Planning my summer game by Julian

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In my experience, there are three types of haircut enthusiasts:

1. The ones who love short hair because it makes them feel masculine and attractive.

2. The ones who love to control others’ haircuts—or be controlled.

3. The ones who hate short hair… but get aroused by being forced into unwanted haircuts.

If you know me… you already know I belong to the third group.

And that’s where things get complicated.

Because for it to really work—for it to hit—it has to feel real. It has to feel like I don’t have a choice. Like I’m trapped in the chair, watching it happen, unable to stop it.

That’s why getting a haircut with another fetishist doesn’t work for me. There’s no tension. No uncertainty. No risk. We both know exactly what’s going on.

And just walking into a barbershop and asking for a short haircut? That kills it completely.

There’s no thrill in choosing it.

The only way it works… is through games.

Carefully built situations where I become the victim of circumstance. Where the haircut happens to me, not because of me. And most importantly—the barber has to believe it too.

That’s what makes it real.

That’s what makes it intense.

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WHEN THE GAMES STOPPED

There was a time when I walked away from all of this.

After many games—some of them pushing me into haircuts I truly hated—I decided to stop. I chose control. I chose appearance. I chose to look good.

I found a barber I trusted. I kept my hair longer, styled, just the way I liked it.

Clean. Safe. Predictable.

I gave up the thrill in exchange for peace.

And for more than two years… I stayed "sober."

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THE HAIRCUT THAT BROUGHT IT ALL BACK

Like any addiction, you think you’re in control… until something pulls you back in.

For me, it was just one haircut.

One barber.

One moment that woke everything up again.

Over the past few months, I’ve been cutting my own hair—keeping it modern, longer on top, tapered on the sides. But one bad self-cut was enough to push me back into a barbershop.

Not just any barbershop.

A small one. One chair. One barber. No distractions.

The kind of place where things can… happen.

I walked in with one goal: just a trim. Nothing noticeable. One of those cuts where people can’t even tell you’ve been to the barber.

When he asked, I said it clearly:

"Just a little bit."

He repeated it. Touched the sides. Noticed the uneven taper I had done myself.

I nodded.

That was the moment I started losing control.

He picked up the scissors.

No clippers.

No water.

Just dry hair… and steel.

At first, it felt normal. Light snips. Small adjustments.

Then… more.

More than I expected.

And something inside me shifted.

That old feeling came back—that helpless, sinking sensation I used to have as a kid in the barber chair. The one that made me want to cry… and now, somehow, does the opposite.

He kept cutting.

And cutting.

When he moved to the top, I expected restraint. A careful trim.

Instead… long locks fell.

One after another.

I felt it in my chest.

That mix of resistance and surrender.

I wanted to stop him.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

I was completely in his hands.

And the more I realized I was getting a shorter haircut than I wanted… the stronger the feeling became.

Unexpected. Uncontrolled.

Real.

By the time he finished, it wasn’t extreme—but it was undeniable. Short on the sides and back. No modern shape. No softness.

Just… shorter.

Too short.

I thanked him. Paid. Walked out.

And the world noticed.

For the first time in years, people commented on my hair. Not negatively—just enough to remind me it was different.

I hated it.

And at the same time… I couldn’t stop reliving it.

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WHY THIS CHANGED EVERYTHING

If you understand this fetish, you already know:

The ultimate fantasy is finding a barber who cuts more than you ask for.

Someone who doesn’t hesitate.

Someone who takes control.

That’s rare.

Most barbers play it safe. They protect the client. They adjust carefully.

But this guy?

I said "just a bit"… and the cape was covered in hair.

He didn’t hold back.

And that changed everything.

Because suddenly, the fantasy wasn’t just in my head anymore.

He is real.

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PLANNING THE GAME

And that’s where I am now.

April 2026.

Thinking about next summer.

Feeling that pull again.

I don’t just want to remember that feeling.

I want to step back into it.

Fully.

Deliberately.

Dangerously.

So I’m planning a game.

Summer. Distance. No responsibilities. No familiar faces.

A controlled environment… to lose control again.

First step: let it grow. Two months.

Then, July 30th.

The night before I take a flight to France.

Back to him.

Back to that chair.

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GOING BACK TO THE BUTCHER

A few days after that haircut, still riding the high, I sent him a message:

"My wife loved the haircut… She said for the first time it actually looks like I went to a barber. She wants me to come back—and this time, instead of just a trim, to let you really cut it properly."

Even writing it gave me that rush.

He replied simply:

"I’m glad."

Perfect.

He believed it.

And I haven’t gone back since.

But I will.

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