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A Dime A Dozen: part 2 by Just_Me
I had a few people as for a follow up on "The Dime A Dozen Club". This is what I dreamed up.
My barber, Dale, had just tightened my recon up and I decided to stop at the convenience store to see if "my" clerk was there. I wanted him to see me while my haircut was fresh.
Pops and I had stopped there the week before and I had thought that maybe--just possibly--"my" clerk was either interested in me or my haircut. I wasn't sure which it was, but I was going fishing to see if I could find out.
I parked where I could look in the window. My heart did a little flip. "Holy bleating sheep! He’s there! I hope he’s still fascinated by my haircut!"
"My" clerk gave me a big smile when I walked in and said, "There you are! You told me you'd be back and I've been waiting. How's it going?"
Holy crap on a crutch! He not only remembered me, but he'd been looking for me. To say I was ecstatic would've been an understatement. As Mom would have said, he was cuter than a Betsy bug. I would've described him as HOT!
I walked up to the counter just as he flipped his hair out of his eyes. I almost fainted. All I could think was, "Holy beetle balls! He has the most gorgeous green eyes I've ever seen. I could use every adjective in the dictionary and still not be able to express how awesome his eyes are." A certain member of my body reacted instantly.
I only got a glimpse of his eyes though. His thick, curly black hair fell back in his face. I thought, "I'm going to get you in a barber chair if it’s the last thing I do in this life. Those eyes are too gorgeous to be hidden behind all that hair!"
"My" clerk looked me over and said, "Awesome haircut, dude. It's the most radical thing I've ever seen. I couldn’t help but notice it last week. What's it called? I've never seen a haircut like it before."
My suspicions were being confirmed. My first visit had made me think he had a serious haircut 'thing'. The way he was babbling on made me think I was right. I decided to test the water and see how deep his fetish ran. "Man you'd look pretty damned incredible with a short haircut. It'd let folks see your eyes, which by the way, I’m extremely jealous of. Girls must swoon every time you look their way."
"Oh, I don't think I'll ever cut my hair short. I think it looks great on other guys, but I can’t imagine myself with a short haircut."
Aha! Another confirmation that he was a brother fetisher! He looked at men with short hair.
I said, "Well, I can imagine it! You’d look cool with short hair, although I understand why you feel that way. Until a few months ago I felt the same way. I loved looking at guys with short hair but never thought of cutting my hair. Hell, last week I had bangs that hung below my chin "
"No kidding?! I can't imagine it. You were born to wear short hair. You've got the perfect head shape, that chiseled jawline and attractive eyes. Why would you cover all of that up?"
He blushed, and I could see was thinking, "Oh, dear god. I've gone too far. Now he knows I'm gay and he’s gonna run out of here."
I covered for him. "Thanks, man. I wish I’d cut it a long time ago, but I just never thought about it. I've always thought guys look cool with short hair. There's a manliness about short hair...not that I'm saying anything against your hair. It's beautiful and I'd give my eye teeth to have hair like that."
I saw the tension leave him, and I knew the second he thought, "Oh my god. This guy might be gay--and he might be attracted to me." I was rapidly learning that his face was easy to read.
I teased him. "My girlfriend hates my hair. If I’m going to keep the haircut, I’m going to lose her."
His eyes said, "Oh no! He’s got a girlfriend!" Then hope flickered in his eyes. I knew he was thinking, "Maybe if he dumps his girlfriend, I might have a chance." Then he thought, "No way. He’s not gay." His face was so easy to read. I hoped he’d say something that would open a door for me, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, "Bummer dude! What have you decided to do about her?"
I shrugged my shoulders, leaving him baffled.
I figured I had baited him enough. I decided to leave and come back the next day to see if I could set the hook and land this fish. I already knew I didn't want this to be the one that got away. It seemed like we had clicked. "I've gotta head out now. You take care."
He looked a little sad about me leaving. "I've enjoyed talking to you. Don't wait so long to come back. By the way, I'm T. J."
"I'm Brett. Nice to meet you." I stuck my hand out to shake his hand and it felt like a jolt of electricity went through me when our hands touched. I didn't want to let go, and I thought he felt the same way.
I left but he just wouldn’t get out of my mind. A few hours later I decided I needed some gas and headed back to the store.
We talked a while about nothing in particular and I left again, already planning what I'd say when I dropped in the next day.
I started stopping by for a few minutes every day, and pretty soon we had the start of a good friendship going.
Our friendship turned into a flirtation-ship after I asked him to hang out with me one night. I thought he’d faint when I asked him. He tried to play it cool, but I saw through him. He was excited about us hanging out together. After that, we started meeting up to grab a bite to eat, or grab a beer, or two, or three...We hung out together for a few weeks, and I started reeling him in. The flirtation-ship took a more serious tone the night I found myself in his apartment after we’d had a few drinks. I sat down, he sat down and before I knew it, I look into his eyes and pulled him toward me for a kiss. My reaction to the kiss surprised me. "Damn, Brett, if a first kiss makes you react like that, you’re seriously in trouble."
I couldn’t believe I was brave enough to make the first move.
We necked for a while and I was thinking the whole time, "Oh, my god. Mr. Average is kissing the best looking man on the planet. How the hell did that happen?"
We stopped kissing (although I kept my arm around him), and started talking. He said, "We’ve spent a lot of time together, but I feel I don’t know the ‘real’ you. If you’ll tell me what your greatest secret is I’ll tell you mine,"
I was instantly scared. Holy jumping jiggers! How would he react if I told him? I looked at him, and his eyes told me I had nothing to fear. I took a deep breath and noticed my hands were shaking. After another deep breath, and I started talking about my haircut fetish. I revealed all the details.
He started crying. "I've always felt the same way, and felt like a freak and a deviant who didn’t deserve to exist because of it. I've been online enough to know there's more of us out there, but I thought they were probably weirdos too. I never dreamed I'd meet someone as nice as you are who’d understood."
After that, it was easy to talk about anything with him. Then he surprised me. "I have to ask. Are you attracted to me? Are really gay, or are you just attracted to short hair. I've heard of men like that."
I giggled. "Well, I think the kisses we just shared answers your first question. The second question is complicated. I've never done anything with a man, so I don't say I'm gay. I'm attracted to both men and women, but when I'm around you I feel like I'm about 98% gay. I'm really drawn to you, in case you haven't noticed."
He gave me a lecherous grin. "Hmm, well I’m attracted to you too. Maybe we should do something ‘immoral’ so you can’t say, ‘I've never done anything with a man.’"
I thought, "I've got him now! He just set a trap for himself." I sadly shook my head. "I've dreamed about my first experience with a man and he was always a man with a short haircut that I could explore with my hands You don’t fit that bill." His look made me want to laugh and cry. He looked so sad. I kept going. "Anyway, being with you might not be the best test of my gayness since you've got all that hair. I might be deceived into thinking I was with a woman."
He growled like a vicious bear. "I’ll show you a woman. Come here." He kissed me a while, and then pushed me away, laughing. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?"
I just grinned. He kissed me again. I pushed his hair back so I could see his eyes and kissed him.
He was very serious when he said, "What do you think the odds of me getting you into a ‘compromising situation’ would be if I got a short haircut, and how short would I have to go to assure my success?"
I pretended to think, all the while gloating. I was making progress both on getting him, and getting him to do something with his hair! I had decided to try to get him in a barber chair the first time I saw him. I finally answered. "I'd say your odds would be good to excellent if I could see your eyes. They’re probably the key to my capitulation since I want to melt every time I get a glimpse of them--which I rarely do. As to how short you'd have to go, I'd say your odds would go up exponentially to the shortness of your hair."
I could see him weighing the pros and cons of it. I knew he was thinking, "Is getting him undressed worth losing my hair over?"
I laughed. "Hey T. J., I was just kidding. I'll be happy with whatever you want, and I’ll still be attracted to you. Hell, as long as I can see your eyes: you could keep it as long as it is. I just hope you’ll get that damned hair out of your eyes. I don’t care if you wear long hair, shave it or go anywhere in between. It's up to you. Honestly, I wouldn't expect you to go as radical as I did. That'd be unrealistic and asking too much."
"What's your favorite cut?"
"I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want you to pick a cut based off what I want. You've got a fetish too. What do you like?"
"I'll tell you after you tell me."
"There sure is a lot of me telling things first going on around here, but to answer your question, I guess I'd have to say short back and sides, some variation of a flattop and a shaved head are my favorites. Maybe it's wrong, but I like being the lone wolf when it comes to my recon. I don't want any competition."
He grinned, and I knew he was thinking, "Now I’ve got him. I know how to make him give in." He asked, "What would you think if I did all of those haircuts? I could do a short back and sides, a regular flattop the next month, and so on. Maybe it'd keep you from getting bored with me."
"Oh my god! I could never get bored with you, but your haircut idea would be freaking amazing! I'll pick you up at 7:30 in the morning so we can be there when Dale opens. One thing though, if you start getting uncomfortable, we can stop anywhere along the way, I’ll be quite happy."
"Whoa! Wait a minute. Who said I’d do it? I still have to think about it."
I burst out laughing. "Oh, get off of it! You know you want to. You want to be the guy that all the fetishers are lusting after. Why think about it. Let’s do it!"
"Who the hell is awake at 7:30?"
"You will be. Now let me go home so you can get your beauty rest."
He kissed me, and I didn't leave for about thirty minutes.
We were sitting in the parking lot when Dale got there, and Dale didn't look happy to be alive. I thought, "Uh-oh! He had a few too many last night, and he's gonna be pissy today. I might've picked the wrong day to bring T. J. to get a haircut." When he got closer, I could smell that my suspicions about his hangover were right. He reeked of booze.
Dale was really surly. He snarled, "What do you want? I cut your hair a few days ago."
I tried to put him in a worse mood. "No jokes this morning?"
"Go to the devil. I ain't in the mood. I've done asked, what do you want?"
T. J. looked scared. I said, "Let me handle this."
"Dale, I've converted my friend here to the super-short hair team." (I deliberately used the word "short". Dale became Super Psychotic Clipper Man when he heard the word "short" and I wanted to release Super Psychotic Clipper Man on T. J.--I knew I should feel bad about it, but I didn’t.)
"We've made a deal. He's going to do a short back and sides today. If he likes it, he'll do a flattop next month. If that's good, he'll do a horseshoe the following month. He’ll just keep getting shorter until he winds up joining the Dime a Dozen Club and shaves his head."
"That sounds like a lot of BS to me. If he wants to shave his head why doesn't he just shave his damned head."
I thought, "His hangover must really be bad. I've never known him to growl like that."
I could see T. J. getting nervous. He said, "Sir, if this is a bad time I can come back later."
"You're already here, get your ass in this chair and let me do something with that crap on your head."
Dale started combing T. J.'s hair and I could see his mood getting a little better. I figured the thought of peeling T. J.'s hair was making him feel better. He got a glint in his eyes. "Short back and sides, huh?"
T. J. turned pale when he heard that. He gulped. I wondered if he was going to pass out. He grabbed a handful of his hair and hung onto it like a drowning man grasps a raft.
I stepped up my attack on T. J.’s hair, and T. J. never knew it. Dale didn't like someone telling him how to do his job, so I said, "Yes sir! Short back and sides, classic old-style cut. Use the 000 on the bottom third of his head and then taper it up. I want to see his eyes, so cut the bangs where that'll happen, but leave as much length on the top as you can. Just make sure I can see his eyes."
Dale glared at me. He took his scissors and cut some of the length off the top of T. J.’s hair. Then he picked up the clippers. T. J. jumped when he felt the clippers. Dale yelled, "Be still! You’re going to make me screw your head up so bad I can’t fix it. Don’t move unless you want me to jump ahead a few months and shave it now." Dale smiled at the prospect, then peeled a sideburn off.
I could tell after the first pass with the clippers that T. J. was going to wind up with something more like a high and tight than a short back and sides. Dale had shaved at least halfway up the side of T. J.'s head (or more). It was much higher than the third I'd said to use the 000 on.
I enjoyed the show Dale was putting on, and I watched every move he made. My eyes didn’t come off of the haircut going on. Super Psychotic Clipper Man was trying to get rid of all the hair of T. J.'s head, and doing a pretty damned good job of it. It seemed that a hangover didn't affect his ability to cut hair, but it seemed to increase his aggressiveness.
It was fun watching T. J. Despite Dale telling him to be still, T. J. jumped a few times when Dale dumped a clump of hair on the cape. After that, T. J. shivered every time the clippers went up the side of his head. I saw the moment he started accepting it, and a few seconds later a big grin spread across his face. He started enjoying the experience. (I really liked that I could read what he was thinking so easily.)
After he got the sides done, Dale turned the chair around. T. J.'s eyes bugged when he saw himself. He reached up and touched his hair. "Holy crap! That's incredible feeling. Brett, come see!"
I went over and rubbed his head. My fetish made me accidentally let out a sensual sigh, and Dale said, "Oh, it's like that huh? I wondered if you guys were a couple."
I jerked my hand back, and blushed. Dale laughed. "My partner sighs just like that right after I get a haircut. I'm assuming you guys are fetishers too."
My jaw dropped and my eyes bugged. I said, "What? You have a partner? I had no idea you were gay!"
Dale laughed. "Well,I had no idea you were gay until you just sighed like that. I suspected it when you told me how to cut T. J.'s hair since not many men let another man tell them how to wear their hair, but I didn’t really know. I knew without a doubt that you were a fetisher when I saw how you watched every move I made."
I blushed, and then said, "Dale, we’re not officially partners yet but I think we’re headed that way."
I didn’t know what to say after that, but T. J. saved me. "Let’s get this haircut done. I want to see what it’s going to look like!"
I watched every snick of the scissors, and every pass of the clippers. I shivered when Dale cut the bangs off. I almost went into a spasm when I realized I could finally see T. J.’s eyes any time I wanted to. Thinking about not having to wait for him to flip the hair out of his face almost put me into orbit.
Once the haircut was done, Dale took the cape off and gave T. J. a mirror. T. J. sat there with a euphoric expression on his face. The bulge in his pants told me as much as his smile did.
After admiring himself for a while, and multiple rubs up the back of his neck, T. J. said, "Brett, I love this cut, but what do you think about going on to the flattop stage earlier than planned? That is if Dale is feeling well enough to do another haircut this morning?"
Dale didn’t wait for me to answer. For that matter, he didn’t answer T. J. He just threw the cape on again, and picked up the clippers. Then he stopped. "If you want a regular flattop, you might want to let this grow out a bit. I’ve cut the sides pretty short, and I can still do a regular, old-fashioned 1950’s flattop, but it’s going to be a little shorter. It won’t be a shoe, but it’ll be short."
T. J. and I answered at the same time. "Do it."
He did it.
As we were leaving T. J. said, "Hey Dale, just so you know, Brett was wrong when he said we weren’t partners yet. We are. We just haven’t said it outloud yet. I’ve already made a commitment to him in my heart."
My eyes filled with tears. I looked at Dale and said, "Well, I’ll be damned. I have a partner. I guess I’ll have to tell my folks about it now."
I was puzzled when T. J. said, "Well, I ain’t telling my father. We don’t talk any more."
After we left the barbershop, I pulled T. J. into an alley, and spent some time exploring his hair. It looked awesome, and felt even better. "Babe, thank you for this. I know it was hard for you, but you look amazing. My god, you look beyond amazing. I’ll have to fight men and women off you. Maybe I should start carrying a bat with me to beat them off."
That made him laugh.
I was a little shy when I said, "T. J., I’ve got a secret."
"Well, what is it? I hate secrets!"
I’m a little embarrassed to say it."
"Don’t be shy. I won’t think any less of you. Hell, I know you’re a haircut fetisher, any other secret should be easy to tell."
I ducked my head. He put his hand underneath my jaw and lifted my head. Those beautiful green eyes looked at me. "Tell me. I love you, and it’ll be ok."
"Ok. I'll tell you. I lied to you when I said you might get me into a compromising position if you got a haircut. I was a sure thing for you since we first met. I’ve been wanting to get my hands on you ever since my first glimpse of you. I just didn't let you know it because I was hoping to get you to see Dale."
I've learned a lot in my years with T. J. He keeps telling me I'm not so average and I now believe him. He'd shoot me if he knew I said this, but I know I'm not average because someone as incredible as he is fell in love with me. His natural lie detector tells me he's still attracted to me and his actions tell me he adores me after all this time. He's so good to me, and he's good for me. Mr. Average is a thing of the past.
Just a small item of interest. One night I asked him about his initials and he told me his name was Timothy Jonathon. Timothy means "honoring God" and Jonathon means "gift of God". He said he didn't like using his name because of the religious significance (it also brought up bad memories of his father), so he had started using his initials. After many years of being together, I now call him Jonathon because I think of him as my gift from God.
T. J.’S PERSPECTIVE:
I was at work the first time I saw him, and honestly, I didn’t notice him at first. His dad walked in, and I was so busy looking at his dad's shaved head I didn't see him. (I always notice when a man comes in with his head shaved. To be honest, I kinda have a thing about men with short hair period. No. That’s a lie. I don't kinda have a thing. I definitely have a thing for short hair. It really cranks my engine. I call it my "hair passion.")
I got a glimpse of what I assumed was the bald man's son, and I had to do a double take. My first thought was, "Oh my god! His hair is the stupidest looking thing I've ever seen! Who in their right mind would ever willingly do that to themselves?" My attitude changed. "It’s either the goofiest thing in the world, or the most awesome. It’s definitely unique." I smiled when I thought, "It looks like someone was shaving his head and got called away,. I halfway expect to see a barber come running up saying, ‘I'm done now. Let me finish shaving you.’" I went back and forth between being repulsed and really liking it.
"Dear Jesus, it must take balls the size of grapefruits to go out in public with that haircut!" I wondered what madness had possessed him and made him feel such an outlandish haircut was necessary. "Obviously, he’s an attention whore. Nothing else makes sense."
He didn't seem bothered by his hair. In fact, he obviously enjoyed feeling his head. He’d smile a very sensuous smile every time he rubbed his head. His smile kinda made my heart go pitter-patter, and thoughts of getting to feel his head probably raised my blood pressure. I know it raised other things.
I couldn't help it. I kept staring.
I tried to keep busy, but I just couldn't keep my eyes off him. I was riveted. I couldn't really say he was classically handsome, he was more cute--if that makes sense. He was the kind of man who'd still be cute when he was seventy.
The more I looked at him the more excited I got. I had to rearrange things in my underwear a couple of times. I prayed he hadn't seen me, but I think he caught me one time. I thought about untucking my shirt to hide the evidence of my excitement but didn’t. I was afraid that would be too obvious, so I stayed behind the counter.
Anyway, a couple of times I thought he was trying to flirt with me, but I wasn't sure. When he left he said he'd see me soon, and my hopes soared. Maybe he was trying to flirt with me! I ran to the door to watch him drive away.
All the next week I'd jump every time a blue truck pulled up and think, "Is it the cute guy?"
I was about to give up on ever seeing him again when I saw him get out of his truck. "Oh, my god! It’s him!" My pulse at least doubled, and I wondered if I was going to have a heart attack. I prayed, "Dear Lord, please don't let me die before I get to see him again!"
I reminded myself, "Calm down, T. J. Play it cool, dude."
Well, my plans to be nonchalant didn't work too well. He walked in and I started gushing like an oil well. I blurted out something stupid. "It’s about time you came in, damn it. You said you would come back and I've been looking for you."
I wondered if I could die from embarrassment. I thought, "So much for being subtle, dude. You just practically announced to the whole world that you've got a crush on this man."
I still wasn’t sure he was flirting with me, but I was beginning to think it was likely. He said something about my eyes being pretty and that he thought I'd look good with short hair and then he changed the subject. As he was leaving, I thought, "Stupid, you don’t even know his name. Introduce yourself!" His name was Brett.
For a few weeks he only came in on Thursday. I figured it was because that was the day he got his hair cut. I wondered if he’d discovered I had my "hair passion" and was teasing me by showing off his freshly shorn hair.
We'd talk for a bit every time Brett came in, and I'd get a little depressed when he left. I thought about asking him out, but he kept confusing me. One time I'd think he liked me, the next time I'd think he wasn't into guys, and only dug girls.
He started coming in every day, and for the first time I didn't dread going to work. I started ironing my clothes instead of pulling out whatever t-shirt was next in the drawer. I'd get up early and fix my hair, rather than just combing it and letting it do what it was going to do. (My hair wasn't extremely curly, but it had enough curl to make it difficult to control. Even after some time with the dryer and a brush, the curls didn’t want to behave.)
I saw him every day for three weeks and then Saturday came and I didn't see him. I was morose by the time I was ready to close up the store. Just as I was about to lock the door, I saw his truck pull in. I grinned so hard I felt like my lips were touching my ears.
Brett walked in and said, "Hey man, whatcha got going tonight?"
I shook my head. "Don't know. I guess I'll grab some beer, head to the house and see if there’s anything worth watching on the tube."
"Well, if that's all you got going on, why don't hang with me. We can grab something to eat. Are you game?"
Honestly, my heart stopped beating for about ten seconds. Playing cool about getting to spend the evening with him was one of the hardest things I've ever done. I thought I did a pretty good of hiding my excitement though. Very nonchalantly, I said, "Sure. Let me finish locking up. I'll meet you out front in about ten minutes."
I had never done the closing paperwork so fast in my life. Four minutes later I was walking out. I had no idea if the paperwork was done correctly, and didn’t care. "Let the boss chew me out. An ass-chewing will be a small price to pay for getting to spend some time with him."
Brett asked, "Whatcha hungry for?"
"I don't know. Whatever you want."
"How does pizza and beer sound?"
"I'm good with it if you're good with it."
We ordered a pizza, and to this day I don't remember what kind we got. It could’ve had spiders on it for all I know. Heck, I don't even know if I ate any of the pizza. I think I sat there staring at him like a lovesick swain and wishing I could feel his hair. At least fifty times I asked myself if he'd kiss me when we left. I’d always answer myself with, "Don’t get your hopes up. There’s not much chance of that." Hope sprang up and said, "It’s possible though!" I squashed Hope with the thought, "It’s possible it’ll snow in July, but it ain’t bloody likely."
We talked until they kicked us out. He took me back to the store and dropped me off so I could get my car. I was shutting the door when I heard him say, "Tonight was fun. Wanna do it again next week?"
Well, the next week we drove into town and had Mexican food and margaritas. Pretty soon we were meeting up a couple of nights a week.
I finally got smart enough to figure out Brett was definitely flirting. He'd wait until I was looking at him and rub his head. One night right after he’d got a fresh haircut, he rubbed his head, and said, "Umm! That feels good. Don't you wish you could feel it?"
I laughed and said, "Damn straight I do. When are you gonna let me?"
He bent his head forward, and for the first time I got to feel his head. It took all my strength to keep from moaning in ecstasy. I was fairly disciplined though. I felt the short top and the shaved sides with one hand and then put my other hand on his head and felt with both hands for just a second. Somehow I managed to pull my hands away.
We went out again a few nights later, and both of us had too much to drink. Neither one of us had any business driving, so we walked to my apartment. We sat down and I looked at him, he looked at me and then he kissed me...very gently. It was almost as light as a butterfly's landing. I pulled back and looked at him. His eyes promised things I'd never dreamed of. I put one hand on the side of his face and kissed him back. I put the other hand on the side of his head to feel his haircut and kissed him again. This kiss lasted a little longer. He broke the kiss.
I could see him struggling. I thought this was probably the first time he'd kissed a man. His eyes were troubled. "What are you thinking?"
He sighed. "I’m worried that you’ll get tired of me. I’m not handsome like you. I’m weird, you’re normal. I’m average. You’re awesome."
"First of all, that’s a big fat lie! You’re cute as hell. Tell me why you feel like you’re weird. I don’t know much about you, and I’d love to learn more. What’s your biggest secret?"
Brett hemmed and hawed, but he finally whispered, "I’m so average that I’m boring. It drives me nuts." He took a deep breath. "I…" He blushed. Then the dam burst. Faster than a speeding bullet, he blurted, "You’re-going-to-think-this-is-the-most-bizarre-thing-you’ve-ever-heard. I-have-a-thing-for-guys-with-short-hair. The-shorter-it-is-the-better-I-like-it. It’s-a-big-turn-on-for-me."
I started crying, but I also wanted to laugh. I thought, "You big, fat dummy! Didn’t you think I already knew you had a thing for hair?" I didn’t say it though. Instead, I said, "I’ve got a hair thing too. I privately call it my ‘hair passion.’ I’ve always felt alone, and never dreamed I’d find someone who understood me."
After we talked for a while, I tried to do what all guys do. I tried to talk him into doing something more intimate.
He tricked me into saying I’d get a haircut if he’d...umm...well, to be honest, I asked what it’d take for us to get in a "compromising position". He said he might let me get closer if I’d cut my hair. Anyway, I wound up promising Brett I’d get a short haircut, and that every month I’d get it cut progressively shorter, until I wound up with my head shaved. (I think we decided the progression was going to be short back and sides, high and tight, flattop, horseshoe, buzz and then full shave.) I figured going slow like that would give me time to learn to deal with things. Brett laughed and said I was going to wind up joining "The Dime a Dozen Club." I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but let it slide.
He had me up and on my way to the barbershop at the ungodly hour of 7:30 the next morning. My "hair passion" had kept me up most of the night. I was too excited to sleep. I hadn’t been in a barbershop for several years, but I was looking forward to a cool, short cut. Even if I hadn’t been turned on by my "hair passion" thoughts of Brett’s reaction kept me awake.
On a side note, I’ve never understood why I had my "hair passion" but I’ve often wondered if I could blame it on my father. You see, he was a Pentecostal preacher. Because he was so busy running the church, I rarely saw my father except when I was sitting in a pew watching him preach or when we went on our monthly visit to the barbershop. I looked forward to going to the barber because I knew I'd have an hour or so alone with him, although he sometimes spent a lot of his time in the barbershop trying to proselytize folks. Even if he did talk to others in the barbershop, we still had our time together in the car as we drove back and forth to see the barber.
My father never let me do anything exciting with my hair. Every four weeks we’d go to the barbershop and get a medium taper. I tried to get him to let me grow my hair out, and he quoted the scripture "Doth not even nature itself teach you, that, if a man have long hair, it is a shame unto him?" I threw a fit and tried to get him to let me have a real short cut. I heard how moderation in everything except worship of God was the only way to please the Heavenly Father. (I always found it ironic that my father talked about moderation so much but he was never very moderate when he put his feet under a dining room table.) Anyway, I’ve always wondered if the fact that the only time I ever spent alone with Dad was at the barbershop made me have my "hair passion".
Whether he was the reason I had a "hair passion" or not, I know he was the reason I let my hair grow out. I wanted to rebel against everything he stood for. I couldn’t wait to turn eighteen, so I could get away from my father, his stupid rules and his assinine sermons. I moved out the day I was legal, and haven’t seen him since. My hair started growing the day I moved out.
Sorry about straying from the story. As you can tell, any mention of my father is a sore spot with me.
Anyway, Brett and I got to the barbershop before the barber got there. He tried to talk to me, but I was so scared I couldn’t spit. Honestly, my mouth was so dry I felt like I had cotton balls in there. It was so dry I couldn’t talk.
I kept shaking my head to feel my hair for the last time, thinking, "I can’t believe I let myself get talked into a short haircut. I love my long hair!" I was trembling, and thought I was going to throw up. My nerves were as tight as a piano string. I was wound up, unsure, ambivalent, dubious, hesitant, and undecided.
I was also determined to go through with it.
I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared as I was that morning. I finally got enough saliva to half jokingly, and half seriously say, "Brett, I don’t know if getting you in a "compromising position" (or to put it more bluntly, getting into your pants) is worth cutting my hair off."
He looked somber. "I’m serious, T. J. If you’re that worked up about it, we don’t have to do this."
Determination welled up in me. "Nope! I said I’d do it, and I’m going to do it. I just wish the damned barber would get here so I could get it over with."
The barber, Dale, showed up. His eyes were red and glassy, and he smelled like he’d taken a bath in whiskey. I almost got drunk from smelling him. I thought, "Oh, my god. He’s got a helluva hangover. I hope he doesn’t puke on me!" I guess it was his hangover that made him so rude, but he damn near bit Brett’s head off.
I didn’t want a half-drunk barber cutting my hair. Brett talked me into getting my haircut anyway. I wasn’t happy.
Dale told me to get my ass in his chair, and I reluctantly did it. I was expecting the worst.
I’d heard tales about how Dale cut hair, and I knew he went nuts and chopped people’s hair off when he heard the word "short." I’ll be damned if one of the first words out of Brett’s mouth wasn’t "short." I thought, "Oh, crap. I’m in for it now!"
Brett thought he was being slick. I got a little pissed that he would pull such a shenanigan. I knew what he was doing, but didn’t say anything. After all, I’d given Brett my word, and was determined to go through with it...but I was already thinking of ways to pay him back.
Brett gave this long spiel about how I was going to get a different haircut every month, and how I’d finally end up in the "Dime A Dozen Club".
I said, "What the hell is the "Dime a Dozen Club?"
Brett said, "When I got my first recon I told Dale I might want my head shaved. Dale said shaved heads were a dime a dozen, and I coined the title "Dime a Dozen Club" for men with shaved heads."
Dale caped me up, and Brett egged him on again by giving detailed instructions about how short he wanted my hair. I really wanted to tell Brett what I thought about his antics, but went with it. I said to myself, "Shut your mouth, T. J. You know you’ve got a bad case of the hots for him, and there isn’t much you can do, and still keep on Brett’s good side." The way he was "pointing" told me he was beyond thrilled to see me in the barber chair. (Maybe you haven’t noticed, but men are equipped with natural lie detectors when it comes to things that attract them, and Brett’s lie detector was telling me he was charged and ready to see my hair go bye-bye.)
I had to laugh when Brett surreptitiously pulled his shirt tail out. I thought, "Dude! You should’ve known that was going to happen. Why did you tuck in your shirt in?"
I’d thought I was resigned to the fact that I was going to lose most of my hair. Heck, I had even convinced myself I was looking forward to it. I found out I really didn’t want to lose my hair. I almost screamed when Dale whacked about twelve inches of hair off the top of my head. The first few times he dumped a wad of hair in my lap I wanted to scream, "NO! Stop it!"
After he’d finished scissoring the top, he reached over and picked up the clippers. He was rough when he shoved my head to the side, so he could get started. I jumped when he touched me with the clippers. The touch of those clippers confirmed I wasn’t as prepared to lose my hair as I’d thought.
Dale yelled at me when I jumped, and threatened to go ahead and shave my head. I tried to be still afterwards, but I was so nervous it was almost impossible. I shivered when I heard the horrible, evil-sounding clippers biting through my curls.
I thought, "No matter how much I like extreme haircuts on others, I don’t think I’m going to like it on me." Then I thought about the long, tedious process of letting my hair grow again. "Sweet Jesus! I can’t go through that again! What the hell was I thinking?"
Something weird happened. The more Dale cut, the more relaxed I became. I started looking forward to seeing what I was going to look like.
I realized the haircut he was giving me was quite a bit shorter than a short back and sides. The sides kept getting balder, and they kept getting higher. I thought, "Dear Lord! I’m going to wind up with a recon if he doesn’t slow down."
After he had the sides peeled, he said, "I’ll bet you’re dying to see what it feels like. Go ahead."
I felt with one hand, and then two hands. It was incredible! I said, "Brett, get your ass over here and feel this!"
When Brett felt it, he made a sound that I can only describe as sensual. My nether regions instantly responded to the sound he made.
Dale said something like, "Oh, it’s like that, huh? I wondered if the two of you were a couple."
Brett blushed bright red. Dale said, "Brett, don’t worry about it. My partner sounds like that after I get a fresh cut."
Brett literally staggered. "Holy cat’s guts! I didn’t know you were gay, but we’re not partners--yet. We might be someday though."
There was an awkward silence. I let Brett stew for a few seconds, and finally broke the silence. "Come on Dale, get this haircut done. I can’t wait to see what it looks like!"
Brett flashed a smile of gratitude at me. God, his smile made me want to melt.
Brett’s reaction seemed to put me on sensory overload. Everything turned sensual after that: the feel of my shirt brushing my nipples, every sound, the stroke of the comb through my hair, the cold air blowing out of the air conditioner--even the sound of the clippers was a turn on. It was all arousing.
Dale wetted my hair down, and combed my bangs straight down. I was surprised they were still as long as they were. He said, "Tell these banges bye-bye" and cut them off right below my eyebrows. I was grateful he was leaving them that long, until I thought about the curl in my hair. When it dried, those bangs would shrink a lot--probably right up to my hairline. He cut the rest of the top, and then spent what seemed like forever with the thinning shears. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have any hair left by the time he got through.
He put the scissors down, and I heard the whirring of the shaving cream dispenser. He spread the cream over the back of my head, and up the sides. I’m very tactile, and the feel of his hands on my now bald sides was almost too much. My natural lie detector was throbbing, and I was afraid I was going to embarrass myself by doing something in public that’s normally done in private--i.e. ejaculate. I moved my hands so I wouldn’t accidentally brush the area in question. I knew it would only take a touch or two to send me into spasms.
The razor came out, and he removed all traces of my sideburns, and skillfully shaved the lower half of my head. After he finished shaving, he spent some more time blending the sides into the top.
I kept thinking, "Come on, Dale. Get it over with. I wanna see what I look like."
He finally put something in my hair, combed it and turned me around. Brett said, "It’s freaking incredible."
I looked at myself, "It’s not as repulsive as I thought it might be." I looked again. "T. J., you were right. It’s shorter than a short back and sides. It’s not quite a high and tight, but it’s pretty damned close." I looked again. My hair was laying down (something it never did) and I liked the way it gleamed in the light. I could see every groove the comb’s teeth had made, and the shaved sides were glossy and shiny. It was a cut I’d always loved seeing on someone else. Once I got over the shock of seeing myself with about 90% less hair than I was used to, I said, "Dude, this is incredible! I look better than I’ve ever looked! You did a helluva job, Dale."
Brett almost knocked Dale down in his rush to get over and feel my hair. I’ll have to admit, the feel of Brett’s hands was very provocative. Then he surprised me. He gave me a very surprising, and very stimulating kiss, right there in public. I was shocked! I looked to see how Dale was reacting, and he was grinning. He said, "I can’t wait to tell my partner about this. It’ll turn him on, and he’ll be thrilled to know there’s some other folks around with the same fetish we have."
I turned back to the mirror so I could look at my hair some more. Then I looked at Brett. He was grinning like a possum. His natural lie detector was telling me he liked what he saw.
Before I realized I had thought about it, I heard strange words coming out of my mouth. "My God, I love it, Brett, but what would you think about skipping forward a few months, and doing the flattop today? I mean, that is if Dale feels like it?"
Neither one of them said anything. Dale just picked the cape up and threw it around me.
Dale stopped for a second, and said, "Since I cut the sides so short, it’s gonna have to be a short flattop. I won’t shoe you, but this’ll be short."
Brett and I spoke in unison. "Do it!"
Dale laughed. "Yep! Spoken like true fetishers." The sound of his clippers was the next thing I heard.
Dale was deep into the flattop when Brett slapped himself upside the forehead. "What's the matter?"
"I wish I'd taken a picture before he started on the flattop."
"Damnation! I agree with you. For the first time since I met you I wish you'd had that damned camera out."
Brett smiled. "It's ok. I’ll get my camera out of the truck when Dale gets done, and still get some good pictures. The hair on the floor will tell a good story."
Dale said, "Why don't you go ahead and get your camera? You might be able to get some good shots while I'm cutting his hair."
Brett laughed. "You're a big fool if you think my fetish is going to let me miss a second of this. Keep cutting, good sir. The after pictures will have to suffice."
My adrenaline was running so high that it seemed like it took forever for Dale to do the flattop. He’d run the clippers over my head, and then step back to look at what he’d done. I kept thinking, "Damn, dude. You’re going to wear a hole in the floor with all the steps you’re taking back and forth."
After what seemed like months, he finally finished, and turned me around so I could see it. My jaw dropped! What Dale showed me was truly a work of art, and I knew I looked good with a flattop. I thought, "Damnation! This is better than I’d ever dreamed. Why did I fight it so hard?"
I looked at Brett. "You’d better get my ass out of here, or I’m going to join the Dime A Dozen Club several months ahead of schedule."
I've been in a barber’s chair hundreds of times since then. Dale is my regular barber, but every time I travel I have to find an old-fashioned barbershop, and see what it’s like. I’ve had some successes doing that...and I’ve had some colossal failures--but that’s another story.
Since my first visit with Dale, I’ve never been scared of a barber again. I might get nervous about how a new cut is going to look, and my fetish always has me in a high state of emotions, but I've never been scared. I've never been scared to try a new style either, in fact, I've tried every haircut I can imagine.
Dale calls me "Dice". I switch hairstyles so often that he accuses me of picking my style by a roll of the dice. (I've thought about trying to rig up some dice with the names of haircuts on them to see if it would work. That could be fun.)
He calls Brett "Slowpoke" because he’s slow to change his looks. Brett’s definitely not as adventurous as I am. He wore his recon for a few years, and then finally joined the Dime A Dozen Club (at my urging).
I had honored his request, and let Brett be the lone wolf with the recon, but I felt free to try a recon once he’d shaved his head. I'd been wanting to for a long time. The recon was a one hit wonder with me (as was the Mohawk). It looked horrible. I wore it for three days and rejoined the Dime a Dozen Club. Brett and I sported matching shaved heads for a few weeks, and then I decided it was time to let my hair grow so I could try another style.
Oh yeah, our fetish is still alive and we often feed it with new haircut ideas. I've had every haircut imaginable, and Brett has tried a few. We’ve both let our hair get long-ish so we could start over again. We also play with facial hair styles. That’s where Brett does most of his changes: a beard this week, goatee next week. He’s had long sideburns, no sideburns, a tailback, soul patch...you name it…He’s also tried every variation of a moustache you can imagine: cowboy ‘stache, cop ‘stache, Fu-Manchu, variations of a pencil moustache. Hell, he even tried a toothbrush ‘stache (AKA Hitler moustache) for a few days. I joke with Brett and tell him that I expect him to come out with a different facial hair style every time he goes into the bathroom.
After being in love with Brett all these years, I still wonder how I was lucky enough to find someone who shared my "hair passion".