My Quarantine Haircut
You may recall Bill Clinton’s famous 1993 haircut, when he reportedly held up air traffic at LAX so he could get a haircut aboard Air Force One. It was said at the time that Clinton paid $200 to the stylist, Christoph of Beverly Hills. The rumor turned out to be untrue but it still made a good story.
I never thought I could outdo Bill Clinton at anything, from electioneering to policymaking to womanizing. But at last I have succeeded.
I paid $300 for a haircut. Here’s what happened.
I was scheduled for a haircut on March 17, the second day of the coronavirus-driven lockdown. I needed one; I had last gotten my hair cut in early January.
But starting March 16, all but essential businesses in the state were closed. All but the most essential employees were either teleworking from home or furloughed. And hair cutters are not essential employees.
Now, seven weeks later, one fact was pluperfectly clear: I really needed a haircut.
My regular haircutter, Samantha Reeve, works at the Mop-Chop Shop, a chain of salons in the Kenworth area and around the state. The shop treats its haircutters as independent contractors, not W-2 employees. That way, the operators are free to set their own hours, develop their own customer bases, and take as much time off as they can afford. Of course, if they don’t work, they don’t get paid.
Samantha cut my hair for the first time more than a year ago, and I was delighted with the result. I was also a little surprised because she was only 21 years old. But she told me she had been cutting and styling people’s hair since she was 14, and that experience showed in her work.
Samantha had more than just experience going for her. She could also hold an interesting conversation, and she was very easy on the eyes: about 5’4”, slim, with perfectly-styled dark blonde hair, big blue eyes, beautiful lips with a light-pink gloss, and an appealing figure. I looked forward to seeing her every few months.
After my third cut with her, Samantha invited me to join her “private client” list. That meant I could call her cell phone to make an appointment with her for any Tuesday, the day she reserved for private clients only. During my first such appointment, I observed that most of her other private clients seemed to be older gentlemen who, I surmised, tipped her very well.
During one of our conversations, I learned that Samantha lived with her grandparents while she and her boyfriend saved enough money to afford an apartment. I didn’t pursue that idea; I mean, beyond a security deposit, how much more do you need to afford an apartment? If you can’t pay your living expenses out of your combined current income, your savings won’t help much. Still, my conclusion was that money was an issue for the pair.
None of that mattered on this day, though. What mattered was that I was about to meet a new client for my business and I needed a good haircut.
I called Samantha’s cell phone with the question: “I know the shop is closed, but would you consider making a house call?”
She hesitated before answering. She could make a house call, she thought, but she did not want to catch anything that she might bring home to her grandparents. She was especially concerned about protecting her grandfather, who suffered from asthma and COPD. If he developed a case of COVID-19, he likely would not survive.
As we screened each other over the phone, I learned that neither of us had been out of our respective houses, or off our respective properties, in nearly three weeks. Neither of us had been sick or shown any symptoms of COVID-19. Both of us felt healthy now.
What about the boyfriend? I asked whether she had seen her boyfriend in the past 14 days and, if so, who else he might have been with during that time. Here answer was blunt:
“I dumped him almost two months ago. And yeah, he was seeing other people alright, the creep. What an asshole.”
So he was cheating on her, which to my mind would make him a blind and stupid asshole as well as a bounder and a cad.
After more discussion, we decided it would be safe for her to come to my house to give me a haircut. She would charge me $20, the same amount she charged at the Mop-Chop Shop. That suited me, and we set an appointment for the next afternoon.
Samantha pulled into my driveway right on time. She carried with her a satchel of equipment containing everything she would need to render a professional haircut in someone’s home. She even had an extension cord in case she needed it for the electric trimmer or blow dryer. I was impressed: this was not her first home haircut.
I was impressed for another reason: on this warm day, she was wearing yellow short-shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. She was really a fine-looking young woman.
I greeted her at the front door – both of us wearing masks – and she replied with, “Omigod, I drive by here all the time and I love this house; I didn’t know you lived here!”
I said, “Yep, I was raised in this old house and now I own it. Come on in!”
It is a distinctive house, a 15-room Victorian with four bedrooms, four baths, a gourmet kitchen, and a number of other unique features. Built in 1872, it’s one of the oldest properties in Kenworth.
We took each other’s temperatures with my infrared thermometer and, when we both showed normal temps, we agreed to take off our masks. It felt like some kind of great reveal, almost like exposing some seldom-seen body part. We both laughed at our reactions to the situation.
Given her interest, I offered Samantha a short tour of the house after the haircut, if she had time before her next appointment.
She looked at me ruefully: “You’re the only appointment I’ve had in the last 10 weeks! So yeah, I’ll have plenty of time after we’re done.”
I couldn’t believe it. No work in the last 10 weeks, not even from us private clients? She told me the problem was that all her client contact information, as well as the scheduling and e-mail systems, was held in the company’s computers, and those computers were down for the duration, probably to save money. So she had no way of contacting her regulars to let us know she was available.
I tried to ask discreetly how she was making ends meet. She was candid:
“I’m not. I mean, I used to pay my grandparents $100 a week for, you know, food and stuff, and to help out with bills. But I haven’t paid them anything in six weeks. My savings is gone, and I’m afraid they [the bank] are going to repossess my car, which I can’t even put gas in. If this goes on much longer, I’m gonna have to find some other kind of job.”
She was describing a sad but all-too-common situation these days. And I felt her pain to some degree: my revenue was down too, but my expenses were also down. So I still had a decent (if somewhat reduced) income; Samantha did not.
We got me set up on a barstool in the kitchen and Samantha went to work.
As she worked, we chatted. It was a much more relaxed and personal conversation than we could ever have had in the shop with other customers and operators listening in. She was curious to know about my background, whether I was married and/or had kids [separated for many years, one grown son]; whether I lived alone in this big old house [yes], where I worked [I run a consulting company and travel a lot], and more.
She told me, as she had before, that she was 21, lived with the grandparents who raised her, and was presently unattached. She attended Kenworth High School and Kenworth House of Beauty; then got her job with Mop-Chop Shops. Her goal in life was to one day get married, have kids, and open her own salon.
I don’t usually ask real personal questions but I was curious about how she was really feeling about the boyfriend and that whole situation after a two-month separation. Again, she was frank:
“You know what? Fuck him. Yeah, he was cheating on me but that wasn’t all. He was domineering and unreasonable. He was a narcissist. My grandma saw through him right away but I didn’t.” This was the first time I heard her drop the F-bomb.
“I’m sorry you had that experience,” I said. “But grandmas are good for that sort of thing. And he’s the loser, in more ways than one: you have way too much going for you, too much class, to be stuck with a guy like that.”
“Aww, thank you. And yeah, my grandpa wanted to shoot him but grandma said no. Grandpa was a Marine during the Vietnam War.”
“Ha! That would have taught him a lesson, if he lived to learn it. But your grandma was right. You can go around shooting people you don’t like. I wouldn’t be above putting your ex’s face on a target, though.”
Samantha chuckled at the thought as we moved on to other topics.
Samantha is an efficient all-scissors haircutter and, within about 20 minutes, she has made great progress. Only the neck, ears, and eyebrows remained, and she was done.
“Now, what about a shampoo and blow dry?” I asked.
“I can do that,” she said. “Only, you know, there’s an extra charge - $5.00.”
“Sold. Put it on my tab.”
Samantha washed my hair and massaged my scalp at the kitchen sink; then I returned to the bar stool for a little blow-dry and styling. Finally she was satisfied and pulled out a mirror so I could have a look.
“Expertly done, as always,” I told her. “And I think I owe you $25; let’s call it $30, okay?”
Samantha was grateful and said so. She just made thirty bucks in under an hour, and it was all hers. In the shop, she would have made only about $12.50, including the tip.
Although her work was done, Samantha seemed in no hurry to pack up and leave. Maybe it was the prospect of a house tour or simply the close personal contact with another human being, but it seemed clear to me she was delaying her exit on purpose.
So I had to ask her, “So … while you’re here, what other services do you offer?”
“What do you mean, other services?”
“Well, like, in the old days barbers used to give shaves to their customers. Do you ever do that?”
Samantha brightened. “Oh yeah … well, not in the shop … but I shave my grandfather sometimes and he likes it.”
I had to ask, “Straight razor?”
“Oh god no, those things scare me! But I can use a regular razor; only, I don’t have one with me.”
“I have one you can use, if you’re willing. And your comment reminds me of something my old barber once told me. He was in his 80s and said he wouldn’t do a shave any more unless there was a bloodmobile parked out in front of the shop!”
“Exactly,” she replied.
I went upstairs to get my razor, shaving cream, and a couple towels. We soaked one of the towels in hot water and Samantha wrapped it around my face to soften the whiskers.
“I know there will be an extra charge for this, and that’s okay. Will $15 cover it?”
“Oh yeah, that’s fine!” she replied.
Samantha’s technique elevated that shave from a unitary event to a unique experience, mainly because, after each swipe of the razor, she ran her delicate fingers across the area just shaved to check for closeness. After doing one side, she caressed that side of my face with a soft warm hand. Just her touch was enough to cause a stirring in my pants.
Before long she finished the job and was satisfied with her work. As she was cleaning up, I had to ask:
“Okay, this is great. Now, what other services …?”
She looked like she was wondering where this was going. I explained that I was just trying to help her generate a little cash; nothing more.
“Hmmm … I know,” she said, “Do you want a manicure? I could do a mani-pedi, okay?”
“I’ve never had that done before. Do you know how to do that?”
“Yeah, I used to work in a nail salon after school when I was in high school, and still do some of my friends’ nails.”
I agreed to the mani-pedi as long as she didn’t use any kind of polish, lacquer, or gel. We repaired to the bathroom to work out logistics, where I would soak my hands in the washbowl, then my feet in the tub. While I was soaking, Samantha ran out to her car to retrieve her nail kit.
Our conversation took a little more personal turn during the manicure as Samantha said, “I like your hands. You have strong hands …”
“Thanks, I guess. I worked in a steel mill in college and that’s what happens …”
“And I like your forearms, too.”
Forearms? Are hands and forearms actually a thing with women?
“Thank you … and what I like about you – well, one of the many things – is your touch. Your hands are warm and soft, but not tentative … they tell me you take good care of yourself and you’re confident in what you are doing.”
“Wow, thank you!” And for the first time, she giggled.
The whole procedure took longer and cost more - $35 – than I expected but I figured WTF. She needed the money; I had the money. She was definitely pleasant company. So, all in all, it was worth it.
Samantha finished the mani-pedi by massaging my hands and feet, which was exquisite. I was kind of entranced and said, “That was great and I’m just going to go barefoot, if that’s okay with you.”
Samantha said, “Okay, I will too,” and kicked off her sandals.
She cleaned up after herself, and we padded barefoot back to the kitchen for some refreshment: iced tea for me, lemonade for her.
“Now, ready for that house tour?” I asked her.
“Yeah, definitely!”
The general layout of the house is that the first floor has the kitchen and wet bar, a dining room, a music room, a parlor, a room with a huge fireplace, and a great room with a full bath attached.
The second floor comprises bedrooms, bathrooms, and my office. The third floor is a game room with a wet bar and a pool table.
We climbed to the third floor first.
“Wow, this place is amazing!” Samantha exclaimed.
“Yeah, and I love coming up here. This is where I usually entertain friends. We can all get together, tell stories, play cards, play pool, whatever. And have a couple drinks while we’re at it.”
“So, what do you do now that you’re not supposed to have friends over?” she wondered.
“Well, this lockdown has put a real crimp in my social life. But sometimes, if I don’t have anybody to play pool with, I’ll just come up here and play with myself.”
“Hahaha!”
“Omigod, no! I didn’t mean …” I could feel my face getting redder by the second. “Wait! What I meant was, play BY myself, or play AGAINST myself!”
“Hahaha, most people don’t have a whole separate room just for that!”
“Ah, jeez …”
After that bit of embarrassment and a good laugh, we walked down to the second floor. I showed Samantha my office and through some of the bedrooms. Along the way, I had an idea:
“Hey, Samantha … downstairs I was asking about ‘other services’ … do you do massage?”
She looked at me askance. “What do you mean, massage?”
“I mean, like a real massage, like you could get in a professional day spa – you know, like you did with my scalp and face and hands and feet, except it’s for everything else: neck, shoulders, arms, torso, legs – with lotion. I’m not talking about anything sleazy you couldn’t tell your grandparents about!”
She had never done anything like that. I explained that I had been to a day spa twice – both times on a gift card. It was a very relaxing experience, and the money was good – something like $85 for a 45-minute massage. Plus tip, of course.
“Eighty-five bucks for 45 minutes? Wow, that’s good money … I could never make that at the shop!” she mused.
“Well then, that’s my offer … $85 for a 45-minute massage, with lotion.”
Samantha had to think this over … but not for long.
“Okay, I’ll give it a try. But you’ll have to coach me ‘cause I really don’t know what I’m doing.”
“Okay … I’ll go jump in the shower so you can work on a nice clean body … back in five minutes. Meanwhile, you can get that bottle of lotion from the vanity in the yellow bathroom. And grab a couple towels while you’re in there.”
I headed to the shower while Samantha went the opposite direction to fetch the lotion and towels.
Within minutes, I emerged from the shower with a towel around my waist.
“Hey, you’re still in pretty good shape,” Samantha observed.
“For an old guy, you’re thinking,” I joked.
“No!”
“Well yes … but thank you. I’m trying to hold the years at bay, or at least make them wait their turn.”
I stretched out on the bed, face down, and loosened the knot on the towel so I wouldn’t have to lie on the it. I discreetly got myself arranged so that my cock and balls pointed downward while the towel covered my ass.
Samantha’s massage was good although it reminded me more of a backrub than a true massage. But still, it was very relaxing and she’s not a trained masseuse. She worked my neck, shoulders, back and arms; then moved on to my calves and thighs.
I loved her touch; heck, after weeks of almost complete isolation, I might have loved anybody’s touch. To me, it was an erotic touch and my dick responded accordingly.
Now it was time to turn over. I levered myself onto my back while taking care that the towel was keeping me covered throughout the maneuver. Samantha had to have noticed the bulge under the towel, although she said nothing. She went to work on my shins and thighs, taking care not to rub too far under the towel – although she came close.
At length she moved to my shoulders and chest and remarked, once again, that I was in pretty good shape.
That’s when the fun began.
Samantha poured some lotion into her hands and gently touched my stomach. And at her touch, I barked, flinched, and doubled up … I’m ticklish!
And the towel, which had so discreetly and effectively hidden my midsection until now, went flying. There I laid, with a semi-engorged Mr. Happy in plain view. Samantha giggled as I reached for the towel to cover myself up.
“Sorry about that,” I said.
“That’s alright,” she laughed.
“Massaging stomachs is like doing armpits and feet … use enough pressure so that you don’t tickle the person,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll give it another try.”
Samantha massaged my stomach muscles and loins with a little more pressure and then moved to the line of hair below my belly button – my “happy trail.”
She hesitated for a moment, then dragged a fingertip along its entire length, from navel to just below the towel. My dick responded accordingly; there was no hiding the fact that I was now about three-quarters erect.
Samantha looked up at me with a playful look in her eye and a mischievous grin. “I can clean that up for you if you want me to,” she said.
“Clean it up … you mean shave it?”
“Uh huh.”
“You’re the professional here … it’s up to you.”
Samantha reached for her trimmer and, with a single swipe, my happy trail was gone. She fetched my razor, shaving cream, and a wet towel from the bathroom and finished the job, clean as a whistle. By this time the towel that was covering me stood up like a tent.
Samantha crooked a finger into the top edge of that towel, gave it a gentle tug, looked up at me with big eyes, and said, “I can keep going if you want me to.”
I could scarcely believe what was happening. “You mean, shave me down there … completely?”
“Uh huh.”
“Have you ever done that before?” I wondered.
“Well yeah,” she replied in a tone that sounded like ‘Well DUH!’. “You mean, besides myself?”
Fuck. Samantha just told me she has a bald pussy. I hadn’t thought specifically about that before but it now made sense. She does hair so of course she would shave her pussy. Just that thought triggered a distinct feeling of pre-cum rising in my dick.
“Like I said, you’re the professional here …”
She laughed. “Actually, I used to do this to my ex all the time so yeah, I have done it on a guy before.”
She pulled the towel down just far enough to expose the pubic hair above my now-hard cock. The shaving would be easy but dealing with the cock would be more of a challenge, like the dentist who has to use one hand to keep your tongue out of the way while working on your tooth with the other hand.
My dick was still towel-covered and Samantha moved it around like a Hurst shifter to keep it out of the way – right, left, up, down.
“I’m going to have to get rid of this towel,” she said as she tossed it aside.
Now my hard cock stood before her in plain view. She held it mid-shaft with soft fingers and, as a large dollop of pre-cum ran down the shaft, she proclaimed, “Mmm … nice.”
“Nice?”
“Yeah, nice. You’re circumcised. I like that; it’s cleaner. My ex wasn’t circumcised … I didn’t even want to use my mouth on him.”
Fuck again. Samantha just told me she gives blowjobs. Another gout of pre-cum oozed from my cock. She felt it and giggled.
“Yeah,” I said, “I guess being uncircumcised does have its drawbacks.”
Samantha stopped for a second, thought about the pun, looked up and me, and grinned. “That was awful,” she said, “I’ll get you for that one!”
She finished using her trimmer and went to the bathroom for a hot wet towel. I did not dare to touch my dick while she was gone; just one touch and I might have cum all over myself. That would ruin everything.
She returned a few minutes later and wrapped the hot wet towel around my cock and balls. Her workmanlike manner helped relieve the tension in my cock and it went from raging hard to merely turgid.
Our conversation was sparse as we waited for my remaining hair and stubble to soften. Samantha’s eyes seemed fixated on the head of my cock, which was still glistening with pre-cum.
Soon enough, she was satisfied and removed the towel. She lathered up my pubis with shaving cream and set to work. Within minutes, my tummy was hairless down to my dick.
She applied more cream around the base of my cock and, with a few strokes, it was hairless too. All that remained was my ball sack.
“Pull your knees up and spread ‘em,” she ordered.
Samantha proceeded to heft my balls, feel them, lift then up to examine the underside.
“What are these, scars?” she asked.
“Yeah, from my vasectomy several years ago. You might say I’m shooting blanks now.”
“No kidding? That’s cool.” She seemed to be processing the fact that I could not get a woman pregnant.
“Yeah, the doc said it might be reversible if I ever wanted another kid, but no guarantees.”
Samantha lathered up my balls and set to work, drawing the skin tight prior to each swipe of the razor.
Before long, she had completed the job and wiped off any remaining soap with the wet towel.
Now it was time for quality control. Samantha ran soft, warm fingertips over every square centimeter of the area she just shaved to find any remaining stubble. Pre-cum poured out of my engorged cock and down the shaft. She lubricated her fingers with some of it and slid them with a gentle touch down and up the shaft. I was beginning to develop a case of blue balls; I had to cum soon.
“There, all done,” she pronounced. She produced her mirror and held it for me to regard my now-hairless genitals. “See? Okay?”
“You do great work,” I told her. “I haven’t looked like this since I was 10.”
“No,” she replied while continuing to stroke my cock lightly with pre-cum lubricated fingers, “I think you might have been a little bit smaller when you were 10.”
Samantha’s hip movements and audible exhales as she stroked my hairless bone told me that this whole situation was turning her on. I noticed she never took her eyes off my cock as she stroked me.
I couldn’t take much more of this treatment. “Samantha, do you know what a ‘happy ending’ is?”
She laughed. “Not exactly … but I can guess, and I bet you would like one.”
“Oh god yes, and soon.”
“You know there will be an extra charge for that, right?”
“I’ll pay it. In fact, I’ll pay $10 for your hand … or $40 for your mouth.” I hesitated before uttering the next sentence: “Or a hundred for your pussy.”
Samantha did not hesitate. In one seemingly fluid move, she stripped off her shorts and panties, and climbed over me to straddle my hips. With the fingers of one hand she parted her glistening pink pussy lips while the other hand aimed my cock directly at her sanctum sanctorum.
And then, with her eyes closed and a whispered. “Oh god … yes,” she eased herself down onto me until I was naked-balls-deep inside her.
Her pussy was tight but not virgin-tight. It was more like “I haven’t been fucked in two months and I really need this” tight.
As she gyrated her hips to relish the feel of the cock inside her, Samantha began stroking her clit furiously, lifting herself toward orgasm. There was no help I could offer; just having a hard cock was all she needed from me.
At last I could take no more, grasped her hips firmly, and flooded her nether regions with my cum. It was an orgasm for the ages; I felt like I was still cumming for a good minute after I stopped ejaculating.
Samantha seemed not to notice, intent as she was on reaching her own peak. Her breathing told me she was getting close. And after a few more minutes I heard her whisper, “Oh fuck … oh fuck,” as she ground herself onto my cock, flailed at her clitoris … and came hard.
Her orgasm lasted a while too but, at length, her hand stilled and she slumped down on top of me. I held her, kissed her neck, and stroked her back as she came down and returned to this world. She was panting like a winded lioness. My cock was still hard, and still deep inside her.
“Now, that’s what I call a happy ending,” I told her. We both laughed at the thought. We were both spent.
We laid like that for a good 20 minutes, until I suggested, “Shower?”
“Yeah, I could use one,” Samantha replied. As she lifted herself up, my spent cock slipped out of her reddened young quim and a large gout of cum drooled out of her hairless cunt and onto my hairless belly.
“Looks like we could both use a shower,” she laughed. “Then I should be going; my grandma is going to be worried. She didn’t want me to come in the first place.”
“Ha! From what just happened, I’d say you pretty well defied that request. You came pretty good!”
Samantha laughed as we headed for the shower to clean up. That was the first time I got to see her tits; she still had her top on the whole time.
A half-hour later, we were both showered and dressed and it was time for me to pay up for the day’s events so Samantha could go home.
I tallied up the damage: $260, plus a $40 tip. Three hundred bucks’ total.
I retrieved fifteen $20 bills from the small safe in the basement, placed the cash in an envelope, and gave it to Samantha.
“You don’t have to pay me for that last … you know,” she said. “That was …”
I didn’t let her finish the sentence. “No, I know you can use the money and a deal is a deal. If you don’t want to think of it as payment for services rendered, then think of it as a gift of friendship. We gotta help each other out in times like these.”
At that, Samantha kissed me. Funny thing about that – fucking a girl before you see her boobs or even kiss her. That probably doesn’t happen very often. At least, it doesn’t happen to me very often.
We exchanged contact information, promised to stay in touch, and Samantha headed for home. What a nice afternoon. What a hot little piece of ass. What a satisfying fuck. And what a great haircut!
EPILOGUE
About an hour after she left, Samantha called me from her car. She was very upset. I got her calmed down and asked her to tell me the story: what could possibly have happened? Was she physically okay? Why was she calling me?
Samantha told me she went home to her grandparents’ house after she left my place. When she got home, her grandmother was on the front porch. Grandma had a suitcase containing some of Samantha’s belongings, including toiletries and cosmetics, with her on the porch. She would not let Samantha back into the house.
Grandma had misgivings about Samantha’s leaving their home to make a house call. But in the time Samantha was gone, Grandma had a chance to think things through. She concluded that since Samantha had been out in the wider world, she now presented an unacceptable risk to Grandpa’s health. Samantha would have to go somewhere to self-quarantine for two weeks. Then she would be allowed back in the house.
To her credit, Grandma gave Samantha some pocket money: $200 in twenties; maybe she could rent a room and order in food for the next two weeks.
“Except I don’t have anywhere to go!” Samantha cried. Grandma had rendered her jobless granddaughter now homeless. What an awful situation.
Samantha refused to contact her ex-boyfriend for help. She would never give him the satisfaction of seeing her crawl back to him. She would live under a bridge first, or in her car.
Then she asked the question I had been expecting:
“Rick, could I rent a room at your house for two weeks? I have money and I can pay: I have $500.”
I could only reply, “Samantha, I would love to have you stay with me for two weeks. And save your money; don’t worry about rent or room and board, or anything else. I’ll feed you, and I’m pretty sure your rent will get paid somehow.”
Samantha was effusive and sincere in her thanks.
“So where are you now?” I asked.
“Uh … in your driveway?”
“In my driveway! Hahaha! Well come on in and make yourself at home!”