Growing up, we spent our summers by a lake. It was heaven. My grandparents, great uncle, my Mom and one sister, at the point of this writing, loved our cabin. My Dad stayed in our hometown to work during the week, and came up on weekends.
To save money, my Mom would cut our hair. Life was great, life was normal. Then came that one day, the day the seed of a fetish was planted.
Mom had cut my hair. I don't really remember the style, if I even had one, but it was short and I had enough wispy ends showing, that she used a man's electric razor to shave them away. I liked it, it tickled.
But my sister's hair had somehow been screwed up. Whether she cut it wrong, or my sister wouldn't sit still and was the cause of it, I don't know. I wasn't watching. But it was messed up enough that Mom dragged us to the local barbershop. My hair was fine. I remember standing there, looking up at my sister sitting on the kiddie seat.
The barber used clippers, and she started crying and screaming. I remember asking her if it hurt and she nodded yes. At least that's the way I remember it happening. Most likely she was just scared of the clippers and noise.
I don't recall any other incidents involving hair, cutting it, or barbers until I came to puberty.
I remember a time I really wanted my nape shaved. I must've been around 14 years old, maybe 15. I tried to be forced to have it shaved by writing an anonymous note to a local salon, wearing gloves on my hands so I wouldn't leave fingerprints.
I asked to have me taken out of school and have my neck shaved. Well, of course, nothing happened. I'm sure they thought it was a prank and that was the end of that.
I had blondish hair on my arms and legs so I didn't start shaving my legs until close to 20 years old when it turned darker. I used an electric razor. Shaving my legs was nothing to get excited about, but those vibrations?
