Adventures of Barberboi

My name is Tessera. Tess for short. I'm 32, a boi-butch dyke and I have a mobile barber service, catering for lezgrrrls and gayboyz - more the former than the latter, but I love my poofy clients. And a surprising number of "str8" (haha) women who, ahem, protest their marital or hetero-partnered bliss rather too much, methinks! Well, in some cases I know that rather subjectively, if you get my drift.

This is the perfect profession for a lesbian with a short hair fetish, and I sort of moved into it when I decided that my 'hobby' of shearing, shaving, clippering and cropping my friends was more fulfilling than aeronautical engineering, my other, and now long-ago profession.

I'm one of those hard-core evangelical dykes suburban mothers are scared their well-brought up daughters will fall prey to. Mwwwwwwwwwwwwaaahhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaaa! If there's a pussy to eat, ass to lick and tits to nibble, well, it would be rude to decline, wouldn't it? Nevertheless, I do keep my professional work separate from my lusts and seductions. Sometimes ;-)

You said you wanted to hear how I fell into this noble anti-hirsuit pursuit. Well, long, long ago, when I was 10 years old and a crazy tomboy running with the boys at school, and checking the girls out from the soccer pitch, I sported a long, jet black ponytail. My mother brushed it twice a day - 100 strokes each time. I hated it, just hated it. Wasn't like it hurt or anything, but it took up valuable time when I could have been hitting a ball, riding a bike or climbing a tree.

One early summer day, when I was in craft class at school, there was a terrible, terrible accident. Somehow, when my teacher, Ms Prentice, was turned away some fast drying glue got stuck all over my hair! Can you believe it? Well, Ms Prentice found it hard to understand how it happened, 'specially seeing as how there were no other kids near me. Still and all, there was nothing for it - I said to Ms Prentice "Oh, dear" picked up the scissors on the teacher's desk and said "I'll fix it!"

Before Ms Prentice could say "gee willikers" I had grabbed a hank of black hair and sheared straight through as close to the scalp as I could manage. She lunged, too late, and grabbed the shears, but was left to stare open mouthed as 26 inches of hair slid to the classroom floor.

Seconds passed, and I'm sure for Ms Prentice time stood still for what seemed like hours. For me, I felt release. I felt bold and relieved. I knew, I just knew that there was only one possible outcome from here: it would be a trip to the barber's my brothers were sent to for their flattop each spring! Or, if mum didn't think of that, she would come round to it eventually! Well, it was sort of like that. I did get a spanking first, but that was a small price to pay! I rather like a spanking these days, actually...specially just before I am shorn myself.

By the time my hair had grown an inch or two, summer was nearing its end and there was no suggestion that I could have a return to the #1 of such a short time ago. Drats. I was still very young, and short of another "accident" couldn't quite contrive a repeat. I ended up having to wait 9 months for my next shearing! As I said, in spring my brothers (aged 16, 14, and 12 when I was 10) went together to Sam The Barber for a flattop. The spring I was 11 I just tagged along. Sam had "fixed" my hair after the "debacle" the year before, so after Tom, Richard and Harry were finished, I just assumed my place in the big barber's chair and without a word Sam delivered me the same look as my brothers.

The same pattern repeated itself for several years, till I was about 14 and earning a little part time babysitting money.

One of the things I learned during the months between shearings was the thrill of anticipation, the excitement of dreaming about the moment Sam's huge Wahl clippers would bite into my hair and nibble my nape. I learned to associate the buzz of the clippers with the release of pent-up longings.

By then, too, I guess everyone was used to the tomboy girl with the flat chest and flat-top who tried out (usually successfully) for every sporting team in town. I guess they must have got over thinking of me as anything other than what I was, because no one ever assumed I was gonna wear party frocks or learn ballet!

The summer I was 14, instead of just letting my hair grow, I went back to Sam's after one month. Silently he caped me, and popped on the clippers, as usual. This time instead of 6 inches falling to the floor, tiny little black spikes flew out of the teeth of the clippers as he finessed my flattie with the clippers-over-comb. And then he did something different. Sam took out his straight razor and glided it back and forth on the leather strop. He placed a hot towel over my head as he lathered up a fine quality bristle brush with shaving cream. He removed the towel and lathered the back of my scalp and back of my ears, then with slow, but sure and firm strokes, shaved me clean in those areas. Oh, fuck! I grimaced and bit my bottom lip. The smallest smile flirted with the corner of Sam's mouth. But Sam was a true gent and said nothing. The only words Sam spoke were as I paid him the standard 5 bucks. "Next week". And that is how I started my weekly barber shop ritual - every Wednesday.

At 18 I moved to College Town but I still came home in summer for Sam to refresh my crewcut. Now my nipples strained at my t-shirt. I still didn't wear a bra most times (only when I played sport) so I could feel the hardness directly on the fabric under the cape. I moved ever so slightly in the chair and the seam of my jeans caught my clit. It was like an electrical shock shooting into my inner core.

Sam made sure I saw the tiny little black stubble-bits of hair mixed with the shaving cream as he wiped his razor clean between strokes. He stopped at the occipital bone. Eventually, he wiped my head clean, and picked up the smaller shears for blending, and executed the most perfect fade. The hair was just barely visible above the smoothness, but by the time it reached the crown, it was 1 mm in length. Towards the forehead it reached 1.5, then 2 mm, and finally I had a row of 5mm "fringe". He managed the same blend from ears thru temples, til it mixed perfectly with the top.

God it was hot! And I made sure I only went for a shearing on a Wednesday - haircut day.

The week before I returned to college for my second semester, I was invited for a run with the high school girls' soccer team. Wednesday night was soccer training, so the first time I saw Sal I was freshly shaved. Sal was 25, a new teacher in town, and the soccer coach. Sal was my first gallover. But that's my next tale.