"You look very nice today."
"Why, thank you," the hairdresser replied crisply. "In about fifteen minutes, if you allow me to finish, then so might you."
He suppressed a grin and caught the eye of a passing assistant. Around twenty, short blonde hair, tits out to here and legs to die for. Not that he was looking.
"Hi, have we met?" he flashed a smile. "Guy Pearson."
The girl simpered a little, and blushed shyly. "Pleased to meet you, Mr Pearson."
"You've met him, Annette," Cynthia ushered her away. "He comes once a month."
"And on holidays," Guy added.
"Oh, right, I just, I mean, you know, I was being polite."
"Well, get back to whatever you were doing. And you, Mr Pearson," she leaned over Guy to block his view of Annette's departing rear, "should be ashamed. That girl could be your daughter."
"Impossible, she has blue eyes."
"It says something, I suppose, that you noticed."
"And also great tits." He shook his head wistfully. "All the women in my family are flat-chested."
"Are you going to behave?"
"I'm sorry, sweetheart, I was just kidding. You know you've always been the one for me."
He slipped a playful arm around her waist. She gave a reproving smack, and eased it off.
"Behave."
The harassed hairdresser tugged the neck of the wide cape that covered both customer and chair tighter, so he withdrew his arms, and settled back. He fixed on the mirror over the worktop in front, and examined her critically.
"Am I the first customer that ever flirted with you?"
She put a hand on his head to make him face down as she worked on the neck. "Oh, is that what you call flirting?"
He kept the smile and shrugged. "When you get married, you fall out of practice."
"I somehow think you've had all the practice you need."
"A little more doesn't hurt."
"Dream on, loverboy."
She combed and snipped. Guy clasped his hands and twiddled thumbs under the folds of the cape. He looked up again to study the hairdresser in the mirror as she worked; she was really quite something.
Cynthia looked much the same age as her client, and was smartly dressed in a tight dark skirt that fairly strained across her smooth rounded backside. Her short-sleeved silk blouse shimmered under halogen downlights that reflected off every shiny surface of the salon. Guy couldn't see her feet, but heels clicked on the polished tile floor.
He didn't especially relish having his hair cut, yet his work required that he be well groomed at all times, and he found the ritual relaxing. It was time alone with Cynthia. He closed his eyes and thrilled to the light press of her stomach against his arm, as she leaned close.
He was alive to every subtle hint of femininity - the light waft of scent; a tinkle of bracelets; the tiny suppressed exhalation of a sneeze with a near silent: "Excuse me". There was something intoxicating about her; the dark eyes, flawless skin, red lips slightly parted with teeth touched together, as she hummed to herself or frowned in concentration. At any moment, she might linger with a hand, brushing his collar, or soft brown hair might caress the nape of his neck, as she leaned to assess progress from his angle, or - what joy! - a supple breast might press against his back, and all with the object of his exquisitely restrained desire seemingly unaware.
Yet, surely she must know the effect such tiny intimacies might inflict on a man sensitive enough to be receptive to them - at least one of a certain age. Oh, yes, these other young girls might have more superficial charms, gaudy and obvious, but here was a real woman: self-assured, of unaffected grace, with an acquired sensuality that came with experience of years.
He followed her movements in the mirror, and observed, with razor clarity, the rise and fall of a slender chain at her neck, cast between two open buttons of her blouse, on each measured breath as she bent to her work, deftly snip-snipping. Her movements became magnified, the intensity of his focus running the details to slow motion, as he watched her fingers flow. Light glinted off the ring on her left hand. He closed his eyes again.
They were in a semi-private room at the rear of the salon, with a wide open doorway through which the salon owner could keep an eye on the running of her business. From time to time they might glimpse one of the assistants in the many mirrors placed everywhere about, but they were otherwise fairly secluded.
"How about a drink?" he asked.
"What would you like? We have herbal tea; filter coffee; or there is bottled water there."
"I mean you and me, tonight."
"Uh," she reminded him with a small laugh: "Kids?"
