Her Fingers in My Hair

We had just met. And she was treating me to a explosion of the senses.

Staring at me.

Appraising me.

Circling me.

Talking to me in that lovely feminine lilt.

Her breath on my skin.

There. Stop everything. Running her fingers through my hair. Gliding through. Stopping. Pulling lightly. Teasing.

My senses alert now. The hair standing up on the back of my neck.

Moving to me. To ask the question:

"Do you know what size?"

"Size?" I asked.

"Size clipper", she answered.

"No. Just guess."

Buzz. Clip. Snip.

Leaning into me. Firm body contact. The swell of her breasts hovering over me as she tended to me. A sweet, feminine scent.

"Follow me". I did as she asked. "Lay back there." I did as she asked.

Warm water cascading over me. Tingling shampoo massaged into me, invigorating my scalp. Vigorous rubbing with her fingertips in the warm sudsy water. Heavenly.

A blow dry. A tip. A restaurant recommendation in this unfamiliar town I was visiting. A friendly "Come back again". And I was out and back down the road.

One of my best haircut experiences ever. Not as good a cut as the ex-GI at my home barbershop that deals with guys all day gives. But a better experience. A more sensual experience.

Of course, I would edit out of this memory the few moments we spent discussing whether I should color the increasing grey out of my sideburns. In the end, I opted to keep the grey. I've earned it.