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“Thanks,” she says, tugging her wrist free of my hand.
We’re both quiet for several minutes as she turns her attention back to my hair. She sprays my hair down and combs it until it’s damp.
“I’m just going to take a little of the length off,” she says. “And give it a little texture. That should help keep it off your face.”
I nod, having no understanding of what she’s talking about. But she’s touching me. And she’s standing closer than she ever has before as she runs her fingers though my hair. Occasionally, she leans in close enough that I catch a hint of her perfume. I let my mind wander as she works, focusing on the relaxing feel of her hands in my hair and the quiet snip of the scissors. I watch her in the mirror, noting the graceful movement of her hands as she works. Her gaze is intense and focused. Something about having that intensity directed at me has my dick twitching in my pants. I try to ignore her closeness and the smell of her, but it’s no use.
I’m half hard by the time she finishes my haircut. When she insists on washing it next, I want to refuse. This is dangerous. I’ve spent the last 20 minutes fantasizing about the things I’d do to her if I had the chance. I’ve already pictured at least five different ways I could take her in this chair. I could pull her down into my lap so she’s straddling me, her tits in my face, my cock stretching and filling her. Or she could sit in my lap with her back to me, facing the mirror, watching while I thrust into her from behind. I could bend her over the chair and pound into her, my fingers digging into those full hips. I could—
“Linc?” Harlow’s questioning voice cuts into my fantasy and I meet her eyes in the mirror. She gestures toward the sink in the back. “Time for a wash.”
The last thing I need is for her to lean over me as she washes my hair, those full breasts threatening to spill out of that low-cut shirt of hers. But I don’t argue. I’m afraid if I speak it will be to beg her to let me touch her, to kiss her, anything. Instead, I remain silent and let her lead me over to the bowl. As I follow her, I try to discreetly adjust my cock which seems to have developed a mind of its own this afternoon and is now standing at full attention. Luckily the flowing cape covers me so she can't see the tent that has sprung up in my pants. She waits while I sit in the chair and lean my head back over the bowl.
Harlow runs her fingers through my hair as the water warms up, pushing it back away from my forehead. I try not to focus on her nearness and her scent invading my senses. She directs the spray of warm water over my hair and scalp, wetting my hair.
“How’s that feel?” she asks, her voice soft.
“Huh?” I speak without thinking, unsure what she’s asking. Having her hands in my hair along with the warm water feels incredible.
Harlow laughs. “The water. Is it too hot?”
“Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s fine.”
She nods and runs her fingers through my hair some more as she directs the spray. I watch her for a few seconds, but eventually my eyes drift closed as I settle into the relaxing feel of someone else washing my hair. I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of treatment. It’s been years, I know. Harlow lathers my hair with shampoo that I realize smells familiar a split second before I realize why. It smells like her. It’s that combination of flowers and citrus that I always smell when she’s nearby. Inhaling deeply, I can’t quite hide the smile on my face.
“Sorry,” she says. “You’re stuck smelling girly until you wash it again.”
I crack one eye open to look at her. “You’re going to ruin my manly reputation.”
She grins. “If some shampoo is enough to do that, you haven’t been trying hard enough.”
I laugh as she rinses the suds from my hair, her fingers combing through the strands. “You’re probably right.”
“Besides,” she says, reaching over me for the conditioner. “I think it smells pretty good.”
I watch the way her shirt stretches tight across her chest with her movement, wishing my body didn’t have such an immediate reaction to the sight. I clear my throat before speaking.
“I guess it’s not so bad,” I say, my voice rough.
By the time Harlow finishes washing my hair, I feel like I’m seconds away from exploding in my pants. Since when is a haircut supposed to be sexual? It’s not. I’m just such a horny bastard that I can’t seem to help myself when it comes to Harlow. I can only pray she doesn’t notice. I sit up as she wraps a small towel around my hair, gently squeezing out the excess water.
“Come on,” she says, motioning me back toward the chair in front of the mirror.
I take a seat, knowing that I should stop this and get back to work. I’ll just let her brush my hair and then I’ll put an end to it. Harlow removes the towel from my hair and tosses it into the hamper under the counter. Then she takes a comb and gently works it through my hair, removing all the tangles. I can already see the difference when I look in the mirror. My hair still reaches nearly to my shoulders, but it looks neater now, lighter. When she reaches for the hair dryer, I shake my head.
“You don’t have to dry it.”
She smiles at me, giving my shoulder a little squeeze. “I want to.”
There’s something about the way she says those three words that has me glued to my seat. I couldn’t leave now if I wanted to. I keep my eyes on the mirror, watching Harlow as she dries my hair, brushing it out. I don’t know that I’ve ever had a woman dry my hair like this. Before I started cutting my own hair, I used to go to the local barber shop. This is a far cry from the retired Army medic who told war stories to everyone who would listen and only knew three types of cuts, one of them involving a bowl. I nearly laugh at the memory and Harlow flicks off the hair dryer to study me.
“What’s funny?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. I was just thinking of my last hairdresser.”
“Stylist,” she corrects.
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not sure that term applies to him, but is that the term you prefer?”
