John had never regarded haircuts as anything but a regular necessity. However, as he neared the age of 60, he was growing tired of the chit chat that was required during the 30 minutes he spent in the chair.
In particular, the male barber he had visited for years began to get on his nerves. He was a nice guy but came off as a bit of a rube. Even though he knew John wasn't an outdoorsman, his barber would frequently prattle on about his hunting and fishing exploits. John decided to make a change.
He decided to try one of several national clip joints where he invariably was in the chair of a woman who was an immigrant and whose accent made it difficult to understand when she asked him questions about how he wanted his haircut. He was far from being a right winger or anti-immigrant, but he struggled to understand, and he felt bad having to ask the hairdresser to repeat herself.
Finally, he decided to try a high-end business he had heard about through radio spots. It was more expensive, but that wasn't a deal breaker. For his first appointment, he requested that whoever cut his hair would keep the conversation to a minimum. Making that request made him feel like a jerk.
He showed up for his appointment and waited briefly in the front lobby, which was tastefully appointed with leather chairs and a couch. He was informed that "Susan will be with you in a moment." He knew from the radio ads that most of the employees were female.
When Susan walked up and introduced herself, he was immediately impressed. She was tall (he guessed about 5-foot-9) and slender. Her brunette hair was full and flowing beyond her shoulders. Her eyes were dark and lovely. She was dressed in the "uniform" -- white blouse and black slacks. And it was apparent that she had been blessed with a full bosom.
John walked to her chair. She asked how he wanted his hair cut and then she went to work. No small talk. He realized that his request to limit conversation was, in this instance, pretty fucking stupid.
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For the next several months, John had regular appointments with Susan. On his second visit, he initiated conversation and was pleased to discover she was intelligent and had a sense of humor. During ensuing appointments, they continued to discuss mundane topics. As the visits continued, he began to imagine and wonder that if he was 30 to 35 years younger if he would have the courage to ask her for a date.
Then he got a text from Susan on his cell phone. She apologized for getting his number from the front desk, but she wanted to inform him that she was moving to a new employer. John loyally followed. After another six months or so, Susan informed him that she had saved enough money and planned to open her own one-chair shop.
"I hope you'll continue as a customer," she said with a lovely smile.
"You can count on it."
In her own shop, Susan dressed casually, and John's eyes approved. She often wore cleavage-revealing and loose-fitting tops that revealed hints of her full mounds; she always wore a bra but when he stole glances, there was always an enticing view. During spring, summer, and fall, she usually wore shorts, sometimes jean cut-offs that displayed her long, slim, tan legs. Her dark hair came down to her back and had a wild, uncombed look.
During one of his appointments, Susan off-handedly made a comment that included the words "my 44th birthday."
"Whoa, timeout," John said, looking at her in the mirror. "You're forty-four? Are you serious?"
She smiled. "Yes. What, you want to see my ID?"
"Well, I'm just surprised. Seriously, I would have guessed you were in your late twenties, maybe early thirties." He stopped short of saying anything about how young and beautiful she was because he thought that could be stepping into a minefield.
"Well, thank you, sir," she answered, still smiling. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Shortly after that revelation, John turned 61. He and his wife were set financially so he decided to retire. Their son and daughter had finished college and started their careers.
Then, his wife died of an aneurysm.
When he made his next haircut appointment, it had been a couple of months and he had gotten a bit shaggy. John explained why, telling Susan about his wife. He had never been the emotional sort so he didn't cry but she could hear the sadness in his voice.
"John, I'm so sorry," she said, moving a bit in front of the chair so they could make eye contact. "Are you doing OK?"
"I still haven't gotten over the shock, of course. And it's difficult to get used to the silence and being alone in the house..."
There wasn't much else to talk about and Susan finished doing her work. After he paid her with his usual generous tip, she placed her hand on his cheek and said, "Take care of yourself." He felt a slight shiver up his spine. "I'll be fine. Thanks."
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For the last three or four years of their marriage, John's wife had become less interested in sex. After her death, he found his libido was strong. And, with lots of spare time and privacy, he spent hours on the Internet, watching porn and stroking his cock. It was enjoyable exploring his fantasies but more and more it made him wish for the intimacy of being with a woman.
The next time he was due for a cut, he texted Susan. Her only available appointment was 4 p.m. the next Saturday. John had nothing else to do so he set it up.
It was early August and the temperature had been in the high 90s, low 100s for over a week. When John arrived, he was not surprised to see Susan dressed to stay cool. She wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a loose top that was low cut and had large armholes. He could see the straps of her tan bra. She had her hair gathered at the back of her head in a ponytail, the thick strands hanging down but not directly on her back.
She asked how he was getting along, and they made small talk. He told her about a comical adventure his son had gone through on his job and she laughed several times. When she finished, he paid her and was about to leave.
"You're my last appointment of the day," she said. "I'm gonna take a few minutes to close up. Would you buy a girl a drink?"
John felt a fluttering in his chest he hadn't felt in years. "Sure." He sat on a bench on a hallway outside her shop while she swept and tidied up the shop.
