Shear Shame

We lock eyes in the mirror.

She's fastening a nylon cape around my shoulders.

It's so silent in here, that the studs close with an audible click and pop.

She runs her fingernails over my scalp, appraising me slowly.

Then she raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow at me, so high it disappears into her blunt bangs.

The frightened girl staring back at me inhales rapidly and swallows. There's an uncanny delay in feeling the dry air coat the back of my throat.

I see her smile, crookedly. Just the corner of her glossy red lips twisting cruelly.

"What are we going for today?" she asks me.

Her voice drips like poisoned honey. Saccharine laced with strychnine.

"Just... whatever you would like, Ma'am", I whisper.

"That's right", she tells me.

I don't see her pick them up, but suddenly they're there. Glinting, in my peripheral vision.

Cold, hard and unforgiving.

Stainless steel.

Seven-inch blades.

The rest of the salon is empty. There are people passing by on the street outside but they're a distant, faceless blur. It's just her and me. In the mirror. Me and her.

Silence. Except for the slice of the blades opening.

And then the crunch of them closing.

She snips the air as if to cut the palpable tension. With a grin.

She's just toying with me.

She picks up a long silver comb and runs it over my scalp, then teases it through my hair.

"Keep still" she scolds me.

"It will be uneven if you keep squirming."

I can't help it. It's started already.

This happens every time.

I don't know why the scissors have this effect on me.

They always have.

It's the danger I suppose. The sharp and ruthless edges. The keenly honed points.

Their transformative power.

Once they slice through something, it can't be put back together again. It's changed. Gone.

I can't look at a pair without having intrusive thoughts. Imagining them slicing through my clothes. Tearing and shredding, leaving me naked.

The points running over soft and vulnerable skin. Scratching. Piercing. Drawing lines. Imagining the bright, stinging sensation of it.

And it's the noise.

Oh my god, the noise.

The slicing.

The shearing.

The snip, snip, snip of them opening and closing.

Cutting.

Chopping.

Severing.

I'm shaken out of my reverie when I notice the proximity of the blades to my throat.

That's too high. My hair skims the bottom of my shoulder blades. That's how I like it.

I like to wear it in soft, pretty styles.

She doesn't notice, or doesn't care, about the panicked glare I'm throwing her, desperately, in the mirror.

Slice.

Almost a foot of hair falls to the floor. In slow motion.

I stop breathing.

We lock eyes again in the mirror.

"I know coming here is difficult for you", she soothes me. "So let's take off enough that you don't need to come again for a while."

I swallow the burning lump in my throat as my eyes start to prickle with tears.

It's happening now. The first cut is made. There's no going back.

It'll be uneven.

But this is what I've really been dreading.

This is why I don't come as often as I need to.

The sound.

What it does to me.

It echoes in my ears, spreading a tingle all the way over my skull. Building in waves. Sending a shiver down my spine.

My nipples harden in recognition.

Such small vibrations, setting my whole body alight.

I try to control my breathing. But the feeling of danger, of anticipation, of excitement. It's too much.

I feel my pussy start to soak.

This shouldn't be happening here. Over a simple haircut.

I can feel my wetness start to flood my panties and I shift uncomfortably. Conscious that I need to keep still.

I can feel my face burning. I feel like there's a heat rising off me, one she can sense.

The feeling that I'm going to be caught, that I'm going to have to explain myself, makes my stomach flutter.

And that sensation only spreads, making my pussy tingle harder.

The realization that this awful situation is only turning me on further gives me a sense of dread.

I can't stop it.

"Stop squirming!" she admonishes me more firmly this time.

I try my best. Sinking into the feelings, breathing through them without expressing them.

Finally I allow myself to open my eyes again. It's done.

She's drying my hair now, tossing my newly-shorn locks in her fingers like nothing even happened.

It looks just like hers. A severe bob. Chin length. Blunt bangs.

"Do you like it?" She asks me

"No", I hear myself stutter, in a small, distant, pathetic voice.

"It makes me look like a grown-up."

"Well", she addresses me sternly. "You're going to like this even less, I'm afraid."

Without breaking eye contact, she dips the scissors in a jar of pink Lysol solution on the counter.

"Now bend over."

We do this every time.

I don't know why I keep coming back, but I do.

I look at her and at myself as if I'm considering saying no.

We both know I'm not going to though.

I understand that this isn't how this goes for normal people.

This isn't what a trip to the hairdressers involves.

But I'm not normal.

I'm a freak.

And this is what happens to filthy little perverts. Like me.

I put my hands on the counter beneath the mirror.

Trembling.

"Bend right over. Put your elbows on the counter."

She's right of course.

I need to steady myself.

As I comply, I close my eyes, swallowing, and shake my head slightly.

As if I can't believe I'm submitting to this.

As if I don't want it.

As if I could shake away this twisted desire.

"No", she drips.

"Look at yourself please."

She reaches forward with a brisk, business-like air and lifts the hem of my dress, folding it at the small of my back.

She runs her free hand over my backside and squeezes it. Taking her time.

Drinking in my shame and humiliation. Savouring it.

I hear her, tutting at me in disgust as she runs two fingers over my soaked panties.

Appraising my pathetic and dishevelled state.

Her long fingernails dangerously close to the soft folds of my lips.

She makes me say it. Why my panties are damp.

"Because I'm a naughty girl Ma'am"

She agrees with me.

"I couldn't help getting turned on while you were cutting my hair".

I know what comes next. What I deserve for squirming around in my seat as she cut my hair. Defiling her salon chair with my filthy cunt.

I feel my knees start to tremble.

I take a deep breath in and take one last look at the flashing blades in her hand.

She slides a finger under the leg of my panties and with a small, deliberate motion stretches the waistband away from my skin.

Snip.

She cuts right through them.

Snip.

Then the other side.

The sound of scissors going through fabric causes me to let out an involuntary sob.

And my pussy to clench.

I'm breathing raggedly now.

My panties lie in shreds on the floor like my discarded hair.

She reaches between my legs and parts my lips.

"Freshly shaved", she smirks.

"Of course you are."

I don't tell her how she haunts me. How I close my eyes as I run the razor over my mons and imagine it's her shaving me.

Exposing me.

She slips a finger inside and withdraws it, slick and dripping with my arousal, then gives a satisfied nod.

She positions the scissors at the entrance of my cunt.

Then slides them in. Slowly.

The blades feel cold. Clinical.

She is purposeful. Deliberate. There won't be any damage.

But this isn't for my pleasure.

Or it's not meant to be.

This is the kind of fucking a case-study like me deserves.

She slides and then rotates them inside me, her fingers expertly manoeuvring the handles.

The feeling of danger and exposure is so intense I think I might pass out.

I imagine the image of the closed blades inside my cunt.

The unforgiving steel against my soft warm insides.

Their length gripped tightly by my core.

Coated in my juices.

She's leaning over me now. Holding me still with one hand gripping my shoulder, her thumb pressed into the back of my newly exposed neck.

"Tell me..." she whispers in my ear, her hot breath scorching me.

"What kind of pervert enjoys being fucked with a pair of scissors?"

I tell her.

"Only a very dirty girl would enjoy this Ma'am".

And she nods sympathetically.

Her pity is worse than her contempt.

But I accept it, because I know this is how I'm going to cum.

This is so embarrassing.

I'm so ashamed.

I can't move at all and my legs are shaking with the effort of staying upright.

I see myself in the mirror, my face burning, my eyes wide with disbelief at my predicament.

She just tuts and shakes her head.

Everything she says about me as she rubs my clit in slow, slick circles is correct.

I look at the girl in the mirror. Small, and pitiful.

I watch as two tears slide down her face.

And she nods and repeats:

"Yes Ma'am, I am ashamed of myself"

"I should try harder to control my filthy urges".

"Girls who can't control themselves have to be punished."

I let her humiliate me like this because I am completely powerless.

She holds both my safety and my desperate need to orgasm in her hands and I can't move an inch.

Oh, and because it turns me on. Even though I wish it didn't.

All I can do is submit, stare at my pathetic neediness in the mirror and burn, knowing this sordid scene is going to fuel my fantasies for months to come.

The tingling in my clit, the friction from her expert fingers is spreading now.

Warm waves are swelling deep in my stomach.

All I can hear is her voice in my ear, repeating back my shame, my fears about myself, all I can feel is the hardness and length of the scissors, my exposed position, thinking about the danger, the intensity, the cold, hard steel....

Fuck.

I climax, sobbing with relief.

She withdraws the scissors and throws them back in the lysol on the counter.

I stare at them dumbly, catching my breath and wiping away the tears.

Unsure what to do next.

I hear her ringing the cash register.

I'm still floating outside myself as I hand over my credit card. I don't even notice how much I'm paying.

Suddenly, I'm outside on the sidewalk. People are moving around me.

I remember that I need to put one foot in front of the other.

And walk home. Without my panties.

Then I can forget about all of this.

Until my hair gets long again.