Look how long my hair is getting!
Still . . . not nearly long enough to be fetish-length. And because of Lightning Allie I’ve been thinking a lot and learning about different (head) hair-related fetishes.
I have never done any long-hair fetish stuff because it’s never been THAT long, it’s chemically processed, and it seems like the hair fetish people like really shiny medium brown and brunette hair. I have always found shampoo scenes hot, though, and love the variety of ways to approach hair cuts and head shaving. Not to mention all of the ways gender is supposedly articulated by how and where and with what you cut and style your hair.
It has been awhile since I thought about a time my brother was threatened and eventually punished with a buzz cut. I think they outsourced it / had my grandpa do it to him. I remember him coming back home tear-stained. I don’t remember everything about it except that it was kind of horrible. And now, as with a lot of emotional memories, I have crossed-wires when I look back on it, so I can relate to the ways a haircut can be fetishized or a trigger stimulating a variety of responses.
I definitely have a barber shop “fetish”. As a child, I *loved* going to the barber shop with my grandpa or my dad. It was the seventies . . . small town (I think there’s a scene in a second-season Twin Peaks episode or two where you can see the barber shop I’m talking about, or at least the space it inhabited).
Anyway, I loved being in that men-only space. LOVED the sound and swing and shine and elegant shape of the razor against the strop. OMFG I just googled “barber shop strop” and just SEEING this drawing turned me on:
When I walk by barber shops — REAL barber shops — in Vancouver, BC, in Portland, in Chicago — I just . . . I don’t know. I always have to stop or at least slow down and try to appear nonchalant while I try to soak up all of the sights inside. I want them. I want to be in them. I want to spy on them. I want to sneak into them at night. I want to dream about them. I want to play in them. I want to dress up. I want to have my neck shaved. I want to smell the combs coming out of the blue stuff. I want to look at the men’s shoes. I want to look UP at the men. I want to BE the men. I want to sit on their laps. I want to go in the back room. I want to adore the big chairs. I want the curtains to be pulled and the cocks to come out. I want to snap the suspenders. I want the strop.
I’m sad I’ve never had the budget and contacts to make barber shop porn. OH MY HOLY FUCKNESS IT IS WITH EXQUISITE LONGING THAT I THINK OF THESE THINGS.
Lady hair salons? Not so much. Do not do anything for me. Even when they look really cool. I get how they could be appealing to other people, but for me they could never hold a candle to a barber shop. Unless there was some CFNM going on, maybe some forced femme – DEFINITELY a gang of women toying with and degrading a beautiful young man. And I don’t mean me as a boi, either, because it hits way too close to the mark and I would start crying immediately.
Which reminds me of the time my mom made me get my brows waxed in junior high. These were the eighties. I didn’t even know such a thing as waxing EXISTED. Brooke Shields obtained Endless Love WITH THICK BROWS. Not that I ever got to watch that movie because my stepdad was always watching football and Chuck Norris movies and Death Wish on our tiny tv set. And pretending he’d never seen it/all of them before. And I would actually prefer to watch any Charles Bronson movie rather than Endless Love, but I digress.
My mom halfway thought she was treating me to something special and the other half was just really wrong; if she had all of the information back then I could give her today, I kind of hope she would be mortified that she did that, even if she thought she was doing me a social favor by feminizing me.
I wouldn’t call the experience devastating, but it was fundamentally fucked-up and torture for me. Not because waxing hurts, but because it was humiliating and she made me do it even though I (think I remember I) vehemently protested / said I didn’t want to, and I felt miserable, powerless, self-conscious, and degraded knowing I would get in trouble if I wasn’t nice to the salon lady while they both talked down to me and made me feel worse.
I wonder if that’s why I have loved getting my brows waxed as an adult, to the point where it’s erotic. I wonder why I never put those two things together until now.
Actually, I don’t think the forced wax has anything to do with what I enjoy about being waxed now. Or not very much. Hmmm . . .
Note: I am not judging any parent who takes a kid WHO WANTS TO GO to the salon FOR SERVICES THEY WANT. I mostly don’t give a fuck if someone spray tans or waxes or makes up their kids if their kids desire such things. And I’m sorry if my mom is reading this and feels bad about something she can’t do anything about now. I’m not trying to make anybody feel shitty, I’m just talking about part of something that happened as I perceived it, and part of what it meant to me. Which I’d actually like to talk about more (the make-up, body hair, fear of ugliness, etc. messages and how I received and/or rejected them and how I’ve dealt with them as an adult and a sex worker). I’m not a parent, and I wouldn’t be surprised, actually, if I were and wound up pressuring my teenager to do things that I thought would make them more attractive / be more socially accepted.
Oh, so are you wondering how that worked out? I actually don’t think any of my peers had a problem with my eyebrows (though their prominence may, in fact, have contributed to my general expression of dorkiness). For sure my social stock didn’t go through the roof the following week, though. But who knows? Maybe I just don’t remember all of the compliments and cheers I got.
Maybe I was too surly and resistant to acknowledge anything positive about the wax job. Maybe I was too socially moronic to leverage my less-hairy face into an immediate loss of virginity. Maybe if I’d have been told to SMILE! five billion and ONE times instead of just five billion, I’d have radiated a confidence that, paired with my newfound freedom from excessive facial hair, would have propelled me into a higher tier of popularity and dispelled any of my mom’s concerns that I might be a lesbian. Maybe I would have gotten “dates” and stopped wanting to read so many books about socially awkward teens trying to be more popular. And/or lose their virginity.
BUT PROBABLY NOT.
Maybe I don’t remember grudgingly thinking it actually wound up looking pretty nice (I doubt it, or I would have asked to have it done again instead of waiting to experience brow waxing again until I was over twenty to go along with a college friend who was doing it).
Maybe back then I actually really would have watched Endless Love than Death Wish. PROBABLY. Teen sex and stuff? For sure. Who am I kidding????
By the way, here’s one of my favorite songs from the eighties, including Brooke Shields’ eyebrows:
Maybe if I looked like Brooke Shields and my eyebrows were straight caterpillars instead of unruly Eddie Munster styled brows, things would have been different.
The Hunter said I could shave him. With a straight razor even. But then it never happened. So many ideas, so few willing exposed necks . . . .
At least that’s how *I* remember it.