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At the barber's mercy by hairsub


This is my first submission to the site and a true story.
My haircut fetish derives from my childhood when I was subjected, by my mother, to frequent trips to the local barber for a no-nonsense short, back and sides. The aged barber, dressed in his grey nylon coat, would undertake his task with relish. Despite my protestations and request for 'Just a trim please' I was instantly overruled and the chopping and buzzing would begin in earnest.
Now, as a middle aged man, I get both terrified and excited at the prospect of visiting a barbershop and always conduct an internal dialogue, with my inner voice always urging me on to take risks. Just this week I had one such occasion.
Although I am now balding, my fetish has not waned and I still experience the same sickening feeling as I approach the barbers. I had not had my haircut for several weeks and it was getting untidy and long. I like to seek out new barbers to go to as the the fear of the unknown always provides a frisson of terror and excitement. So I happened upon a barbershop that looked like it had seen better days. Standing across the road I could see that there was a stockily built female barber with short, buzzed hair and she was cropping the hair of an elderly man, whilst his wife sat attentively in the waiting area. The wife and the barber seemed to be colluding between them and the man looked resigned to his fate.
So, now the familiar walk across the road, when the voices start to argue inside. 'Turn back, this looks far too shabby and seedy - the barber looks too agressive and forceful' - however these were also the counterarguments! I longed to be under the control of a firm, stern barber who would decide my fate.
With sweaty palms and unsteady legs I turned the handle of the door and walked in. This is the point of no return, there is no getting out of this - it was a small shop and only three people in there. The barber and the woman both looked up and despite my weak attempt at a smile ignored me and carried on with their conversation.
The baraberette was making sure that the man in the chair got the desired cut, as was his wife. Finally she finished with him and he departed looking quite folorn behind his domineering wife.
The barber looked at me and beckoned me over to the large, shabby barber's chair. This shop had seen better days. No sooner was I seated than she was placing a huge nylon cape over me, as if to confirm that there was no escape - I was trapped and a the mercy of her intentions. Standing behind me and looking into my eyes in the mirror she tightly fastened the cape aound my neck constricting my breathing and increasing my discomfort. She still looked into my eyes and pressed down on my shoulders - cocking her head to one side, she looked enquiringly at me. It was her way of asking what I wanted doing. By this time I was, as usual, fairly tongue-tied and blurted something out about needing a tidy up, been a while etc. "So a two and a one then?", were her first words to me. Without thinking I nodded my assent, although she hadn't waited for a reply and was already reaching for the large clippers that hung up by the mirror. This powerfully built barberette approached me with intent in her eyes and I was at once made to lower my head forwards under the persuasion of her strong grip. "Head down" was her curt instruction - as if I had a choice. Pass after pass of the noisy clippers ploughed their way through my hair, with swathes falling on the cape. This was repeated at the sides and I remember thinking that this does not look too bad and I have got away with a severe cropping. However she had other ideas. That must have been the #2 clippers - now came another set of clippers. Again my head was forced into positions that suited her labours. Over and over she went - not letting any hair escape her attention. I was just thinkng the end was in sight when she stood in front of me and glaring at me she placed another comb on the clippers. This time she went from down on my neckline and pushed higher and higher, all the while retaining a vice-like grip on me. Glancing the sides I could see that this was shorter than I had been since the days of my short back and sides.
Standing back and looking at my hair she still did not look satisfied. Picking up the trimming clippers she proceeded to push up from the bottom of the hairline and denude my neck and sideburns. Still not satisfied, and taking a comb, she went over and over my head, clipper over comb. She was relentless and I couln't help thinking that "A 2 and a 1" was turning into something much shorter.
Finally she put her tools down and withpout ceremony asked for payment - fumbling in my pocket I handed over the money and this woman of few words suggested that maybe I should get my hair cut more regularly next time. Another mumbled reply and I was out, into the cold autumn air - the wind chilling my head where there was once the protection of hair.
Will I be back - what do yout hink?!



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