Fare Crop

Fare Crop

A Fare Crop by HairXstatic

I’d been working for Silva’s Cabs for a couple of years. At twenty-nine years of age, I was working two jobs whilst studying for an Open University degree, employed by Silva’s simply to fill-in during their busiest period of the week, being 7 p.m. – 3 a.m. Fridays to Sundays. When I wasn’t studying, I worked shifts at a local service station during the week. Silva’s was based in a fairly large cathedral town in the county of Suffolk, eastern England, but many of the regular fares that I picked up late of a weekend lived outside the town, where public transport ground to a halt after 10 or 11 o’clock of an evening. One of these regulars, who I met within about five ago, was Emma. She would normally put in a call to Silva’s at around 1.30 a.m. to be picked up from Kane’s nightclub in the town centre, and taken back to the small village where she lived some twenty miles away. I’d put her at around nineteen to twenty years of age, with the sweetest heart-shaped face containing not the slightest hint of coquettishness, more an air of purity and innocence if anything. But, above all, it was her blonde hair that you couldn’t help noticing – it rippled so luxuriantly, sumptuously down to the small of her waist, all one-length and radiating health and vitality.

I can honestly place hand on heart and swear that never before had I seen such a beautiful head of hair; the mere sight of its movement as she’d bend down to get in the car would take my breath away. Leaning forward, it would enshroud that beautiful face before she’d move her right arm behind her head to draw its mass around to the front, where it would cascade in a silken torrent down into her lap once she was seated inside the car. Quite frequently I would start fantasising about how amazing it would feel to bury my hands in it, right up to their wrists, as I would draw her on top of me before making love to her. Given the fact that I’d always loved long hair since my childhood, I’d often considered it a shame that there’d never been anything particularly remarkable about any of my previous girlfriends’ hairstyles, usually just the boring ‘short and casual’ type of look, you know?

In addition to her lovely face, Emma had the nicest way about her too – always very friendly, she’d often start chatting to me about various topics throughout the entire thirty-minute journey to her home and, most surprisingly, I discovered that there was no “special guy” in her life. She actually laughed when I inquired and, although she elaborated no further, her response somehow seemed to infer that she was too young to start contemplating a serious relationship. She was however, quite undoubtedly, a girl that would attract a lot of admirers – myself obviously included! And so, I became her regular Saturday night cabbie.

Needless to say really, I began looking forward to those nights with a keenness that one could liken to a child on Christmas Eve, with greater anticipation than anything else on my regular social calendar. To this day, I’d still struggle to accurately determine what I was more in love (or maybe that should read ‘in lust’) with: Emma herself, or the sight of all that glorious silken, golden hair. There were a couple of weekends when she didn’t call into control for a cab, where I became quite startled at the emotions that began churning around in the pit of my stomach, dreading the possibility of never seeing her again. Thankfully, these occasions were attributed to nothing more than her taking vacations, or sometimes visiting other friends and family over the weekend.

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For around eight or nine weeks the routine kind of ticked along; I’d pick her up around the same time, same place, when we’d chat for most of the journey. If she was tired she would sometimes doze off for part of the journey, which felt quite gratifying, knowing that she had enough trust in me to feel relaxed enough in my company to do that. Despite how attracted I’d become to her, never for all the riches in the world would I have ever considered breaching that trust but, ironically, it was on one of the rare occasions where she’d dozed off that the first bombshell landed.

Turning sideways into the chair as she dozed, her legs had pointed themselves towards the gearbox, and were so close that whenever I changed gear the back of my hand would unavoidably pass along the bare skin of her right leg. As unavoidable as it was, it invoked a distinct awkwardness within me – I could hardly stop using the gearbox, but I felt concerned about whether my touch might rouse her and be easily misconstrued. Eventually we reached a main stretch of road where the car could remain in a cruising gear, where I almost breathed an audible “Phew”! So far as could be presumed, Emma was still asleep – there was no movement and her eyes were closed, which is a common enough symptom of sleep, however shallow! Suddenly, she spoke softly across to me:

“That felt really nice.”

“What did?” I returned, as if I’d not the faintest idea of what she was referring to.

“The way your hand felt, running across my leg.”

I apologised and assured her that it was an accident, that her leg was too close to the gearbox. Far from seeming in the slightest bit perturbed by the incident, she asked me whether or not I had a girlfriend.

“You seem such a nice guy,” she said before jesting, “although I bet you hate being called that, don’t you? A nice guy!”

“Oh, I can think of worse things to be called than that,” I laughed in return before answering her initial question, describing my studies and what precious little time there seemed to make way for a decent social life.

Although it was hard to tell for sure, but I could have sworn the expression that was all-too-briefly etched on her face resembled one of disappointment. I felt astounded; my heart was pounding so heavily I felt sure it would rupture my chest at any moment – here was this beautiful young creature sat next to me who had given me a blatant come-on. Even so, I thought, think of the age difference… think of the reaction of her parents if they found out that a taxi driver had taken advantage of their innocent young daughter! Dress it up anyway you like, that’s surely how they would see it. After dropping her off I couldn’t help wondering whether the incident would create a strange atmosphere between us in future. It was a fortnight before I got to find out.

Up until this point she’d always travelled alone back from the club but, on this particular night, she approached my cab with two other very attractive girls in tow, who Emma introduced to me as Christine and Louise. They proved to be the first and last words she spoke to me for the entire journey; Emma and Louise sat together into the back while Christine settled into the passenger seat next to me. Louise had thick, dark, naturally wavy looking hair that hung to about mid-back; Christine’s was a darker blond to Emma’s, only cut short . . . very short, in fact. Considering that I’d always loved long hair so much on women, I was amazed at how suddenly I was turned on by it. Cut in a very short pixie, the back and about one inch over the ears at the sides had been clippered down to a #1, gradually gaining length further up the head but no longer than an inch on top. No matter how hard I tried to resist, I just had to keep stealing brief glances at it, and once we’d passed out of the street lit areas, I began cursing the darkness that afforded nothing more than the occasional glimpse courtesy of any passing cars’ headlamps. I even slowed down as much I could without arousing suspicion, attempting to draw the journey out as long as possible. Naturally, there was one thing that couldn’t help becoming aroused – I doubted that I’d ever felt so turned on in all my life, especially over nothing more than a haircut! No, wrong! – it was also her slender neck that just seemed to rise and rise… God, it was so incredibly sexy.

Considering that Emma had seemed in high enough spirits when she’d first got into the car, she barely spoke a word during the entire half-hour drive, and no sooner had the car drawn up outside her house than she’d made her exit. Far from professing to know everything about the intricacies of the female mind (surely one of the great, remaining mysteries of the world?), it was blatantly obvious that I was far from being her favourite person at that point in time! All this was temporarily forgotten about, as Christine leaned forward towards the dashboard light to search through the contents of her purse to settle the fare. Again, I gazed lustfully at her gorgeous nape. This was certainly a first for me – an unprecedented experience that became so intoxicating that, no sooner had I headed off to collect my next fare, the most overwhelming urge swept through me to drive straight home so that I could masturbate, but will-power prevailed on this occasion. Needless to add though, really, despite there only being just over three hours remaining of my shift (which normally passed very quickly on a Saturday night), the very structure of time itself seemed to shift; every minute felt like an hour, every hour a lifetime. If it had been any longer I feel sure my loins would have burst.

If those three or so hours passed slowly, it was nothing compared to the rest of the week but Saturday night eventually arrived, and I anticipated it even more keenly than I had before. Time after time I began wondering if the lovely Christine would be accompanying Emma back home? I nervously began questioning the likelihood of whether Emma would even wish to start using a different cab service, judging by her indifference toward me the previous weekend. The longer the night wore on, the more convinced I became that this scenario would come to pass. I wasn’t sure what time the club actually closed, but by 2.30 a.m. still no notice had been radioed through to collect anybody from Kane’s. Nearing the end of my shift, I’d totally surrendered all hope when the instruction suddenly came through at around 3.30 a.m. It was her all right – the same pick-up point, same destination.

No sooner had I pulled into the rank than I saw Emma crossing the road towards me – alone once again. Sure, I did feel slightly disappointed, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as I might originally have feared. If I thought she’d looked gorgeous before, it was nothing compared to how breathtaking Emma looked that night, wearing a short black dress that hugged her curves beautifully. As she strolled towards me I couldn’t help admiring everything about her: her lovely face, the stunning figure complimented so well by her dress, and those perfectly full, rounded breasts. And all that beautiful waist-length hair – it swam around her like a glorious golden mantle. What a contrast to Christine’s crop – her long, sexy neck with that beautifully clippered nape.

Getting into the cab, I was relieved to find that she seemed to have returned to her normal friendly, chatty self again.

“Your friends not with you again tonight?” I asked, endeavouring to voice my question as casually as possible. She smiled briefly across at me, although with an analytical glint in the eye.

“No, sadly they were only up for the weekend,” she replied. “They came up from Surrey, where I used to live – we’ve known each other since, well, always I suppose! We kind of grew up together, went through school together until my parents moved up here three years ago.”

I paused for thought. “They seemed really nice,” I ventured, “have they changed much over the years?”

I hoped I’d veiled the question sufficiently, because I’d developed an overwhelming curiosity about whether Christine had ever worn her hair long. During the course of the week, I’d not only tried envisaging her with long hair but, also, what it would have been like to have watched her walk into the hairdressers, asking the stylist to chop it all off, nice and short. I have to admit that I found this fantasy especially erotic, for some strange reason that I couldn’t decipher at all. But I just kept imagining the stylist switching on the clippers and running them up the back of that beautiful swan-like neck.

“In what way?”

“Oh, you know,” my mind raced, “sometimes when you don’t see that much of someone it can be surprising to observe the differences about their character, what new things they’re getting into and stuff, you know?” Pretty pathetic, I know, but I could hardly suggest anything like, after years of having long hair, some girls decide to have it all chopped off – like Christine for example! Emma didn’t actually respond to the remark, lapsing into momentary silence. Her next remark certainly caught me by surprise.

“It was quite obvious you know?” she spoke, looking across at me with those amazing doe-like eyes of hers. I couldn’t quite read them at this juncture. Asking her what she meant, she continued, “I saw the way you kept looking across at Chrissy… it was hardly unnoticeable, actually.” I became quite lost for words at this point.

“So, she’s your type then?” she pursued. I wasn’t actually as perturbed by the directness of the question as I might have feared, had I known where this conversion was going to lead. I decided that such an open question merited an equally honest answer, and conceded that Christine was ‘a lovely looking girl’, wondering what sort of response that would provoke from Emma. It was actually met by another brief silence, and another minute or so passed before I had to deal with yet another direct question.

“Would you say that she’s more attractive than I am?” Phew, make this easy for me, why don’t you, I thought to myself, frantically trying to summon a tactful enough answer. In the end, the only reply my imagination could muster was to say that they were both very attractive, just in a very different way.

“Like, she’s got short hair and mine is long – is that what you mean?” Emma persisted.

“I guess so,” I nodded after a moment’s consideration. Emma lapsed into another short silence, and changed the topic of conversation once it resumed, relating how she was heading off on holiday to Greece with some friends of hers from work a few weeks later. We conversed in a similar vein until we’d almost reached her home.

“My parents are away this weekend,” Emma began. “I was wondering, would you like to see some of the old photographs that were taken of Louise, Chrissy and myself before I moved?”

I was so astonished I could barely form any words in my throat, but there was no way in hell I was going to allow an opportunity like this slip away! My shift was effectively over, and was only required to radio in and check out for the night, being precisely what I related to Emma. Her face beamed with delight, that heart-warming smile lighting her face.

“See you in a moment then,” she added as she reached for the door handle. With her back towards me as she got out of the car, I noticed for the first time that her dress was backless, which looked incredibly sexy on her. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she walked up to her front door whilst browsing through her purse for her keys, hair swelling around her hips, and briefly looking back at me as she entered the front door.

After speaking with control, I stole a few moments to compose myself before getting out of the car and following the short footpath to the front door, simply not believing what was happening at that precise moment in time. Trying to keep my feet on the floor, I kept reminding myself that, in all probability, it would simply be a matter of looking at some photographs for ten minutes or so before saying our goodnights again. Still, at least my curiosity over Christine’s hair could be satisfied, something I thought would forever need to be left to my imagination.

As I closed the front door behind me, Emma’s head briefly popped around the kitchen door at the end of the hallway and she asked whether I’d like a coffee or anything. I wanted to say that the ‘anything’ part sounded most appealing indeed but instead, merely agreed that a coffee would go down very well. We made the coffee together and moved into the living room where she began routing through a few drawers, pulling out a leather-bound photo album, before sitting next to me on the couch as she started leafing through the pages. I was held fascinated, totally captivated at the pictures she was showing me; in some cases they dated back some twelve years or more.

Disappointedly, the photo’s revealed that the longest Christine’s hair seemed to have been was a collar-length bob, which became gradually shorter as she passed through her teens. Emma’s hair was long in every one of the shots that she appeared in; the only difference was that it looked slightly paler in colour, but just as long. If anything though, I thought she’d grown even prettier in adulthood than she looked as a child, when quite frequently the reverse actually applies. I mentioned that point to her, which she actually looked slightly uncertain about. She closed the album, gently setting it down on the coffee table in front of us. Her face, her eyes suddenly took on a far-off appearance, in deep reverie. She then seemed to almost subconsciously tilt her head slightly over to the right, drawing her mass of beautiful thick blonde tresses over her shoulder in the same manner that I’d observed in the cab countless times before, only now raking her fingers through its volume. It was so stunning to watch, and more than ever I had to fight the urge to reach out and take its silky texture between my own fingers, drawing them down through the entire length, over and over. I had the mother of all hard-ons!

Something in my expression must have caught her eye; I frequently wonder what it might have been for she suddenly asked, “Would you brush my hair for me?”

“Sure,” I replied as calmly as I could manage. Leaving the room for a couple of minutes or two she returned holding her hairbrush, which she immediately handed to me. She pulled over a high bar stool from the other end of the room, and climbed gracefully onto it. Placing my left hand at her crown, I began to draw the brush down through her beautiful hair, left hand following the brush from crown to the very ends, taking in its thick, silky softness. This must have continued for a further five minutes before Emma stood up off the stool.

“I just need to pop upstairs again for the moment,” she explained. I asked her where the bathroom was, and she directed me just down the hallway before I heard her footsteps moving up the stairs and entering a room above me. By the time I returned to the lounge Emma was sat back on the stool, hands folded in her lap, and asked me whether I’d brush it for just a little while longer. (Like I’d really have to force myself, you know?) I resumed the brushing, long, sensuous strokes from head to tip.

“I really like you, you know?” she suddenly said after a further moment or two. “I know that you’re a little older than me, but most guys of my own age seem ruled by what’s going on inside their trousers; they’re only after one thing, you know? And once they get what they want they usually drop you faster than a hot brick. Don’t ask me why, but I can just tell you’re not like most of those guys – like I say, you’re so nice.”

“So are you,” I replied softly, “you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Just not as beautiful as Christine though, right?” she returned sadly, briefly averting her eyes downwards.

“I never said that. I just said that you were very -”

“…Different, I know,” she interjected. “Can you tell me, honestly, do you think I’d look as pretty as her without all my long hair?”

I stopped brushing, gathered all of the hair into a ponytail with my two hands before releasing it. “You’ve got such beautiful hair,” I said, watching it swell across the bare skin of her back.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Emma persisted. “Do you think I’d look as attractive as Christine if I had short hair?”

I moved around in front of her. “You’ve got an exquisite face Emma,” I began, “so sure, I guess you could carry off any style you wished.”

“The only style that I’d like is one that makes you look at me in the same way that made you keep staring across at Chrissy like that, last weekend,” spoke Emma, before averting her eyes down towards her lap again.

Slowly, she unfolded her hands from her lap, where I caught my first glimpse of what she’d been concealing beneath them. I saw a brief flicker of chrome before I fully realized what it was she was holding: a pair of long, 5″ bladed scissors that looked very sharp indeed. She looked back up into my eyes, held the scissors out towards me by the blade ends. “Please,” she started softly, “I want you to cut all my hair off. I want you to cut it off really short, just like Christine’s.”

I stood in total amazement for a moment. Part of me pleaded with myself to dismiss the instruction, to implore her not to be so stupid and assure her that she had the most beautiful hair I’d ever seen in my entire life, that there was no way that I could bring myself to cut it off. Instead of this, however, I simply said the only thing that made any damn sense to me at that precise point in time:

“I’m no hairdresser – you’d probably end up looking like you’d hit collision course with the garden lawnmower,” I ventured, suddenly praying beyond hope that she wouldn’t come to her senses, change her mind about the whole thing.

Never in a million years could I ever articulate my emotions at that precise point in time, the conflicting thoughts running through my mind. I’d loved Emma’s hair, passionately, from the moment I’d first laid eyes on it, so why was I so incredibly aroused at the prospect of taking those scissors, opening their long, pointed 5″ blades and divesting her of those lovely waist-length, silken tresses?

“I trust you, and besides, I can always get it straightened out at the salon before my parents return if it looks too dodgy,” she reasoned. “Something tells me that you’ll do a far more competent job than you think.”

My mother had actually been a hairdresser, so I’d lost count of the times that I’d seen her cut my family’s hair, which included my two older sisters. Maybe Emma was right; at which point I accepted the outstretched scissors.

I moved behind her once again, my mind now wavering between the options of how to cut off the bulk of the length, weighing up the pros and cons. As I’d done just a few minutes before (and how long ago this suddenly seemed), I gathered all of her hair into a thick ponytail, which must have been four inches thick from the nape to the very ends. I was sure that most professional stylists would remove the bulk of the length by inserting the scissors at the neckline, slicing through the ponytail. No, I thought, that would be far too cursory considering that I want to relish every second of this experience, releasing the hair once more and watching it dance back around her exposed shoulders. They’re going to look a whole lot more exposed than this, by the time I’ve finished with her, I couldn’t help acknowledging to myself.

I ran my fingers through the entire length, just one last time, and then took a large tress at the crown.

“You sure about this?” I inquired softly.

“Chop it all off,” replied Emma firmly, with a brief nod of her head.

Okay, I thought… here we go then. Fixing a better grip through the handles, I opened the scissor blades, enveloping the lock at around an inch from her scalp, and finally pulled the blades together. Oh, how I loved the heavenly sound of that first, slow snip! Emma exhaled a low, drawn out breath as I pulled the first severed tress aloft, once again admiring its thickness and silky-soft texture, then dropped it over her shoulder to fall into her lap where Emma took it into her hands, drawing the length through her fingers.

Gathering the next piece I repeated the process, shearing the top of her head, her beautiful glossy hair seemingly melting off the razor-sharp scissor blades before audibly sliding along the smooth skin of her bare back, meeting their final resting place amongst the dark pile of the carpet. Looking down at the misshapen mound of hair that was already gathering, I couldn’t resist the temptation to quickly take off my shoes and socks, to bury my toes around the warm, dismembered silk.

Wrapping the scissors around lock after lock, the fever was soon upon me as the adrenaline rush made me speed up slightly, requiring me to take a sudden grip of myself to avoid working too quickly. I didn’t want this to end, relishing every solitary snip and its descent to the awaiting pile at the foot of the stool, which was already reaching six inches (or more) deep. The transformation of this first section looked extremely erotic, adoring how it stood up in short spikes. As I cropped her hair around the front hairline I glanced into Emma’s eyes, which had taken on a definite air of sadness; I only hoped not regret.

More golden tresses continued to sheet down over her shoulders, landing in her lap or around the stool base.

Momentarily standing back a step or two, my hardness grew as I observed the sharp contrast of the shorn, spiky hair on top in comparison to what remained hanging to her waist on the back and sides. I almost ejaculated on the spot when I noted to myself how this section was soon going to be cut the shortest.

Starting on the right hand side, Emma shuddered faintly as she felt me insert the blades right up to the scalp before cutting above and around the delicate, tantalizing ear that I doubted I’d ever seen before. She was wearing a pair of gold, one-inch hoop earrings, which I knew were going to look ultra-sexy on her before the night was through. It was like being lost within an inner world as I continued to shear all the hair off, graduating the length further up towards the top.

I continued around the other side, the long sharp blades effortlessly slicing through more 30″ hanks of golden silk, revealing her left ear before eventually turning my attention to the section that I’d been looking forward to chopping off the most – the remaining long hair at the back. It was at this point when Emma decided to motion towards a wooden box set upon a small table at the side of the room.

“Look in that wooden box,” she directed.

Raising its lid revealed a set of clippers and numerous attachments, which I spent the next few minutes sorting out before clicking a #1 attachment into place and plugging them in. Emma visibly jumped when they started up, and I gently placed my hand on her crown to push her head down towards her chest. Sliding the whole of my lower-left arm under the mass of hair at collar level, I raised the mane from off her neck and placed the clippers underneath her nape.

It was absolutely breathtaking to watch that first, slow-smooth stroke pass up her nape and lower neck, watching the waist-length hair rain to the floor, leaving a mere eighth of an inch stubble behind and revealing a long, creamy white sensuous nape. Pass after pass, earlobe to earlobe, the clippers buzzed it all down to what became a slightly darker shade of blonde to that of the one-inch remnants on top. Returning to her right side, I pushed the clippers in at her temple, buzzing down the inch or so above the ear, and repeating the process around the left side.

Almost done now, I thought, selecting a comb from the wooden box. Taking off the attachment, I returned to the back and used the comb with the clippers to graduate and blend the longer sections from the top into the #1 buzz further below, applying the same technique to the sides. I then returned to the box and routed through for the 0000 guard I’d noticed previously, which was quickly snapped into place. This served to cut a razor sharp line around the nape and over the ears.

All done – the transformation finally complete, I congratulated myself. Emma’s words had indeed proved quite prophetic: I truly was surprised at how well I’d managed, as the cut looked awesome on her. Stepping around front to face her, we just smiled at each other in silence. I studied her facial expression closely as her hand reached around to feel her buzzed nape for the first time, stroking up to the spiky hair at the crown, and back down again. Her face suddenly beamed with delight.

“You like it then?” I asked with some relief.

“I love how it feels,” she smiled cynically, “but would you bring in the small mirror from off the kitchen table for me?”

Presenting it to her a moment later, her eyes surveyed her transformation before she stood up from off the stool, wrapped her arms around me and kissed me firmly on the mouth. The taste of her lips was so utterly exhilarating, and it was no surprise that our clothes were soon falling in a heap around us. We immediately retired to one of the upstairs bedrooms, where we made love several times over throughout the remainder of the small hours of the morning. I couldn’t resist kissing her delectable, freshly buzzed nape over and over.

“Buzz me again soon,” was her last utterance before we, at long last, succumbed to sleep in each other’s arms.

 

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