I had arranged to meet a friend of mine for a drink and a catch-up. When I mentioned that I write and post sex stories on the internet she immediately lit up and started telling me about her own unusual experience. Afterwards I asked if I could write her story down and put it online. She said yes, but only if I changed her name and the other names and made sure nothing could point back to who the people involved actually were. So here is the story of my friend who, let’s say, is called Ingrida.
Ingrida is a young woman with long blonde hair that falls in soft waves over her shoulders. She has a slim build and is of average height. There is something easy and youthful about her. She laughs readily and then fine little lines appear around her eyes. Despite her young age she radiates a calm and self-assurance that makes her seem older than she is.
I am telling the story exactly the way she told it to me.
She began like this:
I have a fixed routine of going to the hair salon every two weeks to have my hair trimmed. Always the same salon, the same hairdresser who looks after me — let’s say her name is Julija.
It was the same that one time.
That day I had booked an appointment for late Friday afternoon. I left in good time for the salon. The bell above the door jingled the moment I stepped inside; the smell of shampoo and hairspray came to meet me. Julija was still finishing with a client. She looked over at me and smiled.
“Hello Ingrida, go ahead and sit in the chair by the washbasin. I’ll start washing your hair in a moment.”
Julija is somewhere in her thirties, with dark-brown hair that she always wears pulled tight into a bun. By now she knows me well enough to know exactly how I want my hair without me having to explain. “The usual?” she asks, and I nod.
I sat down in the chair and looked around a little. It struck me that there was no one else there — no other staff, no other clients, only Julija and her last customer.
Julija finished with her client and the two of them walked over to the till to settle up. The woman paid with her card, said goodbye and left through the door. The door closed behind her and the bell tinkled for a moment longer in the otherwise completely silent salon. Julija walked calmly over to me, her smile relaxed.
“Well, at least it’s just the two of us now,” she said, taking a lock of my hair between her fingers and examining it for a moment. “Shall we wash your hair straight away?”
Without waiting for my answer she already took a towel from the stack and laid it ready on the edge of the basin. “Lean your neck back,” she said, “and I’ll get the shampoo. Which one do you want — the one with the herbs, or something different today?”
While she asked she walked over to the cupboard, her back to me, and I caught a glimpse of her in the mirror on the wall. The whole salon suddenly felt smaller, warmer and quieter than usual. Just the two of us, the soft hum of a fridge somewhere in the back, and the click of her shoes on the floor. I felt Julija tilt the headrest a little further back, exactly to the right angle. A moment later warm water was running over my hair, her fingers carefully wetting the first layer. She worked slowly, without hurry, as if time didn’t matter.
“Nice and warm?” she asked, letting the stream glide across my forehead for a second and wiping the water away with her thumb before it could run into my eyes.
The first squeeze of shampoo came cold from the bottle, but her hands warmed it at once. She started at the nape of my neck, right at the bottom where the hair is thickest. Slow, firm movements, small circles that climbed from my neck upwards. Every now and then her nails scraped lightly over my scalp and sent a shiver down into my shoulders.
“You’ve got a lot of hair,” she said softly, more to herself than to me. “But I already knew that.”
She rinsed the first lather out, then applied shampoo a second time, and this time she took longer, like a proper massage. The pressure of her fingertips became a little firmer; she massaged my temples and the thin spot behind my ears. I closed my eyes and simply let it happen. During the massage she also touched the sensitive places on my head, my neck, my earlobes. Only afterwards did it dawn on me that she had simply been turning me on. Yes, sometimes I’m as naïve as a rabbit. After rinsing she dried my hair with the towel and guided me into a styling chair.
I heard the soft click of the scissors she picked up. In the mirror in front of me I saw her standing behind me, the comb already in her other hand, her gaze concentrated on my wet hair.
“I’m going to put in some layers first,” she said, and her voice was different now — businesslike, professional, as if she wanted to brush the previous ten minutes aside.
But her fingers said something else as they slid through my hair to take hold of the first section. She began to cut. Small, precise snips at the nape, exactly where she had been massaging so slowly a moment earlier. The scissors clipped rhythmically, but every few seconds she let her hand rest and stroked two fingers along my neck, as if checking that the line was straight.
“Stay still,” she whispered right by my ear; her warm breath brushed my earlobe.
In the mirror I saw how she kept leaning a little forward whenever she had to cut at the front. She smelled of something sweet, a perfume that wasn’t mine. She took a section of hair between her index and middle fingers, held it taut, and cut. The tension on my scalp, the sound of the scissors so close to my ear — my hands on the arms of the chair grew damp.
“You’re tense,” she said, and I saw in the mirror that she was smiling. “Relax your shoulders a bit.”
She leaned forward, apparently to check in the mirror whether the cut was symmetrical, and I felt one of her breasts briefly press against the back of my head. One second. Two seconds. She stayed there.
“Hmm,” she said. “This side looks good.”
She started on the other side, the comb a little quicker now, her hand resting on my neck with every cut — and it stayed there. I began to wonder whether she did this with everyone or whether it was only with me.
After about ten minutes she put the scissors down and picked up the hairdryer. She switched it on and warm air immediately brushed along my neck — by accident? With her free hand she began to work through my hair from underneath — fingers open, wrist loose, from the nape to the ends, over and over. The hair danced, fell back in waves, was lifted and settled again. It felt wonderful.
The dryer was switched off and the silence returned so suddenly that I could hear my own heartbeat. She put the appliance down without hurry, ran her hand once through my hair to feel how it lay, and then simply left that hand there — on the back of my head, fingers spread and gently pulsing, as if she still needed to check something.
“There,” she said. “It’s done.” She showed me the result with the hand mirror; she had done good work again.
I was about to stand up when she suddenly asked the next question: “Would you like me to give you an extra cut?”
The question took me by surprise. An extra cut? What did she mean? Yes, sometimes I’m a bit naïve — oh wait, I’ve already said that.
She pointed to my crotch. “Do you keep that tidy yourself, or may I try my skills on it?” My face flushed red. Was she asking to cut my pubic hair? I managed to say, “You mean my pubic hair?”
Julija continued, “Yes, I only do it for my regular clients, and there’s no one else here so we can just do it. I’ll close the shutters so no one can look in.” She was already being quite determined; I hadn’t even decided yet whether I wanted it.
Julija saw me hesitating. “I do it to myself as well, look.” She pulled up the hem of her black salon dress and showed me her pubic area. My mouth fell open. She wasn’t wearing any underwear and I was looking straight at her pubic hair. She had trimmed and shaved it neatly into the shape of a narrow arrow, a dark arrow pointing straight down with the tip towards her slit. Julija looked down with me. “I’m thinking of getting a tattoo above it — ‘one way’ or ‘this way’ — what do you think?” I couldn’t get a single word out.
Actually I was embarrassed to show my pubic area at all. My motto is let the grass grow; it had become a real thicket, the curly hairs sticking out above and between my knickers. It was a proper jungle, like the Amazon. It was so bad that a cock once got lost in it and they only found it again three days later. [writer’s note: yes, Ingrida may be naïve but she does have a sense of humour]
It was as if Julija could read my thoughts. “Is it very hairy down there? Doesn’t matter, I’ve seen it all,” she said. To tip me over the edge she opened a drawer, took out a photo album and showed me a few pictures of clients who had had their pubic hair trimmed by her. I saw different shapes: the standard triangle, a Brazilian landing strip, a half-moon, a star, even a letter.
“Or it can be completely bare,” Julija began.
I gathered my courage. Actually it looked quite nice, and I also thought of comments some of the men who fucked me had made — that it was rather hairy down there. Not that they didn’t come; they certainly did, but it always turned into a mess as well, all those little hairs under the cum; it took hours to get everything clean again.
“Okay, let’s try it.”
“Great!” Julija almost clapped her hands. “What would you like? Did you see something nice in the photo album?” I didn’t know. “I trust you, surprise me,” I said.
“Perfect. If you take your trousers off first I’ll lock the door and close the shutters.” I obediently pushed my trousers down over my backside, pulled off my knickers and laid them on the chair beside me.
Behind me I heard the shutter rattling down. The light grew softer, almost muted, as if the room had briefly stopped existing. Then the click of the lock.
She walked towards me. “If you put your legs over the armrests and lean back a little I can get to it easily.” I did as she asked. It felt a bit awkward but it was manageable.
She looked approvingly at my cunt. “That’s not bad at all; it’s thickly covered, I can make something nice of it. I’m going to wash it first.” She took a plastic bowl, filled it with water and set it down by my feet. A towel was slid under my backside so the chair seat wouldn’t get wet. With a flannel she first thoroughly wet the pubic area, then took a shampoo bottle and squeezed a few blobs onto her hand. Carefully she worked the lather through my pubic hair. First over my belly, then lower along my thighs, teasing with her fingertips to get a good foam. Of course she also touched my outer labia. “Sorry, but this has to be done,” she said, stroking firmly through the hairs over my cunt. I had to make an effort not to moan — the slippery shampoo, the scent of it, the caress of her fingers. Eventually everything was thoroughly soaped and she began to rinse it off with the flannel. It felt wonderful; the rough fabric rubbed nicely against my labia.
“I’m going to shave the edges first,” she said. She took a can of shaving foam and sprayed a cool white stripe between my thighs. She picked up a razor. “Better not look,” she advised, “otherwise you might move and I’ll cut you by accident.” I closed my eyes and trusted that Julija had a steady hand. I felt the blade scrape over my soft skin. It was clear she had done this often; her movements were clean and straight, and she finished quickly. I looked down and saw that only the pubic hair on my belly was left. White foam went through my pubic hair again; the razor glided over my belly. I could feel she was shaping something; I didn’t dare look, afraid I would move. Then the scissors came into play to thin everything out. She took a tuft of pubic hair, pulled it out and snipped it off to the measured length. Finally the trimmer. The device hummed softly when she switched it on. She rested it on my lower belly; I felt the vibration right into my cunt. She moved it in calm, even strokes back and forth. A short, even layer remained — long enough to emphasise the shape.
When the trimmer was switched off there was a moment of silence. Julija leaned back to look at her work. “There,” she said, with a satisfied little smile. “That looks good. You can look.”
I opened my eyes and looked down. I was surprised. She had shaved my pubic hair into a heart shape. Julija had touched me; I fell in love with it at once. “This is how I want it from now on,” I said.
While I was admiring the little cunt job, Julija asked in a light tone, “Would you like a happy ending as well?”
Call me naïve — I think that’s the third time — but until that moment I had no idea what a happy ending actually meant. I translated it in my head as a nice or good ending, and with my stupid head I said, “Who doesn’t want a happy end?”
Julija looked cheerful; I didn’t know why. She took a tube from a drawer and squeezed a blob onto her hand. At first I thought she was going to put gel in my pubic hair. Naaaïïïïve! It quickly turned out to be lubricant. She sat on her stool in front of me. I was still lying with my legs over the armrests as if I were in a gynaecologist’s chair; my cunt area was exactly at her eye level. She placed her index finger on my slit and slid it into me without any trouble. I was completely surprised that she went in so easily; it wasn’t only because of the lube. I looked at my cunt and saw that my labia were spread wide open. Without noticing it myself I had become so aroused by Julija’s cunt treatment that everything was wide open. “What are you doing?” I stammered. “I’m giving you a happy ending — that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?” Julija answered. Only then did I understand the term. I said, “Eeuh yeeaah.”
A second finger went into me — which one I no longer know — and it suddenly felt so good I could only moan. Then with her other hand she began to rub her thumb in circles over my clit while at the same time steadily fucking my vagina with her two fingers. She knew exactly how to hit the right spots. It didn’t take long before I came; I jerked with my hips and nearly fell off the chair. Luckily Julija held me firmly. After that I was gone for a while, completely out of it. I still remember getting dressed, paying, and Julija unlocking the door again, letting me out and saying goodbye. Once I was home I sat down on the sofa and had a good cry.
That is more or less the end of her story. I asked Ingrida why she had to cry — did she feel abused? No, that wasn’t it. It was because she had always thought she was straight and only attracted to men, and now she had discovered that she could also enjoy sex with a woman. It hit her like a shock; for a moment she no longer knew whether she still knew herself. “But I’ve got over it,” she said. “I am who I am, and you can always discover something new about yourself. Because I still love men as well — so actually I’m bisexual.”
“Well, I’m happy for you,” I said. “And after that? Do you still go to that salon?”
“Every two weeks, same day, same time, same hairdresser. And when I go I wear a skirt and no knickers,” she said proudly.
“That’s a real happy ending,” I said. She laughed. I couldn’t restrain my curiosity. “May I see it?” She started with “What do you want to see?” and looked at me mischievously. “You’re not that naïve either, Ingrida.” She glanced around; the tables next to us were empty. That day she was wearing a black pleated skirt. I saw her pull the hem up. “If you pretend you’ve dropped something and crawl under the table you can see it,” she whispered. I didn’t need telling twice. I “accidentally” knocked the drinks menu off the table and ducked under. There in the dim light I looked at her pale belly with her pubic hair in a heart shape exactly as she had described. With a red face I sat back down and started to say, “What do you think — shall we make a happy ending of this as well?” “How did you have that in mind?” she asked. I told her. She looked at me for a moment to see if I meant it, took my hand and said, “Let’s just settle the bill and go back to my place for a bit of a nightcap.” “Yes, let’s do that.” After paying we walked at a brisk pace to her house.
