves. Me? I was so into it I don’t think I could have stopped if the entire militia turned up at the garage entrance.

So, we had his face bared, and he didn’t look half that bad. I mean, he wouldn’t win any beauty contests, but there was nothing to suggest he needed to hide his face from human sight. I ran the clippers over his chin and then up and across his head. We had to do some manoeuvring around the gag straps, but for the most part, it wasn’t that difficult.

In the end, I stepped back, and what once had been a bear now stood entirely naked before us, with only his eyelashes left to suggest he had ever had any hair on his body at all. He just stood there, tied to the cement pillar with an angry look on his face, but he made no attempt to struggle.

We all just stood there. No-one wanted to say it, but we were all wondering ‘What do we do now?’

I mean, we couldn’t just leave him tied up, but if we released him, we weren’t sure he wouldn’t go for one of us. Jerry opened his mouth to say something, when we all jumped at the sound of someone walking up out of the shadows.

"I’ll take it from here, boys."

We all turned to stare at what we had to believe was a real policeman. No-one recognized him as one of us in uniform drag, and he looked like he could be a real cop. Seems he had come to investigate the original bear shouts, and had picked up the story from our conversation.

"Just leave him here with me. I’ll have a little chat with him, and see that he doesn’t bother you again. I’m sure he will be reasonable."

What could we do? Either he was a real cop and would give the offender a talking to and let him go, or he was a pervert ready to act out some scene of depraved sadism on our bound and helpless captive. Whatever happened, we had done what we could, and were now all feeling a bit ashamed.

We all left quietly - some to the pub to debrief, others back to the beat to release some pent up sexual energy. I just went on home and debated about telling Joe what happened.

Of course, I did tell him, but I don’t think he would have understood it the way I did. But that’s him.

Anyway, if you see this shaved guy in dirty leathers cruising one of the beats, let me know so I can believe it all turned out all right.

Labels: LNHB

Most of the time, I get my kicks out of normal guys getting normal (and not so normal) cuts. Actually, before I started on the Internet, I thought that there were only one or two fetishists in the world.

Now, of course, I’m older (a whole year since I started telling you this stuff!) and wiser, and I realize there are plenty of men out there who find the idea of getting a haircut incredibly erotic. I am no longer alone.

And as much as Joe now appreciates the sensual possibilities of hair, I don’t think he can ever truly now what it does for me. Unless you have the fetish, all you can do is develop a taste for the thing.

So here I was, thinking these profound and deep thoughts, when I looked up to see this guy walking toward the shop, and my gaydar kicked in immediately. For any readers out there who are still straight, gaydar is that ability that homosexual men have that enables us to spot another homosexual at fifty paces. There is stuff in the scientific literature if you don’t believe me.

As this guy walked toward me, I knew that he was gay, that he was extremely nervous, and he was as handsome as hell. I don’t just mean good-looking. He was the kind of guy that immediately makes your cock sit up and take notice, and every eye in the vicinity was focused on him.

He looked like he had just come from work, as he was still in tan slacks, blue shirt (Country Road, maybe) and a tie. Button down collar. His hair was that blond kind that always makes me envious and that certain Hollywood actresses would kill for. It had natural highlights, making it look like he spent a lot of time outdoors. It was thick and heavy and parted in the middle, but after about an inch it divided into a mass of solid and springy curls.

Although it looked well cut, it hadn’t been trimmed for over a month, and the front curls were falling over the eyebrows and gave him a shaggy surfer look. His smile was brilliant white and stood out against his tanned skin.

I looked over to where Joe usually stood, but tonight was his night off, and he was in a poker game on the other side of the city. What a night he picked to miss. I turned back to my approaching customer, and tried not to lick my lips in anticipation.

He got to the door of the shop, and I walked over to greet him.

"Hi. Here for a cut?" That’s me, master of stating the obvious. How come when I’m thinking with my balls, they always stuff it up and make me look like an idiot?

"Yeah, listen, I don’t know if I’m in the right place. Do you know a guy called S**** M******?" (Some of you may know him as well, but in order to protect his privacy, let’s just call him you-know-who).

"I might. Did he suggest you come here?"

"Look, this is a bit strange." He looked around, but the lobby was deserted. However, he also rubbed his hand through that mass of sandy curls, and I thought, if that is a nervous gesture, then I want this guy to be as nervous as possible.

"He said that you sometimes...give...like, well...special haircuts."

Now, I am not against sex, and this guy was stud enough for me to be ready for anything, anytime, anywhere. But I am not to be passed around like a bathroom wall number.

"Just exactly what do you want?"

Then it slowly came out. He had always had a ‘bit of a thing’ about getting his hair cut. It turned him on, but he had never done anything about it. Then he had met you-know-who in a bar, and under the influence of a few beers and some gentle prodding, had revealed his fantasy. Then you-know-who had suggested he come to see me, and get his hair cut properly.

Since then, he had been so nervous just thinking about it, he had jerked off three times last night before finally getting to sleep. (Okay, he didn’t tell me that’s what he had done, but that’s what I would have done. Actually, I can remember one time... Let’s keep that for another story, huh?) He had finally decided to see me, but had been walking around the city for two hours getting up the nerve.

Now, this was the first true fetisher that I had had in my chair, and I wanted to make the most of it.

I started off by giving him a shampoo - both to calm him down a bit and to prolong the experience. Plus it’s a necessary part of the ritual. As the warm water flowed over his thick hair, it darkened and became straighter at the same time. The weight of the water made his hair seem longer without the pull of the curl. I rubbed the shampoo through the long strands, and felt the weight of all that soon-to-be-gone hair.

I then set him back up in the barber chair facing the mirror. By the look on his face he was excited and nervous, and I couldn’t decide whether he was ready to pee or cum.

I combed his hair with my fingers, and spoke soothing words. Well, not so soothing, I suppose.

"There, look at all that hair. I’m going to have to cut it off, you know. That’s right. I’m going to take the scissors and snip through all those little boy curls. You’re going to walk out of here totally different."

I picked up the comb and began combing his fringe down so that the wet hair covered his eyes.

"That’s it, boy, just relax while I take care of all this hair of yours. It’s way too long. You’ve been a bad boy and now it’s all long and tangled. I’m going to have to get it all cut off. I may even have to shave your head to get it right."

He was squirming a bit, and made little involuntary grunting sounds.

The comb glided easily through his dark wet hair, and I took the scissors and snipped across his fringe. The curls fell down on the cape, and sprang back into tight circles.

"Nope, that’s not short enough. I’ll have to take some more off."

Once again the scissors sliced through his fringe, releasing more of the curls to fall softly like dark snowflakes on the light coloured cape. He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror, and I think he lost his initial hesitation. Now it was too late to turn back, so he could only go for it.

"My hair is way too long. Do you think you could give me a flat top?"

He was obviously pretty brave for his first time, but I just smiled back at him. "I think you’d look great in a flat top. But how short do you want to go?"

"I’ve still got to go to work, so I don’t want anything that makes me look like I just escaped from prison. Just sort of short."

So I set to work with the scissors some more, just to have the pleasure of cutting through individual locks and having them roll down off his shoulders and onto the floor. During the first few cuts, I tried to chat to him, but he seemed more focussed on the experience, and had trouble paying attention to what I was saying.

His hair was starting to dry out quickly now that it was getting so short, so I just dampened it down with a spray bottle. I ruffled my hand through it, but what started out as a set of spikes quickly retreated into a flat set of curls that hugged his skull.

I got out the clippers and then proceeded to trim the hair around his ears. I don’t think he had had clippers used before, and this was another thrill for him. I actually stopped and let him hold them so he could feel the power and weight of them.

I tipped his head forward, and started running the clippers up the back of his head in smooth, long strokes. I figured if he hadn’t stained his pants by now, this should do it. I rubbed my palm slowly over the back of his head, massaging the short and soft stubble. Actually, he probably wasn’t the only one with sticky underwear at that stage.

The top was a little more troublesome, as the curling hair wanted to go in every direction. But eventually, using a flat comb and lots of gel, I got it all firm and standing. Of course, there was a softness to the cut, as there was no way the hairs were going to be entirely straight. It looked more like a field of wheat where the tops were slightly curled over under a stiff breeze.

It really suited him, though, and he looked a lot younger, but more mature at the same time. When I took the cape off him and he got the whole effect with the blue shirt and tie, I figured he was in for another long night of five-finger romance. Shit, so was I!

He paid me, and we said a few words to each other. I said he should come back in a week or so to let me trim it up, and he agreed. I told him that I knew what it was like, this thing about men and their hair, and if he ever wanted to talk, he knew where to find me. It was a very intimate moment, but we left it there. He said good-bye, and I said see ya, and we went our own way.

But, if there is one thing I know, it’s that you can’t fight the fetish. Once you give in to the thing once, it’s got you for the rest of your life.

He’d be back.

Labels: LNHB

It was inevitable that Joe ask to cut my hair.

I mean, after all I had done to him, I guess I was waiting for his revenge. At first, I put him off by telling him I’d just got it cut, or I had a lecture to go to, but he kept insisting.

So what could I do? Tell him I didn’t trust him? Tell him that I enjoyed having sex with him and letting him do things to my body that I refuse to tell you about because they might get me into trouble under state law, but I wouldn’t let him cut my hair? I thought about it, but one night, we were at his place, and he asked me, and okay, I said yes. What could happen?

I guess he thought I didn’t trust him, because as I sat down on his kitchen chair, he produced a length of rope. Okay, in for a penny, in for a pound.

He used the rope at first to tie me to the chair, with my legs spread apart and fastened to the sides. Then he tied my hands behind my back, making me feel very vulnerable. (Do I have to mention that I was naked, and he was doing terrible things to my exposed genitalia, or can I leave that bit up to your imagination?)

When he had my attention, and my rod was at full mast, he then fastened it off with a leather cord so it would stay erect for as long as possible. He then added a fiendish little gadget that consisted of a choker chain and a couple of clips tied to the ends, which, when installed, meant that if my cock did move in any way, it pulled upon my now fastened nipples, bringing instant pain.

All this was covered with a nylon cape we had brought home from the shop in order for me to trim him. If anyone had walked in the door, they would not have noticed anything unusual. It was only the lack of shoes and trouser legs below the cape that would be the dead giveaway.

Joe then tilted the chair back so my neck rested against the sink. The jerking of the chair caused the chain to move as my cock wavered, sending waves of pain across my chest. He just grinned.

Then he turned on the cold water, and using the shower head he started to wet down my hair. Of course, I started calling him some appropriate names, but he just reached over and grabbed a tea towel, which he then proceeded to stuff into my mouth.

After the cold shampoo, my scalp felt on fire, and my fringe hung in wet strands across my face. (As you may know, I wear my hair with a long fringe and tapered at the back and sides - thick but shaped).

Joe picked up a comb and started playing with my hair, combing it forward, pushing it back, parting it on one side and then another, enjoying my attempts to move a leg so I could kick him where it would do the most damage.

Then he picked up the scissors and it hit me that he really was going to cut my hair, and there was no way I could stop him. He could even shave my head as I did his, and all I could do was sit back and let it happen. I felt incredibly defenceless, and my cock throbbed, pulling my already stressed nipples.

He stood in front of me, and using his knee, he pushed it forward so that it pressed against my balls and made the leather thong pull down on my cock. He then combed up my fringe and held it between his fingers, and I closed my eyes, prepared for the worst.

However, the sound of my hair being cut and the bits falling on the cape wasn’t as bad as I feared. Joe set to work in earnest, and even though he could have left me without a hair on my body, he settled for taking about a quarter inch off all over. It took him a while because it was his first cut, and it drove me mad that there wasn’t a mirror for me to see what he was doing, but I tried to keep my head as still as possible so it wouldn’t be any worse.

The rest of the cut went smoothly, with him occasionally whispering threats into my ear, and rubbing a few of the cut locks into my face.

At one stage, he got down on his knees and lifted the cape up to expose my almost purple cock. He undid the leather band, and the pain as the blood rushed back into my cock was agony. But then he applied his tongue to the underside of the shaft, and the pain was soon forgotten.

I won’t go into all the gory details, but the cut he gave me wasn’t too atrocious (considering what it could have been like). And even though I made him pay for all the little S&M extras, I guess I really liked the feeling of surrendering totally to another guy.

I feel sorry for those people out there who don’t share some sort of fetish with their loved ones. It’s bad enough to be in the closet, but denying your fetish is like putting a bag over your head as well. I am glad that I found Joe, and even if it’s not forever, at least it will last long enough for us to find out some more about who we are.

And who we want to be.

Labels: LNHB

This week saw some excitement in the hotel. Some famous female star was coming to stay ( and because she was incognito, I can’t tell you who it was. However, I can say that her underwear has points and revolving doors. ‘Nuff said.)

I wasn’t there when she arrived, but that night Joe gave me the lowdown. Seems she paraded in straight from the airport, and was not to be disturbed. Then she sent out for some local ‘bodyguards’. Joe had a wonderful afternoon escorting some of the best looking hunks in town to her door, and then guiding most of them back down when they didn’t measure up.

Apparently, she had finally settled on some big bit of beef with a ponytail, who had been up there for almost an hour. Now that the excitement was over, though, there was not much to do except make a cup of coffee and settle into some study for the night. Not so, my dear readers. Would I be writing this unless some pretty interesting things then occurred? Of course not!

So here I am, sipping coffee and reading Simon LeVay’s latest stuff on sexual deviance (nothing to do with us, though), when the lift opened and out stepped what I thought must be the bodyguard. He was dressed in a dark suit, and his shiny black hair was tied back into a ponytail. He had a neatly clipped moustache and beard as well, all well groomed. He seemed very neat, and though he wasn’t the biggest man I had ever seen, he did have an air of strength and menace about him that would make most muggers think twice. Or thrice.

He walked over to the door of my shop, and I had a moment of apprehension, wondering if I had looked at him the wrong way or something. He didn’t look like he needed a cut, and I tried to think of some other reason a trained people-puncher would be coming toward me.

However, it turns out that the Lady upstairs had sent him down to get his beard trimmed. She preferred the goatee look, with the hair left only on the lip and around the mouth, with the rest of the jaw line shaved. I asked him whether she was worth it, but he said he was doing it for the three hundred dollars a day.

I couldn’t argue with that. It didn’t take me long to shave off the offending bits of hair, and when I was finished, he looked even more sinister, like some evil hypnotist or mad scientist.

He told me to put it on the Lady’s bill, then he went back upstairs. I thought that was it, but about ten minutes later, he was back down.

"Seems I look too unfriendly," was all he said. I set to and took off the bottom part of his beard around the chin, and just left the moustache. This made him look totally different. Except for the suit, the ponytail and the moustache made him look like a biker.

After another ten minutes, he was back again. This time, I took off the moustache (and applied much needed moisturizer to his face). We undid the band that was holding his hair back, and sort of fluffed it up. It hung over his shoulders, and without the facial hair, he looked a lot younger and softer.

This was her opinion too. He was back again, with instructions to look more macho and tougher.

I took a lot off the ends, as the best solution. I then added lots of gel to give him more of the DA look. I thought this was one way for him to look tougher without sacrificing anything more than he had to.

Needless to say, he came back.

This time we washed most of the stuff out of his hair, and he ended up with what I call the FBI cut. Neat, no nonsense, and easily recognizable as something only a government agent trained to kill would wear.

I didn’t see how much further we could go, but he was sent back again. By this stage, it had turned into some farcical game, with the bodyguard taking it all in stride. I hoped he was padding his bill, and charging her for double overtime.

This time I went for the GI cut. I mean, he had already lost so much of his hair, I thought a buzz cut wouldn’t be too much. He actually looked like an ex-marine as he left for the final time.

I figured she must have finally settled for this military look, but Joe informed me the next day that he had seen her leaving with the bodyguard, and the guy was as bald as a baby’s bum. Seems she went the rest of the way herself.

Listen, if you do happen to see a ton of steak walking around with a ponytail and beard, tell him Joe and I will chip in for the three hundred dollars to do it all again. Well, with only a few minor changes. Okay, make it four hundred.

Labels: LNHB

It had been a quiet week so far, with nothing exciting in the way of a haircut to keep my nights warm. I was halfway through a boring short back and sides and mind the bald spot, when I looked up and saw a young couple walking across the floor to the front desk.

She looked quite pretty, but his hair was shaggy, and the baseball cap did nothing to reassure me that the top was any better than the ends I could see. I have friends who get all upset when they see a garden that hasn’t been looked after, or a car that needs washing, but to me the worst crime is not looking after what you’ve got.

Just ask Mr. Losing-My-Hair here.

I just forgot about the young man and his girlfriend, but about an hour later, I was brought out of my little back room by an argument in the lobby. I came out to see if Joe needed help, and saw him trying to fight off three of the biggest men I had ever seen.

One was the father I supposed, with a gray buzz cut, and the other two must have been his sons. Both had dark hair, kept short but thick. Any one of them could have been a professional fighter, and I didn’t think Joe had a chance against the three of them at once. Apparently, he figured that as well, because I saw him hand the father a key, and the three titans stormed off toward the lift.

I crossed over to see what had happened, and poor Joe was obviously a bit shaken (my hero!)

It seems that the three gladiators were the family of the little girl who had wandered in before. Joe had given the father the key to the room, reasoning that the three could cause more damage to the hotel than his job was worth. I felt sorry for the young boy when the three caught up with him, but I decided it must be karma for not looking after his God-given hair. (After all, God must be a hair fetishist, otherwise why keep the hair on our heads when we evolved from apes?)

After a few more minutes (and some phone calls from distraught guests) the storm troopers finally re-emerged from the lift. One brother had his sister in tow, and the other brother and the father had the boy pinned between them. They threw the keys back toward Joe, and started out of the hotel. Then the father saw my little Barber shop.

He turned back to look at me, and figured I was the barber ( I guess the white outfit gave it away) and dragged his terrified prisoner toward me.

"We need this...pup...prettied up for a wedding. You have time to do something?"

Who was I to argue. We paraded over to the shop, and the boy was thrust into the chair. They didn’t need to hold him, as I think he was so petrified he couldn’t have moved if he had wanted. I just hoped his jeans were thick enough to catch everything if he decided to shit his pants.

"I want you to make this son of a bitch look a bit more like a man, and less like a fucking hippie."

"Shit, Dad, why not just let him go. He ain’t good enough for M’randa, anyhow."

The father didn’t answer, just gave his son a clip on the head. That was the end of the argument as far as I was concerned.

The first thing I did was get rid of the cap. I threw it in the bin, relying on the presence of the three mountains to stop any argument. I then washed his hair, and tried to get some of the tangles out.

I have to say I enjoyed this. At first, I just gave him a neat short back and sides, with a nice crisp part on the left, with his wet hair plastered to his scalp. However, it didn’t please the father.

"Shorter."

So I cut it in shorter. Took the sides down to about a quarter inch and about an inch on top.

"Shorter."

I had to give up on the part, and grabbed the clippers to take it down even further on top. The boy seemed ready to cry, but most of the shock of discovery had worn off by now.

"Here, let me have that thing."

The father grabbed the clippers, and set to on the poor boy’s head. In a few minutes, he had taken the sides down to fuzz and the top not much better.

"There, that’s it. Now, boy, let’s see if you can behave like a man, now that you at least look a bit more like one."

The brothers grabbed their hapless prisoner from the chair, and almost carried him out the door. The father paid me and turned to his daughter.

"You sure he’s what you want?"

"Yes, Daddy."

And so they all left, and the poor boy was going to be initiated into a family that had its own rules. I don’t know whether he would survive or not. Oh, well, that’s karma for you.

Labels: LNHB

It is now semester break, and Joe and I have spent a few weekends together. I don’t know whether we are really ‘together’ or not, but after the head shaving thing, something is definitely happening.

For instance, the other day this guy comes into the shop, and he has this flattop that hasn’t seen scissors for too long. Apparently, he had been out on some oil rig or mining thing (I pay more attention to the hair and body than to the life story - call me shallow) and hadn’t been trimmed for a few weeks.

Well, I set about getting him back in shape, but from the beginning I noticed that Joe was watching us from his desk. At first, I just wanted to flirt with Joe a bit, so I started rubbing my fingers through the guy’s blond hair, and placing my hands on his shoulders and stuff like that. But then I saw that Joe was getting a bit steamed.

Now, we hadn’t talked about a relationship, and he had never objected before to my cutting someone else’s hair, so I decided to push it to the limit.

"You’ve got nice, thick hair, here. It must look great after a fresh cut."

"Yeah, I like to keep it short. It bugs me to have the back bit scratching at my collar."

So I rubbed some gel slowly between my hands (for those of you who are interested, it is sort of a green color, and smells a little like peppermint) and rubbed it through his hair. I knew that it would make his scalp tingle a bit, as well as giving his hair some body for me to cut on.

He started relaxing from the first minute, and he slouched down a bit in the chair. This made his legs open wide (my favorite position on a guy) so I could get my knee where it could rub in all the right places. Now, I knew this guy wasn’t gay, but Joe was in no mood to see that, and he was definitely getting pissed off.

"Okay, first off I’m going to use the clippers to take a lot off the sides and shape them up. How short do you usually go?"

"Take it down really tight" he says. "I want this one to last a bit."

Okay, so the man says take it down tight, and he’s sitting there with his eyes closed, so I take it down tight.

As the clippers move close around his ears and neck, the white skin is exposed and stands out strongly from the sun tanned skin of his face and ears. When you’re cutting hair this short, though, it’s hard not to leave a straight line, so I had to lean in close to make sure the short hairs tapered down to the bit where the scalp was now exposed.

Then I got really involved in the cut, and lost track of what Joe was doing. I took out the special flat comb I use for the top, and then spent something like fifteen minutes getting his top as flat as possible. I added more gel and as I rubbed it over his bare scalp, he shivered with pleasure. I figured that he might have dropped off to sleep, and the next time I placed my leg between his, I could definitely feel a bulge. I think he was getting off on the sensations of the cut, though, and not my irresistible charms.

Okay, I spent a long time with the scissors, getting all those stray hairs that hide from you and then spring up later to make your flattop look uneven, but I thought that he was worth it. I stepped back to admire the work, when I noticed that Joe had walked over to stand inside the door of the shop.

"Can I help you, Sir?" I asked in my most business like voice.

"Yeah, I’d like a cut."

Now, I had been cutting his hair for weeks now, basically trimming it while it grew back in, and it wasn’t that long now. Nowhere near as long as he had worn it before the shave.

"Yes, Sir. Just take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment."

My customer had woken up, and now that he saw a customer waiting, he seemed ready to leave. He looked at his ‘tight’ cut and smiled. He patted the top (which always feels funny, because you expect ‘porcupine’ and you get ‘beard’).

He seemed to like the cut, paid and left, and I turned to ask Joe what he thought he was doing. But he had already moved into the main chair. I hadn’t even swept away the remains from the last guy.

So I caped him up, and staying in the professional mode, asked him what he wanted.

"I want the same as the last guy."

"What, the flattop?"

"I want everything the same." Then he turned and looked at me. "And I mean everything."

I said "Yes, Sir!" and started in with a smile.

Labels: LNHB

As you may have noticed, Joe gets on my nerves a bit at times. It's not that there's anything wrong with the guy - on the contrary, he turns me on in a perverse sort of way. However, he is a wee bit mercenary. And his hair is getting too long. Need I say anymore?

So it was that The Plan was put into action. Not only would it humble him a bit, but it gave all of us something to do during those cold winter months when we look for warmth, love and revenge.

The goal was plain - to get Joe in my chair, begging me to cut all his hair off. I wanted it, he wanted it, and all it would need is a bit of manoeuvring to make it happen. This is where it's good to have transvestite friends. No-one recognises them when they're in their 'straight' clothes.

**********

It started one evening, just as Joe started his shift, and about an hour before I got there to relieve my father. A gentleman walked up to the desk, and asked for Joe by name. He put on his best 'Welcome the Guest' smile, and said "Yes, Sir. What can I do for you?"

The guy in the suit is extremely prim and proper, dressed in a three piece suit and a little silver tie pin. He fiddles with his glasses, then shuffles around in his brief case.

Mr. Ah...Anderson. It's about your Aunt Elizabeth. She is coming to visit, and I felt it my duty to get here and ... um... warn you before she 'appeared', so to speak."

"Warn me? I think you've made a mistake. I don't even have an Aunt Elizabeth."

The little man than proceeded to explain that he did indeed have an Aunt Elizabeth, who 'resided' in England, and was hunting down her nieces and nephews to find a suitable heir for her fortune. This made Joe's eyes light up enough for the lawyer to wish he was wearing sunglasses.

"Okay, I'm up for a little inheritance. What do I have to do? Show the old ...my loving Aunt around town for a bit? What?"

"Well, there's the problem. She is a fairly demanding person, and a couple of your cousins have already, how do you say, 'blown it' by coming on too strongly. I am afraid she is quickly running out of possible heirs." He then produced a newspaper from his case, and showed it to Joe. It had a picture of the plump old lady surrounded by several upper class english boys, taken (supposedly) while she was donating a large sum of money to a leading school. The article went on to say how much she detested the modern day vices of smoking, drinking and long hair on men, and she thoroughly approved of neatness and cleanliness.

(By now, you're probably wondering how Joe could possibly be falling for this sort of prank, but I'm sure people who watch Candid Camera also believe they'd never be fooled. All Joe could see was a way to get rich quick. Why should he even suspect that someone with a computer and a fancy Desktop Publishing program would create a fake newspaper just to con him?)

Now, Joe's hair was long enough to go below his collar, and long enough at the sides to cover his ears. But after a consultation with the lawyer (who he assumed was helping him in order to get a cut of the Lady's millions) he was convinced that he should look like one of the English school boys in the photo. Plan A was in effect.

Joe came over to the shop, and showed me the photo. I looked surprised, and suggested he didn't want anything so drastic. Of course, he wasn't ready to beg, so he suggested going somewhere else in the morning if I didn't want to do it. That's when the lawyer spoke up to inform Joe that his Aunt would be arriving first thing in the morning.

I was setting Joe up for something, so after a little pleading on his part, I gave in and reluctantly (yeah, right) set to work on his hair.

Now, an English style is thick, but with no added body. Joe had nice, fine hair, so I didn't take anything off the fringe, just used the scissors to cut around the ears and along the back. It didn't take too long to taper the ends so they curled inward, giving it a nice, rolled edge. Then it was a matter of giving him a crisp part, and making sure the top was flat and that the fringe was going to continually drop in his eyes and annoy the hell out of him.

When I finished, he looked ten years younger, and although he hated the cut, he was willing to endure long enough to make sure he got a mention in the will. I was satisfied for now. The best was yet to come.

************

The Aunt turned up right on time the next morning, and although I wasn't there to see it, my fellow conspirators filled me in on it later.

Joe had dragged out a blazer from the back of his closet, and looked exactly like some preppie, upper classman, like someone just out of college and starting work in an accountants office or law firm (no offense, guys).

He was hard pressed to entertain his overbearing and demanding Aunt, and by the time he showed up for work that evening, he was very aggravated. It wasn't just the woman, either. His long fringe, which he usually moussed or blowdried out of the way, insisted on falling over his eyes, and all it took was a strong gust of wind to rearrange it into something new and different. This is what I can't understand about bald men using the comb-over technique. Besides not fooling anyone for a second, in a strong wind they end up looking like an egg surrounded by a war party of upright caterpillars.

Anyway, by the end of the week, Joe had just about had it. What with being nice to a woman who insisted on pulling the waistband of his pants up in public and the constant need to keep his hair from permanently blinding him, he was ready for the next step.

************

Joe came into my shop on the Saturday evening, accompanied by the lawyer and his Aunt. Of course, I pretended not to know what was going on, so it all had to be explained to me.

It turned out that the Aunt was due to fly out the next day, and she was willing to leave her extensive fortune to Joe, after one more little detail was taken care of. It seemed that every member of her family was born with a birthmark on the top of their head, which proved they came from 'noble English stock'. All Joe had to do was show her the mark, and she'd be on her way.

Unfortunately, she was nearsighted, and couldn't make it out with all that hair in the way, so she had suggested he get it 'cut orf'. By this stage, I think Joe would have agreed to anything. It's a strange thing, but it's like backing a losing team. You spend so much energy barracking for them, even after you realise they are complete failures, you can't turn around and admit you were wrong. There are some people who still hink the earth is flat.

Joe sits in my chair, and says he wants a buzz cut, but I tell him that I'm just closing up, and he'll have to wait 'til Dad comes in tomorrow. Joe starts pleading with me, offering money, begging me to cut his hair before his Aunt leaves.

This is the part I was waiting for.

"Are you really sure you want me to use these clippers and cut all your hair off?" I felt like I was reading him his rights.

"Yeah, and you can start with this!" he replied, tugging at his wayward fringe.

I used the clippers to take his hair down to a reasonable crew cut. Then the three of us standing stood around him, trying to get a good look at his imaginary mark. Unfortunately, I wasn't able to hold the mirror in such a position that he could see the mark, but we assured him it was there.

Then the lawyer piped up with the idea of taking an official photo, which we could witness, that would assure his claim to the money. However, even with the buzz cut, the hair was still going to interfere. "Would it be too much to ask you to shave your head, so we could get a good picture? I assure you it will grow back, and it will make the transfer of funds a lot easier in the long run."

What could he do? I pulled out my razors and lather, and prepared to strip him of the last shred of hair. But only because he asked me to. Normally, I wouldn't do such a thing. Really.

When he was finished, his shining scalp gleamed white under the hotel lights. I polished it up so it had the same gleam as the marble walls in the lobby. I asked him how he was going to explain it to the boss, but he answered with the sure knowledge he was in line to inherit millions, and so he didn't need a job anymore. The lawyer took a lot of pictures - of the non-existent birthmark, of Joe and his 'Aunt', and of course, me with my hand on the newly shaved head.

I won't bore you with the details of what happened next, like me revealing that the lawyer was really Miss Beau Dean, and 'Aunt Elizabeth' was really a truck driver from somewhere just outside the city limits. I am sure I can't repeat what Joe said when he found out, even on an x-rated internet site.

There are photos of Joe available in Pepper's bar, just down the road, and there is one of him sitting on my chest threatening to pluck every hair off my head one by one (which really isn't as bad as it sounds) and making me lick his boots and apologise until hell freezes over (which is as bad as it sounds). However, I wouldn't mention it to him. He's still a bit sensitive.

He didn't lose his job, and his hair did grow back, and everyone thinks he's a better person for it, but he still tends to look at me sideways sometimes, as if he's plotting his revenge.

Anyway, if you're ever in my part of the world, and you want a bit of a trim, or something more daring, drop by and see me. I'm here, waiting to give you the cut you've always dreamed of, at the Late Night Hotel Barber Shop.

Labels: LNHB

A good haircut is like good sex. Or good sex is like a good haircut. Maybe it's just me.

FLIRTING

The guy comes into the shop and sits down on one of the waiting chairs. I say hello and tell him I'll be with him in a minute, and continue with the cut I'm doing. So of course I didn't notice the tight muscles under his T-shirt, or the length of light brown hair brushed up and back on his head. If pressed, I would probably have to say his eyes were dark brown and his jeans were too tight in the crotch, but that was just my first impression. Now I am never one to ignore a good looking guy with a head of good looking hair, but sometimes it is important to play a little bit hard to get - at least until you're sure of the ground.

As I worked on trimming the hair of some boring delegate from a conference on the manufacture and distribution of pork products, I kept an eye on my next customer through quick glances in the mirror, and decided that innuendo was the best approach.

"Meat today isn't what it was. I remember when a big piece of red meat would just melt in your mouth, juices dribbling down your chin. Nowadays, it all tastes like plastic or rubber." How's that for subtlety? Of course, Mr. Delegate thought I was really talking about steak - how slow can you be? The Waiting Guy joins in the conversation, just to let me know he knows.

"I remember growing up on a farm, and the things some of the older boys did with pork. It left my mouth drooling, but I couldn't shit properly for days." Now we know where he's coming from.

Mr. Delegate: "I've never had that problem with pork - maybe they were doing something wrong. Did they rub anything on it first?"

Waiting Guy: "Sometimes. Sometimes they just used it raw."

Mr. Delegate: (shocked) "Raw? Well, there's your problem..."

The conversation went on like this for at least fifteen minutes, with enough double-entendre to make several British comedy shows. I felt sorry for our Mr. Delegate at the end, especially when he tipped me as he was leaving and added that it was the best cut he had ever had.

As soon as he was out of sight, Waiting Guy and I just burst out laughing. He made his way to the chair, and like most men he ran his hand through his hair as he sat down. That brought me back to the business at hand. The flirting was done, and now it was time to get a bit more serious.

FOREPLAY

The next step was to get him used to my touch, so he didn't flinch when things got heavy. I turned the chair and dropped it back into position for a shampoo. As he lay there on the chair, I kept up some soothing smalltalk while I used the shower nozzle to wet him down. (Handy Hint: Lubrication is essential at the early stages to make sure nothing gets stuck before the main juices come into play.)

The process of wet, shampoo, rinse, shampoo, rinse, condition, wait, rinse is one that I've done several times, but it's not something that should be rushed. I take my time and add lots of stroking to make sure he is relaxed, but still maintaining some level of excitement. I always finish with a cold rinse, to close up the strands of hair, but also as a little shock to remind the other person that there is someone else in the room.

Then the chair goes back into position, and I bring out a towel to deal with any little spills that have occurred up to this point. (Handy Hint: If you do manage to spill something in another man's crotch, don't ask him if you can clean it up. He'll usually say no and do it himself. Always jump in with whatever is at hand to clean up the mess.)

The next step, of course, is to use protection. This is always an awkward moment, as I cover up some of the bits that really turn me on, but most clients prefer not to have bits of hair stuck under their collar. (Okay, I know some of you are going to suggest cutting a guy's hair while he's completely naked. Only a real pervert would come up with an idea like that. Call me. We'll talk.)

So I bring out the cape, and wrap it around his upper body, fastening it around his neck, and tucking a little paper towel in between to make it more comfortable. The cut is now ready to begin.

GETTING HIM EXCITED...

Some of this excess hair had to go. He wants it gentle, I want to start off hard. He's hesitant, I want to go for it. Have you ever tried arguing with your Barber? And who wins? There you go.

I bring out the clippers, and make sure the cord goes between his legs. That way, every time I move them, the cord is going to tickle his basket. That sort of feather touch can drive a man mad after a while - just gently rubbing against the denim, O so lightly, up and down.

I start work with a number three to taper in the back. Okay, so I don't want to scare him off. Who's writing this, anyway?

Here you go, Mr. Waiting Guy, just some off the back here, nice and short and smooth. No, it's not too much. Trust me. That's it. Just relax, while I just take off a few inches...I mean just a bit. It'll look great.

I compliment him on how thick his hair is, I act surprised when he tells me how old he is, I take an extra bit off when he tells me he's in a relationship.

GETTING ME EXCITED...

I'm not kidding about his thick hair. It's falling down around my thumb and fingers as they grip the clippers. Some of it lands on my leather shoes, and I imagine I can feel the silky, slightly damp locks between my toes. I get out the scissors and start working on the top.

"That's it, boy, just relax while Daddy snips a bit here. Snip, snip, snip. Now, that didn't hurt, did it?" Sorry, lost it a bit there.

THE MESSY PART

Like good sex, a haircut is all in the build-up and expectation. When it comes down to it, it's over much too soon.

I bring out the mousse, and squeeze the white foam into my hand, then rub it gently through his hair. It smells faintly of lemon and lime. Little hairs that clung to his head come off on my sticky hands, and I have to clean them up. There is hair all over the floor of the shop, scattered by my frenzied maypole dance around my chair of worship.

Unfortunately, Mr Waiting Guy's hair has been mixed with Mr. Delegate's, but I suppose they can go together in the scrapbook. Part of the same experience.

I hold up the mirror in the obligatory way. (Why? It's not as if I can put the hair back on if he doesn't like it. And who's gonna tell you that the back of your head looks like shit? Besides you-know-who.)

GUILT, GRIEF AND GOODBYE

We move to the counter. I put the cape away while he reaches for his wallet. This part makes me feel cheap.

He pays me while we swap compliments, and he says he'll be back, but I don't know. Maybe I was too much for a first cut, you know. Came on too strong, took too much off the top.

But I refuse to cling. Let the bastard go and let someone else cut his hair - he'll miss me, you'll see. He'll come crawling back to a guy who really knows his way around a set of clippers...

I have *really* got to change my medication. I am sure the doctor has me on some weird experimental dose. Maybe I should call Mulder and Scully.

"Next..."

Labels: LNHB

It was a warm spring evening as I headed up the stairs to the hotel doors. I always wished that the hotel had a doorman - one of those men in a green coat and silver buttons, who would open the door for me and tip his hat. Just call me old fashioned. As it was, I opened the large door just in time to allow a couple of guests to plough their way through.

He was obviously the country bigwig, in the city for maybe the second time in his life. His wife seemed timid and scared, and had that nutbrown skin you see on video clips when they show a woman standing outside hanging washing and looking off into the distance in a 'life is miserable but I've come to accept my place by my husband's side for the sake of the children' sort of way.

He obviously mistook me for the doorman, because he asked the way to the University campus. Rather than prolong the encounter, I simply gave him directions. He looked grateful, and his wife smiled to show that even though he would forget the instructions and have them walking around in circles for over an hour, she had memorised them and at the appropriate time she would guide him subtly around the right corner, where he could proclaim that I had given him the wrong directions in the first place. Such is life.

Joe was already behind the front desk, as I went over to relieve my father at the shop. There was the usual banter between a father and his son who inhabit the same world but live in entirely different Universes.

"Hi, Dad. What's up?"

"Not much. Been a slow day. You know. Nothing ever happens in a shop like this. It must be really boring for you here every night. Don't you ever want to go out and party? Maybe meet the right girl?"

"Look, Dad,..." Well, you know how it goes. A bit of this, a bit of that, and we finish the conversation without having listened to, or communicated with, each other. I settled down to get on with some study, and thought how nice it would be sometimes to work in a quiet boring Barber shop. I don't know whether it was karma that attracted these adventures to me, or just some angry God, but my shift at the chair never seemed to be anything but - unusual.

Speak of the Devil.

After an hour or so of study and a couple of trims and a shave, the country couple returned, dragging a lamb behind them. Okay, he wasn't a lamb. He was struggling and whining and complaining that his father was bruising him and that his mother should make his father stop, but his hair was surf and sun bleached, and was so long and ratty that it must have been done on purpose, as no sane male would ever let his hair get into that state accidentally.

They made a bee-line for my shop (of course) and I vowed to go to every church to placate whichever God it was that I had offended in order to be cursed with an interesting life. The father dumped what I took to be his son on one of the chairs near the door, and then turned to his wife.

"Now, mother, you just go upstairs and wait in the room, while I deal with this son of yours." She looked at her angry husband and cowed son, and realised that discretion was the better part of survival, and with handkerchief to her mouth, she moved off to the elevator.

"Look what you've done to your mother, you ungrateful boy. This would never have happened if you were still at home." The boy looked up at his father through bangs that could best be described as rope-like. He started to respond with the usual arguments - he was now 18, he had his own life to live, he was an adult, it was fashionable, his father was old-fashioned - but his father wasn't in the mood to listen. He just grabbed his son by the dreadlocks and pulled him over to the Barber chair. Realising that I was losing control of the situation (not that I ever had it) I carefully cleared my throat.

"What? Oh, sorry, but can you believe what my son has done to his hair?" The father stopped in mid-tirade. I think he saw me for the first time, and tried to place my face. He was about to ask if I wasn't the doorman, when he realised that either I was the doorman masquerading as a Barber, or he had made a mistake, so he let it drop.

"Look at the state of his hair. I want it all cut off. All of it." Junior started to get out of the chair at this point, ready to make a run for it. I had this image of the boy being tackled by his father halfway across the lobby floor, and I wasn't sure if it was funny or insane. However, the father was quick to lay down some facts for his son - that he was the one that was paying the bills, who owned the car, was in fact subsidising his son's 'depraved and disgusting' lifestyle. The son flopped back in the chair, willing to suffer whatever indignity while plotting his revenge against his father and all authority figures the world over.

"I'm going to have to cut some of the more tangled bits out first," I explained. "Then we'll see how long we can leave it and still have it look alright." I thought I had suggested a simple compromise, but the father was having none of it.

"I want it all off," says the father. "If he won't take care of it, he shouldn't be allowed to have it."

The son, in a bout of inverted reverse psychology and wounded pride said, "Sure take it all off. Then I can look like a real Nazi. Just like my dear father."

This was enough to set Dad off again, and before I could interfere, he picked up the clippers I had set out near the chair, and set too on his son's head. It turns out he had been a sheep shearer in his youth, and I watched amazed as he cut huge swathes through the boy's tangled hair. He was also used to having a struggling client, because at one stage he managed to place his knee where it immobilised the boy, and the headlock he used on the boy I was sure had been banned by the World Wrestling Association.

I just stood back and watched.

With a few really good passes, the father had trimmed his son's hair down to a decent crew cut. But by this time, he was really getting into it, and he called me across to explain how he could make the clippers go shorter. I took the guard off, and then he proceeded to finish the job.

At the end, the kid wasn't bald, but there was definitely more skin than hair. With the anger out of his system, the father actually became more affectionate, and a bit embarrassed. He gently rubbed his hand across his son's bare scalp, and smiled. The son, too, seemed to see the absurdity of it all. They started making jokes that only someone raised on a farm could truly understand.

The father turned to me and sheepishly returned the clippers. He was quite apologetic, and insisted on paying the regular fee.

"C'mon, son, let's go up and show you're mother how respectable you look."

"You don't think she'll be upset?"

"She'll probably be pissed off at me for awhile, but she'll get over it. She always does. C'mon, let's go."

I started to sweep up the remains of the shearing, and I glanced up to see Joe shaking his head in amazement. As if this sort of thing wasn't getting to be a common practice in the Late Night Hotel Barber Shop. Maybe I won't get the curse removed. There's something to be said for an interesting life.

Labels: LNHB

['Undercover no more' is not available on the Late Night Hotel Barber Shop mirror site. If you have a copy please email].

Labels: LNHB

The first thing I want you to realise is that I am ethical, and normally I wouldn't do anything to endanger my future profession as a Psychologist, or in any way tamper with the mind of an unwilling client. However, after saying that, I must confess that there was this one time when my desires got the better of me, and I did surrender to the darker and more sexually deviant side of my nature. Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, there was an occasion when I used my powers of clinical hypnosis for the purpose of my own fetish gratification, and I wish to confess it here, so you, my dear readers, will not be led into the same foul trap.

It started one night, as I was halfway through my evening at the Barber Shop. Things were relatively slow (I never do a roaring business) and I was reading my seventh book on hypnosis and thinking about the demonstrations I had been witnessing over the past few days. We all had to study it as part of the course, and I was amazed how well some students responded to suggestions, while others resisted the whole way. I was neither a good subject nor a bad one, and quite enjoyed the feeling of relaxation it produced.

Anyway, as I'm sitting there reading, one of the hotel residents came over to the shop. He was in his mid thirties, and dressed in a middle of the range business suit. He had obviously had a hard day around some conference table or such, and his body language screamed stress and exhaustion. The worst part was his hair - over-moussed and dry, shaggy around the ends - all the things a professional barber and hair fetishist abhors.

"Could you fit me in for a trim?" he says, even though the shop was empty. This guy was obviously in a stressed out world of his own. I took his jacket and placed it on the rack, then suggested he might want a shampoo before I cut it. I think he was too spaced out to care, and I led him to the small basin and chair in the corner.

As he leaned back, he loosened his tie and I wrapped a towel around his neck. Then I started the warm water running, and gently ran it through his hair. I could see him visibly start to relax, and I automatically began to make soothing small talk, almost like a parent does to a sick child. Pretty soon he was very relaxed and almost asleep - and that's when it happened.

At first it was just a few suggestions about relaxing, feeling calm and safe, and then as I became absorbed in applying the shampoo, I found myself reciting the trusty hypnotic induction mantras. I wasn't doing it on purpose, and after I realised what I had done I should have stopped, but instead I watched him becoming more relaxed under my ministrations, so I continued. What an evil bastard I am.

By the time I was rinsing out his conditioner, he was deep in a hypnotic trance. He was responding to my voice, and when I lifted his hand in the air, it just stayed where I released it. It was a true text book experience, and I was thrilled by the feeling of power it gave me. I got him to stand up and walk to the chair, and it was almost like guiding a sleepwalker. I don't know whether he was just very susceptible, or whether the stress he'd been under had worn him down, but he was deeply 'under'. As I positioned the cape around his neck, and rubbed my fingers through his still wet hair, it occurred to me just what I had done, and what I had the potential to do.

Obviously this guy didn't spend a lot of time on hair care, which was a real shame, as he was quite good looking in a mid-thirtiesh over worked and uptight businessman sort of way. So as I ran the comb through across his head, I had him concentrate on the feeling of it, becoming more relaxed and serene the more I touched his hair. He started responding with a smile, so I kept up the suggestions as I smoothed it down and got out the scissors.

Then, as I trimmed and cut, I had him think of pleasant things and associate them with the haircut, giving him a sense of peace and relaxation every time he touched or combed his hair. Not only would this relieve his stress build up at work, but (and most importantly) it would be good for his hair. I tried to keep his cut short and manageable, so it should look good with a minimum of care, and I had him open his eyes to watch what I was doing. My monologue of relaxation was interspersed with hints about conditioners and style, and his sleepy eyes watched my every move with fascination.

Now, dear reader, you know that I have this thing about pomaded hair, and I am not one to take advantage of a helpless head of newly clipped locks (no matter what Joe says - and he can't prove it anyway) but I couldn't leave it at that. I have a tub of henna wax that we use in the shop for deep conditioning. You're supposed to leave it on for about an hour, but I find it can work quite well as a gel. It would not only give his hair the treatment it needed, but it would also provide me with a 'thank you' for fixing his potential hypertension.

I rubbed some of the soft waxy mixture through his hair, and massaged it through, again concentrating on messages of relaxation and well being. Then I gave him the crispest part that he had probably had in his life (in my humble opinion), and then proceeded to convince him that for tonight, this was the way he always wore his hair, gelled up and precise, and that after a good night's sleep, he would wake up and wash it out, and not only feel refreshed but see that he had had his best haircut ever. The next step was to bring him 'round and see if the suggestions held.

As I brought him back up to normal consciousness, his eyes began to focus more, and he even stretched and yawned, as if he'd been asleep. I removed the cape and he got up to look in the mirror with admiration. He slid his hands along the sides of his head to feel the slick smoothness, and turned to thank me. He looked like a different man - not just because of the cut and style - but because he looked refreshed, and not the defeated workaholic that first walked in.

I helped him on with the jacket, and he left the shop with a 'spring in his step', and walked over to the desk to pick up his key. That's when I realised that Joe had probably seen the whole thing, and there was a chance he would ask the guy about his new 'sleek' look, but he didn't. He just smiled and gave him the key. But he must have commented on the hair, because the guy smiled and once again ran his hand along the side of his head, feeling the sheen even if he couldn't see it.

Well, dear reader, you now know about my dreadful fall from grace (well, those bits fit for publishing), except that the next morning, as my first hypnotic subject checked out of the hotel, Joe managed to grab a shot of him with his Polaroid. It took a bit of convincing, but when he showed me, I felt my journey off the straight and narrow was not in vain. The guy looked at least five years younger, and although his hair was no longer slicked down, the shine it had spoke of a considerate owner and a good brushing. My work here was done.

(And if Joe ever tells you that anything else happened that night, as I've said before, you can't trust anyone with a smile like that and a cowlick you could use as a roller coaster.)

Labels: LNHB

So, here I was again, setting up the Barber shop for another evening of haircutting, but the experiences I have been having have left me confused and disturbed. That one kiss from Peter was enough to win my lifelong devotion, but I couldn't get over the fact that he lied about sex for a living. I mean, he probably told half-a-dozen men that he loved them each week, and I was probably only one of many. Time to get back to the real world.

It was a slow night, and I was wondering if anything interesting was going to happen, and whether I wanted anything to happen, when the lobby doors flew open with a flourish, and the hotel was invaded by a troupe (gaggle? flock? gang?) of bespangled and bejewelled transvestites, all in glorious black and white. Among them was a friend of mine, William 'Beau Dean' Perkins, a guy who came in once and a while for a haircut that could pass as both male and female. We used to have long conversations as he tried to convince me to try drag for a while, while I tried to convince him that a short back and sides would suit him more.

Beau Dean, done up in full evening dress, pearls all over white satin, led the raucous group over to the door of the shop, and I started worrying about what they could possibly want. I had never heard of a mob of transvestites going around forcing makeup on helpless individuals, but it seemed they all had one thing in mind - forcing their way into my shop.

"Uh, Miss Beau Dean, what a surprise. I take it you're not here for your usual trim." She had on quite a large, blonde wig, interlaced with more pearls.

"You'll never believe what we've found walking the streets," she blurted, only to be interrupted by a chorus of voices, all claiming to be the one who found 'it'.

"I'm sure I won't," and by this time their gaiety was apparent, and I was sure they were all more than slightly drunk. I looked across through the window at Joe, and he just shrugged his shoulders. I was glad he cared enough to come running to my rescue. With friends like that...

"Anyway, it doesn't matter who found it, it's just that we did, and we want to take it with us, but we needed to make a few changes, and I knew you'd be here, and who better, so we agreed..." but once again Miss Beau Dean was interupted by various comments and shouts. There is something about being in the presence of more than one queen at a time that seems to take all the oxygen from the room and turn any conversation into a cat scene from Dynasty. But by now my curiosity was definitely aroused.

"Am I allowed to know what it is you've found, or is that a secret?"

Miss Beau Dean and the others then all gathered together to take advantage of the drama of the moment, and the small crowd parted to reveal a young man standing back in the doorway. The 'it' was about eighteen years old, with long curly black hair that I always associate with italian cherubs, or the art of Carravagio. He had big brown eyes, but a fairly square face and jaw.

I was then pelted with explanations as every overdecorated person in the room gave me their version of the story, one on top of each other. It sems they were on their way to the annual Drag Emporium Social Outing of the Year Ball (which had as its theme Black & White), when they happened upon this lonely stranger, whom they then kidnapped and convinced to accompany them as an authentic testosterone producing male. The only problem seemed to be that he wasn't dressed in black and/or white, but this was remedied by taking 'it' to the local costume shop and renting 'it' a sailor costume ('just like Gene Kelly - no, not Grace Kelly etc.) and now they wanted 'it' to have a cut to match. It seems the head of curls would have been fine for drag, but he was 'oh too handsome' to do a switch.

I moved forward and offered my hand to this young man afloat in a sea of organza. "Hi, I understand you want a haircut?"

He looked back at me with such a shy smile, that I immediately saw what these others had seen in him. "Are you sure you want to go through with this? They're not holding you at gunpoint or anything, are they?"

He just smiled, and said he really wanted to go, and he didn't mind getting his hair cut, as the curls were too hard to look after, anyway. I led him to the seat, and the entourage made themselves comfortable around the shop. With all the chatter and comments on make up and general bitchiness, it was almost like working at a women's beauty parlour. The first thing I did was to start combing out Damien's hair ("Damien, that's his name. Isn't it oh so darling!") and the feel of this beautiful thick hair made me forget the audience for a minute. He had few tangles, considering the length of his hair. As I combed it out, it was reaching well past his shoulders, before the curl pulled it back up.

"Now he has to look like a sailor from those old MGM musicals, so don't make it too short.," said Miss Beau Dean, to be answered immediately with "But it has to be short for a sailor, doesn't it" from someone who looked like a blurry photo of Marilyn.

"Just leave it to me," I said, "I think I know what we want."

I then started cutting off large locks of his hair, as he stared trustingly at me in the mirror. The 'girls' alled oohed and aahed, and began discussing the various merits of long hair versus short hair for today's TV. I tried to tune out the babble while I concentrated on cutting around young Damien's ears, when all of a sudden the room went totally quiet, and the silence was quite frightening.

I looked up, and understood the reason for the sudden lull in the conversation - Peter stood in the doorway, resplendent in his dark shirt and freshly oiled pompadour. (Just for those of you not up to speed, Peter is a gigolo that I did an Elvis cut for in very unusual circumstances, and who has so turned me on that I had to jerk off three times the other night just to get to sleep, only to be awoken for an encore performance after and incredibly erotic dream - so now you know.)

"I can see you're busy," he said, after a long look around the crowded shop. "I just wanted to thank you again for the other night, and what you did. I hope I can return the favour some time." With that he smiled, and turned toward the front desk. I was watching him walk over to Joe, and I am sure all eyes in the room were swinging back and forward between me and Peter's tight ass.

As Joe spoke to Peter, and sent him toward the elevator, the noise once again erupted in the shop, as if the volume knob was suddenly twisted into its highest position. There was no way I could follow every conversation, or even keep up with the questions, so I studiously ignored them and went back to cutting Damien's hair.

I think they soon realised that I wasn't about to 'give', so they all trooped out to descend on Joe. With them all gone, the shop felt several acres bigger, and I concentrated on my client, and did everything possible to block Peter out of my mind (and pants). Damien was new to the city, and was without friends. He had always known that he was gay, and hadn't done much about it, and had just been out wandering when the Queens had found him. He really enjoyed being with them, as he had never seen anything like it before, and he was looking forward to this Ball.

Without the continuous gay conversation, Damien opened up and started telling me more about himself, while I took his curls down to the bare minimum. I left the hair longish on to, but used the clippers on the side to come down to about a quarter of an inch. The dark black hair stood out against the white skin beneath. He had no sideburns to speak of, so I took the sides straight out in a line from the top of his ears.

The I tapered the back, from about an inch above the collar to an inch below the crown. His hair was thicker here, but I shaved the hair above the hairline, so as it grew back it would leve stubble. I was sorry that his neck had been hidden by the sun, because the sight of a white line of scalp above a suntanne neck announces a fresh haircut better than anything, and I must say is a *big* turn on.

I wanted to really give him that 1940's musical look, so I got out my reserve bottle of Mister Whittakers Patented Hair Tonic For Men, and applied a liberal dose to his hair. I didn't want to plaster his curls down, just make sure they were all running in the same direction and staying there. I parted his hair about three quarters of an inch off centre to the right, and rubbed the tonic into his temples to get the shorter hairs to lie down flat.

As I slid the comb through the waves at the top and across the skin of his temples, I couldn't help but think of Peter, and why he was here, and what he was doing upstairs. I was half horny, half jealous. This was not a problem that was going to go away anytime soon.

Damien was finished, and as always I was amazed at the transformation. He went into my little back room with his newly rented sailors suit, while I cleaned up the mass of curls that now lay on the floor (except for the obligatory lock for my collection). When he emerged in full get up, he looked so much like a recruit from a World War II poster that it was all I could do to stop my dick coming to full attention and saluting him. The small cap he held in his hands, not sure about putting it on, but I helped him arrange it in the mirror so the crisp whiteness stood out wonderfully against the sleek black waves on his head.

We then walked out into the lobby, where Joe was still entertaining the crowd of 'ladies' with obviously filthy (but true) stories about the antics of the patrons. I cleared my throat with a load 'ahem', and Damien became the centre of attention for anyone, as he stood in full glory in the middle of the marble foyer. Instantly he was surrounded by a crowd of admiring semi-womanhood, and I got a few good compliments as well. Joe came out from behind the counter with a Polaroid camera one of the recent guests had left behind and never claimed (or so says Joe), and gathered everyone together for a few commemorative shots. I was quite eager to get a snapshot of Damien, for purely indulgent and perverted reasons, but also because he was a nice kid, and I wanted to remember that.

Finally, they gathered together Damien's discarded street clothes, and assorted handbags and chiffon wraps, and the whole parade went chattering off into the night, and to be the prize attraction at the Ball, no doubt. I was sure Damien was in good hands, and I returned to the now deathly quiet shop to think about closing up and what I had to do tomorrow - anything except what I wanted.

After about another half hour, I was still cleaning up, when the elevator opened to reveal Peter, whatever job he had had over for the night. He made his way to the desk to say something to Joe, and Joe was obviously filling him in on the downstairs antics and showing him some of the photos. Peter looked across at me, but I immediately found something else to occupy my attention. When I risked a glance back, both he and Joe were gone, and I felt a bit panicked. Then I saw them emerge from the staff entrance, chatting like old friends.

Peter waved to me as he went toward the front door, and the smile he gave me was enough to make me almost run out and catch him ... almost. As his DA disappeared down the front steps, Joe came over with his 'sincere' expression, which made me very suspicious.

"What were you up to back there?"

"Oh, nothing, it's just that Pete wanted to give you a present, something to remember him by, and he asked my opinion."

"Yeah, right. What did you suggest, seeing as how you know me oh so well?"

"Well, it took some convincing, but I thought you might like this."

With that he produced another polaroid, but this one was of Peter. He had his shirt off, and was standing against the pantry door. His head was in profile, and the sleek curve of his quiff stood out in profile like some glorious black wave about to crash on the shore of his forehead. The kitchen lights picked out highlights along the sides where it was slicked down behind his ears, and the long line of his hairless neck added to the eroticism. I looked up at Joe, and his smirk made me blush. So now everyone would know.

But who cares, huh? I had two pictures for my scrapbook an innocent boy dressed as a sailor who was just starting out to discover the joy and pain of being gay, and my gloriously coiffed gigolo. Now who can ever get any sleep with a life like mine? C'mon, Dickie, we've got a long night ahead of us.

Labels: LNHB

There are times in your life when everything changes - where you cross a line into another world. Everything around you stays the same, but you have changed completely. The first time I had sex, I was sure everyone would know, just by looking at me. I had become such a profoundly different person that I couldn't wait to look in the mirror, and was amazed that I looked exactly the same.

This is what happened on January 25th, a cool, Wednesday night. I was working at the Barber Shop, thinking I had my life pretty much under control, when into the lobby strides this guy whose mere presence shoots electricity up my spine. I couldn't even see his face as he walked toward the front desk, but something about his energy or the way he held himself seemed to bring up memories or feelings I couldn't quite place.

After I got over the initial shock, I walked over to the door of the shop to get a closer look. He was talking to Joe at the desk, and I could see by his profile that he must be very good looking. Even his long hair wasn't the usual turn off for me. If he wanted to wear it long, that was okay with me. I felt such electricity, I was almost ready to throw in my Psychology studies and take up this New Age belief in past lives and twin souls. I had never known anyone who had had such an effect on me before.

As he walked toward the lift, he noticed me staring, and half turned to give me a smile. I guiltily smiled back and resisted the urge to wave madly. There was something about his face that was half boy-next-door and half unpredictable mad poet. There was no doubt that this guy was dangerous in an exciting kind of way, but as the lift doors closed, sanity returned, and I knew that nothing was going to happen. He was just another guy walking past my life, in and out of a hotel lobby.

I met Joe's eye, and I sighed theatrically, and then went back to tidying up the shelves of expensive, brand name shampoos. I was just finishing wiping the bottom of the 49th bottle of identical creme rinse, when I looked up to see Joe waving me over to the desk, the phone held against his ear. I thought he might be eavesdropping again, and was ready to ignore him, but something in the way he was smiling had me intrigued, so I went over to join him.

"What's up?" I asked.

"You're not going to believe this," he says. "You know the guy who was just here? The one that you couldn't keep your eyes off?"

So who cares what Joe thinks, anyway? "Yeah, I think I remember someone walking through" I reply, sounding cool and uninterested.

"Well," he says, "it seems he is actually a male pro, and he's upstairs right now with a couple of Japanese gentlemen." He nodded toward the phone in his hand, and I blankly stared at it, trying to get my mind around this new piece of information. Escort girls occasionally came into the hotel, and I didn't doubt that some of them worked hard for their money. I hadn't really thought about male prostitutes, let alone how fatally I would be attracted to one.

I came back to reality and said, "What's that got to do with me?"

"It seems," continued Joe, "that these gentlemen had a specific idea in mind that calls for the services of a 'head stylist'. Seeing you are the closest thing around, I thought you might be interested in making a few bucks." He was grinning widely, and I wanted to walk away and ignore the thoughts I was sure were dirtying his mind.

However, I was enthralled by the idea that this guy who had turned me on just by walking past was now upstairs, ready to sell his favours to businessmen, and I could be part of the whole disgusting and perverted deal. I turned to Joe's smirking face and said "Tell them I'll be right up. I'll just go grab some things."

It didn't take me long to grab my case with the extra set of cutting gear, and as I grabbed the room number off Joe, he gave me the strangest look. I couldn't afford to stop and think, though. I was about to go on an adventure, and I couldn't allow logic or rationality to interfere. What was that bit from Dead Poets? Carpe Diem? Seize the day?

The lift stopped at the third floor, and I made my way down to the room. I don't know what I was expecting, but the Japanese man who answered the door seemed to be quite normal from what I could see. He was an average looking man, dressed in white shirt, dark pants and dark socks (no shoes. I don't know whether this was because of custom or comfort). He waved me into the room, where a similar looking gentleman was seated on the edge of the bed. Both must have been late thirties, but both looked nice enough. A little shorter than average, but neat and trim. They apologised for calling me away from my business and assured me they would pay me enough to compensate.

They also seemed to worry about my discretion, and I assured them that a barber was like a lawyer or doctor - anything said while under the comb was entirely confidential. This seemed to reassure them. I was just wondering what was going to happen next, when I felt another jolt of this strange electricity, and turned around to see my gigolo emerging from the bathroom. He had one towel wrapped around his hips, and with the other, he was dabbing at his damp hair. His chest was everything I could have hoped for, and I was willing to drop everything there and then, and let him go down on me for all he was worth. Hell, I would probably even pay him to get to touch the source of all these strange feelings in my stomach.

The first gentleman called me back to Earth by explaining what they wanted. Apparently, they both had this thing for American pop singers, especially 'Erivis Preserey'. They had ordered a male escort, assuming all western men looked the same, and could pass for Elvis. They liked the guy they got for the most part, but his hair wasn't what they wanted. They tended to giggle and say he looked more like a girl. I turned to him and smiled my sympathy, and he just shrugged and smiled back. I don't know how he felt, standing there being discussed like a piece of meat. It didn't seem to bother him.

The Japanese then pulled out some pictures of an early Elvis Presley, and explained that this was what they wanted, and their escort had agreed to oblige. I turned to him, and he still had that uninvolved look in his eyes.

"It must have taken you a while to grow your hair that long. Are you sure you want to cut it just for a nights' work?" As soon as I said it, I felt that it sounded pompous and judgemental, and I almost kicked myself.

"Sure," he said, "most guys like it short anyway. It's only hair, and it'll grow back."

Then it was a matter of organising a chair and getting out my cutting tools. The Japanese men arranged themselves on the edge of the bed, as if we were about to enact a play. I wasn't used to having an audience and felt a bit nervous, but my client was obviously used to this sort of behaviour. I started combing out his damp hair. It was a dark brown, and the water had made it seem darker. It also had a nice wave to it. As I was combing, I was also looking at the pictures, deciding my cutting strategy. The whole scene was becoming quite surreal, and I drifted with it, getting into the mood.

Luckily, when I am cutting hair, I go off into this altered state of consciousness, where I forget about the surroundings and just concentrate on the hair and the cut. I forgot about our audience and the strange circumstances, and just proceeded to cut away some long hanks of hair. I started with some innocuous small talk, just to fill in the silence. After a while, he opened up a little, and we relaxed and started getting into the whole thing.

His name was Peter, and he was originally from some small town that I'd never heard of. We swapped general life stories, without getting into 'how did a nice guy like you...' sort of cliche. After a while, to me his job was just like any other job, and I stopped letting it be an issue. I was getting to really like him, and he seemed to like me. We were becoming friends, and I was so involved in him as a person, I didn't realise how erotic the scene was. This was my favourite fantasy - taking long hair down to a sculpted fifties cut - and here I was, living it. Only to find that the fantasy was nothing compared to the reality.

After cutting off all the extra length, his hair became quite springy as the natural wave asserted itself. It would respond quite well to combing and sculpting, and that's when I realised...there was nothing to put on his hair to finish the look. I came to a stop, and then explained the problem to the Japanese gentlemen, who had obviously sat there enthralled by the whole process. I said I would have to go down and get something, when they jumped up with a flourish of garbled english and japanese instructions not to worry, and produced from their bag a small red jar, filled with what I took to be some sort of pomade.

"Well, Pete, should we give this a go?" I said, looking at the label and realising it was probably an American brand anyway.

"Sure, why not? We've come this far." He grinned, and I smiled back. The pomade eased into his hair easily, and I took the time to rub my fingers through his shorter but luxurious hair. The stuff made his hair darker, enough to pass as 'Erivis' black in this light. As I worked on the front wave, I looked into Peters' eyes, and I saw that he was watching me intently. I blushed, and he smiled, and the knowing passed between us with an ease I had never felt. I wanted him, and I knew he wanted me. If our two employers weren't standing there, I would have taken off his towel and dropped to my knees in front of him there and then. But I couldn't shed all my inhibitions that quickly.

I was finally finished, and stood back to admire my handiwork. Although I had thought before that I could be happy with Peter, even with his long hair, there was something about the shine of greased hair, and a 1955 pompadour that really turned me on, and to look at him half naked with his gleaming hair was almost more than I could stand. He turned to the bathroom to put his clothes on, and, I realised, to get a first look at his new 'do. I had been so involved in the process that I forgot he couldn't see what I was doing. I waited to hear a scream of anguish, but when it didn't come, I figured he must be at least not too disappointed.

The Japanese gentlemen started praising my work, and putting money into my hands. I realised I was getting well paid for one haircut. They wanted me to join them at a local restaurant for dinner, and although I would have loved to spend more time with Peter, I replied that I had a shop to run and couldn't possibly. They then assured me there would be no sex involved, it was just that they liked me and this was a way of saying thank you. As tempted as I was, I refused again, and took the combs and scissors into the bathroom to rinse them off.

I had forgotten that Peter was already in there, and although he had had time to put his pants on, his chest was still bare, and in the close quarters of the hotel bathroom, the tension was extreme. He backed me up against the wall where we couldn't be seen from the other room.

"How do you like the hairstyle? Too much?" I asked, my back pressed against the wall, but my crotch pressed against his.

He didn't say anything, just looked into my eyes. He then leaned forward, and our mouths met in a deep and extremely meaningful kiss. He finally pulled back, and there was a twinkle in his eye. I don't know whether he was laughing at me or the situation, but I was too breathless to care.

"It's great. Thank you." he said.

He went back out into the main room, while I rinsed off my equipment, and splashed some cold water on my face. When I came out of the bathroom, he and the two men were fully dressed, ready to leave as well. We chatted as we walked to the lift, and I couldn't help staring at Peter, and the easy way he carried himself and talked to the others. Although I had just spent all that time shaping and coaxing his hair into the perfect pompadour, all I felt like doing at the moment was messing it up and getting as close to him as we were moments before.

As we entered the lobby, Joe looked up and gave Peter an admiring look, before turning to me with a smirk that said more than I liked. The Japanese men bowed to me in front of my shop, and again offered their thanks, and finally they walked away. It was a real let down to go back to the real world of the shop, and I just sat down to think about what had happened, the shelf cleaning forgotten.

Why hadn't I gone out with them? The shop was quiet, and I could have missed a few hours without any hassles. And how did I feel about Peter? And how did I feel about his job? I was confused and I felt my life changing in ways I didn't understand. I felt on the edge of a cliff, and if I stepped forward, I could be lost forever. Up until this point, I had dabbled in sex, and haircutting. I kept aloof, and let my psychologist persona keep me apart from what I was doing. It also kept me apart from life as well. From experiencing, not just observing.

As I was packing up to leave, still aroused and still confused, Peter returned with an arm around each of the Japanese men. He gave me a sort of half smile as they moved across to the lift. As they disappeared behind the closing doors, I felt a moment of panic, almost as if I was being left behind. I knew that I wanted something, but I wasn't sure what. I wished I had someone to talk to, but Joe was the only one around who knew what was going on, and although we were in some ways friends, I wasn't sure I wanted to discuss this with him.

I went home that night re-evaluating my life. Things were about to change. Would I be lost or found? Damned or released? I'll let you know.

Labels: LNHB