Susan Yanase

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Susan Yanase was part Japanese, part French, which explained her delicate features, and long, straight, glistening black hair that fell almost to her waist. For Ned Stoner, it was a maddening distraction. He sat behind her in Pharmacology, they were both second year medical students and her black shiny hair seemed to have a life and a magic of its own. The slightest movement of her head, and it would shift in sensuous mass. Sometimes, she would run her fingers through it, or pull it forward, running her hand down its silken length. Maddening! He wouldn’t have passed the midsemester exam if she hadn’t let him use her notes. After that, they often met in the library to study. While she was undoubtedly the most striking girl in the class, she apparently dated no one, and kept much to herself. Stoner wondered where she lived, what she did beside study and whether he should invite her to dinner. When he finally did, they had gone to an inexpensive restaurant, Chinese, of all things, and then he’d walked her back to the house where she said she rented a room.

“Would you like to come in?” He would, very much, and he followed her up a flight of narrow stairs. On the second floor, she put in her key, and opened the door. The room was immaculately clean, sparsely furnished. A large table, serving as a desk, dominated the space. Medical books surrounded her computer. On the bare wooden floor, her bed was a mattress covered with a geometric pattern in black and white. Incongruous, were the two large movie posters KEY LARGO, with Humphrey Bogart, and a sultry looking Bacall; on another wall, a sexy Sharon Stone in FATAL ATTRACTION.

“Can I make you some coffee?” She knew he lived on coffee. They all did. “Sure,” he said.

The kitchen was not a kitchen, but an alcove near the bathroom. It smelled faintly of oranges, although there were no oranges in view. She made the instant coffee, and handed him the plain white mug. “What do you know about fetishes?” she said. The question came from nowhere. “Clinically, or personally?” “Both.” He took a deep sip of the coffee. “Not a damn thing,” he said. “That’s clinically,” she said. “What about personally?” He was not about to mention her hair. “Nothing particular abnormal,” he said. She went to the computer, and clicked on a series of icons. The modem clicked and buzzed, and something called “Special Interests” appeared on the screen. “Ever been on the Internet?” she asked. “I’ve heard of it,” he said. In a blank box on the screen, she typed in: “sex.” Moments later, she was scrolling down a list of fetishes, most of which he had never heard of, amputees, tickling, orientals, diapers…. With the click of a switch, the screen went dark. “I’ve got a hair fetish,” she said. Like her question, the admission came out of nowhere. “I thought that was a man-thing,” Stoner said. “Anybody can have a fetish. It’s anything that turns you on.” “And you’re turned on by your hair?” “I know I can’t afford the time,” she said, “but I wash it almost every night, and then dry it, and comb it, and brush it.” She spoke with detachment, as if reciting a case in class “I think it very abnormal,” she said.

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“What’s abnormal about liking your hair? You’ve got beautiful hair.”

“What’s abnormal,” she said, “is what I want done with it.” He pictured her in a beauty salon, with attendants hovering. But that didn’t match. On the table, from a cardboard box, she removed a barber’s clipper, some slender, very sharp looking scissors, and a wide toothed comb, almost as black as her hair. “See.” Stoner did not see at all. “I could never do it,” she said, “it has to be done to me, that’s part of the fetish.” Suddenly, Stoner realized or thought he realized, what she was suggesting. “Hell,” he said, “I’m not going to cut your hair.” “Haven’t you thought about it?” In forbidden fantasy, he had, often her long, sleek hair, flaunted in his face, daring someone to cut it. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” she said. “Wanting to cut off a girl’s hair is a common fetish lot more normal than most.” She pulled a straight back chair in front of a wall length mirror. “I have to watch,” she said. “That’s part of the fetish, watching all the hair fall.”

She was setting the stage as if it were going to happen. In the corner was a small tripod, video camera attached. Spreading the legs of the tripod, she pointed the camera at the chair, then moved the floor lamp closer. “What ever gave you the idea I’d do it?” Stoner said. “You’ve never been able to take your eyes off my hair,” she laughed. He didn’t know he had been that obvious. “But you have to want to cut it,” she said. “Otherwise, it doesn’t work.” Fantasy and reality were two different things. When he showed no sign of agreeing, she went into the bathroom. He could make some remark about having to study, and leave. Instead, he stood in the open doorway of the bathroom, watching her run water into a large, old fashioned basin. Dipping her head forward, the white basin was a sudden swirl of flowing blackness. It was an erotic, beautiful sight, which, of course, she knew. The bottle of shampoo evaded her grasp. “Open it, please.” The thick amber liquid explained the faint smell of oranges. “Pour it on.” Tentatively, he did. With her hands to her head, the shampoo became foaming white, mixed with the rich blackness of her hair. He wondered if he had a neck fetish, too. She had a long, slender neck, now wet and exposed. After rinsing her hair, she ran a second bowl of water. “You can help,” she said, holding out behind her a plastic cup. He filled the cup, and poured the warm water over the back of her head, watching it meet her black hair, and a small trickle find its way behind her ear. “You do this every night?” “It takes less time in the shower,” she said. He had the image of her long black hair, reaching almost to her waist, clinging wet to her wet slender body. Lifting her head, she held her hair in front of her like a thick, silken rope, and gently wrung out more of the water. “How about a towel?” He handed her a thick, white towel.

In the other room, sitting on the awaiting chair, she combed her still damp hair. As she had said, it was a display he couldn’t take his eyes off of. Her hair hung long, and full, in a thick dark curtain, almost brushing the floor. With each stroke of the comb, she dipped her head slightly. If this was seduction by hair, it was working. “You can do it,” she said, offering him the comb, and sitting back in the chair. Just watching was a sensual experience. Touching her hair was more, so cool, slightly damp, incredibly soft. Stoner held the long flow of her hair in front of him, watching the deep tracks of the comb appear and disappear into its silky blackness.

“Now,” she said quietly, “you get to cut it.” Was this a mindless mind game? Or did she really want him to cut her hair? Grasping a handful of her thick, black hair, he held it over her head, the scissors close to her scalp. “Here?” She showed no sign of wavering. “Anywhere you like she said.” He lowered the long section of hair, sliding the scissors almost to the end. She smiled at his retreat. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “Cut it!” He closed the scissors. A thick three inch length of her hair dropped to the floor. “Now,” she said, “that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He raised the scissors higher. Another three inch piece fell; then another. “You’re nibbling,” she said. “Not nibbling,” he said. “Being careful.” “Get on with it!”

He held up what remained of the long section of hair, and cut. Not knowing what to do with the thick silken piece, he dropped it in her lap. Her fingers touched the shorn hair, but her eyes never left her reflection. “Have you always had long hair?” he said. “Always,” she said. That’s the way my father wanted it.” “In Japan?” “Los Angeles,” she said. “Other girls were always cutting their hair, but when I asked them to cut mine, they only laughed,” It was getting cut now. He lifted another section of her long black hair, this time sinking the scissors close to her head, and cutting off the whole full length. Her shoulders stiffened slightly. He could not get used to the crisp, final sound of the scissors or the soft feel of her hair coming off in his hand. Nor, did he want to. More of her thick black hair hit the floor, or fell across her shoulders, and slid to her lap. Soon, the chair was encircled with mounds of her silken black hair. Stepping back, he was surprised at the result. She had the same boyish crop that he’d seen and liked on many women. Apparently, there was nothing to this hair cutting business. Anyone could do it.

“What do you think?” he said. “Fine, and very normal,” she said. “but that’s not what we’re doing, is it?” She was living her fantasy through him. Or, was it the other way around? “No,” he said. “I guess not.” The clipper came to life in his hand with a threatening, persistent buzz. With this, “All off,” meant all off. “Are you sure?” “That’s what I bought it for,” she said. She tensed as the clipper entered her now short hair, plowing a white path to her forehead. There was no turning back. He enlarged the path with another pass of the clipper, the sheared mass of black hair tumbling into her lap. This was serious cutting. No more talking. Intently, he buzzed the left side of her head, watching the nakedness appear. Then he ran the clipper through the remaining half of her hair. When he was through, her small, well shaped head was totally shorn.

“Well,” he said, “we did it.” The “we” was important to share the guilt, if there was any. She let her hand roam the bareness of her scalp. “God,” she said, “it feels different.” “Wait till you show up at school.” “I thought of that,” she said. As she stood, the long lengths of black hair in her lap joined those on the floor. She turned off the camera, and from an old file cabinet took a white plastic bag; from that, a short black wig. “I never could try it on,” she said. “It wouldn’t fit over my hair.” It fit now, the glossy black hair of the wig cut to her chin, with heavy bangs across her forehead. It made her look more Japanese. Satisfied that the wig would work, she pulled it off, leaving it on the table. “We made a hell of mess,” Stoner said, eying the mounds of black hair around the empty chair. She began picking up the longest lengths of her hair. He thought she planned to save them. But pulling down the black bedspread, she dropped them in a soft, glossy mass, the shiny blackness of her shorn hair, even blacker against the whiteness of the sheet. “There are fetishes, and fetishes,” she said, turning out the floor lamp. “And we’ve explored only one.”

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