A Fantasy Relived by Chaucer

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I never thought I’d fall for a guy like Dave. He is many things that I am not. Dave is very masculine, physically fit and military looking. He has his flattop haircut buzzed every two weeks so it’s always perfectly flat and the back and sides are faded down to skin. He’s handsome—tall, thin but muscular, and blond. He definitely could be a model, especially on a poster that says, “Uncle Sam Wants YOU.” I, on the other hand, am also masculine, but I’m not into exercise. I’m thin but you won’t see bulging muscles in my arms or chest; and my idea of a six-pack is ice cold and goes best with pizza. And my hair has not had electric clippers near it since I was in my teens. In fact, it’s pretty shaggy looking. I wear it long—particularly on the top and sides—and combed straight back; but due to my infrequent visits to the barber, it’s often hanging over my collar and falling over my ears, eyes and nose and I’m always running my fingers back through it to get it out of my face. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a bad looking guy. And basically I have very nice hair that looks really good when I spend a little time with it. It’s just that most of the time I have a shaggy dog appearance.

Anyway, Dave and I met at a dinner party given by a mutual friend. I suspect it was a “blind date,” though it was not advertised as such. When I looked at him, something happened in my head. I thought he was gorgeous, and that surprised me. He had none of the physical characteristics that I normally considered handsome. And he seemed so tight…so controlled. Yet, there was a softness to him that came through so clearly. And he was so easy to talk with; we chatted all evening and had so much in common. Both of us were rabid soccer fans, and we discovered that we shared taste in music, movies and live theater. It was an easy evening, and I found myself having more fun than I had experienced in a long time. In fact, we decided to go out for a drink together after dinner, and we talked until 2:00 in the morning.

I learned that Dave had been in the military. He attended college on a military scholarship and paid back all four years in the marine corps doing some kind of engineering thing that he could not talk about specifically. He was 29—almost 30—compared to my tender 28 years. Needless to say, we hit it off and soon became a “couple.” After a few weeks, we knew almost everything about each other and we were very happy together.

One Friday evening, after having dinner with each other…and sharing a whole bottle of wine, Dave asked me why I wore my hair so long. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, “you are a very handsome guy. And obviously you turn me on. But I sorta wish you’d cut your hair a bit. Have you ever had it shorter?”

I laughed and told him that I had it VERY short throughout all my developmental years. And that yes, I did sort of have a fantasy about having it short again, but I sort of liked it long and kind of have a hang-up about short hair. He immediately expressed concern that I did not like his hair. “No, Dave. Oddly enough, I love your hair. It’s you. And I love everything about you. You are handsome and I cannot imagine you with any other kind of haircut.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I have had my share of dreams about you with a short haircut. I have to admit. Not that I want you to change for me. I’d never ask that. It’s just that I find guys with really short hair sexy. You’re sexy, too, of course…I’ve shown you how I feel about you…but you probably are the only guy with long hair who has turned me on.”

“I’ll get it trimmed tomorrow.” And I did. The next day I went to the barber I had not seen for a few months and told him to get t he hair off my ears and collar and to take a couple of inches off the top. When he finished, there was a pile of hair surrounding me. I went home and showered to get ready for a date with Dave. As I was toweling from the shower, I looked in the mirror and my hair was completely covering my face and the sides—when hanging down--still covered my ears. Even after a major haircut, I still had very long hair. I took a comb and slicked it straight back on the top and sides—much tighter to the scalp than I normally wore it. “How would I look with a short haircut?” I though. “Not bad. I have a nicely shaped head. And I have a good hairline—nice and thick and square in front. Well, maybe I’ll think about it. Summer is coming and I always find my hair a bother when I’m swimming or working outside. I’ll think about it.”

Dave was cooking dinner for us at his house that evening. I showed up with some flowers for him, and we kissed at the door. “I still have some finishing touches on dinner. Would you mind making the salad? There is a bottle of chardonnay open, if you want a glass before dinner. And there is some caviar that I bought today. I know you love it.”

“Notice anything?” I asked.

“What?”

“I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“Notice what?” Dave asked.

“I got a haircut just for you and you didn’t notice.”

“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t notice. I guess it is a little bit shorter, isn’t it? But it just looks almost the same, so I didn’t notice. Now that I’m paying attention, I can see that it’s not as shaggy in the back or on the sides as it was. I guess I thought you just had slicked it back tighter than usual.”

“No. I had a ton of it cut off today. But, alas, I can’t seem to please you, my love, even with the greatest of sacrifices!” I whined and laughed.

“I’m sorry. It looks fine. No. It looks great. Thanks for trimming it. I’m sure it looks better.”

Feeling disappointed, I poured a glass of wine, took a bite of the caviar and started to make the salad. “That caviar is great. Thank you.”

“Nothing but the best for you. You know I’d do anything for you, John.”

“John.” Dave continued. “Last night you said something to me that I’ve dwelled on.”

“What was that?”

“Well, you said that you have a fantasy about having short hair again but that you have a hang-up about it. What did you mean?”

“Hmm. I said that? The wine was talking. Well, it is true, but it’s a sordid story. Do you really want to know?”

“Of course, I want to know. I want to know everything about you, John. I’ve fallen head-over-heels for you and I want to know everything. What were you talking about?”

“Well,” I began, “it’s kind of a long story, but I’ll tell you. You’d better re-fill your wine glass, though. When I was a child, my father was in the marines. He was a kind man in many ways, but he was very stern and rigid with me. For example, he always forced me to wear blue oxford button-down shirts and khaki pants with white socks and Weejun loafers.”

“Well, that’s not so bad. I bet you were cute.”

“And he cut my hair every other Saturday with his electric clippers—standard marine GI haircut. It was virtually shaved on the sides and back and he left less than a ¼ inch on top. I hated it, Dave. It was humiliating to me to look like I had just joined the marines...or maybe it was looking like him that bothered me.”

“YOU had hair that short? I can’t believe it. Do you have pictures? Where is that man? Bring him back. I want to see him put you in the chair and give you a buzz!”

“Well,” I replied, “that’s sort of the issue.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was 14, my father went a way on some type of assignment. At first, we thought he would be gone six months, but it turned into a long assignment of more than a year. We did not see him the entire time. I’m not sure what he was doing; his work was a secret. I don’t even think that Mom knew. We’d hear from him by letter and an occasional phone call, but we did not see him for well over a year.”

“But what does that have to do with your hair?”

“While he was gone, I got no haircuts at all. Several times my mom told me I should get a trim, but I didn’t. She didn’t say much to me because I think she felt sorry for me. She knew how much I hated those shavings every two weeks, and I think she didn’t’ want to torture me like Dad did. My hair got longer and longer and longer. I loved it. I kept it clean and reasonably well groomed, but it was so long that it completely covered my ears and collar and reached my mouth in front. I combed it to the side—sorta—so I could see out of at least one eye. I thought I was so cool.”

“Well, John, it wasn’t much longer then than it is now. You’ve got a lot of hair there, Bud.”

“Yeah, I guess I do. Well, anyway, then it happened.”

“What happened?”

“He came home--without even calling to let us know. One Friday afternoon I was out with some friends, and when I came home he was there. He wanted to “surprise” us. Well, I was surprised—needless to say—and so was he! When he saw me, his look turned to steel. He had these piercing blue eyes that could burn a hole right through you. And that’s what he did. He said, ‘What the hell has happened to you?’ I froze. ‘You look like a goddamn girl! How could your mother let something like this happen?’ Mom intervened and told him that he had just come home, that we’d talk about that later, and so on. He calmed down and reached over and shook my hand reluctantly. ‘It’s nice to see you, Jonathan. It’s been a long time. We’ll address the hair later.’ I made nice and got the hell out of Dodge!”

“That was the extent of his greeting after being away for a year? How cold. I’m sorry”

“That was about it. You’d have to know my dad to have understood. He was not exactly warm and fuzzy. Anyway, I could barely sleep that night. I woke up early and got up and did some chores around the house. I thought it couldn’t hurt to have everything in order, so he couldn’t find other things to complain about. At about 10:00, I took a shower. He and mom were still in bed. I’m not sure what they were doing in bed so long!! After my shower, I dressed and carefully combed my hair so it was behind my ears and I tried to get it out of my eyes. But it was long—very long—and as it dried, it fell over my face, as usual. I heard my parents up in the kitchen. Mom was fixing him breakfast. I left the bathroom and went to my room, thinking I might be able to stay out of harm’s way a little longer. I was thinking about how I might be able to go to the neighborhood barber shop for a trim before I saw Dad again.

“But about fifteen minutes later, he called me to come out of my room. He was waiting for me in the hallway. ‘Take your shirt off, young man, and go in the kitchen,’ he said. I did as I was told. Waiting for me in the kitchen was a chair in the middle of the floor. On the table next to the hair were a towel and those infamous electric hair clippers—plugged in and ready to do. I started to beg for a reprieve, but he cut me off cold. ‘Sit in the chair and keep your mouth shut, boy. Do you understand me?’ With my heart in my throat—knowing what was about to come—I sat in the chair. He came up next to me, grabbed the clippers and turned them on. With his left hand, he took hold of my bangs and held them up in the air as he plunged the bare clipper blades toward my scalp. With a move as smooth as a hot knife cutting through butter, all the hair from the front of my head was shaved off and thrown in my lap. Once he had a start, he continued on and gave me a typical marine corps induction cut. Within a minute or so, my precious hair had been reduced to stubble—near baldness. There were piles of thick blond eight-inch hair all around my chair. When he finished, he said, ‘There will be no more long hair. You’ll report back here two weeks from today for a haircut. Is that clear?’

“Through my quiet tears, I said, ‘Sir. Yes, Sir. I’ll report back.’ He had returned and I was back in my old routine. And it continued for the next year. Every two weeks I sat in the kitchen and had my head nearly shaved—until he died. It was unexpected. He had a heart attack and died suddenly when I was 15. I had very mixed feelings about it. I loved my dad in a way, but he caused such tension in the house that I was relieved in many ways when he was gone. I felt a little guilty about that, but it was true. I was relieved.”

“Wow, John. I’m sorry. I understand. You have no reason to feel guilty.” And Dave put down his glass of wine and came to me and embraced me gently but securely. “You had a tough time as a teenager, huh?”

“Oh, it was OK. I survived it. I’m sure it could have been worse. I wasn’t beaten or anything. I know dad cared about me—in his own way. He was just trying to teach me discipline. He failed, though, didn’t he??”

“No. Actually, you’re a pretty disciplined person. Oh, you may not have a buzzcut anymore, but you are very disciplined in your life. I’ve paid close attention to that. You’re very organized and…what can I say?…you’re disciplined.”

“Well then, I guess I owe that to my father. I think that was his goal with me. To make me a responsible—and in his thinking—disciplined man. Maybe he succeeded.”

“I guess you’ve sorta explained your ‘hang-up’ about having your hair short. It sounds like that was really a traumatic experience for you, John. But what did you mean when you said you have a fantasy about short hair? I don’t understand that at all. I thought your hated it?”

“Well…I’m not sure, Dave. This is kinda weird. For years, I’ve had this secret fantasy that I would meet a man a little bit like my dad. Not somebody who is as emotionally constrained as he was, but somebody with his discipline and ‘persona.’ And this guy would force—well, maybe ‘coerce’ or ‘push’ would be a better word—me to have a short haircut again…maybe cut it himself in a buzzcut. I know. I know. It sounds nuts, right? But the thought turns me on. I guess a psychiatrist would have a field day with me, but it’s something that I think I would love. I’m sure it has to do with the whole ‘pleasing dad’ thing…since he died and we were not on good terms and I really never got a chance to tell him that I loved him. Am I crazy?”

“John, of course you’re not crazy. I can understand that. I’m sure all of have ‘issues’ that make us the way we are…make us like the things we like…and get ‘turned on’ by the things that turn us on. You’re not crazy at all. I’m sure you’re right, though, about you dad and how that sort of distant relationship and his sudden death resulted in this fantasy. I think it’s normal, though.”

“Well, obviously, I’ve never acted on it. I never really had the chance, but in my fantasy the guy who cuts my hair is someone I love…and I really haven’t been in love in the past with that kind of guy…until now.”

“I love you, too, John.” Dave said as he put down his wine glass and again reached out to embrace me. He kissed me gently on the cheek and said, “Are you saying that you’ve been fantasizing all this time that I’d push you to cut your hair short?”

“Well, not ‘all this time,’ but ever since I knew that I had fallen for you…second date maybe? Since then, I’ve had these dreams and this desire intruding into my consciousness. Yeah, I guess I have been fantasizing about it for a while.”

“And this whole time I’ve been hoping you’d get that mop on your head cut off. I love you with all my heart, John, and you’re a handsome guy—even with the hair—but I sure have been wishing you’d get a haircut. I know. I know. You got one today. But that’s not really a haircut. You have more hair on your head now than the Beatles had when they appeared on the Ed Sullivan show! Look at this.” He grabbed hold of my hair and pulled it all forward and it fell past my nose and mouth. Then he pulled down my carefully slicked back “fenders” and they fell over my ears. “If you didn’t try to keep this hair slicked back, it would be in your face all the time…and it is in your face a good bit of the time, John. I have to admit that it does bother me. Every time we are intimate with each other, your hair is falling in your face—or mine! I don’t like that. But I didn’t say anything because I thought you loved it so much that you would never consider cutting it…and I love you so much that I never would have considered asking you to cut it. Now you tell me that you’ve secretly been wishing I’d ask you to cut it?”

“Yes. Well, actually I’ve been fantasizing that you’d cut it for me! Have you ever cut anybody’s hair, Dave?”

“As a matter of fact, I have. I don’t cut my own hair now, because it’s too hard to give myself a flattop, but I used to cut my hair all the time when I was in high school and college. I had a regular GI haircut…1/4 inch on top and 1/8 inch on the sides and back. That was a piece of cake to cut on myself and I did it from the time I was about 14 or so. In fact, both in high school and college…and still on occasion…I cut the hair of several of my friends. I have professional clippers, and I’m a pretty good barber if I say so myself.”

“Are you s**ttin’ me?”

“Nope. I’m a good barber.”

“Well, Dave, this night could be the realization of my fantasy. After dinner, I want you to make it come true.”

“Are you serious, John? That’s a big step. You must have two years’ hair growth on some parts of your head. You’re saying that you want it buzzed GI style?”

“Yes. I do. I don’t know about ‘style.’ There doesn’t seem to be much ‘style’ to that kind of haircut, but I have made the decision. It’s time to get rid of the hair. I’ve had it long for over ten years. I’ve enjoyed it. At first, it was a prize for me. But I don’t need it anymore, and I assure you it’s more of a bother to me than it has been to you. And I want you to be the one to cut it.”

“John, I don’t want you to do this for me. I wouldn’t feel right about it. I love you with all my heart—hair and all—and I do not want you to feel that there is any condition on that. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I want you any way you come. I’ve never felt this way before about any man, and I wouldn’t want anything to jeopardize it.”

“I feel the same way about you, Dave. And trust me. I am not doing this for you alone. I told you it’s something I’ve been thinking about for a very long time. And since I met you, I have not been able to keep my mind off of it. No. It’s not just for you at all. It’s more for me than anything. I think it’s something I need to do to feel like I’ve matured and gotten over my rebellion toward my dad. I think all these years I’ve kept this mop on my head for a single primary reason—my dad would hate it and I was proving that he had no control over me anymore. But the funny think is that, in a way, he has had all the control here. I’ve kept the hair—even though I think I’d prefer it short now—just because I was trying to prove something to myself…that I am different from my dad. So, you see, he still had the control! No. I want it short. I’ve saved a lot of money on haircuts over the years. That’s probably the only advantage I can see to it. But now, it seems like I have my own barber—you won’t charge me, will you?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty good. I may have to charge you a lot to mow off that mop! Actually, I don’t want money, but I will expect ‘payment’ for my services!”

“It’s a deal. And tonight is the night. After dinner, I want you to give me a GI haircut…one that would make my dad proud. No. Leave my dad out of this. Give me the haircut that you think would look best on me. As long as it’s short, I don’t care. I don’t want to be bothered anymore with hair. I don’t like it; you don’t like it; it’s a bother. There is only one sensible solution.”

Dave and I had a wonderful dinner; he’s a great cook. After dinner, we quickly cleaned up the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Dave stepped into the bathroom and I sat down on the sofa…to finish off my last glass of chardonnay. Ella Fitzgerald was crooning in the background and I sat with my eyes closed feeling like I was being carried away to another land, when Dave appeared and tapped me on the knee. I opened my eyes and he was reaching his hand out to me. “It’s time.” He said. “Come with me.”

I had a sudden anamnestic visceral experience…but rather than the terror I felt when my dad called me out of my room when I was 14, it was a feeling of excitement…a feeling of sexual tension. I put down my glass and stood up and followed Dave to the bathroom where he had set a chair in front of the mirror. On the countertop next to the sink lay an impressive array of barbering materials—combs, shears and three sets of different sized electric clippers with a bunch of attachments. “Wow!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea that you were so prepared for hair cutting. Did you ever do it professionally?”

“Actually, I was trained by a professional, but I never got a license. When I was in high school, I had two neighbors who were sick and invalid and could not leave home for haircuts. My barber taught me how to cut hair when I was about twelve so I could give these two guys haircuts. One was an older man who wore a buzz, but the other was a young man with thick wavy hair who wanted to be stylish and changed his hairstyle from time to time. I gave him taper cuts, flattops, buzzes…and once he even let his hair grow kinda long—maybe as long as yours! Anyway, I got a fair amount of experience when I was young. Over the years, I acquired all this stuff so I could do a good job on my friends and family.”

As he talked, Dave had guided me into the chair and placed a black and white striped cape around my neck. He was so gentle, but also firm. I had a feeling that he was completely in control of my destiny and there was nothing I could do to change it. I went willingly, if not eagerly. Once I was snugly caped, he picked up a large comb and ran it back through my hair. It went smoothly back through the top and sides leaving me with a tight slicked back pompadour. I looked in the mirror at myself and saw that my hair looked rather good combed back like this. But I knew that it rarely stayed this way for long. And then, as if hearing my thoughts, Dave moved the comb forward in my hair pulling it all into my face. Despite my haircut that day, it fell in the middle to my lips. He continued combing it forward and down and from what I could see—between the strands of hair—it covered all of my ears as well as my face. “Hey, you’ve got a lotta hair here, guy. Are you sure you want it to go?”

“Yep. I’ve made the decision, Dave. Go ahead.”

He turned away from me for a moment and fiddled with a clipper and a blade. When he turned back, he asked, “Are you ready?” But before I had time to answer—or even to think, the sound of the electric motor came alive and I sensed it moving toward my head. When the eight inches of hair fell in my lap from the front of my eyes, I could see that John had lifted my bangs with the comb in his left hand and guided the clipper under the hair and across the top of my head. I looked strange with the left side of my face still covered with hair and a swath of buzzed hair down the right side of my head. “It’s too late to turn back now,” said Dave as he aimed the clipper blade toward the left side of my head. By this time, hair was falling fast and in mounds on the cape in front of me. I didn’t realize how much hair I had on my head. I watched intensely in the mirror as I was being transformed from a long-haired boy into a clean-cut, military looking man. I felt myself getting erect as Dave cut. I realized what a sensual experience this was. Why? Maybe it was the touching of an erotic area by someone I loved. Or maybe the feelings were much more deeply seated than that. Who knows? Whatever the reason, I found myself feeling very excited that I had made this decision…not even a little remorseful. And I was very happy that Dave was the man taking me to this new level.

The haircut continued. Dave took it all down to what I learned was a #2 blade length and then tapered the sides up from a zero. This was followed by a careful outlining process with a small buzzing clipper and then a sinful shave around the ears and neck with hot lather and a straight razor. Wow! What an experience!! I had never had such a sensual haircut in my life. After he rubbed “witch hazel” around my ears and powdered me all around with a brush, he removed the cape and asked, “So, John, how do you like it?”

My answer was immediate. “The only thing better than the outcome of the haircut was the process! I love it, Dave. What do you think?”

“You look great, John. You’re a gorgeous guy, you know? I thought you were handsome even with your hair long, but you’re a knock-out with that GI look. You have such a great hairline and such thick hair. You look so tasty I could eat you alive right now. What a turn-on!”

We both were so excited that we had a wonderful night together. As we were making love, I couldn’t help but think about my dad. He might not like the fact that I was with a man…and he never knew…but he would be damn proud of his GI looking son. Dave, again reading my thoughts, rubbed his fingers through the bristle on my head and said, “It’s great having a little soldier with me. Hey, ‘Uncle Sam Wants YOU’—but he can’t have you. You’re mine, and I’ll never give you up to anyone.”

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