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From: Yosha Bourgea <raindog@sonic.net>
Subject: STORY: How I Lost My Hair, Part I (MF, cons, no sex) feedback requested *
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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 grandfather�s to blame; my mother�s father and the genetic kink he passed
down to me. I�ve 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 �ornery� 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. Maggie�s a professional,
twenty-five years in the business, and she brooks no nonsense from anyone�s
hair. I leave the salon looking, if not quite dapper, at least respectable.
I was looking forward to Maggie�s ministrations on Saturday. My hair was
becoming even more embarrassing than usual; I�d 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.
�I�m sorry,� she said. �We�re closed.�
�It�s only five,� I said.
�Yeah, I know,� she said. �I�m sorry. The owner�s out of town visiting family.
She told me I could take off early. Did you have an appointment?�
�Maggie�s out of town?� I said. �That�s a first. She�s always here.�
�Oh, you know her?� the woman asked.
�Yeah, I�m a regular,� I said. �And at the moment I�m rather desperate.� I
pointed to my head. �Is there any way you could squeeze me in?�
She studied me for a moment. Her eyes moved over my disastrous hair, my face.
�Okay,� she said. �One for the road. Come on in.� She opened the door.
�Thanks,� I said. �Thanks a lot. I hope I�m not putting you to any trouble.�
�No, no trouble,� she said, locking the door behind me. �Business has been slow
today, that�s all. Did you say you had an appointment?�
�I don�t, actually,� I said. �Like I said, Maggie�s always here. I usually
just drop by unannounced. I guess it�s a bad habit.� I started to sit down in
one of the chairs.
�Why don�t we do this in the back?� she said. �If you don�t mind the mess.
I�ve already swept up in here.�
�Sure.� I followed her around the corner and into a windowless room I�d 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.
�So. Let me see, here.� 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. �What are you looking for?� 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. That�s what my mom used to call it, chicken-chops.
�It�s pretty bad, isn�t it?� I said ruefully. �To tell you the truth, I�m 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.� I shifted
in my seat. �I guess just take off some of the excess. Short in back. You
know, just--do what you can. I trust you.�
�That�s always nice to hear,� she said. �Okay. I�ll see what I can do. Why
don�t we go over to the sink first, and wet this down?�
�You�re the boss,� I said, and got up.
She shook her head. �Not hardly. I probably shouldn�t tell you this, but it�s
my first week on the job.�
�I was going to ask,� I said. �You don�t look familiar.� I sat down again on
the stool and tipped my head back over the sink.
�No, I just moved down here at the beginning of the month,� she said, turning
the tap on. I closed my eyes. �Maggie�s the first friend I�ve made here.�
The water was warm, soothing. �What�s your name?� I asked.
�Hope,� she said, putting her hands under my head.
Hope. �That�s a beautiful name,� I said. I opened my eyes and she was
blushing.
�Yeah, that�s what everyone tells me,� she said. �It�s a tough name to live up
to, though.�
�It depends on how you look at it,� I said. �Is it your hope or someone
else�s?�
She laughed. �I don�t know. I guess it�s my mother�s. She had a miscarriage
before I was born.�
�Sounds appropriate, then,� I said.
�Yeah.� She shrugged. �Okay, all done here.� 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. �I
thought we�d try some of this relaxant,� she said, holding up a short bottle
filled with peach-colored fluid. �It�s supposed to work pretty well on problem
hair.� Then she blushed again. �I�m sorry, that was sort of rude.�
�No, just accurate,� I said. �See?� I removed the towel with a flourish.
Hope�s hand flew to her mouth, not quickly enough to stifle the smile. I liked
it; it was a nice smile. �Don�t worry,� I said. �I�m used to it.�
�Wow,� she said. �I�m impressed. I�ve never seen hair do that before.�
�That�s me,� I said, executing a half-turn. �I should join a freak show.�
�Maybe,� she said. �But I�m not giving up yet. Have a seat.�
�Thank you.� I sat in the chair, faced the mirror, and had to smirk a little
myself. Chicken-chops. Flotsam, jetsam. Junkyard operetta.
�So what do you do?� she asked, approaching me with comb and scissors.
�It depends on what you mean,� I said. �If you mean my job, I work at the
Pegasus Caf� downtown.�
�But?�
�But I�m really a writer,� I said, �although I can�t say that without sounding
totally pretentious.� And then I said it with her: �What do you write?� 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, I�m a comedian only in moments of nervousness
or desperation.
�Good reflexes,� she said, shaking her head. I glowed. �So, really, what _do_
you write?�
�Whatever,� I said. She had begun snipping around the back. �It depends on how
I feel. Sometimes poetry, sometimes stories. Lately I�ve been writing a lot of
erotica.� I wanted to take that back as soon as I�d said it. _Now,_ I thought,
_she�ll think you�re a fucking pervert._
�Erotica, huh?� Hope met my eyes for a moment in the mirror. She didn�t look
upset. �Isn�t that just a polite name for pornography?�
I cleared my throat, tried to think of how to respond. �I think of pornography
as erotica that doesn�t work,� I said. _Change the subject_, I hissed inwardly,
but my mouth kept talking. Another symptom of nervousness. �I 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.� _Oh holy Jesus, would you stop?_
�It�s stupid, pointless stuff like that that gives erotica a bad name.�
�So you write the good stuff, I take it.� Hope put her hands on my head and
tilted it gently to the side. �Hold still.� 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.
�I guess that�s a matter of opinion,� I said. �It works for--�
�Hold _still_,� she said, grasping my head firmly. �Unless you want a sliced
ear.�
�Sorry,� I muttered. _Get a grip, kid. Don�t even think. Just shut the fuck
up. Get the haircut. Get out of here._
�I think that�s interesting, though,� she said, snipping away. I stared numbly
at the thick curls of hair landing on the dropcloth. �I 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.�
�Didn�t you feel self-conscious?� I asked.
She shrugged. �Little bit. Not much. Not as much as the students.� She
stopped clipping and I felt her hand come to rest on the back of my head. I
didn�t look at the mirror.
�What do you mean?� I asked.
�Well, like, I�d go around afterward and look at all the drawings, right?� Her
hand shifted, stayed a moment, and then was gone. �And they�d either have me
with these huge tits, all out of proportion to my body, looking really
grotesque--� I heard her laugh. �--or, I�d 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.�
�Hmm.� I stared at the dropcloth where my hands lay folded in my lap.
�Oh, great, now I�m making _you_ self-conscious,� she said. I looked up at the
mirror and saw that I was blushing furiously. I opened my mouth, waiting for
witty repart�e, but none came. I couldn�t think of a single thing to say. Hope
was smiling. _At least there�s that,_ I told myself. _She could be running in
terror. For that matter, so could you. Not a bad idea._
�I�m sorry,� she continued. �I guess it�s not very professional of me to be
talking like this.�
An opening. �Don�t be sorry,� I said. �I blush easily.� That was a lie.
�Besides, if anyone should apologize, it�s me�I got off on that whole erotica
trip.� _Got off...ouch._ �A byproduct of being single, I guess.� _Oh my lord,
you�re 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 hadn�t heard me, or hadn�t 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 hadn�t said that. I had only thought it. And you can�t go to jail for
what you�re thinking, like in that song. What song was it? Something from the
Forties. I couldn�t remember what it was called. I was trembling. She must be
able to feel it.
�It�s raining,� she said.
I had to say something. Something casual.
�How do you know?� I asked. I sounded foolish.
�Listen,� she said. Her hands in my hair stopped moving. I fought back the
trembling. _I would love to see you naked._ We waited, silent.
�I hear it,� 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. �I love the
rain,� she said.
�So do I.� 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.
�Ever since I was a little girl,� she murmured, and I felt something warm brush
my neck. �I�ve always loved it. There�s something...�
_I would love..._
�Something about it. It�s so...passionate, and so innocent. Not innocent,
no�but there�s no shame in it. Even the floods last year. No shame.�
_I know what you mean._ I felt her breasts brush my neck again. _I know._
�I would love to see you naked.�
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:_
�And to touch you.�
For a moment, nothing happened. We didn�t move, didn�t speak.
Then her hands left my hair.
�I think we�re just about done here,� she said lightly. �Why don�t we go wash
this stuff out, and then you can tell me how it looks.�
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 wouldn�t focus properly, so I closed them again.
�Lean back,� 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.
�You had some good snarls in there, but I think we got rid of most of them,�
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.
�Your hair feels very soft now,� she said. Her hands lifted gently, and I let
my head fall back into them. Under my hands her hips rose slightly. �I think
that relaxant really worked.�
�I don�t know,� I said. �I feel kind of tense at the moment.�
�Ha ha. If _you_ feel tense, maybe you should go to a therapist.�
�This could be therapeutic,� I said. �Maybe I just need to loosen up and go
with the flow.� 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. �Why don�t you dry off,� she said. �The mirror�s over there. And
then you should be going, I think.�
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.
�It�s beautiful,� 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.
�You can keep your money,� 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.
�What did I do?� I asked quietly.
She laughed a different laugh, short and bitter. �I�m not an idiot,� she said.
�Not perfect, all right. Prone to unprofessional remarks. Maybe a little too
trusting of attractive strangers who speak in complete sentences. But I�m not
stupid, Jack, or whatever the fuck your name is.�
I took a step toward her.
�My name is Paul,� I said, �and if I did something wrong I want to apologize for
it. But first I have to know what it is.�
Hope shook her head slightly, took a deep breath. �I can put it together.
You�re single and desperate. You write about sex. What could be more
convenient?� She swept her hand across the room. �It�s primo material. You�ve
probably already started writing the story in your head. �A Good Hair Day,�
how�s that for a title? You can call me Delilah.�
I took another step toward her, started to speak.
�This could be therapeutic,� she said, shaking her head again. �Yeah. Right.
So could a check from Penthouse Forum.� She whirled around suddenly, and I saw
that she was using her anger to keep the tears back. I�d done it so many times
myself.
�Wait,� I said.
�I am not some--I am not some cheap story,� she said. �I don�t 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.�
�Hold on!� I said. �Would you let me talk for a minute, for Christ�s sake?�
Hope took a step away from me.
�I won�t come any closer,� I said. �Just stop--attacking me, or whatever it is
you�re doing. Look, I don�t know what happened, but it wasn�t part of a scam or
anything like that. I don�t even know you. I just came in here to get a
haircut.� I retreated into the chair and sat facing her. �And then we started
talking. And you were so nice, and you�re really beautiful, and I thought you
liked me. And yes, I�m single, and sometimes, yes, I feel desperate. But I
don�t go around picking up girls and writing about them--Jesus, I don�t even
know how to pick up girls. Look at me. I�m a recovering geek. I don�t have
the sophistication it takes to be like that.�
As I spoke, the anger in her face subsided. She still regarded me warily, but I
knew she was listening.
�You were right about one thing, though,� I said. I got up again. �I was
writing a story in my head. That�s how I deal with things I don�t understand.
When I�m totally lost, or I feel scared or reckless, I start writing.
Sometimes--I guess I need a script to keep going.� I looked away. �Maybe I�m
not a very good writer.�
For a moment we both stood there in silence. I listened to the rain falling
outside. It was time to go. Whatever mess I�d made of things, I couldn�t
unmake it now. It was time to cut my losses and go home.
�There�s a ten on the table,� I said. �It�s for the haircut. You earned it.�
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.
�It�s beautiful,� I said. And walked away.
I was halfway across the salon when the lights went out.
--------------------------------------------------------
Part II to follow
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