Strangely enough, it all started when my wife Anne let her hair grow long. I had never made any secret of the fact that one of the many things which attracted me to her in the first place was her thick, glossy dark hair, which she wore for many years in a no-nonsense medium-length layered style. I used to speculate what she might look like with a more dramatic style, but Anne was not all that interested and didn’t respond to the hints I dropped in the early days of our relationship. I let the matter drop. I loved her for many more things than her hair.
Then one year she decided to let her hair grow longer so that she could wear it in ‘up’ styles, which she thought would look more sophisticated at Christmas parties. All summer she complained about the awkwardness of its in-between length as it grew out. However, by the time the first winter party came around, it was long enough for her to style into the chignon she wanted.
Anne was sitting at her dressing table mirror as I came into our bedroom. She was naked except for a towel wrapped round her body. As I came through the door, she threw her hairbrush down.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“My hair,” said Anne, frowning. “I can’t get it right.”
“Looks fine to me,” I said.
“It’s these bits at the back.” She fingered the loose hairs at the nape of her neck which escaped the pins which held the rest of the style in place.
“Can’t you stick them in place with hairspray or something?” I was trying to be helpful but Anne shook her head.
“No, that would look awful.”
“Why don’t you just snip them off, then?”
Anne turned her head this way and that.
“I can’t see them properly in the mirror. I’d just make a mess of it.”
“Want me to do it?”
Anne nodded, dubiously. I fetched a pair of scissors from the bathroom, bent Anne’s head forward and carefully snipped away the stray hairs at her neckline. I tried to clip them as close as possible to the skin, but there were some stubbly bits left. With Anne’s dark colouring, it was surprising how they showed up. Anne rubbed her fingers over the cut hairs.
“That feels dreadful. Can’t you cut it any closer?”
I had an idea and went back to the bathroom, returning with the electric shaver I hardly ever use, preferring to wet-shave. It had a beard-trimming attachment which looked like it would do this job perfectly. As I plugged in the shaver Anne’s eyes widened.
“What are you doing?”
“Just going to clean up your neck, that’s all.”
“Please be careful,” she muttered.
I switched on the shaver and its soft hum turned to a sharp buzz as I extended the trimmer blades. I began to apply these to Anne’s neckline. The moment they touched her skin, she took a sharp inward breath and twitched. I pulled away instantly.
“I’m sorry, did I scratch you?”
“No,” said Anne, reassuring me. “It … it felt really funny, that’s all.” She looked up at me with a strange expression in her face. “Come on, finish the job or we’ll be late.”
She bent her head forward again and I re-applied the shaver, smoothing away the bristly stubble. I began to notice that Anne was reacting to every movement of the shaver on her skin. The towel had slipped forward from her breast and I noticed that her nipple was standing fully erect. Anne was really being turned on by the vibration of the shaver on her neck.
I had taken away all the stubble left by the stray hairs, but didn’t want to stop the experience. Anne’s arousal was turning me on, too and I pressed the swelling bulge in my trousers against Anne’s back. I began to move the shaver further down her neck, snipping away some of the little downy hairs which went right down her spine. I wasn’t really thinking about shaving now. I was just stroking the shaver all over Anne’s neck and shoulders purely for the sake of giving her pleasure.
“You like this, don’t you?” I asked.
Anne put a hand behind her and stroked my crotch.
“So do you, it seems.”
We were very late for that party.
A few days later I woke up before Anne and spent a while looking at the sleeping body beside me. Her back was to me and I saw that the border of shaved hairs at her neckline was beginning to grow back. Without thinking, I reached out a hand to feel them. The touch woke Anne. She felt the bristles herself, still drowsy.
“Want me to buzz you again?” I asked.
She nodded and snuggled, face-down into her pillow.
“Nice buzz,” she murmured.
I brought the shaver again and plugged it in at the bedside. It was a matter of moments to clean up Anne’s neckline. Then I realised that the wayward hairs we had snipped away were not quite symmetrical on either side of Anne’s neck. The vee of her hairline was slightly off-centre. I decided to rectify this and applied the shaver to the thicker hair on one side. Immediately hairs snagged in the tiny teeth and Anne reacted to the painful tug.
“Ow! I was enjoying that!”
I explained to her what I had been trying to do, but the shaver wasn’t up to it. She kissed me, but the moment was gone and we just got on with our day.
When I returned home that evening, a package lay on the table.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Inside was a fully professional hair clipper set. The clipper itself looked powerful and it came with a wide range of attachments and a maintenance kit. After our evening meal, I sat down to read the instruction booklet which came with the clipper. In addition to technical details about the clipper, there were instructions for cutting a range of hairstyles. Most of these were for men, from conventional mid-length cuts to super-short crewcuts and flattops. At the back of the booklet, however, was a short section on women’s styles which could be cut with the clipper, including a magnificent chin-length bob, a bowl cut and a short-cropped style with the neckline clippered into a bold, jagged-toothed pattern. That one intrigued me because it was so dramatic. The instructions said that the hair all over the head was clipped to an even three-quarter inch length, just long enough not to spike up completely. Then bold triangles were clipped and shaved into the hair at the nape of the neck, leaving an outline of sharp spikes. The booklet pointed out that the spikes could either be a symmetrical pattern or randomly cut, and that the triangles could be shaved higher or lower into the back hair, depending on how bold or outrageous a look was required.
I hadn’t realised how long I had been looking at the picture until I became aware of Anne looking over my shoulder. I moved to close the booklet, but she put out a hand to stop me, turning back to the page with the jagged neckline picture. I looked at her.
“You like that?” she said, after a moment or two.
“It’s … interesting,” I said.
I thought for a moment. “Because it’s different. A woman with a style like that is not afraid to be different. Not afraid to be looked at.”
Anne looked down at me. “You always tell me that men look at me when we’re out.”
“Yes,” I said, “but that’s because they think you’re beautiful, not because you’re outrageous.”
“Would you like me to be outrageous?”
I looked at Anne. “Would you like to be outrageous?”
She looked back at the picture and her hand went to the back of her neck, stroking the clipped stubble of hairs. I noticed that she was nibbling her lower lip, as she always did when faced with a decision. “Anyway,” I said quietly, “it just wouldn’t be possible for me to give you that haircut.”
“All that buzzing and shaving? After one spike we’d both be so turned on we’d never get any further.”
She looked at me very directly. Her eyes were shining. “Right. Let’s do it. Now.”
By the time I had the clippers all plugged in and the attachments all laid out where I could find them, Anne had stripped naked and was sitting at her dressing table with a towel draped over her shoulders as usual. What was not at all usual, however, was the expression on her face. She was staring at her reflection very fixedly.
“You sure about this?” I asked.
She nodded. Her voice was husky when she spoke.
“Go for it.”
I looked at the clipper and a wave of common-sense came over me.
“Anne, this is the first time I’ve ever used one of these. I could make a complete mess of it.”
“I know. That’s partly what makes it so exciting.” She turned to me. “Look, don’t clipper it all over. Keep the rest of my hair long. That way if the back’s a disaster, I can cover it up until it grows out.”
She helped me to pin up the hair on the top and sides of her head so only the back hair hung down to her shoulders from a horizontal parting about level with the top of her ears. With careful reference to the style booklet, I selected an attachment and fitted it to the clipper before switching on. The loud buzzing took me by surprise and I saw Anne flinch. Then she smiled tightly and bent her head forward.
I started tentatively at the nape of her neck to get the feel of the clippers in action. They cut through Anne’s thick hair without any resistance at all. I noted how easy it would be to stray off line and shear away whole handfuls of hair. I also realised that the severed long hairs were piling up on the blades of the clipper, making it difficult for me to see exactly where they were going. I switched off the clipper, realising that I had to get rid of the length with scissors first. Having snipped away the bulk, it was a matter of moments to clipper the back of Anne’s head to a smooth mat of shiny hair lying close to her scalp. I combed it flat, took the attachment off the clipper as the instructions said, and turned the clipper in my hand so that the blades ran nearly vertical. Gingerly, I pushed the blades straight down into the hair at Anne’s neckline, making the first of the vertical slices that would produce the sharp triangles. I carefully kept the blades from touching her skin at first, fearing that they would cut her, despite the booklet’s reassurance that they wouldn’t. Then I saw that although a line had been cut in her hair exactly where I wanted it, without penetrating through to the white scalp, it wasn’t showing up. I re-applied the clipper and this time made contact with the skin.
“Does that feel all right?”
“How does it look?”
“Hang on a minute, I’ve just started.”
With more confidence now, I cut the outlines of more triangles in a symmetrical pattern round her neckline. There was a broad central vee right at her nape and three smaller vees on either side, diminishing in size from approximately an inch at the middle to about half as much behind her ear on either side. Holding the clipper as shown in the pictures, I shaved away the hair inside each of the triangles, exposing areas of white skin.
I was pleased with the results. I fetched a safety razor from the bathroom and cleaned away the last vestiges of stubble from the shaved triangles. Then I fetched a hand mirror and showed Anne the results. She examined her haircut, then frowned.
“Oh God, you hate it,” I said.
“No, no. I love it,” she said. “It’s just … ”
“Well, I thought that the spikes … you know, the shaved bits … would go higher up. When you were clippering the back hair short I thought that’s how high up the spikes would go.”
I was really pleased with the effect I had created so far and was getting the feel of the clippers. I popped them back on. “No problem,” I said.
Without reference to the booklet this time, I extended the spikes right up her neck to the occipital bone.
She kept most of her hair long, so that the dramatic neckline was something of a secret. It just wasn’t visible during the day but when she wore her hair up, or even just pinned up on one side, the pattern underneath was stunning. Anne was the belle of the Christmas parties that year. All her friends talked about how great she looked but remarked that they would never have the nerve to do it themselves. I was interested to note how many men were intrigued by it, too. Anne was delighted with all the attention, of course, and her requests for me to get the clippers out and “Tidy me up.” became more and more frequent. Also, since she was now confident of the end-result, she allowed herself to relax into the strong sexual arousal our sessions with the clipper gave her… and me, of course. Some of the best sex of our lives was enjoyed straight after Anne had been freshly clippered.
After the holiday season, the clipper sessions became a regular part of our lives. I hadn’t referred to the instruction booklet after that first nervous attempt, but one evening I came home to find Anne sitting naked in front of her dressing table, with only a towel round her shoulders. She was leafing through the booklet. She indicated the bob haircut.
“Let’s try that.”
“You won’t be able to hide your spikes under your long hair if we do that,” I warned.
“Why do I have to hide them?” she asked.
It took me a surprisingly long time to get the bob cut right and even all round Anne’s head. By the time I had all its lines sharply defined and symmetrical, it was a lot shorter than the chin-length of the picture. The weight-line at the back of her head ended up being cut just below the crown of her head. This meant that although the sides swept forward on to Anne’s cheek they were angled so sharply up to the back that they only half covered Anne’s ears.
“What about the bangs?” Anne asked.
I had left the hair at the front long and swept down either side of a centre parting.
“I want the full Louise Brooks look,” she said.
She had to explain what that was and it took a while for me to understand what she meant by the bang being cut in a double arc from a point over the bridge of the nose. I finally achieved this with the help of a pair of curved nail scissors. When I had finished, I noticed the similarity between the shallow point at the front of her hair and the dramatic points outlined on her neckline. When I drew Anne’s attention to this, she became quite excited.
“Cut points at the front!” she exclaimed.
I scissored some vees into the bang, but there simply wasn’t enough length in the hair hanging over Anne’s forehead to achieve the same dramatic long spikes of the back.
“Do it the same as the back,” Anne instructed. “Shave the vees into the front to make them longer.”
That made me pause. I think we were both aware that this was taking us into new territory. For some reason, shaving the neckline into a pattern, though dramatic, seemed to be within the bounds of normality. Shaving parts of the front felt different. Perhaps this is what ‘outrageous’ really means.
But I knew it was no longer possible to stop whatever was going on between me and Anne. I picked up the clippers again and in a short time, I had shaved long spikes into the front of Anne’s hair, matching the four-to-five inch length of the spikes at the back. Engrossed in getting the shape right, I had not realised how far back on Anne’s head this length would take the shaved triangles. The longest of them extended well on to the apex of Anne’s skull.
When I had finished, Anne and I looked at the results in the mirror for a long term. We both knew that the style didn’t work. The shape cut at the front matched the back exactly, but the longer hair on the top of her head kept flopping over the shaved areas obscuring their shape.
“See, the hair at the back is clippered short to start with, so it can’t flop over,” I pointed out.
The other problem was that the side-wings of the original bob now looked out of place between the dramatically spiked outlines of the front and back.
“What can we do?” I asked, frowning.
“You know what we have to do,” she answered. “You have to cut spikes at the sides too. Then the outline will be the same all round.”
“But that will be high above your ears,” I protested.
“I know,” said Anne. “And you’re going to have to clipper it short all over, too. The same length as the back, but all over.”
We were now in the grip of something far too powerful for either of us to resist. The atmosphere in the bedroom was electric, with a palpable tension between us. The towel had long since slipped off Anne’s shoulders. As so often before, I noticed that her nipples were standing up proudly, but she had goose bumps on the skin of her arms, too. I noticed a light film of perspiration on her brow. I mounted the right attachment on the clipper and began to shear away the longer hair all over her head, starting from behind her ears. It felt like the clippers were controlling themselves. We were so far away from the conventional bob style which Anne had wanted just an hour or so ago, that it felt like we had somehow lost control of the situation. We no longer had clear visions in our minds of what the results might be. Instead, we were waiting with breathless anticipation to see how this was all going to turn out.
But the sheer pleasurability of it all was heightened, if anything, by the high tension. It felt dangerous now… dangerous and exciting. I saw Anne fingering a taut nipple, which drew my attention to her other hand moving rhythmically under the towel in her lap.
When Anne’s hair had all been reduced to a smooth three-quarter inch mat, I began to chop the outlines of more spikes along the sides of her head, completing the chain from her jagged front-hair to the serrated nape. This time the lengths of the clippered and shaved areas extended right on to the top of her head, almost meeting in the middle. I concentrated on getting the detail right and deliberately avoided looking at Anne’s overall reflection in the mirror. I didn’t want to see the final result until it was all finished.
And then suddenly it was done. I came to a moment when, almost instinctively, I knew that there was no need to cut more hair. The lines were sharp and even. The shaved areas were perfectly smooth and gleaming white. The spikes were symmetrical all round.
I put down the clipper for the last time and looked up at Anne. I think she was seeing herself for the first time, too.
The effect of the haircut was startling. The short-buzzed length all over had reduced the silhouette of her head to the contours of her skull. I noticed that she had an attractively shaped head, but the outline was radically different from the Anne of an hour ago. Suddenly I saw how large and well-defined her eyes were. How the brows seemed more highly arched than I had been aware of before. Anne wasn’t wearing eye make-up and suddenly I was looking forward to the moment when she would replace it.
The hairstyle itself produced a remarkable effect. With the shaved triangles all round the hairline, exposing long spearheads of white scalp right up to her crown, it was as if the relative positions of hair and shaved scalp had reversed. Whereas the neckline had never looked anything other than patterns shaved into an otherwise covered scalp, now it looked like a pattern of dark spikes applied to an otherwise completely hairless head.
The overall appearance was that Anne was bald. Interestingly bald. Outrageously bald. But bald.
She ran her hand over her head. I held my breath. Eventually I had to speak.
“Well? What do you think?”
“I … like it. I mean, it’s utterly different to anything… But yes… It’s OK.”
“Thank God for that. I’m relieved.”
She stood and turned to me. The towel fell from her and she put her arms round my neck. I wanted to kiss her, but I couldn’t shift my gaze from her head.
“Why should you be relieved?” she breathed, closer and closer.
“Well, I was the one who did this to you,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” said Anne, with a strange light in her eyes. “We started out in control but somewhere along the way… things just started happening.” Now she rubbed her own hand over her outrageously patterned scalp. “You didn’t do this to me. I didn’t do it to myself, either. I think this is one haircut that just designed itself.”