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I couldn't have planned it better by Killer Joe
Like most of you reading this story, I have had a keen interest in men’s hair since I was young. I distinctly remember watching a Japanese Monster film in which a little boy, who needed rescuing, was going to have his brain eaten by the evil aliens. To prepare him for this, they shaved his head, and I got an erection.
I don’t know where this powerful fetish comes from, only that it’s been with me since my first, awkward 6th grade kiss, and can be more powerful than any mainstream erotic image has ever been.
Like many who share this fetish, I have played the haircut game, gone into a very busy barbershop, stayed for an hour or two, and then got up and left, saying “Sorry man, this is taking longer than I have today, I’ll come back later.”
In the age before the internet, about 1988, when I thought I was the only one with this weird fetish, I was trying to find a cool style that would set me apart from the crowd, but wasn’t too radical.
I’d settled on what I’d read was called an “Ivy League” haircut. I had no idea what it was, which made it sort of exciting, and I’d read about it a book by F. Scott Fitzgerald, so I figured it’d be sort of old-fashioned, cool and I wouldn’t be seeing it on every other guy on the street.
So I picked this barbershop filled with barbers who looked old enough to know what this mysterious Ivy League would look like, and could make it happen.
The old codger whose chair I sat in assured me that he knew what I wanted and went to work. As soon as he was done, and I went home to check it out. All the way home I kept rubbing the back of my head, a hard-on for the twenty minutes it took me to get home.
I was pretty jazzed about the new look, until the next morning when I took a good look in the mirror, and the cut wasn’t even. From the left side to the right side, it lopsided. I was sort of upset, after all I had really taken a chance on this cut, and now I can see it wasn’t done well. So I decided to go back to the barbers after work and ask him to fix it.
Well, the old guy wasn’t very cooperative, and he told me that he couldn't fix it. “It is what it is, son. You’ll have to live with it for a while.” Well, I wasn’t going to have any of that. So I asked him what it would take to fix it and he said “Short.” My heart began to thump in my chest.
After all, which of us hasn’t fantasized about this moment?
“How short?” I asked him.
“Real short. Like buzzcut short.”
I swallowed hard, both mad and pretending to be mad. “Well, why not just shave it all off then!??!”
“Well, I can’t shave you bald, son. It’s against the law, but I can get real close.”
“Do it.” I told him.
He picked up the clippers, removed the guard and started at the top. I could barely hear the clippers over the pounding of my heart, but I could feel the vibration through my skull and they went right down to my crotch.
When it was done, I went into the bathroom to see how it looked. I kept rubbing my head, and I took a little longer in the bathroom than just washing my hands.
Driving home I couldn’t stop rubbing the sandpaper hair that was left on my head after my shearing.
When I got home, I immediately went into the bathroom to look at this new, radical cut again.
And then before I could chicken out, I grab my razor blade, wet a little spot in the front of my head, and made the first scrape. No going back now.
Then I hopped in the shower, to wash all the old hair off of me and to soften what little hair I had left. I stepped out of the shower, grabbed my shaving cream and covered my head.
I carefully shaved once with the grain, and then again against the grain. I was so turned on that I beat off for the second time in an hour.