Stop the Strop
A girl, that is, the licensed hair cutter, or a barber, if women can be barbers, cut my hair. This was at what screams to be called a "novelty" hair cutting chain, Floyd's, wall-papered with rock posters and gewgaws, intersecting just enough with tastefulness to eschew the bizarre.
Except for the fact that my hair was relatively unclean, rinsed but sufficiently unscrubbed to make me slightly self conscious of its unctuous texture and duck feather sheen, there was nothing exceptional about the cut. When the chopping was over, however, two things of a strange nature took place. First, the back of my neck was lathered, pleasantly, with warm shaving cream, emanating a scent I associate with a benign kind of masculinity, something like leather mixed with baby powder and pancakes. But what followed made me concerned, in fact a little shaky, as a straight razor was unfolded and applied delicately to the round trunk of flesh that carries a gushing torrent of blood precariously from my torso to my head.
All of this was done in silence, and I was in no mood to speak, but the blade was large, moreso in the small hands of this woman, and even she, with a twist of the shoulders and a jerk of the arms, could have moved the implement through my fat, trapesius, mastoids and what all else, if she had wanted to, in an unstoppable instant. There is maybe nothing special about this, since we are all a hairsbreadth away from killing each other inadvertently, how much easier deliberately. But to be so much in her power was something I hadn't made the necessary mental preparations for, and it came to me as a cold surprise. But she refrained from beheading me.
When she was done with the shave, she put on a vibrating glove and worked me over with it. This was my first encounter with such a glove, and the feeling of it was very pleasant, in fact maybe addictive. It was as close as I have ever come to visiting a demimonde, and made me curious as to how stimulating that experience could be, if a simple robotic glove could send me to such heights when applied by a strange woman. This went on for about a minute and the only thing that subtracted slightly from it was my noticing that all of the hair cutting stations were equipped with robot gloves, and so this wasn't a special treatment that was being extended only to me, but that one could, possibly, come to Floyd's at a certain time and see any number of people being worked on with glove massagers. I still hold a little hope that its use isn't compulsory, and that my allotted coiffeuse just wanted to run her hands across my back.
Except for the fact that my hair was relatively unclean, rinsed but sufficiently unscrubbed to make me slightly self conscious of its unctuous texture and duck feather sheen, there was nothing exceptional about the cut. When the chopping was over, however, two things of a strange nature took place. First, the back of my neck was lathered, pleasantly, with warm shaving cream, emanating a scent I associate with a benign kind of masculinity, something like leather mixed with baby powder and pancakes. But what followed made me concerned, in fact a little shaky, as a straight razor was unfolded and applied delicately to the round trunk of flesh that carries a gushing torrent of blood precariously from my torso to my head.
All of this was done in silence, and I was in no mood to speak, but the blade was large, moreso in the small hands of this woman, and even she, with a twist of the shoulders and a jerk of the arms, could have moved the implement through my fat, trapesius, mastoids and what all else, if she had wanted to, in an unstoppable instant. There is maybe nothing special about this, since we are all a hairsbreadth away from killing each other inadvertently, how much easier deliberately. But to be so much in her power was something I hadn't made the necessary mental preparations for, and it came to me as a cold surprise. But she refrained from beheading me.
When she was done with the shave, she put on a vibrating glove and worked me over with it. This was my first encounter with such a glove, and the feeling of it was very pleasant, in fact maybe addictive. It was as close as I have ever come to visiting a demimonde, and made me curious as to how stimulating that experience could be, if a simple robotic glove could send me to such heights when applied by a strange woman. This went on for about a minute and the only thing that subtracted slightly from it was my noticing that all of the hair cutting stations were equipped with robot gloves, and so this wasn't a special treatment that was being extended only to me, but that one could, possibly, come to Floyd's at a certain time and see any number of people being worked on with glove massagers. I still hold a little hope that its use isn't compulsory, and that my allotted coiffeuse just wanted to run her hands across my back.
posted by sevenfactorial at 2:21 PM
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