Cheryl: A Golden Opportunity Missed?
reverendhornibastard
Depraved Deacon of Degeneracy
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.
(https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=1639 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.
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.
(https://www.tuscl.net/photo.php?id=1639 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.
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15 comments
I moved to a neighboring town 4 years ago but I still drive the 8 miles to Doug's barber shop. Doug's son also cuts hair in his dad's shop. I can get my hair cut cheaper where I live but I will continue to drive the 8 miles as long a we are both still alive.
She was my barber until I left Jacksonville in 1984. She was still my barber after I was married, and my last cut before I got married was on the house.
Doug sounds like a great guy.
Best of all, you probably won’t get high blood pressure wondering what, if anything, Doug is wearing under his barber’s smock.
“She was still my barber after I was married, and my last cut before I got married was on the house.”
I thought you were going to say, “... and my last cut before I got married was in my bed.”
Did she do manscaping?
I enjoyed the read.
The missed opportunities are my biggest regrets.
Sometimes it was about not reading the signals properly, sometimes it was about loyalty to my significant other, and sometimes it was just my stupidity.
The missed opportunity that first comes to mind was in my early twenties when my best friend wanted to go clubbing with a girl he met at work.
She agreed to go out as long as she could be her friend, so he talked me into going so I could hang out with her friend with "a nice personality."
She was cute, maybe a 6, and had a very good personality and we had a good time at the club, we exchanged numbers, talked for a few weeks and went out a few times.
I decided to move on because I felt I could find some one hotter, when a few months later I unexpectedly saw her at a family function.
She looked great, she lost some weight, dressed in a figure flattering outfit, fixed her make up and hair and I was eager to rekindle our relationships.
She was friendly but distant, when I pressed she pumped the brakes telling me she was moving away, she thanked me for our time together, gave me a big hug and farewell kiss on the cheek, and walked away, I never heard from her or about her again.
“Sometimes it was about not reading the signals properly”
When I was a young man I went through a phase when was so desperately shy that, looking back on that era, it’s clear I was going out of my way to deny that a woman was actually interested in me.
That stupid strategy spared me the anxiety of having to make a move and the anguish of a possible rejection.
I played my hand so conservatively that I was NEVER turned down by any girl. That was not a measure of what a desirable stud I was. It only reflected that I wouldn’t make a move on a girl unless she had first sent me an engraved invitation.
I bet a lot of girls who wanted my attention during my shy years probably concluded that I was gay.
What a dope I was.
It’s amazing I ever got laid.
Thank God for pushy women!
Most of the men got their hair cuts from older guys and got their shoes shined as part of the process. It was a very old school experience.
The first time I went I didn’t have an appointment and was told to wait. A legitimate 9+ came up and said she was free and could cut my hair if I wanted. I very much did.
She cut my hair for almost two years and I loved hearing her stories of how guys would hit on her anywhere she went. I even witnessed multiple guys come ask her out while she was cutting my hair. One day, she told me she was moving and this would be our last haircut. When she was done, she leaned in and asked me why I never asked her out. She was about five years older than me. I had no idea she was interested. It seems like we were just in different worlds. Then she said, “did you really think I rubbed my boobs on all of my clients. You really were oblivious.”
One of those wonder what would have happened things...