Although I never get anything more than a trim, Great Nips is my go-to hair salon. The stylists are beautiful, and they can do everything: 'dos, perms, braids, dyes, extensions, even mani-pedis. Their prices are cheap, too—well, as far as men's haircuts go, anyway. Fourteen bucks, and customers are in and out of the chair in twenty minutes, tops. I always hand the stylist a twenty and say "keep the change." It's worth it. Like I say, Great Nips has the most gorgeous stylists in town—mine or any other.
I left my barber Vinnie for Great Nips when I heard the topless salon was open for business. At least, it was supposed to be topless. Hence the name, Great Nips, a play on words, with "nips" referring both to cuts and to nipples. Rumor was the stylists were even going to trim women's bushes, if their customers—excuse me, their clientele—wanted such service. I don't know if they'd clip a guy down there, too. Maybe, if the price was right.
Anyway, the city refused to issue them a business license if topless stylists were part of their operation, so Great Nips kept the name but tossed the nipples (and the bare breasts). Bureaucrats always seem to find a way to fuck things up.
Great Nips has an app (what business doesn't nowadays) that lets clients sign in before they arrive at the salon. The stylists take sign-ins in the order they call in; walk-ins have to wait. Generally, I don't like to wait, but my phone is an older model, and the service provider stopped updating the software that the phone uses to interface with most apps, including Great Nips's, so I get to the salon at opening time, which is nine o'clock, to minimize the chance I'll have to wait. Today, my technique works, as it usually does.
Mandy, one of the stylists, greets me as I enter the salon. There are two stylists on duty, she says, so no waiting. (More will clock in later, as business picks up). Unfortunately, some fat old bag signed in using the salon's app, so she gets Mandy. I'd get the new stylist, I'm told.
New? That sounds interesting. All the stylists at Great Nips are hot, but a chance to check out some fresh tits and ass while I get clipped by a new chick makes me forget all about Mandy, for the moment, at least.
You can imagine my horror when the new stylist turns out to be a dude!
He's in his late twenties, with a bald head, and sinewy, tattooed arms. He wears black shoes, black socks, black slacks, and a black tee shirt, like he's a damn undertaker or something. Most likely, he's gay, I think, although I don't detect a limp wrist of a swish of his hips. He doesn't speak with a lisp, either, when he asks, "How do you want it?"
I can't tell whether his question's intended to have a double meaning. "Just a trim."
He steps on a lever, and my chair ratchets up a few inches. He spritzes my hair with water from a spray bottle. It's cold against my scalp. Then, he picks up a pair of scissors and starts to clip my hair, cutting along his fingers, through which the ends of my hair protrude. Unlike the chicks, he doesn't say anything. Mandy and the other female stylists talk pretty much non-stop while any client's in a chair. Maybe they think they have to chat up their clients to get a decent tip, maybe they just like to yak, or maybe they're bored. Anyway, the dude trimming my hair doesn't say a word.
I watch him as he shifts and moves. His hand run through my hair. With the hand holding the scissors, he seizes a hank of my hair, feeding the tresses between the forefinger and the middle finger of his other hand. Then he trims the hair protruding through his fingers. He's deft, sure, and quick. His hands in my hair, strong, but gentle, feel kind of good, although they're thicker than Mandy's fingers or those of the other stylists.
He spritzes me with more of the cold water, and I imagine it's something else. I recall reading, a few years back, that demon semen is ice cold. Maybe it feels like this water, except that it's thicker. The thought disturbs me, and I frown.
"Everything okay?" the stylist asks.
I nod. I guess he thought he hurt me or I didn't like something he did. I tell myself not to frown again.
His hands float and glide around my head, as his scissors snip and clip and nip.
As he steps one way or another, I catch glimpses of his physique: broad shoulders, deep chest, taut abs, muscular arms. He's fit and trim, but sinewy. He has strong fingers and hands, but he moves with grace and gentleness, as if he were conducting an orchestra or performing a ballet. Poetry in motion, I think. For the first time, I notice how handsome he is. Mandy and the other women at Great Nips must enjoy watching him all day.
