Sonja

Sonja

Sonja – Passionate Cutter

Sonja slowed her pace, imperceptibly, she thought, and peered into the window of the barber shop.

It was a routine she had done so many times before.

Each day, coming home from work, she had to pass the little, unremarkable establishment. It wouldn’t have occurred to her ever to look at all, if it had not been for that one day, some 6 months ago.

It was quite by accident, that she had, inspired by a gust of wind that caused her to turn her head towards the window, seen the sight.

There, in the chair nearest the window, sat a young woman, about Sonja’s age. So nonchalant, she sat, as the barber took pass after pass up the back of her head with his hungry clippers. It was evident that this woman had done this before. Sonja caught herself staring, mesmerized, as she realized that, judging by the amount of hair on the floor, this woman was here only for a regular trim. Sonja found herself wondering about the story behind this woman.

“If she had come to have her long hair cut off,” Sonja thought to herself, “then I could believe this was a bet, or an act of rebellion, the preparation for a trip, or some unusual reason. But this is something she has done before! This is a style she lives with.”

Now for many people, perhaps for most people, the question would have been unimportant, worthy of only a second’s thought. But for Sonja, it was different.

Sonja was new to the city.

Sonja had been raised in a small town in the interior of her province, where women went to the beauty parlor. The barber shop was a male sanctuary, frequented by her father, and her younger brother. Together, they would go off, on every third Saturday morning, and come back with the same short, velvety fuzz on the napes of their necks, and on the sides above their ears. Sonja would stare, fascinated by the smooth finish. Many times, she wanted to reach out, to touch, to feel. But there was no way Sonja could reconcile the feelings she had. This was her brother, and her father. Touching them while feeling these things would be wrong.

Later, in high school, Sonja dated, and in particular, spent most of her time with one particular boy. She was not sure what exactly attracted her to him, but she knew that his short, cleanly cut nape and sides drew her focus. She was almost afraid to touch his hair, for fear of revealing the erotic thoughts the clippered feel gave her. But, touch it she did, and when she did, she would feel a new energy within her, a driving, manic force, that resulted in the young man getting more than his share of what the other boys only bragged about.

He never had a clue what Sonja was really fantasizing about while she made such passionate love. He took the spoils, and it never once crossed his mind that her hands and lips spent an inordinate amount of time exploring his nape. And when Sonja asked one day if she could come with him while he had his hair cut in the town barbershop, his reluctance to bring her into the male bastion was outweighed by his pride. Along she came, and he was too busy preening in front of the other clients to see the look on Sonja’s face as she watched the clippers do their work.

Sonja closed her eyes, and imagined it was her sitting in the chair. Throat dry, she would have to find a way to tell the barber, that she, too, wanted him to drive the clippers up her nape. She, too, wanted to feel the same lovely, erotic feel. She wanted to hear the sound, and feel the vibration, and she wanted her silky tresses to be surprised by the upward onslaught of the clippers, and to fall in soft sheets past her eyes. She wanted to put her hands to her head, and instead of feeling the heaviness of her long ponytail, she wanted to feel the lightness, the delicacy of her head shape truly reflected by short, strong, velvety fuzz.

On that first visit to the barber with her boyfriend, she found herself in a trance. She felt an aching between her legs, such a strong desire. And when she left, she left with the shame of someone feeling guilty for being different. And a sadness for a desire she could never have fulfilled. Overwhelmed, Sonja decided then and there, that it was best to forget she had ever felt those feelings.

She never went back to the town barber. After that day, when her father and brother went to the shop, she made it a point to be somewhere else. She stopped dating her boyfriend, and the poor boy never understood why she suddenly withdrew her favours.

No one really knew why, after that day, Sonja was different. Her friends noticed she no longer laughed as easily, never got excited, and never really even seemed angry or sad.

And eventually, Sonja left her home town, and took a job in the city.

And so, it happened that she had glanced into the window that day. The feelings were slow to come back, at first. After all, Sonja had pushed them away, so far away. But now, faced with the sight of someone like her casually having her hair cut so brazenly short, Sonja felt only confusion. Around her she saw the same society that she had always seen, one that obviously adored long, flowing hair on women, but here in front of her, sat the most powerful visual stimulus she had ever felt.

For days afterwards, Sonja replayed the image over and over in her mind. She fought against the vision, not wanting to find herself picturing the scene again where she sat, in delicious terror, waiting to tell the barber to begin. She knew there was no way she could go through with it, so why would she even want to revive those feelings, those frustrations? And, for a while, she thought she had beaten them back.

It was then that the pattern began.

Day after day, on her way home from work, she slowed as she walked by the shop. At first, she would not even allow herself to think her hope out loud. That once again, casually seated, would be the short-haired woman, having her crop kept so tight and even.

But after a time, all Sonja knew was that this had become her routine. She did see the woman again, it seemed to Sonja, about 3 weeks later.

Sonja stopped to watch, just for a second, and caught her breath as her heart pounded. Then, fearing she would be noticed, she walked on. Home, alone except for the seeds of an awakening feeling.

And so time passed. The awakening feeling had become a deeper, more identifiable, feeling. She now openly allowed herself to anticipate, to feel the excitement as she knew that the 3-week cycle was approaching the cusp. She could sense that her pace was quicker approaching the shop, and, much to her surprise, realized one day when she saw her own reflection in the window, that she was smiling.

Each time she caught sight of the short-haired woman, she found herself lingering just a bit longer, until one day she realized she had been standing in the doorway of the shop for what must have been 5 minutes. No one, not a soul, had so much as murmured a word to her.

And on that day, Sonja caught herself fingering her silky ponytail, and feeling the ache between her legs.

That night, Sonja could not sleep. Back with a vengeance was her vision, sitting in the chair. She imagined all the ways she could ask to have her hair cut off. She imagined the barber scolding her for thinking this was appropriate. She imagined her boss, coldly staring at her, judging. She imagined the neighbours, whispering to each other as they caught a glimpse of her shorn head. And she imagined the sensual, erotic feeling of the clippers. She imagined ways of allowing the barber to make a mistake, to perhaps misunderstand, so that he could make that decision, and take the guilt away, to leave her only the forbidden pleasure.

For the next 3 weeks, Sonja felt raw, exposed, as she hurried to the shop after work each day. She knew it was not yet time for the short-haired woman to return, and yet, even walking by the shop, she felt an intense stab of feeling. She grew impatient, waiting. She counted down the days. 14 more days, then 10.

7 more days, until the short-haired woman would be back, to feel the hum and vibration of the clippers.

6 days, then 5.

The last 4 days seemed like an eternity.

But, even when we are so intensely anticipating, time does pass, and Sonja left work on the day she calculated the short-haired woman would schedule her return.

This day, Sonja walked calmly. She had now come to terms with her desire, her feelings. The anticipation was filling, and she wanted to enjoy every drop of it.

Sonja slowed her pace, imperceptibly, she thought, and peered into the window of the barber shop.

There in front of her eyes, was the chair, empty of the short-haired woman.

The two barbers sat in the waiting room chairs, newspapers covering their faces.

Sonja felt a wave of panic. Filled with anxiety, she looked around, outside the shop, wanting to see the short-haired woman rushing late to her regular cutting. Sonja felt her body carry her to the shop door. She found herself inside the shop, looking to see if the short-haired woman was perhaps coming out of the restroom, or hidden in a shadow. But none of her efforts were rewarded. There was no short-haired woman.

Then, Sonja’s eyes caught the chair, and she froze. For what seemed like an eternity, Sonja stared. The chair was just steps away. Mere seconds in time.

The barber closest to her lowered his newspaper, and looked up at Sonja.

Sonja couldn’t move. It was as if the awakened feelings had lain in ambush for this chance, and had blocked her retreat. In rapid succession, a voice within her laid out the simple thoughts.

“How easy this would be.

“If I could get myself to that chair….

“I would have to say something,” she thought.

“He would know, wouldn’t he?

“He wouldn’t make me ask, would he?

“He would make the first cut, and I would be committed.”

Somehow, Sonja found herself standing next to the chair.

Her right hand reached out to touch the burgundy leather, and slid softly across the buttery surface, over to the chrome frame. The chair seemed so much bigger, standing next to it, than it had outside.

Then, suddenly, she felt the barber standing to her left, just behind her.

“Miss? Can I help you?”

Sonja did not speak.

The barber reached out, and pulled the shoulders of her jacket back, and off her arms. Sonja felt her arms straighten, the garment slide off, and knew she was offering no resistance.

Sonja had no idea where she found the ability to move. In a daze, she saw her feet step onto the footrest, and her body sank gingerly into the chair.

The barber returned from hanging her jacket on the rack, and stood behind her.

“Miss? What’ll it be today?” he asked.

Struggling to escape from her mental fog, Sonja felt her lips squirm, to moisten them.

Her body began shaking, almost uncontrollably. She wanted to cry, to become a child again, so that someone could help her make her decisions and requests for her. And she knew she would never get this close again.

She struggled, and in a voice she barely recognized, heard herself say, “There is a woman who comes in here…”

“You mean Melissa?” The barber interjected. “The one who comes for a cleanup every 3 weeks? You want me to cut your hair as short as she has it?”

Sonja exploded. Her elation flowed throughout her body, as she realized she was only a three-letter word, ‘Yes’ away from feeling her desire for real. All of the once insurmountable obstacles, the boss, the neighbours, this damned judging society, were powerless, insignificant, and forgotten. Her desire met her voice, and together they erupted to clearly say “Yes, I want you to cut my hair short, with the clippers, like Melissa.”

Sonja saw in the mirror, her smile. Now obvious, she couldn’t every remember feeling happier than she did right now. She had done her part, and now, she was to receive her reward, her delicious, erotic, sensual reward. With his left hand, she felt the barber lift her shoulder-length hair. As she felt the neck strip pull tight around her neck, and the cape tossed around her with a flourish, the ache between her legs began to move, flowing freely. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the glimpse of his hand, as he reached forward, and returned with the heavy clippers she had seen so many times before trimming Melissa so cleanly, so powerfully, so sensually. She felt the hand of the barber on her head, as he pushed it gently forward. She heard the smooth sound of the motor, closed her eyes, and held her breath. The cold steel blades landed on her nape, and Sonja felt that first rising tickle that told her there was no going back.

 

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