Coiffe Drops  

49AK 56M
1074 posts
3/16/2006 12:19 pm

Last Read:
9/10/2008 10:55 am

Coiffe Drops

When I was about eighteen, and every female form (under age 20) held a special place in my heart, I moved from the realm of my parents taking me to a barber to get my hair cut, to me going alone to a 'Unisex' hair salon. Now admittedly, way back then, such a place was new and trendy and now it is the norm. In fact, in most places, it is much more difficult to find a barber shop than a hair salon.

I was fortunate that in my youth I lived and worked in a rather affluent area, and such places were geared towards a middle-to-higher end clientele. At the time I had a great job in an office doing what I had chosen as my career field, and I made an appointment one day to get my hair cut after work at a place only a block or two away from my office.

I walked in and a very attractive and well-dressed young lady greeted me, lead me back into the salon and washed and cut my hair. My hair was then and is now rather indistinct, except that I have a full beard (and I did then, too). So there was nothing very interesting about the hair style, but the stylist made me stand up and take notice, so to speak. At the point where she was trimming my beard, she was standing directly in front of me, bent over at the waist, looking at my beard. Her blouse, which was obviously loose and open for a reason, afforded a spendid view of her breasts.

At that point I concluded that a barber's license was essentially a ticket for legalized prostitution, because every haircut came with a titty show, and if you were lucky, a bit of incidental frottage, too.

I never went back to that salon, but mostly because a high school friend became the 'shampoo girl' at one of the local chain 'Unisex' places, and I started going there. I loved having her wash my hair; she was enthusiastic, which required vigorous scalp massage, and that could only be accomplished bystanding next to the shampoo chair and leaning directly over me so that she could see the top of my head. That left her wonderful breasts bonking my face. Wash, rinse, repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

A few years later I had a friend that was a hairdresser, and she came to my workplace (at this time, an ice rink, where I drove the Zamboni) to trim my beard. She brought scissors and a comb, and dutifully trimmed away, with me backed up against a waist-high chain link fence, and her leaning against my body, so as to get a better view of my beard.

To this day, my fascination with hairdressers continues, though at a much more subdued and pragmatic level. The person who now does my hair is a very cute and sexy woman, but she is the niece of my partner. I had a version of this conversation with her once while getting my hair cut, and when I told her the story about the blouse falling open, she said, "Oh yeah, tits for tips." As she said this, she was wearing a very low-cut tee-shirt.

As an aside, at this same salon, there's a male hairdresser that always comments on my purple fleece jacket that I wear. Seems like a nice guy, but he's not my type.

In just a few days, I'll be getting my hair cut and beard trimmed again.

Can't wait...

tillerbabe 57F

3/17/2006 1:09 am

I love....absolutely LOVE having someone wash my hair...yummmmm!

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