A Surprisingly Good Haircut

Some parts of the story are important, and some are not. Some, likewise, are believable, and others are not.

The least believable part of the story is that Lola decided to get her hair cut, not at her preferred salon, but at an old-fashioned men’s barber shop. The young man who worked there, whose name she did not know, was certainly attractive, but there must have been other ways of meeting him, talking to him, looking at him. A myriad such will suggest themselves the moment you try to think of any. Judge her impractical if you will, but Lola determined that a haircut from this boy was the thing she wanted, and it was, incredibly, what she got.

Of Lola.

She was not old, and not too young. Her specific age is unimportant to the storyteller, so make it what you will. Her appearance you may fill in for yourself if you will, simply by blocking out the fact that she was somewhat short with very pale white skin, and long, wavy auburn hair that flowed and flamed up like a deciduous forest in high autumn. You may substitute for her beautiful curves -a figure which harkened back to standards of beauty last seen just after the second World War- whatever form you wish to see. She is what you want her to be, though truly she was beautiful with sexy hips that sway when she walked. She had slightly red cheeks, though not rosy, and an almost pointed, catlike nose. Her eyes were blue, lively, and playful.

The young man on whom Lola’s eye had fallen was, like her, not old and not too young. His chin was firm, his eyes piercing, his nose strong, and his skin a few Mediterranean shades darker than mine. See him: not smiling often, but when he did it was a thing worth noticing. Though his profession required little in the way of muscle, he was in peak physical condition with broad, muscular shoulders and short, jet black hair. Credit his physique to swimming or to rowing or to sailing, for the setting, though this is again unimportant, was a maritime one. An ocean breeze blew through the empty summer streets in this quiet ocean-side town.

Enter Lola.

She walked slowly and uncertainly up to the door of the barber shop, nervous about what might happen. She wanted a close look at this man, but she wasn’t sure what her limits were. He had intrigued her, caught her eye, perhaps at a bar on a previous night, or as she walked past. It doesn’t matter. She loved her long and luscious hair, but she was on an adventure, and adventures require unexpected sacrifice.

She wore a white halter-top dress with navy blue stripes which hugged and accentuated her figure backwards and forwards, leaving some, but not all, to the imagination. Her legs, like the white on her dress and the swell of the upper part of her breasts, reflected the sunlight that streamed down upon the street quite dazzlingly. If she had known how good she looked, things might have followed differently, but everything was just as it was.

Passing the striped pole that has been the symbol of the barber’s trade for centuries, she pushed open the door and stepped inside. A small bell rang, and the aging barber who owned the shop looked briefly up from his work, before indicating an empty rocking chair and returning to his craft. The elderly man whose few hairs had apparently needed trimming stood up out of the barber’s chair, grunted his satisfaction, and handed the barber some money. There were two other people in the shop, a portly gentleman in checkered shorts, polo shirt and straw hat, and a young boy of ten with bright blond hair.

While the portly man, the boy’s father, sat for his haircut, the young boy and Lola passed the time with a game of checkers, played on top of a barrel between their two rocking chairs. The young boy won, though not all rules of the game survived intact. When the father’s cut was finished some time later, the lad took his place, and the former sat observing the barber’s progress. Lola paid heavy attention alternatively to her nails, the street, and the rest of the shop.

The air was hot and thin and humid and suddenly shattered by the ringing of the bell on the door, which signaled the arrival of the young man Lola had come to explore.

He was there, by happy chance, to conduct the latter part of the day’s business, and then to close the shop for the day. With a workmanlike expression he crisply offered the barber’s chair to Lola, who nearly slipped in nervous haste, but didn’t. She sat with grace and poise, she hoped, and he covered her beautiful dress with the standard protection, a black cape. Being a good deal taller than Lola, the young barber gave her seat a few pumps to bring her up to a convenient height so that he would not have to stoop as he worked. As he ran tissue around her neck to keep the clippings out, he asked her what he could do for her today.

She said none of the lewd things that quickly popped into her mind as she admired the mans muscles through his thin, white t-shirt, and instead said, “Just a trim please, to even the length up. Nothing special.”

The man smiled a becoming smile, and reached for his clippers and comb.

He spent ten minutes or so trimming around the edges, pausing only to wet his comb, and ever so intent upon his work. Lola was free to look where she would, and roved the man’s body boldly with her eyes. She traced the lines from his pectoral muscles up through his strong shoulders, down the lengths of his arms, and back again.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Suddenly the young boy in the next chair said, “WHEW, finally!” And hopped up from his chair. His father shrugged to the barber apologetically, paid for their cuts, and walked the boy out the door with promises of ice cream leading the way.

The elder barber turned to his young colleague and remarked, “it’s been slow like this all afternoon. People staying away on account of the heat. If you don’t mind finishing up here I’m going to go home early to help Betty out with the washing up. She won’t ask for the help, but both of us are starting to get to the age where we can’t turn it down either, when it’s offered. D’you mind at all, Max?” [a sensible enough name, Lola thought]

“Not at all. You tell Betty I said hello.”

“I’ll do that. When you meet your wife you’ll know how helpful a thing like this is. You’re not a bad kid, we’ll keep you around for a while longer. I’d say you can’t succeed as a barber being slow as molasses, but if business is that slow too, why not? And you’re young and picking it up. You’ll be ok.”

“You flatter me, sir. Have a good one.”

The door closed behind the man, leaving Lola and Max alone in the dusty barbershop.

“Well… how am I doing?” Max asked a little awkwardly.

“Well, thank you. Very well” Lola said encouragingly, meeting his eyes for a moment and smiling. He turned to refresh the water on his comb and went back to work. He ran her hands through her hair to find the strands whose length he had been about to compare, but this time his touch seemed both gentler and firmer, as if his purpose were different. It probably meant nothing.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

He continued cutting. There was probably very little left to do, given what a light job it was in general, but he said nothing and Lola didn’t press him. She closed her eyes as he trimmed the hair above her forehead, and realized that she loved his smell, a deep, manly scent that blended with the ocean air in a most enticing fashion. She opened her eyes and went back to admiring the man’s shoulders, and then followed his torso down in her mind across the stomach, which she was sure would be flat, if not muscular, to the plain, belted blue jeans he wore. She followed her imagination further down, across the forbidden line, mentally undressing the barber completely as he stood not six inches from her, but as ignorant of the fact as if he had been six hundred miles distant.

The idea of such public, secret naughtiness caused Lola to flush, slightly. She felt it more and more, and became aware of the fact that her substantial breasts were slightly firmer and more sensitive than they had been moments ago, and that she was beginning to feel a bit damp between the legs. She did not stop imagining the young barber naked, and the dampness resolved itself first into moistness, and then she was positively wet.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

The black cape which covered her went straight from her shoulders to her knees, leaving a large empty space between it and her body. It was possible, she thought doubtfully at first, to moved her arms and hands beneath the cape without the barber being any the wiser. She tested movements to see if any motion would be detectable, and decided that she could play a violin under that cape without anyone else knowing about it. Except for the sound, of course.

She moved her hands slowly down the front of her dress, and pulled the bottom up towards her stomach slowly, inch by inch. After a minute of bunching it up, the dress was high enough up that she could slip her right hand down to press over the front of the silk, white thong she was wearing.