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Finally We Meet by Chaucer


Tom and I had been corresponding on the Web for several months. We met through the Men’s Hair Club and The Buzz Board. Obviously, we had at least one thing in common—a hair fetish. I initiated our relationship. I had been looking through the new additions to the “Members Only” section of The Men’s Hair Club when I came across his ad: “Style: buzz; Enjoy combing, brushing, shampooing, greasing, styling and trimming men’s hair and having the same done to mine. Love ‘50’s styles—big pomps and flats.” Well, I knew immediately that this guy and I had a lot in common. And he was one of the few of us comfortable enough to put his home phone number in his listing. I remembered some of his posts on The Buzz Board and thought we may have a lot in common, so I called him immediately and he answered.

“Tom? This is RJ. I got your name and number from The Men’s Hair Club. It sounds like you and I may have some things in common.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Am I getting you at a bad time?”

“No. This is fine.”

“Well, I’ve been reading your post, and you and I seem to have identical interests. I may be a bit more into haircuts than you, but we do seem to like the same things overall. You’re into ‘50’s styles, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. I love them. Give me a man with a flattop or a crew cut any day. Nothing better than playing with a flattop and having it in my face. Well, maybe playing with a slicked up pompadour. I love that, too. Greasing it; combing it all different ways; shampooing it; and starting all over again. Man, do I love that! I’ve never been trained as a barber, but I like cutting hair, too—when I get tired of playing with it. But that takes a LONG time.”

“Well, we do have a lot in common. I have been growing my hair for the past year from a flattop. It’s now about 8 inches long on top with about 5 inches on the sides and a little less in back. I grease it every day and comb it up and back in a big pompadour with the sides slicked up and back in “wings” that are folded into the long hair on top. I love it. How about you? What’s your hair like?”

“Mine is not quite as long as yours. I have it slicked up, too, but I’m thinking seriously about going to a flat or a buzz. I’ve had it long for about three years and I have the urge. You know what that’s like!”

“Oh, yeah. Do I ever? We are mucho compatible, my man.”

And this was the beginning of our “friendship.” We have been communicating with each other by email and phone for the past six months. I’ve sent Tom many pics of haircuts that I love—some that I’ve found on the net and others that are a result of my own handiwork. I’ve been cutting hair for over 20 years. I actually trained as a barber but I’ve never done it for a living. I went to college instead, but I’ve always cut hair for family, friends and my pleasure. You see I’ve had a thing for hair since I was about seven years old—at least. For some reason, I LOVE men’s hair—playing with it, styling it and—most of all—cutting it. The internet has been the most wonderful thing imaginable for my fetish. I’ve had the opportunity to get to know others like me—or, at least, similar to me. It has been great. Before the net, I thought I was the only one in the world with such interests. Now I know I’m just one of a big cohort out there. In many ways, it has been a relief. And it has added immeasurably to my pleasure.

Anyway, I had met a new net buddy—Tom, and he sounded as though he and I might hit it off just fine. We would talk on the phone and email and hopefully someday we’d meet in person. I live on the East Coast and he lives in Southern California, but that didn’t matter. My work requires that I travel a lot, and I go to California every now and then. I’d met guys there before; we had a reasonable chance of meeting.

Well, it was not a long time before our chance came. I was going to San Diego for a business meeting and Tom lived only about a two-hour drive from S. D. Immediately, I let him know I was coming and the available free time that I would have while there. This was our chance—the one we had been waiting for. It still was three weeks away, but Tom was very excited. He kept telling me that he could not wait to get his hands into my hair. I knew that he had not had any kind of relationship for a while, and he was really looking forward to our meeting. We had gotten to know each other fairly well beyond our hair interests and we liked what we thought we knew about each other. Who knew? This might even turn into a romance. As the time for our meeting drew closer, we “talked” more often about what we had planned for each other. Tom really wanted to play with my hair. It now was out to over 8 inches on top and looked really good—even if I say so myself. I greased it every morning with a little Brylcreem and some Vitalis—a great combination—and slicked it straight back with the sides up and back. The back was long enough now for a ducktail. It looked a little anachronistic for the 21st century, but all in all it looked great. I got a lot of compliments about it (especially from the retro enthusiasts) and I loved it. Even though I loved the flattop that I had maintained for over 10 years, I was really enjoying my Elvis look! I had come to the hard decision—for a short hair fetishist—to keep my hair long.

Tom, on the other hand, had let his hair get to over four inches on top. He was greasing from time to time, also, but he really wanted it cut short again. He had been accustomed to a short haircut and, although he had hoped to like his own longer, he did not. He yearned for a buzz. I was looking forward to doing the honors. I planned to give him a flattop first to see if he liked it. If not, I’d buzz it on down for him to a short burr—the style he had worn before growing out the pompadour. He told me that he could not wait to play with my hair. Playing with over 8 inches was his greatest fantasy, and I would fit the bill just right! We both were very excited about our impending meeting.

At long last, I was on the airplane and landing in San Diego. I collected my baggage, rented a car and made my way to my hotel. As I drove, I called Tom from my cell phone to let him know I had arrived safely and was on my way to the hotel. It was 4:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday. My meeting did not start until Saturday (except for a reception on Friday night), so the two of us had plenty of time to get to know each other—that was the plan. I told Tom that I’d call him back when I checked in and let him know my room number. He was on his way and we’d meet for dinner that evening.

I unpacked my clothes and decided to shower while I was waiting for Tom to arrive. I showered and shaved and dressed in khakis, a long-sleeved white A-F tee and a V-neck navy blue sweater over it. I put on white socks and my Doc Martins, along with a heavy dose of Woods cologne. I was ready except for my hair. It was hanging over my face (ungroomed, it reached my chin in front and it fell over my ears and collar. I combed it all back and put a generous amount of Brylcreem in the palm of my hand and rubbed my palms together and then massaged it through my hair. When I was evenly distributed, I added a large squirt of Vitalis and rubbed it through my hair until it was shining. I worked for about 15 minutes slicking it just right. First, I combed the front up and back. Then I combed the sides up high and back into the top part and then the sides of the back were slicked toward the middle. I looked in the mirror to insure that I had the perfect ducktail. It needed just a little adjustment on the right side and then it was perfect. Just as the doorbell rang. Finally, our moment had arrived.

I went to the door and opened it a little nervously. There he stood. Tom was about 5’11” tall and weighed about 165 pounds. He had and olive complexion and black hair that was gorgeous. He had it slicked up a lot like mine, but it was a lot thicker and coarser than mine was. Even though it was only half the length of mine, it looked even fuller and was a great pompadour. The back was tapered nicely and his sideburns were to the bottom of his ears. Frankly, he was a lot more handsome than I had imagined—in fact, he was gorgeous and could have passed easily as a model instead of a computer geek! Yes. This was going to be a great weekend, and I could feel we had great potential together.

We met each other with smiles. We had never met before, but we felt like we know each other well. We immediately were very familiar. I complimented his hair and he mine. He asked first, “Can I touch it?”

“Sure,” I responded. Go ahead. He came in and I closed the door. His fingers immediately ran through my pompadour—first tentatively with only his right hand, and then a bit more aggressively. The next thing I knew he had the fingers of both hands running through my hair and he pulled the sides down over my ears and the pompadour down over my face.

“It’s so long!” he exclaimed. “I knew it was long but I could not imagine that it would be this long. It’s wonderful. It’s beautiful, RJ. I can’t wait to play with it!”

“Thanks. Yours is nice, too. Can I touch it?” I reciprocated, running my fingers straight back through his thick hair. Wow! It was so, so thick. I tried to mess it up, but it coarsely went right back in place. I loved it. Immediately, my mind started playing tricks on me. I could visualize his hair falling on a cape as I cut his flattop. That thick, coarse hair would make a perfect flattop. I could hardly wait.

“I’ve made our dinner reservations,” Tom said. “We’d better leave soon, or we’ll be late.”

“OK, but I’ll have to comb my hair first.”

“Can I do it?” Tom asked.

“Sure. Go ahead.” I got the comb from the bathroom and gave it to him as I sat in a chair. He started combing it—first up and then back. He carefully combed it on top and sides and back and soon told me to look in the mirror to see what I thought. It was nice. He pretty much had returned it to the way I usually styled it except he had pulled the front of the pomp down over my forehead—in a true ‘50’s style. I had to admit I thought it was pretty cool! “Shall we go?”

“Sure. I know how much you like Mexican food, so I chose my favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner. I hope you enjoy it. Not only is the food great, but the scenery is good, too. Let’s go.”

We drove to the restaurant I my rental car and had a great dinner. The food, of course, was authentic Mexican and Tom was right. The scenery was great. The waiters were very good looking and had a wonderful array of hairstyles, ranging from shaved heads to greased slicked up pomps and with flattops and ivy leagues and buzzcuts in between. We had a great time together during dinner. After dinner, we returned to my hotel and had drinks before going to my room for some play.

In my room, we both got comfortable. Tom said, “I know you want to play with my hair and you are going to give me a haircut. I want that very much, but I’d rather we focus on hair play tonight and do the cutting tomorrow. Is that OK with you?”

“Sure,” I responded. And it was OK with me. I knew I would have the opportunity to play with his hair as much as I wanted—styling it different ways to suit me and see how he like it—but ultimately I was going to get to exercise those Oster 76 clippers I had brought with me in my luggage and leave Tom with my mark, either a flattop or a buzzcut. Whichever one it would be, he would be a short-haired guy when I left San Diego. And I knew also that he could not wait to play with my long pompadour. Tom had told me over and over again before my trip that he got turned on every time he thought about my hair. His greatest fantasy was playing with and greasing a guy’s long hair. Thankfully, I had resisted the many temptations to cut it over the past 18 months, and it WAS long—really long. And, frankly, I thought it looked great. I was really pleased with what I had accomplished.

“I want to start with yours,” I told him. He reluctantly agreed. I shampooed his hair first and dried it. I combed it straight down all around to see how long it was. Not bad, I though, as I combed it forward. It completely covered his eyes. And, although the sides were not long, it did come over the tops of his ears. The back was tapered low but about 3 inches long at the crown. Not bad at all. And it was thick and coarse and shiny. This hair would make a perfect flattop—thick enough to be nice and boxy (my favorite). Then I combed his hair straight back again. I squeezed a little Brylcreem in my palms and rubbed it though his locks, and I combed it all back with the sides up higher than he had it when he arrived. “Here. Look in the mirror,” I directed. “What do you think?”

“I like it like that.”

I added a little more grease and slicked it higher on the sides—straight up on the sides and combed the top forward and the front up. He was looking more ‘50’s by the minute. “Look again. It’s great. You have great hair, Tom.”

“Yeah, I like it. But it’s my turn. I’ve not had my turn. I’ve had a hard-on all evening looking at your hair and anticipating what I was going to do with it. I can’t wait any longer.”

“OK. I’m all yours.”

“Do you REALLY mean that?” he asked and laughed.

My hair still was slicked up high, and Tom wanted to start by shampooing it. He asked me to undress and get in a bathtub of warm water he was drawing so he could shampoo it with my head back under the water. I complied. Those four Negra Modelo beers I had with my dinner had made me pretty pliable, I must say. I probably would have done anything he had asked. Tom’s fingers were sensual as he massaged the shampoo through my hair. I got a little embarrassed as I got erect as he rubbed my scalp. “It’s OK,” he said. “Just relax and leave the driving to me. By the time I’m finished, I hope you’ll be even more turned than that!” Normally, I’m a pretty controlling guy, but I was in no condition to argue (nor did I want to). Plus, I trusted Tom to take good care of me.

He spent the next three hours playing with my hair. He combed it in every style imaginable. I was ‘40’s, ‘50’s, ‘70’s and ‘80’s—everything from slicked back, tightly dressed pomps to high riding slicked up ’50’s bad boy looks to ‘70’s shags to sprayed back, feathered looking ‘80’s disco looks. Each time he finished one, he’s have me look in the mirror to see how liked it. I have to say he was magic with a comb, grease, gel and hair spray. Not to mention how wonderfully sensual his fingers were when he shampooed my hair. “Your hair is so long and full. It is amazingly versatile. I can make it go in any style,” he said.

“RJ, let’s take a shower together and wash each other’s hair, OK? And then I’d like to spend the night with you, if that’s OK.”

“Sure, that would be very nice.” I responded. Both proposals sounded great to me. And we did. We climbed into my king size bed with our hair wet and combed straight back. We turned on the TV and enjoyed the remainder of the evening together.



The Next Day

We did not go to sleep that night until early in the morning, so we did not awaken until nearly 10:00 AM. That is very unusual for me. I’m an “early bird” and normally awaken at 4:30 or 5:00 no matter what happens the previous night. But for some reason this night was different. I think I was very relaxed and comfortable.

Tom and I awakened at about the same time and in each other’s arms. I looked at him and he at me and I said, “Tom, your hair is standing straight up on top. It’s begging for a flattop!” He laughed and told me that he was ready anytime I was. I suggested that we get up and have breakfast and then renew our hair play, and he agreed. We showered again, dressed and took care of each other’s hair. We greased and combed our hair much like the night before and went off for breakfast.

While we were eating, we discussed our plans for the day. “I want to do more of the same with you today,” Tom told me. “I want to keep my fingers in that gorgeous hair all day long—well, after you give me my long overdue haircut. OK?”

What was I to say? “Sure. You bet.” What a deal! I was going to get to give him my favorite haircut, and then I would spend the day with this gorgeous hunk playing with my hair while HE enjoys it. What could be better? This was turning into the best hair endeavor I’d ever had.

After breakfast, we went back to my room and I said, “Tom, it’s time for that haircut. Are you ready?”

“Sure. Do it!”

I went over to my drawer and got out my Oster 76 clipper with all its attachments, a black and white pin-striped cape and comb. I moved a desk chair to the bathroom and told Tom to have a seat. He jumped in the chair without hesitation. “I’ve been so excited about this moment, RJ. I could hardly wait. I like my pompadour, but I love getting buzzed. What a turn-on!” I could see his big erection as I placed the cape around his neck. He was really charged. He reached up and pulled the front of my pomp down over my forehead and kissed me on the lips. “Bring it on, man.” He said as I plugged in the clippers.

I could not resist playing with his hair a little longer. Although I love cutting long hair short, I also love playing with long hair. I also like making the experience as tantalizing and exciting as possible. “Savor the moment” is what I always say. So, I combed a while before I picked up the clipper and attached the #2 blade. But then I placed the clipper blade flat against Tom’s right sideburn and swiftly ran it straight up the side of his head and toward the front, flicking about 3 inches of shiny black hair on the cape in his lap. “Yes!” he moaned. “More. Cut it more! Cut if all off.”

“No.” I replied. “I know it feels great, Tom, but I’m going to give you a flattop rather than a regular buzz. It will be short, though. All the sides and back will come off and most of the top. You’ll enjoy it, Tom, and I’ll take the rest of it off if you don’t like the look on yourself. But I’m in control of this haircut.” By this time, all the right side was in his lap and I was maneuvering the clippers over his crown in the back. Inches of thick, black hair were falling as the clippers passed over his head. It wasn’t long until I had finished the set-up for his flattop. All of the hair on the sides and back of his head had been clipped to ¼ inch. I passed the clippers one more time over all of this scalp to make sure I had not missed a hair. I replaced the #2 blade with the #1 and said, “Look at yourself, Tom. You look a little strange with you hair still long on top and all the sides gone.” I laughed. “But don’t worry. The top will be short soon.” With that, I lifted his pompadour up with the comb and, holding it flat, ran the clipper across it removing about four inches of hair that I flicked in his lap. Without releasing the comb, I moved it back and mowed off another row of four-inch hair. And again and again. His lap now was black with piles of thick hair. The pompadour was devastated and the beginnings of a flattop were obvious. I could see that he was going to look magnificent with a flattop. His hair, as I already knew, was perfect for the style. Coarse and thick, it stood to attention when the wait of its previous length was removed. When I connected with the crown that I had shorn earlier, I turned off the clipper. I brushed what was left back and it stood erect. His front hairline was perfect—very square and dense all the way across.

“It’s standing at attention,” Tom exclaimed.

“It’s just symbolic, Tom, much like you and I,” I laughed.

I picked up some pomade and rubbed a bit in my palms and then over Tom’s hair. Adding a little water, I massaged it through his hair until it was evenly distributed. Then I took the brush and brushed straight back until it was all standing up. Back to the Osters—freehand this time. Front to back until his head was a flat as a tabletop. With each pass I would stop and brush again, making sure it all was cut evenly. I did not want to leave even one stray long hair on my handsome man. Yes. It was as close to perfect as any flattop I had ever seen. And Tom was even more handsome than before. His big brown eyes shone now that they no longer had long hair to distract from them.

I had nothing more to do now but blend in the top with the sides, and that was not much of a task. I am fond of very boxy flattops with as much of a 90 degree angle as I can achieve between the top and the sides. With Tom’s hair it was nearly perfect—like a tabletop and its leg. I placed shaving cream around his ears, at the bottoms of his sideburns and the edges of his neck, pulled out my straight razor and gave him a crisp outline shave around his hairline. Tom was not expecting this, and it got him even more excited. After rubbing some Witch Hazel over his skin and brushing his hair back one more time, I removed the cape letting mounds of black hair that previously formed his pompadour fall onto the floor. All this was too much for Tom. He had to change his clothes before we could continue our play.



Tom Returns

When Tom returned from changing his clothes, I asked him what he thought of his haircut. “I like it,” he said. “But I think I’d prefer it buzzed on down. What do you think?”

“I think it is the most perfect flattop I’ve ever seen and that you are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen and I really don’t want to touch that flattop. Please let me leave it,” I pleaded. “Leave it like it is and see how you like it later in the day. Maybe you’ll like it more when you get used to it.”

Tom agreed to leave it, and said, “RJ, if for no other reason, I’ll keep it to please you. Now it’s my turn to play with your hair some more.”

“OK. It’s a deal. You keep the flattop while you play with my hair. If you really don’t like it later, I’ll cut it for you. But I really hope you’ll come to like it, Tom, because I love it and I want to keep looking at it. It makes you even more handsome than you were before. You have all the right features for a flat.”

“Deal. Sit down in the chair and let me play barber for a while. I’ve never played with anyone’s hair with a barber cape on before. This will be fun.” I sat down in the chair and he put the cape around my neck with a flourish and clipped it snugly in the back. “This is fun,” he remarked. He picked up the comb and ran it through my hair. The play started again. He combed my hair straight forward over my face—all of it, covering my eyes, nose and mouth completely. Although I could not see what he was doing, I felt him carefully parting my hair in the middle—being very careful to insure it was perfect. Then he combed each side to the back and held up a mirror for me to see. “You could be a silent film star,” he said. “This is great!”

Next, he shampooed my hair again. Once the grease was cleansed from it, he used a blow dryer to dry it brushing it forward as it dried. I had to close my eyes as the hair blew around them. When he was finished, he parted my hair low on the left side and combed it over my forehead and over my right eye. “Now you are shaggy ‘70’s guy. I like it. You’re cute, RJ. Let’s try it on the other side—part on the right. Your hair is so long it will go either way. Or maybe the middle. What do you think? Let’s part it in the middle and let it hang over both eyes a little bit. That was a common look in the ‘70’s, wasn’t it? I know it was. You could get a part on ‘That ‘70’s Show!’” All the time he was chattering, he was combing my hair in different styles. “That is so cute,” he said. “It’s really long. It completely covers your ears when it’s combed down like this. You’d never know it is so long when it’s greased and slicked up like you had it before. Wow! It’s over your collar, too. I like this. I want to run my hands thorough it.” And he did. Over and over, he ran his fingers through my hair. “Now it’s time for grease again. I’m going to give you the tallest pompadour anybody has ever had. You’ll put Elvis to shame!”

“OK, Tom. Do whatever you want. This is such a great feeling for me, too. I think I’m enjoying it as much as you.”

By this time, Tom was rubbing Brylcreem and Vitalis through my hair. That smell is wonderful. I’m not sure which one turns me on the most, but each one is great. Now that my hair was out of my eyes, I could see across the room my reflection in the mirror and my hair was glistening with oil. Tom obviously was getting off as he ran the comb through my hair. First, he combed it all straight back tight against my scalp—both the top and the sides. Then he lifted the top up higher and tried to get it to stand up on top. And then he combed the sides straight up and over into the top. He still could not get the top to stand up as high as he wanted. “I’m going to rub off some of the oil on this washcloth and see if it will stand up better if it’s not quite so heavy.”

“OK. Whatever. It usually stands up pretty well, but not quite as tall as it did when it was a little shorter. You are right. When all that oil covers over eight inches of hair, it has a lot of weight and tends not to stand too tall.”

Tom finished with the washcloth and worked feverishly with the comb to get it to stand tall. He combed toward the middle and up. He combed the top forward and the front up. He combed the sides straight up. “Nothing is working, RJ. I’m disappointed. I really would like to see it taller on top. It would give your face a nice ‘lift.’”

“I’m sorry, Tom. It’s pretty tall. I know it won’t stand straight up in front, but look how much hair there is. Isn’t that OK?”

“No. I’d really like it higher on top. It’s too weighty. Can I trim it a little bit? I promise not to take much off—maybe a quarter of an inch or so?”

“Oh, Tom. I don’t know. I’ve been growing the top for well over a year. It’s taken a long time to get it long enough for a pompadour.”

“Please. Please, let me trim it. You’ve had it all buzzed off before. Surely, you aren’t afraid to have it trimmed a little bit, are you?”

He looked so excited and enthusiastic, and he had just let me have the time of my life with his hair. “OK. Go ahead. But just blunt cut it when you hold it straight up. Make sure the contour is the same. This probably is a good thing. I have not even had the ends cut for a long time, and they are split. You don’t notice it so much when I grease it, but you could see them when it was dry.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take care of those ends. I told you that I’ve cut hair before. You’re in good hands with me!” Without changing the way my hair was combed, he lifted up the front of the top and held it between his fingers and took the shears and carefully trimmed off about ¼ inch. A small amount of my blondish hair fell over my face. He dropped that hair and then combed up another row of hair and held it while he trimmed it. A little at a time, he worked his way back over my head. Each time, the cut hair fell over my forehead. When he finished the top, he took a washcloth and brushed off my face. Although I really did not want my hair cut, I was thoroughly enjoying this experience. It had been 18 months since shears had touched my hair—anywhere except the back and a little on the sides. Why not let Tom cut my hair a little? After all, this was a unique experience he and I were having. And, hopefully, it was the beginning of a long-lasting relationship.

“Are you finished?” I asked.

“No. I’ve just started. Relax. I’ll not do too much damage to your beautiful hair. I know it’s your pride and joy.”

“Well, Tom, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I love my hair long, but you must remember that I had it no more than a half inch long for years before I grew it like this. I wouldn’t exactly call it my ‘pride and joy.” I laughed. It’s hair. I’m turned on by ‘50’s pomps and I like mine, but I also loved my buzz. So, I wouldn’t say it’s that important to me.”

“Oh,” Tom said, “I thought from all our conversations that you were much more attached to this hair than that. I’ve had the impression all along that it was really important to you.” While he was talking, Tom combed all my top hair forward over my face. It fell completely over my eyes and past my lips. After he combed it all forward, I could feel him lifting the sides and trimming some hair off them, as well.

“Well, I do like it. But, as I said, I liked the buzz, too. I had to keep myself psyched up about having it long for the past year and a half. Otherwise, it never would have grown and inch—much less eight! I always loved getting haircuts. They’ve always been a real turn-on for me, and when my hair was short I got it cut about every 10 days to two weeks. That’s why it was such a major effort and accomplishment for me to grow it to eight inches.”

“That’s quite a surprise. But I’m glad to hear it. I love short hair on guys. You know that. There is nothing like rubbing against the bristles of buzzed hair when you’re in bed. I get really excited thinking about it.”

“Well, then, you would have like my hair before I grew it long. It never got so long that it lost that bristly feel. It was great.”

“I bet it was. You’ll have it again someday. I’m sure.”

Now it felt like Tom was cutting my hair shorter. I could feel him lifting it up with the comb and cutting it, but I could not tell exactly how short. But the hair that fell on the cape made a louder sound than before—more of a light thud instead of a little whisper. “Tom, you’re not going too short, are you?”

“No, RJ. I think you’ll like your hair when I’m finished. I’m taking off those split ends for you.”

“OK. I trust you completely.”

Tom combed and combed my hair in between his trims. While I was tense at first, I relaxed and got very excited. He really did have the most sensual fingers I’ve ever felt. I wasn’t worried at all about his hair cutting skills. I was much too excited to care. After all, what was the worst thing that could happen? I had 8 inches of hair. Even if he got it uneven, I could sacrifice some of it for a fix. It would be worth it to have this sensual experience of having someone who gets off on hair give me a trim. It was fun to know that both of us were as erect as Tom’s flattop. We shared something special. “Tom, I bet we’re both as erect as your flattop!” I laughed. Tom laughed, too, and agreed. “This is so wonderful it could go on forever.”

“I’ll make it last a long time,” he said. And he combed and trimmed and combed and trimmed. It did seem to go on forever—or almost forever. I still had no idea how much my hair had been cut because Tom left the long hair on top combed over my eyes the whole time. I was pretty sure he had cut more than the ¼ inch he had proposed, but it felt so good that for the moment it really did not matter to me. In fact, I was so excited that I don’t think I would have cared if he had shaved my head!

“How short are your going, Tom? I can’t see. Can you get the hair out of my eyes so I can see more of what you are doing?”

“Sure. I can do that.” But instead of combing my hair back, he combed it all forward again.

“Tom, I can’t see what you’re doing.”

“Just a sec. I’ll have it out of your eyes in a second.” With a swift move, I heard and felt a crunching sound as the blades of the shears closed around my bangs. Separated the hairline, the eight inches of hair that formerly formed my prized pompadour fell in my lap on the cape.

I was immediately thrilled and terrified. “What have you done, Tom?” I screamed.

“You said you wanted the hair out of your eyes. I just got it out of your eyes for you. Now you can see, RJ. Now you can see. Just relax and let me take care of you. There is only one way to go now.” He was right. All of my hair was gone from the sides and—from what I could tell—the back. And now the bangs were gone. The only long hair I had left was on top, and it looked really strange being the only hair left. “I’m going to take the rest of this off for you. I got tired of playing with you hair and decided it was time for a haircut. When I finish, you and I will be the best looking dudes in San Diego.

Since there was nothing I could do, I relaxed and sat back and watched Tom give me the shortest crew cut I’ve ever seen without clippers. He cut it evenly all over and to about 3/8 inch. When he finished, he used the clippers to outline his handiwork.

When he was finished, we spent the entire afternoon together—admiring each other’s new haircut. We had dinner together and he was right. We were the cleanest cut, best looking dudes in San Diego.



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