Hair-Razing Experience
A Hair-Razing Experience – ClipperNipper
It was Easter. I was eight years old, and my parents were out of the country, but I don’t remember why. My Mom and Dad had Grandmom and Grandpa move into our house and, understand, there were five older brothers and my twin sister and me.
Friday we went to New York to buy us all new Easter outfits (Grandmom was into this). Saturday she said we had to go for haircuts and hair trims, and she took us to a combination beauty parlor and barbershop, which was owned by two brothers, Pete and Matty.
Grandmom deposited the five brothers at the Matty’s Barbershop side and took my sister and me to the Pete’s Beauty parlor, where we would get a little trim and our bangs cut. (Our hair was very long, complete with ponytails with ribbons.)
Without an appointment, we had no chance to get into the beauty parlor, so the receptionist told Grandmom to ask the barber next door do it. He would be glad to, so back over we went.
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By the time my Grandmom was done BS-ing with the receptionist, my brothers were almost done.
My sister and I were fascinated with the barbershop. The barbers put a white tissue around your neck, and they had BIG chairs with a foot pumps, and the surrounding smells and sounds were enchanting; and, I remember being so enthralled, I could not even concentrate on reading a magazine.
When the barbers had finished the boys, they looked at my sister and me and asked Grandmom if they wanted the twins done.
My Grandmom thanked them and said, “Oh, that would be wonderful,” so the barbers told my sister and me, “Hop up.”
They covered us with capes, put the white tissues around our necks, undid our ponytails, and let our long blonde hair fall down our backs and shoulders; then, they took a water bottle and sprayed us. Next, I saw the barbers step back and lowly whisper something to Grandmom, and she was shaking her head yes… and giggling.
The barber clipped my hair up in sections, grabbed his implement, and told me to put my head down; then, I felt the scissors on the back of my neck – the cold scissors going along, gradually snipping my femininity into boyhood. I saw hair falling off my cape, and I heard Grandmom say, “How bout a little shorter, even?”
I felt the scissors go higher and felt the clicking motion dance along the nape of my neck, which felt halfway up my head. Then, he reached into his drawer, and I heard a POP and he took his comb and lifted my hair and buzzed all my sides and kept combing my hair back to the rear of my neck. Hair, hair, and more hair fell. Out of the corner of my eye, I was trying to see what was being done to my sister, but my back was to her and the mirror. I KNEW this haircut was a mistake, and I KNEW this was NOT what my mother had in mind and I thought Grandmom must be smoking pot or on some mind-altering drug to let anyone do this to me, but still, he kept removing the clips from the top of my head, and, as the long hair fell, he buzzed it right off.
Next, he brought out the hair blower and blew my bare neck and kept brushing my hair back – back and going from each side and blowing it back (but I kind of liked this feeling in a strange way). The barber would make little moving actions with the brush, and as he stroked a certain part of my neck, I reacted in a way I didn’t really understand.
His next plan of attack was to announce that he was going to shave my neck to a point in the back. Was that okay with Grandmom? SHAVE ME TO A POINT? Wasn’t the word shave only synonymous with men?
Well, I felt this warm cream going behind and on top of my ears. I saw this straight-edged razor appear and felt my ears being pulled down, followed by the barber’s raised pinkies and several quick little moves. Then he went to the rear of my earlobes and pulled the action of the blade from right to left, scraping across the back of my neck. He kept fooling around with that area, while all that time, I was going crazy – fidgeting and squirming. Then he traveled to my left ear and did the same thing, shaving me with those quick little strokes.
Next, a hot towel was placed upon my neck and around my ears. The scissors reappeared, and the barber was again clipping the nape and all I could think was, “Good Lord, he is going shorter, yet.”
An indescribable reaction started in my stomach and migrated south.
When the scissors were done to his satisfaction, he moved to the side of my face and began working on the ears, but that did not affect me as much as on the back of my neck.
Finally, he unsnapped the cape and shook it out while I sat there like an obedient child, uttering not a word, but secretly planning the murder of my Grandmom. I looked over at my sister, who no longer looked like my sister, but more like my brothers.
Just when I thought the operation was over, out came some powder and a big soft brush, and the barber was at my neck again. He snapped the cape back on, and the metal was cold against my bare, boyish neck and my stomach, my lower stomach, was reacting. I thought, shorter yet?
Out came that buzzing machine, and he told me to put my chin down and then I felt this bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz on my neck. Up, (release), up, (release), up. Then, he moved back down the to the nape: up, up, up, back down; then, sideways; then, to the other side: up, up, up; back down to the nape: up, up, up, then sideways…
He clipped me like I was a man. Again and again, he brought out his brush, swept all my hair to the rear, and scissored me – clipping my neck. This whole final session made my panties damp. As bad as I knew I was going to look, and as much as I detested my Grandmom for allowing and encouraging this man to do this to me, I felt a bubbling sensation and felt good inside.
Next, he took out another, smaller buzzer and started low on my neck and buzzzed again. He pulled my ears down, buzzed above them, and kept buzzing both sides in the back, towards the center. Then, he took out a blower, blew away my cropped neck-hair, and told me to move my hand from under the cape and feel the back of my neck. When I did, I not only felt like I was going to faint, but I became more damp. I liked the sensation of this buzzy little point in the back. I had never felt anything that gave me such a sensation before, ever….
My God! A girl with a boy’s haircut! No long hair anymore. No ribbons or barrettes, ponytails or pigtails. Would people mistake me for a boy? Over and over, I was feeling such bubbling waves, I was afraid I was going to be wet through my dress.
Well, finally the cape came off, followed by one last snip. The barber then helped me out of the chair and told me to keep brushing my hair always towards the point in the back, thereby training it that way.
My sister was getting her cape off, too, and she looked at me and started to cry. I was emotionless. By this time, I did not know what had happened nor why it had happened. My Grandmom was elated and told us we looked like two little boys – two little boys wearing pinafores and dresses and mary-janes – but, the story does not end there. When my parents returned, my Grandmom nearly lost her life. Mother asked her why, if she had five sons, would she want two more?
Well, we did get a lot of compliments, and the hair grew back; and, by six weeks, we needed to decide if we going to keep this look, or let the hair grow. However, it needed immediate tending – the rear was messy, not neat or sharp as before.
I desperately wanted to be back in the barber’s chair and wanted the barber to fuss with my neck again, but I never revealed this burning secret to anyone. I held it for twenty years; furthermore, I began masturbating to this scenario and would add to and make it worse than what it was. As I grew older, I really thought something was wrong with me: I craved and yearned to see women with a short and mannish cut in the back – not so much baldies or really severely-buzzed or shaved heads, but tapered backs and shingling and close clippings, for sure.
To this day, I think there is nothing more sexy than a woman with a cute, feminine short face frame coupled with a very short and mannish haircut.
Did my sister and I go back for our monthly clips and point-shaves and all the gyrations the artist did with his tools?
You are damned right we did! I wonder if the barber ever knew what he was sexually doing to me.
Today, I still maintain this same reaction when I see a woman with a short clipped do, and I masquerade my fetish by sporting long, shoulder-length hair which is neatly trimmed underneath.
Until I met people on-line with this same short hair fetish, I thought I was alone in the world, but now I’ve come out of the closet. I am addressing it, and I’ve confessed it. I have met tons of on-line people with hair fetishes..
You will have to stay turned for Chapter two.
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