His OCD by Lavro

---

His OCD

He is very charming, kind, and receptive. I was surprised how unmoved Joel was when I told him that I had this… thing, for getting my haircut. He understood, and I don’t mean on an erotic level. There was something about haircuts that he found enjoyable too. It satisfied something in his brain that otherwise made him tick, his compulsions and his inability to allow things to be untidy or out of place. Of course, I didn’t really know this about Joel at first, even if he was always in pristine condition when we started dating: form fitting clothes, clean shaven face, styled blond curls with short sides, perfectly outlined sharply around the neck and ears.

These details didn’t escape him. When we met, my hair was this shaggy mohawk cut. Not the severe kind with smooth or stubbly sides, but a more modern look with a sharp fade and good texture. I always feel good with those sorts of styles. Our attraction to each other was immediate, and we got personal very quickly. We were both in our mid-twenties when we met, and I had left behind the juvenile tendency to act as if my kinks were not inherent to my sexuality. I also wasn’t expecting to find such a perfect person, someone who all of my urges commanded me to ask after only a few dates: Would you be willing to cut my hair?

His lack of hesitation in answering ‘yes’ stunned me. Joel even confessed that he used to give buzzcuts to his ex-boyfriend, and that he enjoyed it because it did something for his admittedly self-diagnosed obsessive-compulsive disorder. I had buzzed my hair a few times before but not enough to be comfortable with it. I craved it and feared it truly, but he didn’t know that yet. He didn’t know that telling me that he enjoyed clippering hair short would drive me crazy and made me want to be at his mercy. So badly.

The thing is, I was scared. Buzzcuts, though I enjoyed them, did really scare me. I still loved getting to know him and spending more time with him. After about a month of seeing each other, I needed a haircut, and he happily obliged, trimming my sides nicely and even cutting the top fairly short. Not buzzed off, of course. He wasn’t terribly skilled though, so the next time I was due for a cut, I told Joel I was going to have a barber do it. I got my hair faded, with enough length still to style on top.

When we met up again, I could tell there was a shift in his demeanor. Did he feel like I didn’t like how he cut my hair before? He must have been able to tell how much I loved it? But if I saw a barber for something that he knew was intimate to me, did he feel like I was taking something away from him? I wasn’t ready to ask those questions.

It didn’t stop our romance from blossoming, from several dates a week, to staying the night, to being together every day, and not wanting to be apart. It was the typical mushy, gushy boy meets boy story, full of sparks and erotic charge, paired with admitting our deepest fantasies. I immediately regretted having admitted that not only did I enjoy haircuts, but my ultimate fantasy was having my hair under somebody’s complete control. His control.

He very nonchalantly said he would happily do that, but I blatantly refused. No way. I wasn’t ready. Especially knowing how buzzcutting alleviates his OCD, and I had learned by then that he never hesitated to clean, straighten, organize, or tidy up anything. He even always made sure my clothes were neat, and having my neckline cleaned up was a weekly occurrence under his watchful eye. I felt that it wouldn’t stop at one fun buzzcut to get it out of my system, but he would feel compelled to keep it that way, stripping me of the type of hairstyles that made up part of my identity. I had to refuse myself the indulgence of submitting to Joel. Even worse, I couldn’t help the sudden desire to grow my hair longer than usual.

We did at last decide it was time to travel together. My hair had grown out a bit and was longer on top. I skipped the pre-vacation haircut. I told him it had been years since I had my hair long, and I had decided to grow it back. This was for two reasons. First, I legitimately and genuinely wanted it long because I like how it looks. Though the second reason was for legitimate fear that I wouldn’t be able to resist any advance he made to buzz it off. I am submissive by nature, and weak willed when it comes to handsome men with clippers. Although he admitted that he didn’t like long hair, he confessed he would still be attracted to me no matter what.

So we went to Florida, spending a lot of time in the sun, in the ocean, salty hair and tanning skin. Between visiting family and amusement parks, and time soaking up natural beauty, that tension I was feeling about Joel and my growing hair seemed to disappear. But vacation doesn’t last forever.

By the time we got home from our vacation, my sides were grown out enough to tickle my ear, looking too long at the sideburn area, the back and neckline even more unruly. Even when growing your hair, these things need tended to in the process, and it didn’t escape Joel’s watchful eye.

"I think your sides need trimmed," he told me, his eyes fixed on the untidiness.

"You do? I was thinking the same thing," I admitted. "But just like, cleaned up." He gave me a look, one that said he wanted to suggest he do it but didn’t want his advances rejected. I took the bait, eagerly. "You wan to do it?"

"Yeah, I think I can manage that," he said as if my suggestion wasn’t prompted by him. "We can do it later tonight."

And the conversation was done. Tonight? Tonight?! I wasn’t ready for that. It didn’t give me time to prepare, or to think! Prepare for what, I don’t know. But I wasn’t ready. I smiled at him in confirmation, but inside was turmoil. The day went on as normal for him. We worked our shifts. Met back up at my apartment, as usual. Had a nice dinner. I was nervous the entire time. Worked up. Unsettled. And very excited. Any time clippers touched my head, something changes in my head. It is a pure form of elation.

Joel casually walked into the closet without a word as soon as we went back to the bedroom. I saw he had retrieved the clippers, the guards, and the haircut cape. This was it, and I felt blood rushing all through my body. The terrifying trim I had been dreading excitedly all day. He looked at me with a big smile on his face as he stripped down to his underwear, all of his scattered tattoos sexy and visible on his pale skin. He grabbed the desk chair and wheeled it into the bathroom, patting it, prompting me to sit down.

All the nerves and fear swelling inside of me turned to obedience. I wanted to just do whatever he said. I sat down without a word, looking at the Oster 76 sitting on the sink as he wrapped the black and white striped cape around me, fastening it tight and binding around my neck. I looked at myself in the mirror, shaggy brown hair that I just wanted to grow long, knowing Joel would take care of me, and that my hair and his OCD would be satisfied by the end. Seeing myself like that, caped and at his mercy, awakened the submissive beast that always lays dormant in me, waiting for its moment to completely take over my state of mind.

"Just take it slow," I began, immediately detecting a quiver in my voice. "Those Oster’s aren’t really ideal for blending, so you have to be careful."

He listened but didn’t respond as he picked it up along with a guard. I didn’t see the number. He struggled to put it on properly for a moment; Oster 76 guards can be difficult since they don’t typically just snap on. But he managed with a shy smile. I could tell from the mirror it wasn’t a very short guard. This gave me some relief. His thumb flicked the on lever of that magnificent machine, the sound of the motor filling the air with a smooth metallic hum and the intoxicating smell of hair clipper oil.

His shy smile transformed into a devilish grin as he pressed it to my sideburn, running the clipper up very slowly. As it the guard combed through the hair, the sound of it cutting was extremely faint, but hair was indeed cutting. After the first swipe up the side, he took a look at the blade to see how much hair was coming off. Turning my head to inspect the damage, I didn’t actually notice a visual difference. Again, without a word, he took the guard off, without difficulty this time, and began to sort through the pile of guards on the sink countertop. He selected one that I could tell was much smaller than the first and attached it to the clipper.

He turned it back on again, my heart beating now, and went over the same spot, from the sideburn and up the side, quickly this time. As he ran the Oster up the sides, fresh cut hair piled in its teeth and dumped off the side and onto the cape. The overgrown sideburn was gone, and a single strip of short hair was cut from the base of my ear all the way up the side of my head.

"That did it, the #2" he said.

His tone was so calm, proud, and unconcerned that it betrayed the intensity coursing through my body. The clippers still humming loudly, he leaned over me and reached into my lap, feeling on top of the cape for signs of my excitement. He found it, knowing that I was his, that he had achieved exactly what he wanted. He grabbed it and squeezed as we made eye contact in the mirror.

He straightened himself out and continued with a second pass up the side, slightly higher than I hoped. His hand firm on my head as he pushed it forward, pressing the clipper at my neck behind my ear and buzzing it down in an arch motion. All the hair from around my ear piled in my lap. This was more than a trim. It was much shorter, and he didn’t care. He was enjoying himself, and so was I. The clippers hummed still.

"How bad do you want to grow your hair?" he asked me suddenly, point blank.

I looked at him in the mirror, standing over me, clippers in his hand. His returned glance was more serious now. He had only passed the clippers through three times, feeling good about himself. What does he mean? Does he want to do more damage and to stop me from growing my hair? The truth was that everything about the situation prohibited me from asking. The words "I want to grow it really bad" were stuck in my throat. I couldn’t muster "please just trim it and let me go." Because certainly I was bound there, by whatever compels someone like me to want to satisfy whatever it is he was really asking me.

I had an answer for him. It was on my tongue: "Just keep trimming the sides. This is looking good so far." As he waited for me to say it, his eyebrows raised in an impatient gesture, urging me to answer. It felt as if the clippers were getting even louder, like a hungry animal hoping to be fed.

"I only want to grow it as bad as you want me to," the words came out confidently, but were really against my control.

In his typical fashion, he didn’t say anything in return. He repositioned the clippers in the downward position in his hand, leaning in slightly to place it just under my growing fringe, and quickly began to cut through the top of my hair, not in precise clean swipes from front to back, but in aggressive half-swipes over the top, large chunks of hair piling in my lap. Half of my forehead opened up as the fringe came off, cut down to a meager 6 millimeters.

The rest followed quickly, even as my mouth was open in shock and hair fell past my face. Those clippers leave no survivors, making sounds of excitement whenever they pass over a patch of longer hair. A very satisfying horizontal stroke over the front took my entire fringe off at last, completely opening up my face and forehead. After a few more aggressive swipes, he pushed my head forward again, running the Oster up the back and over the top again and again, then more on the other side.

He was careful to dump the hair the clippers collected into my lap, so that my entire head of hair sat in one neat pile on the cape in front of me. As he continued to run the clippers over my whole head, I couldn’t help but to release my arm from underneath to pick some of it up, three to four inches of brown strands in between my fingers. Joel had a focused look in his eyes, one that told me he was enjoying the process of cutting the hair to one sharp even length. That he was enjoying himself made it all the more pleasurable.

I looked hard at myself as he powered down the Oster 76 took the trimmer to my neckline and around my ear. I looked nothing like I had barely five minutes before. I couldn’t believe it. And all of that nervous energy had turned to pure ecstasy and excitement. Joel had made the decision that I wasn’t growing my hair, and that it would be buzzed. He did it, and now all I could do was accept that my hair was mostly gone.

He rubbed my fresh cut with both of his hands, smiling at me as I let his touch fill me with satisfaction. I raised my hand to my head next and felt the soft bristles of my buzzcut. It was like the feeling travelled from my fingers to my groin, excitement pulsing through me, throbbing to the heightened beating in my chest. After I had to pick up all of my hair and throw it in the garbage, he showered me off, and took me into bed.
***
The next day, we decided that even with a haircut as short as a #2, it couldn’t be that length all over and look fresh. We went to a small punk barbershop to get the sides faded to zero. The barber was friendly with us, having a short buzzcut himself. He complimented Joel on his attempt while he buzzed off all of the #2 fluff all the way to the skin on the sides, blending it into the top. Without asking, he said he was going to even out the top a bit. The prospect excited me as he put an even shorter guard than a #2- a #1.5 but I couldn’t tell- and ran his clippers over the top again, peeling even more hair off and leaving the top cut even shorter than I expected.

We left, my hair now no more than 4 millimeters on top, the sides cut to the skin, and Joel's empowering and tantalizing hand rubbing my new buzzcut. I couldn’t remember ever feeling that good about a buzzcut, or about how someone made me feel. I was sure that all I wanted was to never let that feeling stop, as I kissed his lips and felt his fingers on the back of my head. His OCD was satisfied. For now.

---