After I left school I took up an apprenticeship as a hairdresser and beautician. I've very nearly finished the apprenticeship and I'm quite good at what I do. The salon I work for has two rooms, apart from the main shop.
Up until recently most of my time has been spent in the main shop. This is where the standard customers come. They're the women who want a simple cut, a perm, wash and dry and cut, all the standard stuff. Being a rather exclusive salon we charge quite heavily. Mind you, the customers don't mind. Andre, the owner, swishes around, charming all the women and leaving their purses at his complete mercy. Not that he has any.
The two back rooms are for those who want special treatment and treatment there is expensive. (Not that treatment in the main shop is cheap.) We have one room for the men and one for the women. I'm now trusted enough to work in the back rooms. The women's rooms I'm under constant supervision but I occasionally get to work in the men's room unsupervised, though Andre will drop in every so often for a quick check. And I had better be damn sure I call him if I think there's going to be a problem. Some customers, you know. . .
Don't ever be taken in by the propaganda that women care more for their hair than men. Some of the men who pay for the special service are absolutely fanatical about their hair. I had one bloke trying to tell me that each hair should be dyed separately to ensure an even colouring. Him I referred to Andre.
(Andre explained to him that I was a mere apprentice and didn't really understand the nuances of dying, but he would show me. Then Andre did a standard dye job, leaving the customer happy that he'd got what he wanted.)
Now one evening I was working late. The main shop had shut and the doors were closed. Andre was finishing off a client in the woman's room while I had one last customer in the men's room. I'd barely started when Andre stuck his head in the door and told me he was finished and was going home. Make sure I locked up when I left. I nodded and kept going on what I was doing.
I was working on this guy and when I leant over at one stage I could have sworn I felt his hand stroke my bottom. I took a step back at glanced at him but his face was perfectly straight, looking completely indifferent. Deciding I must have imagined it I continued working, but I didn't imagine that second touch. I stepped back again.
"Excuse me, sir," I said politely. "I must ask you not to touch me while I work."
"I'm sorry," he said smiling, all charming politeness. "You're quite right. I shouldn't have done it, but your bottom is rather appealing and touchable. I'll try not to do it again."
Eh? Try not to? Not exactly a hands off promise, is it?
So I continued working and he kept his hands off my bottom.
Now, this might sound like a digression, but it's not. It's background material. Andre insists we all wear uniforms. The tops are lacy white blouses and we have short blue skirts. We have a little logo on the pocket of the blouse. Andre also likes the women to undo a couple of buttons on the blouse, giving the men a bit of cleavage, but not too much. We all look reasonable demure.
You will note that I said a couple of buttons. You can understand my righteous indignation when my customer stroked his finger along my cleavage. It wasn't the touch so much but the fact that he'd managed to slip open a couple of extra buttons without me even noticing. Not really too hard when you think about it. When I leaned forward the blouse would hang free and a gentle touch wouldn't be felt. The finger on my breast was I can tell you that.
I reared back, glaring at him, reaching up to do up the buttons again when he stopped me.
"Don't do that," he said softly. "You have lovely breasts and I like looking at them. Just leave your blouse the way it is and I swear I won't touch them."
Now strictly speaking I should have buttoned up and ordered him out of the shop with his hair not finished. The trouble is he was smiling sweetly and seemed so earnest and what woman doesn't mind being told she has nice breasts. I hesitated and he seemed to take that for acquiescence, folding his hands in his lap and smiling.
She who hesitates cuts hair with her blouse open, it seems. She also finds that she should have more sense than to trust a man. Did he touch my breasts? No. His hand went running lightly over my bottom again, this time with his hand under my skirt.
"Sir," I protested. "You said you wouldn't touch. Please stop it."
"I said I wouldn't touch your breasts," he pointed out. "I didn't say anything about not touching your bottom. It's soft and round and made for a man's hand."
As if to demonstrate he calmly slid his hand up my skirt and started stroking my bottom. It's pretty hard to put on a show of righteous indignation when you're standing in front of a man with your blouse gaping wide, showing off a frilly bra and your breasts. It occurred to me that he hadn't said he wouldn't undo any more buttons. Bit late to complain about that now.
"You'll have to stop," I managed to tell him. "Things like this are just not permitted in the salon. Please take your hand off my bottom."
"OK," he said with a soft sigh, and his hand slid down off my bottom. I nearly shrieked when he managed to stroke it across my mound while doing so.
