Cheryl: A Golden Opportunity Missed?

It was during Reagan’s first term. I was 32 years old. I’d gone in for a haircut at a salon I had never been to before. Since I had no prior experience with any of the stylists, I agreed to have my hair cut by anyone whose chair was open and immediately available.

I was shown to an empty chair. Moments later a stylist came up and introduced herself. She was young, blonde, with stunning blue eyes, a captivating smile and an alluring figure.

Her name was Cheryl.

I am usually not partial to blondes, but I felt I had to make an exception in Cheryl’s case. She was a real stunner.

(tuscl.net This is not Cheryl’s photo. I never had a photo of Cheryl. It’s just a photo I found on the internet but it conveys a sense of Cheryl’s good looks, her personal style and her goofy, endearing, bubbly personality.)

I remember only two things about my first haircut with Cheryl. She did a very good job and she was a lot of fun to look at.

When she was finished, she handed me my bill. I gave her a generous tip and walked to the cashier to pay. While standing at the cashier I noticed that Cheryl had handed me a personal note as well as my bill. The note read: “I’m quitting this salon as of next week. If you would like me to continue cutting your hair, please contact me on this number.” Her telephone number was included at the bottom of the handwritten note.

I put her note in my wallet, paid my bill and left the salon.

It never occurred to me that Cheryl intended anything other than to keep me as a customer as she moved from one salon to another.

When it was time for my next haircut, I rang the number Cheryl had given me.

I identified myself and said I was interested in having her cut my hair again. Cheryl remembered me but said she had not moved to another salon after quitting the one where we had first met. She said she was now working free lance and was available to cut my hair on that basis if I was interested.

“Sure!” I said. It seemed like a good deal for her. This way she could pocket the entire fee instead of sharing it with a salon. The only question was “where would she give me a haircut?”

Cheryl suggested that I come to her house in southwest Houston. We agreed a date and time for my haircut.

Houston is a big, sprawling town. Its streets and freeways are almost always clogged with traffic. Cheryl’s house was a long haul from the part of town where I lived and worked. As I finally approached her neighborhood I had grave reservations about ever making this long and harrowing drive across Houston ever again just for a hair cut.

I definitely had to find a more conveniently located barber.

I knocked on Cheryl’s door. She smiled warmly as she greeted me and let me in. Even though we didn’t really know each other and she had only cut my hair once before, she acted as if we were already close friends.

Cheryl had a nice house in a nice neighborhood, but I was surprised at what I saw once inside. There was not a stick of furniture in the front room! There was nothing but carpet.

Cheryl was oddly dressed. She had on a rather long, red t-shirt. It hung down to just below her cute ass. I couldn’t tell if she was wearing anything else whatsoever under her t-shirt. Her long, red t-shirt was all there was to see (apart from Cheryl’s pretty face, stunning, bright blue eyes, long blonde, braided hair, cute figure and her long, shapely, tanned legs).

“Wait right here,” she said as she disappeared into another room.

She soon returned with a sheet, a stool, a bag of barber tools and a cape. She spread the sheet on the floor, placed the stool in the middle and asked me to take a seat. She then put the cape on me to keep the hair off my clothes.

For the next 30 minutes or so she cut my hair. As she got in close to perform her tonsorial duties I could not help but notice how wonderful she smelled.

My first haircut in Cheryl’s home persuaded me that this haircut experience was definitely worth the long, arduous drive across Houston.

The next time I needed another haircut, I again called Cheryl, made an appointment and drove across Houston to her house. Like before, there was not a stick of furniture to be seen in her front room. Once again, she wore a t-shirt that she seemed to be using as a dress. This one was smaller than the one she wore the last time. It was tighter and barely covered her ass. Again, serious questions arose in my mind whether there was anything else at all under that t-shirt other than Cheryl.

Cheryl was her usual chatty, funny, bubbly self. She told me her personal story. She was recently divorced. She was 24 years old. She had no children but hoped to have eventually have some. She had grown up on a farm in deep south Texas and moved to Houston when she married at age 19. Even though she had been in Houston for five years, Cheryl said she was still a farm girl at heart.

As my haircuts in Cheryl’s empty living room continued over the ensuing months, I always wondered if she was wearing anything at all under those t-shirts. She got progressively closer and closer, sometimes even leaning against me, as she cut my hair. These were my first and only body-to-body haircuts.

Cheryl always smelled so nice. I wanted so badly to grab this sexy blonde farm girl’s ass, rip off her t-shirt, throw her onto the carpet and plough her furrow.

But I resisted the temptation. Like a colossal nerd learning to craft the fine print in monstrous international energy contracts, I kept my cool composure. As far as I was concerned, all Cheryl wanted to do was to cut my hair.

And who knows for sure? Maybe a haircut was really all that Cheryl wanted to give me. Then again, she was giving me the distinct impression that she wanted to give me children.

I moved to London about 7 or 8 months after my first haircut in Cheryl’s oddly vacant living room.

I never saw her again.

Now I will never find out if Cheryl was wearing anything at all under her t-shirt. Now I will never know if she simply wanted to cut my hair or if she was actually signaling that she wanted me to plough her furrow and hoped I would be “up” for the job.

I think I failed that intelligence test with flying colors.