I love getting my hair cut. It is such a sensual experience. Skilled fingers run through my hair, stroking my cheeks, holding my head steady as the scissors snip and trim. Afterwards, I look good and I feel good.
Barbara is my usual stylist. She is beautiful, in an approachable, everyday kind of way. She could never have been a model, but I'm sure she turns a lot of heads when she walks through the mall. Her hair is soft, brown curls that brush her shoulders. Her skin and features are exotic without being specifically foreign. Sometimes she looks vaguely Irish or Asian or Hispanic. I think she's from California.
Barbara is only 26 years old, but she is definitely skilled with the scissors. I had been going to her for several months before the mundane haircut experience became something so exciting. It was relaxing and therapeutic, and it left me somewhat aroused, but it had always been very professional.
She likes to wear revealing clothes to work. Her tight pants and low-cut shirts are a delight. The gentle, fruity perfume she wears is soft and feminine and never over-powering. To sit so close to her as she works on me is simply intoxicating.
Her cleavage was almost in my face and there was a lot of it visible. She did not seem to know or care what it was doing to her male customers. That beautiful valley was never far from my view. It was difficult to keep my eyes on safe, polite territory away from her lovely breasts. One day that became almost impossible.
I'd been having a really bad day. My girlfriend had been in Montreal for the past two weeks, visiting her parents. She'd called me that morning to say that we'd both have to think long and hard about whether she should come back. When I sat in Barbara's chair, I was feeling a little angry, a little guilty and a whole lot of depression.. I was also just beginning to realize that my lonely bed was going to stay that way.
Barbara's ample cleavage was a welcome, needed distraction from my problems, and I had a really hard time tearing my eyes away. Keeping my gaze respectful was quite a task that day. Eventually, my attempts to be polite became frustrating and annoying for Barbara because my head kept moving as well.
She slammed the scissors down on the counter and grabbed my face with both hands. There was frustration in her eyes, but an amused smile on her face.
"Look," she said, "I had to go to school to learn how to do this. You have to be educated and licensed before you even think about touching a customer's hair. I think it's an important job. People come to me before their wedding day. They come to me before important meetings and interviews. Politicians and movie stars rely on people like to me to make them seem real."
"I do a very good job," she said. "And there's a reason I dress this way. I give you something to look at so you'll keep your head still while I work. I'm not self-conscious. Go ahead and stare. Just stop fidgeting. You can look at some tits or you can lose an ear. It‘s a simple choice."
After that, I did as she suggested. I indulged myself. I let my thoughts wander as I lost myself in that beautiful bosom. Barbara became my regular hair stylist. Her permission to ogle created a kind of intimacy between us. She would stroke my arms and massage my shoulders. Her fingernails would tickle my neck before she started cutting.
I started getting the shampoo option with my haircuts just to prolong the experience. To feel her fingers massaging my head was wonderfully relaxing. The strawberry scented shampoo was sweet and strong. The feel of her breasts pressing against me as she leaned in was more than pleasant.
