The Honeymoon (Part 2/3) by Jack

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We arrived in Edinburgh. I carried the bags to the door of our room in the fancy hotel and spa, and Sophie unlocked it. The room was beautiful, a four poster bed, a huge bathroom and beautiful views of the city. "Wow! I know where I'm going!" An excited Sophie said. My wife ran straight to the huge free standing bath, and turned both taps on, and began taking her light summer dress off.


"I might head out... if that's okay" I said. She turned to me in her pants and bra. "Okayyyy, are you getting your hair cut?" She melted into a hug as she said this. "Yeah, I am. I don't have to if you would rather I didn't, but it is so humid and hot it will help" I said, kissing the top of her head. "No! I want you to. Like I said I loved you just as much, it was just different last time. I will get used to it super quick. As long as you are you that's all I care about". I remained unconvinced. "I love you" I whispered to her. "And thank you". I undid her bra as the bath water ran. "Enjoy your bath, I was just helping you get undressed there." I grinned, she smirked and rolled her eyes. I walked to the door. "I love you Jack" she called.


The afternoon Scottish air was still warm as I walked the Victorian street. I knew what I wanted. A cheap, old school barber. Nothing fancy or hipster. Just a good old fashioned barber to do the job quickly. I didn't have far to walk. A slightly run down shop with a blue, red and white spinning pole came to view, sandwiched between a curry house and charity shop. This was the place. I entered to the chime of a bell and sat down.


There was one young lad working, on one client in the form of an older man getting his white hair trimmed. One young boy waited with his mum ahead of me. I worked out it would be at least 40 minutes before I was in the chair. I had to keep focused so I didn't buckle and get anything other than a short buzz. As the barber moved onto his young client, I began scrolling old photos on my phone from last year.

The one taken after the first pass of the razor. The one with my shaved sides. The one of my mohawk. The pile of hair on the floor. My patchy scalp after just one pass of the clippers. The one of Sophie, concentrating with clippers in hand. And the final few I took in the bathroom. Naked. Head shaved. Confident. And I remembered how for the first time in my life, I felt sexy.

My daydreams were interrupted by the clang of a cash register opening. The mum paid. The boy's haircut was done. The chair was free. My heart raced.


The barber smiled as the parent and son left, and turned to me. "You ready my man?" He tilted his head guiding me to his chair. I felt almost like I was dreading it at this point. The long walk to my destiny. I lowered myself into the chair and took a deep breath as I placed my arms on the rests at the side. "Have I cut your hair before?" The barber asked. I laughed and replied "No, I'm not a local! Just visiting". The barber replied with a smile. "I can tell from the accent... costs double for the English you know!... what are we doing then son?"


Deep breath. Calm. Be cool.


"Well, I know this feels drastic but it's not. I need it all off. Like, properly shaved,m. It's my normal cut but it's been months since it was done so it's grown out!" I wanted to be casual. I wanted him to do it with no hesitation. I didn't want to give myself the opportunity to chicken out. It wasn't even a lie. The buzzcut was made for me. It SHOULD be the normal cut.

"Oh!" The barber was clearly surprised. S**t. Would he talk me down? "But you've had a haircut since then? The sides were done recently?" He said, running a comb through my thick locks. Again, be casual. "Yeah, I grew it out for a wedding but it's done my head in and I want it off. I'm too hot to deal with it". The barber was laid back, he smiled again. "Fair enough my man, what number do you have normally?" he asked, as he reached for his clippers. I swallowed. "A one on top... zero on the sides, quite high". The barber laughed; "oh, you do mean you want it shaved off off don't you!? Well if that's your usual let's get on with it. Nice and easy" he said while snapping the tiniest guard onto his clipper. They snapped to life. The buzz filled the empty shop.


Hang on. Is this right? Every time I've had a short haircut the barber has asked about twenty times if I was sure. This bloke just took me at face value. I don't know if I liked it. I wanted that opportunity to escape my brutal, punishing dream.

But the escape had gone.

The barber asked no questions.

He had already pushed the clipper from the top of my cheek to the curvature of the top of my head. The hair that had been neatly cropped to a grade 1 right at the base of my hair a few weeks ago was returned to that length. Barely any hair came from that section. But huge clumps fell from the longer section on the side of my head, and the barber had almost deliberately forced the clippers high towards the top of my head, eating into the 2 inch long section at the top. There was no salvaging this haircut. One small swipe had locked me in. My heart raced, I could feel the sweat form on my hands.


The barber moved his hand bak slightly and repeated this over my ear. Hair rained down. I could hear it slide down the cape. I could feel strays stick to my skin, as the bald patch grew.


The barber continued to the back of my head. I felt the clippers dance up my head followed by that cool breeze that hits as hair is shorn. The hair fell in clumps. Dark brown masses had already fallen to my shoulders. Some was in my lap. I noticed a growing pile on the floor. Yet he'd barely started. I think I slowed this down in my mind, taking in every sensation, but in reality the barber had been working for about 20 seconds. I could feel my cock growing.


He mirrored his work on the right hand side of my head, again flicking clumps of varying lengths from his clippers, and again repeated his high pushing up of the clippers, as they nibbled into the hair at the top of my scalp. "Better already" the barber triumphantly declared. I smiled internally at this, the jagged high line was reminding me of Sophie's attempts to trim the sides whilst I grew my hair out last year. Except she stopped with the grade 1 and moved onto the longer length.


That would not happen to me today.


The barber changed his grip, and before I had time to process what was happening had pushed the clippers down the middle of my head. Hair tumbled down. Stubbled emerged. I looked ridiculous, two straggly islands of hair either side surrounded by a beautiful shock of stubble. I clearly couldn't hide my emotions, my jaw dropped a little. "I love doing that" laughed the barber. "You don't get too many young lads with good hair like you wanting this, whenever I get chance I'll always go straight down the middle... don't tell me you wanted to back out" he asked, with a touch of worry in his jovial voice.

He had busted me. I did want to back out. I had thought of Sophie. My beautiful wife, and the knowledge that I was doing something that she would deep down hate. But I couldn't back down. I was already on a fast track to being a skinhead again.

I played down the barber and laughed nervously. "No, no, just relieved to get all this weight off my head. I'm just shocked how pale my scalp is!" The barber laughed at this. "Well, make the most of this sun to brown it up, it won't last long!" He took this as reassurance I was committed and carried on pushing the clippers back. One island had been halved in size, leaving a few patchy shadows. He pushed his clippers back again, sending more hair to my lap. I glanced down and saw the sheer mass of hair, and realised I'd never seen anything like it. Never had so much hair come from head.

The final piece of hard work by the clippers had to be done. The two inch wide patch of hair was destroyed. It left one inch which was buzzed from my scalp with minimal effort. The majority had gone. Now came my favourite part. The check. The barber quickly ran the machine over my scalp, the occasional louder buzz as a tiny patch of hair invisible to the naked eye was brutally cut down to the uniform 3mm. He did this over my head two or three times, and it felt as if I was being massaged. I stared into the mirror as the clippers continued to glide over my head. I stared at the stubbly scalp. It was back. I was back. This was me. I couldn't help but be filled with a tinge of sadness as I saw the pile of hair by my feet.


The barber treated me to one more complete round of buzzing over my head with the number one guard, pushing my ears forwards to catch any stray hairs that had escaped his brutality. Then there was a click and silence. He snapped the guard off his clippers and said "let's sort these sides out then son". They burst back into life and be pressed the bare metal to my sideburn, pushing up. My skin appeared to get paler. The naked blades zipped up my head and sent the tiny stubble that had only been there for a few minutes downwards. I could barely see any hair falling, but some individual hairs pinged from my head, some sticking to the clipper, the barber's hand and a few to my face.


He carried on, expertly pushing the clippers up my head. I noticed the cool of the tip of the clipper metal contrasting with the heat of the motor that had worked so hard to shave me down. My eyes wandered to the mirror and I couldn't help admire myself. I intently stared at the stubble as he continued to work. At this point, I was desperate for him to finish, I just wanted to rub the newly returned stubble. He finished the right hand side of my head, slid the lever to the half position and moved up my head. He ate quite a long way into the top of my head as he blended the brutally shaved sides into the now fairly long looking stubble on top.


The fear and panic I had when he started was gone. What was I worried about? I loved it. I may have been pretending to be a proper shaved head guy to convince him to do this, but maybe I really was?


The barber started applying the finishing touches, shaving any stray hairs from my neck, straightening my hair line. I liked these small touches. Sophie was a good barber, but lacked these refinements. The haircut looked really sharp. I loved it. He was so nearly done, the clippers mercifully were placed down and replaced with a brush and hairdryer, to remove and stray hairs stuck to my warm skin. He began brushing and clicked his hairdryer. Nothing. No sound.

"Eurgh, it's been on the blink and finally gone. I have a new one upstairs, one minute. I need to get it" the barber said, walking from the main floor of the shop through the small door at the back. He left me alone in the shop, with my beating heart and remnants of my hair. I couldn't resist. I reached onto the cape and picked up a huge clump of hair. It wouldn't all fit in my hand, as I tightened my grip and felt the crunch. How had this been on my head for so long, and then just gone? It reminded me about why I loved this experience this much. I opened my hand and watched it fall the floor where it joined the mass of other hair that had fallen from my head. I swivelled, got my phone out and took a few pictures of the white linoleum floor, contrasted with the sea of my hair. I opened my instagram, added to my story the photo with the caption "..." to see who would respond, questioning what hair was left on my head.


I heard footsteps and slid my phone back in my pocket. The barber entered opening a box to reveal a brand new hairdryer. He plugged it in; "sorry about that" he said, flicking the new one into life and went about finishing off the cleanup. He blew the stray hairs from my head, and the remaining pile from my lap to the floor. "Any gel or wax?" He laughed as he uncaped me "glad to be able to make you feel more like you again son, nothing worse than you going that long without a haircut". "You can say that again!" I laughed, as I stood. The barber keyed in the amount into his cash register, and as I looked in my wallet to pay, he turned to sweep my beheaded hair into one, single mini mountain. It was nothing to him. Yet it felt monumental to me. The thought that hair would simply go in the bin, that it was now rubbish, was such a turn on. I paid, smiled, and thanked him, and walked from the shop.

I got about 5 steps from the door before the head rubbing started. The astroturf of short hair that covered my scalp and the almost bald velcro on the sides felt incredible. I missed this feeling. As I walked the fairly busy streets, I noticed a couple of extended looks. I wasn't some guy with some standard hairstyle. I was me. My hair stood out. One guy about my age was walking towards me and couldn't help but stare. Maybe he had a haircut fetish? Maybe he was considering doing the same as I'd just done. I imagined clippers butchering his long, fluffy hair as we passed each other, his eyes noticeably fixed on me. Up ahead was a woman a little younger than me, probably mid-20s, whose eyes clearly darted up as I walked past her on the phone. Maybe she was imagining how it would be if her boyfriend had this haircut? Maybe she wanted to run her hand over this stubble and look deep into my eyes?

No, there was only one woman to be given this hair. Sophie. Maybe reluctantly.

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