Message-ID: <15289eli$9809140623@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Yosha Bourgea Subject: STORY: How I Lost My Hair, Part I (MF, cons, no sex) feedback requested * Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <6thcoi$43u$1@ultra.sonic.net> The following story contains descriptions of young adults engaged in consensual sexual activity, although the events in Part I does not include actual sex. If this offends you or if you feel it is inappropriate, please don't read further. Also, if you're looking for a quick wank, this is probably not for you. Dare to swim against the prevailing cultural tide: take responsibility for your own actions. Also, in addition to constructive and respectful feedback, I am seeking suggestions for further erotica. Is there something you'd like to see written? Name your kink and I'll do my best to do it justice. If you can't find Part II and would like to read it, e-mail me at raindog@sonic.net. This story is under copyright by Yosha Bourgea. Before archiving or reposting it, please ask for permission. Alteration of content or use of this story for financial gain is prohibited. Don't make me open a can of whoop-ass. How I Lost My Hair My grandfatherÕs to blame; my motherÕs father and the genetic kink he passed down to me. IÕve tried expensive shampoos and conditioners, styling gels and sprays, and none of them make a difference. My hair sprouts thick and matted all over my head and down the back of my neck, growing in abstract clumps that only persistent shaving can repress. My last girlfriend called it ÒorneryÓ and assaulted it with brushes, combs, all useless. Eventually she gave up on it and me. When I need a haircut, which is about every two and a half weeks, I go to Revelations up at the end of Garland Drive. MaggieÕs a professional, twenty-five years in the business, and she brooks no nonsense from anyoneÕs hair. I leave the salon looking, if not quite dapper, at least respectable. I was looking forward to MaggieÕs ministrations on Saturday. My hair was becoming even more embarrassing than usual; IÕd been getting odd glances and the occasional smothered laugh on the street. It was time for some serious discipline. But the door was locked when I tried it, and the salon looked empty. It should have been open, at least for another hour, according to the posted times. I rapped on the glass and waited. I was about to turn away when a young woman poked her head around the partition at the back and saw me. She came across the room with an apologetic smile and unlocked the door. ÒIÕm sorry,Ó she said. ÒWeÕre closed.Ó ÒItÕs only five,Ó I said. ÒYeah, I know,Ó she said. ÒIÕm sorry. The ownerÕs out of town visiting family. She told me I could take off early. Did you have an appointment?Ó ÒMaggieÕs out of town?Ó I said. ÒThatÕs a first. SheÕs always here.Ó ÒOh, you know her?Ó the woman asked. ÒYeah, IÕm a regular,Ó I said. ÒAnd at the moment IÕm rather desperate.Ó I pointed to my head. ÒIs there any way you could squeeze me in?Ó She studied me for a moment. Her eyes moved over my disastrous hair, my face. ÒOkay,Ó she said. ÒOne for the road. Come on in.Ó She opened the door. ÒThanks,Ó I said. ÒThanks a lot. I hope IÕm not putting you to any trouble.Ó ÒNo, no trouble,Ó she said, locking the door behind me. ÒBusiness has been slow today, thatÕs all. Did you say you had an appointment?Ó ÒI donÕt, actually,Ó I said. ÒLike I said, MaggieÕs always here. I usually just drop by unannounced. I guess itÕs a bad habit.Ó I started to sit down in one of the chairs. ÒWhy donÕt we do this in the back?Ó she said. ÒIf you donÕt mind the mess. IÕve already swept up in here.Ó ÒSure.Ó I followed her around the corner and into a windowless room IÕd never seen before. A chair sat in the middle, facing a mirror. Around the edge of the room ran a high shelf, stacked with blow-dryers, curlers and bottles of hair goop, and a sink. I sat. ÒSo. Let me see, here.Ó The woman took a dropcloth from a stool by the sink and swept it over my shoulders. Her fingers, fastening the velcro at the back of my neck, were cold. ÒWhat are you looking for?Ó We both looked at the mirror. Her hair was auburn, autumn leaf-fire, cut in some stylish variation of the pageboy. Next to it was me, with my goofy caught-in-the-headlights expression and my chicken-chop hair. ThatÕs what my mom used to call it, chicken-chops. ÒItÕs pretty bad, isnÕt it?Ó I said ruefully. ÒTo tell you the truth, IÕm not sure how to go about it. The first time I came here, Maggie took one look at me and just started scissoring away. I have no idea how she does it.Ó I shifted in my seat. ÒI guess just take off some of the excess. Short in back. You know, just--do what you can. I trust you.Ó ÒThatÕs always nice to hear,Ó she said. ÒOkay. IÕll see what I can do. Why donÕt we go over to the sink first, and wet this down?Ó ÒYouÕre the boss,Ó I said, and got up. She shook her head. ÒNot hardly. I probably shouldnÕt tell you this, but itÕs my first week on the job.Ó ÒI was going to ask,Ó I said. ÒYou donÕt look familiar.Ó I sat down again on the stool and tipped my head back over the sink. ÒNo, I just moved down here at the beginning of the month,Ó she said, turning the tap on. I closed my eyes. ÒMaggieÕs the first friend IÕve made here.Ó The water was warm, soothing. ÒWhatÕs your name?Ó I asked. ÒHope,Ó she said, putting her hands under my head. Hope. ÒThatÕs a beautiful name,Ó I said. I opened my eyes and she was blushing. ÒYeah, thatÕs what everyone tells me,Ó she said. ÒItÕs a tough name to live up to, though.Ó ÒIt depends on how you look at it,Ó I said. ÒIs it your hope or someone elseÕs?Ó She laughed. ÒI donÕt know. I guess itÕs my motherÕs. She had a miscarriage before I was born.Ó ÒSounds appropriate, then,Ó I said. ÒYeah.Ó She shrugged. ÒOkay, all done here.Ó She turned off the water and put a towel around my head. Two fingers brushed the back of my neck. I glanced up. She had turned away and was searching the shelf for a bottle. I stood, rubbing the towel back and forth over my head. She turned back. ÒI thought weÕd try some of this relaxant,Ó she said, holding up a short bottle filled with peach-colored fluid. ÒItÕs supposed to work pretty well on problem hair.Ó Then she blushed again. ÒIÕm sorry, that was sort of rude.Ó ÒNo, just accurate,Ó I said. ÒSee?Ó I removed the towel with a flourish. HopeÕs hand flew to her mouth, not quickly enough to stifle the smile. I liked it; it was a nice smile. ÒDonÕt worry,Ó I said. ÒIÕm used to it.Ó ÒWow,Ó she said. ÒIÕm impressed. IÕve never seen hair do that before.Ó ÒThatÕs me,Ó I said, executing a half-turn. ÒI should join a freak show.Ó ÒMaybe,Ó she said. ÒBut IÕm not giving up yet. Have a seat.Ó ÒThank you.Ó I sat in the chair, faced the mirror, and had to smirk a little myself. Chicken-chops. Flotsam, jetsam. Junkyard operetta. ÒSo what do you do?Ó she asked, approaching me with comb and scissors. ÒIt depends on what you mean,Ó I said. ÒIf you mean my job, I work at the Pegasus CafŽ downtown.Ó ÒBut?Ó ÒBut IÕm really a writer,Ó I said, Òalthough I canÕt say that without sounding totally pretentious.Ó And then I said it with her: ÒWhat do you write?Ó It made her laugh again, and I got the little rush I always get when I make people laugh. When I was a kid I dreamed of a career in stand-up. Now, on the other side of the hormonal petri dish, IÕm a comedian only in moments of nervousness or desperation. ÒGood reflexes,Ó she said, shaking her head. I glowed. ÒSo, really, what _do_ you write?Ó ÒWhatever,Ó I said. She had begun snipping around the back. ÒIt depends on how I feel. Sometimes poetry, sometimes stories. Lately IÕve been writing a lot of erotica.Ó I wanted to take that back as soon as IÕd said it. _Now,_ I thought, _sheÕll think youÕre a fucking pervert._ ÒErotica, huh?Ó Hope met my eyes for a moment in the mirror. She didnÕt look upset. ÒIsnÕt that just a polite name for pornography?Ó I cleared my throat, tried to think of how to respond. ÒI think of pornography as erotica that doesnÕt work,Ó I said. _Change the subject_, I hissed inwardly, but my mouth kept talking. Another symptom of nervousness. ÒI mean, a bunch of perfect people doing aerobics on a bed and using the same four words over and over again is only stimulating to an idiot.Ó _Oh holy Jesus, would you stop?_ ÒItÕs stupid, pointless stuff like that that gives erotica a bad name.Ó ÒSo you write the good stuff, I take it.Ó Hope put her hands on my head and tilted it gently to the side. ÒHold still.Ó I felt the cold metal of the tiny scissors angling up behind my ear, snipping. In the mirror I saw my face, still blank, unreadable, and felt a dull dislike. But beside me was Hope, her face alive, mysterious where mine was only empty. I had known her for less than fifteen minutes. Maybe that was why she was so beautiful, why I saw so much in her face: she was a stranger. There was nothing wrong with her yet. ÒI guess thatÕs a matter of opinion,Ó I said. ÒIt works for--Ó ÒHold _still_,Ó she said, grasping my head firmly. ÒUnless you want a sliced ear.Ó ÒSorry,Ó I muttered. _Get a grip, kid. DonÕt even think. Just shut the fuck up. Get the haircut. Get out of here._ ÒI think thatÕs interesting, though,Ó she said, snipping away. I stared numbly at the thick curls of hair landing on the dropcloth. ÒI used to work as a model, part time, for art classes. It was good money. All I had to do was take my clothes off and sit for two hours.Ó ÒDidnÕt you feel self-conscious?Ó I asked. She shrugged. ÒLittle bit. Not much. Not as much as the students.Ó She stopped clipping and I felt her hand come to rest on the back of my head. I didnÕt look at the mirror. ÒWhat do you mean?Ó I asked. ÒWell, like, IÕd go around afterward and look at all the drawings, right?Ó Her hand shifted, stayed a moment, and then was gone. ÒAnd theyÕd either have me with these huge tits, all out of proportion to my body, looking really grotesque--Ó I heard her laugh. Ò--or, IÕd have nothing at all. Totally androgynous. It was like they either had to fixate on my sexuality or deny it altogether. No middle ground. So. That was kind of obnoxious, I thought.Ó ÒHmm.Ó I stared at the dropcloth where my hands lay folded in my lap. ÒOh, great, now IÕm making _you_ self-conscious,Ó she said. I looked up at the mirror and saw that I was blushing furiously. I opened my mouth, waiting for witty repartŽe, but none came. I couldnÕt think of a single thing to say. Hope was smiling. _At least thereÕs that,_ I told myself. _She could be running in terror. For that matter, so could you. Not a bad idea._ ÒIÕm sorry,Ó she continued. ÒI guess itÕs not very professional of me to be talking like this.Ó An opening. ÒDonÕt be sorry,Ó I said. ÒI blush easily.Ó That was a lie. ÒBesides, if anyone should apologize, itÕs meÑI got off on that whole erotica trip.Ó _Got off...ouch._ ÒA byproduct of being single, I guess.Ó _Oh my lord, youÕre picking up on her. This really must stop._ Hope said nothing, and my heart sank a little. I glanced at the mirror. She was studying the terrain of my hair as if it were a complex math problem. Maybe she hadnÕt heard me, or hadnÕt understood the subtext. Maybe she had and was considering it. I watched her flip back the top of the bottle and squirt relaxant into her palm. She moved closer and began to work it into my hair. I closed my eyes. Then I felt her pelvis leaning against my arm. _I would love to see you naked. And to touch you._ No, I hadnÕt said that. I had only thought it. And you canÕt go to jail for what youÕre thinking, like in that song. What song was it? Something from the Forties. I couldnÕt remember what it was called. I was trembling. She must be able to feel it. ÒItÕs raining,Ó she said. I had to say something. Something casual. ÒHow do you know?Ó I asked. I sounded foolish. ÒListen,Ó she said. Her hands in my hair stopped moving. I fought back the trembling. _I would love to see you naked._ We waited, silent. ÒI hear it,Ó I said. Faintly, from across the room, across the shop, through the door she had locked. Rain. Her hands moved again, massaging my scalp. I heard her sigh. ÒI love the rain,Ó she said. ÒSo do I.Ó I felt the warmth against my arm press closer as she leaned in, and was suddenly very grateful for the dropcloth. I imagined the feeling of her breasts against the back of my neck. Shaking. I was shaking. ÒEver since I was a little girl,Ó she murmured, and I felt something warm brush my neck. ÒIÕve always loved it. ThereÕs something...Ó _I would love..._ ÒSomething about it. ItÕs so...passionate, and so innocent. Not innocent, noÑbut thereÕs no shame in it. Even the floods last year. No shame.Ó _I know what you mean._ I felt her breasts brush my neck again. _I know._ ÒI would love to see you naked.Ó I opened my eyes. Had I actually said it, or was it still just a thought? I was looking into my own scared face, and when I saw how scared it was, I knew. _Better finish it, then:_ ÒAnd to touch you.Ó For a moment, nothing happened. We didnÕt move, didnÕt speak. Then her hands left my hair. ÒI think weÕre just about done here,Ó she said lightly. ÒWhy donÕt we go wash this stuff out, and then you can tell me how it looks.Ó I rose as if in a dream, spilling hair onto the floor. Hope unfastened the dropcloth and moved away. I followed her across the room to the sink and sat down on the stool. My eyes wouldnÕt focus properly, so I closed them again. ÒLean back,Ó I heard her say. I leaned back, felt the cold steel rim of the sink on my neck. This was no dream. Water flowed from the tap, and again her hands came under my head to lift gently, ply my subdued hair into thin sheaves, pages over her fingers. What did she read in me? I wanted to know that, suddenly, as fiercely as I wanted anything else from her. I could feel her leaning over me and I wanted to know what I looked like to her, if my face held any mystery at all. I wanted to know what worked, what was worth saving. My hands rose and touched her legs. ÒYou had some good snarls in there, but I think we got rid of most of them,Ó Hope said from somewhere beyond my closed eyes. It was easier not to see her. It was easier to think of this as unreal, of myself as drunk or hallucinating. My hands travelled over the back of her knees, up the shallow swell of her thighs, and I tried to picture myself as she must see me: a man choosing blindness, a man with his head in her hands, reaching for desire in the dark. A man made headstrong by mild innuendo and swift circumstance, who fell with only the barest hesitation into this moment--this electric moment of uncertainty with nothing acknowledged and everything, everything possible. I put my hands on her hips. ÒYour hair feels very soft now,Ó she said. Her hands lifted gently, and I let my head fall back into them. Under my hands her hips rose slightly. ÒI think that relaxant really worked.Ó ÒI donÕt know,Ó I said. ÒI feel kind of tense at the moment.Ó ÒHa ha. If _you_ feel tense, maybe you should go to a therapist.Ó ÒThis could be therapeutic,Ó I said. ÒMaybe I just need to loosen up and go with the flow.Ó My hands slid up and around to the curve of her buttocks. Abruptly, she pulled away. I opened my eyes too late to catch the towel she threw at me. ÒWhy donÕt you dry off,Ó she said. ÒThe mirrorÕs over there. And then you should be going, I think.Ó I stared in disbelief. She had turned away from me, and stood now regarding the shelves on the far side of the room. Her arms were crossed. I sat there until I felt cold water trickling down my neck, and then I took up the towel and began scrubbing. Guilt washed over me. Had I imagined everything, then, the subtle touch of fingers, breasts? Had I missed the turn of conversation? Had I reached for too much without asking? Hope remained with her back to me, offering no answers, waiting for me to leave. I stopped scrubbing and turned to face the mirror. The hair was short and even, glossy, quite stylish. Below it the eyes were dead. The perfect haircut of a department store mannequin. There was no triumph in this. ÒItÕs beautiful,Ó I said dully. In the mirror, I saw Hope incline her head briefly, a noncommittal thank-you. I waited, but she said nothing. In my wallet were a ten-dollar bill and two crumpled ones. I took out the ten. ÒYou can keep your money,Ó Hope said. I put it down on the table. I turned around and looked at her standing there, so firm, so blank, giving me nothing. ÒWhat did I do?Ó I asked quietly. She laughed a different laugh, short and bitter. ÒIÕm not an idiot,Ó she said. ÒNot perfect, all right. Prone to unprofessional remarks. Maybe a little too trusting of attractive strangers who speak in complete sentences. But IÕm not stupid, Jack, or whatever the fuck your name is.Ó I took a step toward her. ÒMy name is Paul,Ó I said, Òand if I did something wrong I want to apologize for it. But first I have to know what it is.Ó Hope shook her head slightly, took a deep breath. ÒI can put it together. YouÕre single and desperate. You write about sex. What could be more convenient?Ó She swept her hand across the room. ÒItÕs primo material. YouÕve probably already started writing the story in your head. ÔA Good Hair Day,Õ howÕs that for a title? You can call me Delilah.Ó I took another step toward her, started to speak. ÒThis could be therapeutic,Ó she said, shaking her head again. ÒYeah. Right. So could a check from Penthouse Forum.Ó She whirled around suddenly, and I saw that she was using her anger to keep the tears back. IÕd done it so many times myself. ÒWait,Ó I said. ÒI am not some--I am not some cheap story,Ó she said. ÒI donÕt need your cheesy-ass Playboy come-on bullshit. So go on, get out of here. Go home and write your little story and make up whatever you want.Ó ÒHold on!Ó I said. ÒWould you let me talk for a minute, for ChristÕs sake?Ó Hope took a step away from me. ÒI wonÕt come any closer,Ó I said. ÒJust stop--attacking me, or whatever it is youÕre doing. Look, I donÕt know what happened, but it wasnÕt part of a scam or anything like that. I donÕt even know you. I just came in here to get a haircut.Ó I retreated into the chair and sat facing her. ÒAnd then we started talking. And you were so nice, and youÕre really beautiful, and I thought you liked me. And yes, IÕm single, and sometimes, yes, I feel desperate. But I donÕt go around picking up girls and writing about them--Jesus, I donÕt even know how to pick up girls. Look at me. IÕm a recovering geek. I donÕt have the sophistication it takes to be like that.Ó As I spoke, the anger in her face subsided. She still regarded me warily, but I knew she was listening. ÒYou were right about one thing, though,Ó I said. I got up again. ÒI was writing a story in my head. ThatÕs how I deal with things I donÕt understand. When IÕm totally lost, or I feel scared or reckless, I start writing. Sometimes--I guess I need a script to keep going.Ó I looked away. ÒMaybe IÕm not a very good writer.Ó For a moment we both stood there in silence. I listened to the rain falling outside. It was time to go. Whatever mess IÕd made of things, I couldnÕt unmake it now. It was time to cut my losses and go home. ÒThereÕs a ten on the table,Ó I said. ÒItÕs for the haircut. You earned it.Ó I started walking. At the partition, I looked back. Hope was staring at me, her expression indecipherable. Something was there. Given enough time, I might have been able to read it. ÒItÕs beautiful,Ó I said. And walked away. I was halfway across the salon when the lights went out. -------------------------------------------------------- Part II to follow ----------------- -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----