At Buccheri's

As a young man in my twenties, I lived in a flat off the Finchley Road in North London. While I was tempted to call it Hampstead adjacent, it was actually Golders Green. I usually got my hair cut at one of the smart barbers in central London like Trumper's but occasionally I couldn't make it into central London--or couldn't afford it--so I sought out a local barbershop, right at Golders Green Station. Straight out of the 1950s, it was a storefront with a plate glass window, striped pole, and three red leather seats. Nowadays, the hipsters would have discovered it and made it trendy, but back then it was just an old school, Italian-owned barbershop largely patronized by old fogies--perfect, in other words. In those days, I wore my straight, dark hair very short on the back and sides, long on the top and always slicked back in what I thought was a rakish, old Hollywood look that complemented my bespoke suits that I would buy for a few pounds at Oxfam.

As I pushed my way into the shop, I noticed that Dean Martin was playing and that the mirrored walls were covered with glossy photographs of men sporting haircuts twenty years out of date. One of the three chairs was empty, the middle chair had a customer in it, a lady barber busily cutting his hair, and the third was empty, but standing next to it was a barrel-chested older man in a white smock which did its best to hide his large belly. The swarthy man was probably in his fifties, his coarse hair peppered with grey. Seeing a customer, he waved me over with a flourish and assured me that yes, he could certainly fit a fine-looking young man like me in without an appointment. He spoke in an odd mix of Italian accented Cockney, introduced himself as Mario and manhandled me into the barber chair.

With a deftness that surprised me for such a large man, he soon had me enveloped in a large cloth that he carefully secured at the neck. Mario took great care to fold down the collar of my shirt and tuck it into the neckband of the cloth and to my surprise, one of his hands slipped into the front of my shirt, briefly touching my nipple. I jumped when his hand made contact but when I looked up, he was already fussing around with combs and scissors. Mario swung the chair around so that I faced the mirror. Standing behind me, with a hand on each of my shoulders, he addressed me in the mirror and asked what I desired. The mirror showed a slim young man, covered from the neck down in red polyester, anchored by two large brown hands, the backs of which were covered in curly black hairs. The man behind me appeared enormous in his white smock although he was probably my height, just carrying a lot more weight.

Mario asked again what I came there for. Not what kind of haircut I wanted. It was much more ambiguous--what did I desire? What had I come there for? What, indeed, I asked myself. Being a horny youngster who was not immune to the attractions of older men made me take a risk. I launched into my haircut needs and found myself saying "just make me look like Valentino and I'll be fine". Rudolph Valentino? Where did that come from? I knew that I was considered to be handsome, but no Valentino.... The barber smiled, showing very white teeth, and said that it could be arranged. You'll want a shave, too, he said.

The shop was warm after coming in from the cold and smelled pleasantly of powder and pomade. I started to relax as Mario began his ministrations, gently moving my head into position for the haircut. My hand was sitting on the arm of the chair, underneath the cloth cover. I felt pressure on it and realized the Mario's crotch was resting on my hand as he leaned in to work on a sideburn. And that crotch was rock hard. As he moved to the other side of the chair, I quickly slipped my other hand up on the armrest to see if the same thing would happen. Again, his crotch pressed unto my hand but this time I had left it palm up and gave Mario's impressive package a squeeze. With this bit of encouragement, he gently began to grind his hips into my hand.

Looking at the mirror I realized the no one else could see what was going on. Emboldened, I slipped my hand from under the cloth and up under the front of Mario's smock. He had an erection, alright, and a big one from the feel of it. I was thankful that my lap was covered by the cloth as I has quite an erection myself. This game of cat and mouse went on through the rest of the haircut, then the hot towel preparing me for my shave, and on to the exquisite feeling of Mario gently shaving my face with a very sharp straight edge razor. His hands seemed to be everywhere but when I watched him at work in the mirror, he had a calm, beatific look on his face. He may have been twice my age--and weight--but this man was oozing sexuality from every pore, the gentlest of giants.

All too soon, it was over--my face was smooth, my hair sharply cut and slicked back with brilliantine. A Valentino in the making. Mario made a big show of brushing off any fallen hair from the cloth covering me and immediately found the tent where my own hard cock was hiding and gave it a good squeeze, actually stroking me through the polyester cloth and still no one noticed. I was shaking as I got out of the chair to pay. Even with the shave and the jar of brilliantine he insisted I buy (and a generous tip!) it was less that I would have paid in Jermyn Street. Mario walked me to the door, his beefy paw cupping my ass. I asked him what the shop hours were as I explained that I often couldn't make it back in time and that I might have to be the last client of the day. From the pocket of his smock a smiling Mario pulled out a card and suggested that I call him the next time I wanted to come in and he would make sure to fit me in, even if he had to stay late to do so. I said "Ciao, Mario" to which he replied "Arrivederci, Rodolfo".