Dream of: 15 September 1996 "Haircut"

I had just arrived in Paris, accompanied by a young slender black-haired man who strongly resembled the actor Bronson Pinchot, except this fellow was shorter. We were already in the center of town, and our first shop was a hair-styling salon. I had been thinking of having my hair cut, perhaps even splurging and having a shampoo and the works, but it seemed unusual for me that this would be the first place I would go.

It was already late in the day, and I was uncertain that there would be time for anyone to work on us, especially since there appeared to only be one friseuse in the place, a comely svelte young brunette. She didn't seem to mind that it was late, and she immediately began working on my friend.

Meanwhile, I in turns sat in a chair, or walked around the spacious well-lit room, glancing at times in the large mirrors on the walls, wondering how I would have my hair done. This place was obviously up-scale, and completely different from the typical discount barber shop I normally visited. The idea of having my hair styled instead of having a perfunctory cut was foreign to me. However the idea of actually changing the drab non-style which I had worn all my life seemed intriguing. And what better place to make such a change than in Paris. Would it not simply be a necessity, if I were going to introduce myself to Paris society, to follow the accepted norms for refining one's appearance?

The friseuse spent almost half an hour with my friend before she finished. When he finally rose from his seat and walked over to me, I could see that he wasn't satisfied with the result. I myself was uncertain what to think. I could now see some specks of gray in his raven-black hair, specks which I had never noticed before. I had to look at the coiffure from several angles to be able to understand it. It was definitely a flat-top, the hair having been cut in a level plane across the top. But the sides were a bit baffling, hard to grasp. The hair seemed to billow in waves, not completely in unison with the rectitudinal top. Yet who was I to say? Even though the ensemble struck me as being somewhat discordant, I wasn't expert in this field, and I thought surely the coiffeuse was the master of her art.

Yet it was with some slight trepidation that I took my seat in the waiting chair. She stood behind me and both of us looked into the full wall-mirror in front of us. At once I began trying to tell her what I wanted. This was somewhat more difficult than usual because she apparently spoke no English, or at least gave no indication of such, and our entire conversation was in French, a language for which I displayed only moderate knowledge.

I began by saying, as I normally would, that I wanted only a trim. I pointed to the hair hanging over my ears, and pointed out that I wanted the hair cut back over the top of the ears. I then directed her attention to the top of my chestnut brown hair, focusing upon the lack of a part in my hair. I had trouble thinking of the French word for "part", finally describing it as a "line." I explained, as best I could, that I really didn't have a part in my hair, that I just let it fall where it may, and that I didn't have the time to make sure that my hair retained a proper part.

This idea of a part in my hair led to some decided discussion. My lovely friseuse expressed her conviction that the part, for me, would be of utmost importance, and that I must strive to maintain it. I, on the other hand, didn't see how that was possible. In my mind's eye I could visualize a well-maintained part – I had seen many men with such a mark of distinction – and admittedly there was a certain attraction to the eye in the rectilinear division of the hair. However I failed to see just how, through my busy and chaotic days, I would be able to maintain this elusive "part", and I somewhat sardonically inquired whether I should have a little hand mirror which I carried around with me all day so that I could check on my "part." Far from thinking the notion of carrying a mirror to be ludicrous, my pretty stylist replied that carrying a hand mirror could be helpful, and that if that was what it took, then I should do so.

Amazingly I felt swayed by her seeming expertise in this matter, and instead of resisting her, I felt inclined to succumb to her suggestions. I sat back, ready to place myself in her care, when something broke our attention. My black-haired companion had stood up, and without saying anything to anyone, had headed for the door and walked out. I saw a concerned expression immediately pass over the young lady's mien, and I at once understood her concern. I quickly told her not to worry that the other fellow hadn't yet paid for her work, that I would take care of everything. A perceptible relief was visible on her face, although she tried to feign that she hadn't been concerned, and her perky smile returned. I added that she could now see that I was able to read her mind. She understood me, that I had been able to perceive her concern, and she now seemed happy and assured that I was the responsible person here and that she had nothing to worry about.

If anyone was worried, it was me. How much was this going to cost? Normally before I had embarked on such an adventure I would have inquired as to the fare for passage. Now it was hard to tell what I would have to pay. The bill could run up to $100 apiece – as much as $200 for this whole escapade. But again, surprisingly, I didn't really care. What was usually my major concern when I went to a barber – that is, the price – now seemed of minor importance, and I relaxed and enjoyed what had always been for me a most unenjoyable experience: getting a haircut.

By now, however, much more was involved than a mere haircut. This fox, who I now realized was much more attractive than I had at first perceived, had begun her work. She was standing near my left shoulder, so close, that her breast, small but firm, was pressing into my left arm. But more pertinent, she had laid her left hand far up on the thigh of my left leg, almost touching my crotch, and had allowed me to move my hand near so that we were almost holding hands.

I was reveling in the feel of her skin, having almost forgotten about the matter of my hair-cut, not thinking or caring how it was possible for her to be doing her work with only one free hand. My main concern was whether I was going to be able to be with her after the barbering was finished, if she and I would be able to go out on the town tonight.

She needed to shift position to go to my right side. She adjusted her body, pulling around to the other side, once again pressing up against me, more tightly and snugly than ever, more intimately and comfortably. I wondered if this time she would put her right hand on my right leg as she had put her left hand on my left leg. I even dared to think that she might go further, and to assist her, I lifted the garment – a gray sweater or a jacket – which was lying on my lap. She immediately took the hint, and placed her right hand right next to my crotch. I could immediately feel her fingers moving around, offering the promise of the most intense pleasure. I could hardly believe what was happening. I only knew that this was turning out to be a far better hair-cut than I had expected.

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