Author's note: As always, I have to thank Little Alison (a great author on this site) for her constant encouragement, guidance and support. As well as adding a few wonderful words here and there for this story. I also need to send out a HUGE thank you to my editor Viola Moon (Also a great author on this site) for doing a stupendous job. Her many suggestions and over a thousand edits make this story shine.
Lending A Helping Hand
They tell me that women don't usually stay in the military too long. It wasn't easy, but I made it the full twenty years, attaining the rank of Master Sergeant. I'll have a decent pension when the time comes. Although at 43, retirement is at least another twenty years down the road.
I was able to make it because I had a couple of things going for me. First, I was, and still am, a tall, athletic, strong woman. Some might even say, a slightly masculine woman, except for my breasts-they're anything but masculine. I got up early every day and did PT. I enjoyed working out.
Second, I genuinely liked the military. I liked the daily structure, the chain of command, and ability to see the world.
And third, I didn't tie myself down, I wanted to play the field. Which, as we all know, is just a euphemism for wanting to sleep around. But that was fine by me. I had a hard time being anything more than a short term fling for most women anyway.
Yeah there was the occasional homophobic guy who would call me dyke, butch or carpet muncher. But after I beat the crap out of a few of them, the negative comments died down. I never worried about any repercussions. No ego-maniac American male is going to report to his superior officer that a woman, let alone a lesbian, kicked his ass.
Plus, as I moved up the ranks, I gained more respect, and fighting was no longer necessary. As I matured, I let those negative comments and the side eye disapproving looks roll right off my back.
Separating from the military was a huge adjustment. They even made me take a class to learn how different things would be. I never realized how much the military did for me until I had to do everything for myself. It definitely caused me some stress and anxiety. Many days, I didn't feel like my normal self.
I decided to restart civilian life back in my hometown of Sharon Springs, Kansas. I had no particular plans, but some old friends and lovers still lived there.
My parents passed away two years before I got out. I came home as soon as I got the call, but my mom died just before I got to the hospital. Two weeks later, my dad went into the hospital and died. At least I had the chance to say goodbye to him.
I had a strained relationship with my parents. They figured out early on that I wasn't a girly-girl. I was a tomboy through and through. I never came out to my parents. Just like the Army, it was don't ask, don't tell. But I knew they knew; never once did they ask if I was dating someone.
They never said it, but over the years, I believe they resented me. They knew that I could never give them the grandchildren they desperately wanted, which caused their attitude towards me to change to the point that the last few years were contentious. I think I greaved more for the relationship we could have had than their actual deaths.
The doctors tried to explain to me why they died so young (early sixties). But it fell on deaf ears. I mean, I don't mean to be insensitive-why does it matter how? They're dead, right?
It was tough losing both parents so quickly. The two years between them dying and the time I got out was a daily battle to fight the guilt that I felt.
Anyway... The house I inherited was bigger than most. A five-bedroom, three-bath home on the outskirts of town. My paternal grandfather had it built in 1930, expecting to create a large family, but unfortunately, my grandmother died soon after giving birth to my father. My grandfather never remarried.
To keep myself busy, I spent a few weeks giving it a full top-to-bottom cleaning. It still looked dated, but at least it was clean now. One day, while cleaning, I happened to look in the gold-framed oval mirror in the hallway. It hit me that I was overdue for a haircut.
It was a warm morning as I took a walk around town looking for a place. I keep it shaved on both sides and a little spiky on top. I'm naturally blonde and I like to experiment with different color tips.
I came across an older house on the edge of downtown that was converted into a storefront. There were many houses that had been converted to storefronts around here. The old-timers at the VFW I visit told me it happened right after WWII.
I liked visiting and drinking with the older vets at the VFW, even though I was usually the only woman there. I was widely accepted. No one cared that I was gay. They all treated me like one of the guys. I felt a sense of comradery there. Serving abroad in Desert Storm was my claim to fame. I personally didn't engage the enemy. I was in the military's version of HR, but my job involved processing paperwork for the deceased when we lost someone. It tore me up every time.
As I approached the old storefront, a bright neon sign caught my attention: Rock, Paper, Scissors. Cute name I thought. I walked the narrow sidewalk and up two creaky steps. I stopped at the old beveled-glass front door. The faded red and white flip-around sign read, 'Open,' but as I peered in, I didn't see anyone. It looked fairly dated as well. There were three cutting/styling stations, two hair wash stations and two old time hair dryer chairs. I snickered to myself. Does anyone really use them anymore? Maybe it's an older woman that runs the place.
I couldn't be more wrong. Bursting through a bright green curtain at the back of the room was an attractive, petite, 30-something woman carrying a broom. A bright smile popped onto her tired face when she saw me staring through the window. She excitedly waved me in.
The customary bell at the top of the door announced my entrance into the air conditioning. She said, "Hi I'm Candy. Can I help you with something?" Her body language and the way she spoke gave her an air of confidence. Her blonde hair was long, really long, with bright blue streaks. Not styled in any way, just pulled back into a simple ponytail. Her ruby red colored lips looked... I want to say... inviting?
She was wearing a simple, bright, knee-length yellow dress with a short black styling apron covering the front. It was all fairly wrinkled, but I don't judge. Maybe she had a rough night or a hectic morning.
I guessed that she had kids because she had wider hips and that extra little weight mommy-hood tends to put in some women. Her B size breasts sat low on her chest, but fit her smaller frame well.
As I stopped just a few feet away, her big eyes completely distracted me. Baby blue with dark blue flecks, along with a dim sparkle that was probably brighter in her earlier days. Time stood still for those few seconds as I just gazed at her.
Why am I staring at her? She WAS pretty... Very pretty. But she had that 'I didn't sleep well' look... And yet there was still something mesmerizing about that dim but persistent sparkle in her eyes. I just couldn't look away. Her smile was warm and did its best to light up an otherwise tired look. I felt attracted to her in a way that was hard to explain. Physically for sure, but also in the way you're attracted to a lost puppy. I felt like she needed help. I felt an extraordinarily strong pull to be the one to help her. I just wasn't sure how or what I could do.
She just stood there, looking back at me with her pretty but weary smile. She patiently waited for me to stop staring and say something. Finally I snapped out of it.
"Oh yeah, I wanted to get my haircut and maybe green tips on top." I smiled back, but my eyes wouldn't let go of hers.
