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When Jon knelt at my feet to pull my jeans down, I felt like a queen. When he leaned in to slide a tongue under my thong, I felt like a Goddess (and I arched from the wall with a scream caught in my throat). He ran a tender trail of kisses up and down my inner thighs until I thought I would collapse. I tried fisting my hands in his hair, but had to brace them against the wall instead to keep upright. I could feel him grinning against my leg as my breath hitched, and my body trembled. After what seemed an eternity of torture, he surprised the hell out of me by literally tearing the last remaining scrap of fabric from my body and throwing it over his shoulder.
“Oh,” he breathed, touching the smooth, tanned skin where curls ought to have been. Surprise! His mouth followed his fingers, and I think I had a coronary. He looked up at me with those clear blue eyes; eyes that have fueled the fantasies of millions of women. Blue eyes that right now were wide, sparkling, and boring through me, settling on my soul. I was never going to forget that look, never in a thousand eons.
“I take full advantage of all the services we offer,” I said on a whisper.
“You sure do, darlin’,” he said. “There isn’t a tan line on you. And this,” he stroked my mound again gently with his rough-tipped fingers. “This is quite unexpected.” He leaned forward to kiss where his fingers had been stroking, and I groaned. Good Lord, his lips felt like heaven.
Jon kissed his way down to my core, and licked a long, slow stroke that had my knees actually buckling. He held me against the wall with one hand while the other spread me open to his view. I had a sudden flash of what this must look like, but that was quickly driven from my head when Jon drove his stiffened tongue into me. As he thrust in and out of me, his thumb teased my clit, making me crazy. I could feel myself starting to contract around him, and my head lolled from side to side in helpless abandon. When he sensed I was close to release, Jon latched his lips onto my clit. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye, he sucked that little nub deep into his mouth. I exploded immediately and forcefully, screaming his name. He moaned a little and set to licking me clean.
Oh my God!
I never wanted to come down from this high. This was the feeling that people died for. Hell, this was the feeling that people killed for. Jon kept kissing me gently, easing me back to Earth. When most of the tremors subsided, he trailed a hand up the inside of my leg while he rose to kiss me. In one motion, he thrust his tongue into my mouth and two long fingers into my pussy. He worked his fingers slowly, giving me a little chance to adjust. One traitorous leg wrapped around his waist of its own accord, and he chuckled into my mouth. I reached down to pinch his ass for laughing at me. His chuckle turned into a groan, and he angled his head to kiss me harder, as his erection poked at my hip.
I ripped my mouth from his and took a deep gulping breath. My heart was racing and I was panting and mewling and having a hell of a time staying on my feet. Foot. Whatever.
“What’s the problem, Brooklyn?” he asked huskily.
“Not a damn thing, Jersey,” I retorted, “except I can’t breathe, and I think I’m gonna fall down in a minute.”
“Aw, now we can’t have that,” he said, slowing his pumping and making me writhe against the wall. “I guess I can stop if you need me to.”
The look I gave him made him laugh out loud. (I tried giving him an evil eye, I really did. It apparently came across as cute and not evil.) “You stop now, and I’ll shave you bald.” He sobered at this a little and kissed my neck as he eased a third finger into me.
“Now we definitely can’t have that,” he said, smiling.
I had one hand braced on Jon’s shoulder, and the other on the arm he was pumping me with. I couldn’t decide whether I wanted him to go harder or faster or what. I could feel the tell-tale tingling in the soles of my feet that let me know there wasn’t much time before I had another orgasm. I could feel it building; could feel myself tightening around Jon’s fingers. He had to know what was happening, but he was apparently content to keep me pinned to the wall, licking and kissing my neck.
My knee buckled again as waves of pleasure threatened to overtake me. Jon withdrew his fingers from me, causing the waves to subside a little. With a final kiss, he turned me over the arm of the couch, and drove into me from behind. I called his name as my fingers dug into the cushions. Jon’s fingers found my swollen clit and pinched gently as he stroked in and out of me. He’d withdraw almost completely, making me whine, and then bury himself to the hilt in one rough stroke. He was big and hot and harder than I could have thought possible. My eyes rolled back as the waves approached again. I tightened around him and he moaned my name, drawing it out, “God, Dia-a-a-ana.” THAT is a sound I could definitely get used to hearing.
I begged him, “Jon, harder, please.” I was so close, I could hardly stand it. He grabbed my hips with both hands, and thrust himself in and out of me roughly. The sound of our bodies connecting was wonderfully erotic. We were all sweaty and panting, and when I turned my head to look at him – God, that’s what I needed – the visual. Head thrown back, eyes closed, and the veins on the sides of his neck bulging. His chest was heaving, and the muscles of his six-pack were flexing enticingly. Jon’s thick, corded arms were holding fast, and his fingers digging into my flesh were exciting me. I wondered if he’d leave a mark, he was holding me so tight. God, I hoped so. I braced myself as best I could and arched my back ever so slightly, to take him just that little bit deeper. I could feel the fuzziness surround me as I came, screaming his name.
Jon growled deep in his throat, and emptied into me, my name on his lips like a prayer.
I sat back on my heels and looked my fill. Each breath Jon took had his cock bouncing. His hands were braced on the dryer, making his arm muscles bulge. The strong thighs in front of my face were flexed from the exertion of keeping him upright. His taut calves tapered into his boots. Oh, I had to see the rest of him. God help me, I wanted a closer look at his ankle tat – how deranged is that? I reached for one of Jon’s legs, and took his boot off and dropped it behind me. The other boot quickly joined its mate, followed very closely by the rest of his clothes. Good Lord. He was now gloriously, shamelessly, and unabashedly naked. I put his left foot in my lap, and traced the tattoo on his ankle with a light fingertip before kissing it. Sigh. I put his foot back down so he had a wider stance; he was gonna need it.
I ran my nails up the inside of his legs, from ankle to balls, over and over again. The sound they made against his skin and hair was beautiful. The sound Jon made was even more so. A girl could get used to that sound. With each pass, I lightened my touch, until I was barely skimming the hairs on his legs. I could see his legs tremble. What a sense of power. Finally (at least, I think that’s what he groaned under his breath) I danced my fingers over his cock. Just barely skimming the velvety soft skin that covered the steel-hard shaft.
Argh, I couldn’t stand not knowing his flavor a minute longer. I ran my hands around behind him to squeeze his perfect, smooth, taut ass. I could feel his glutes tighten when I slid my mouth over his length, taking him in completely. My tongue whirled around his tip as I slowly drew my head back and forth. Jon’s hands were fisted in my hair again, this time trying to get me to hasten my movements. NO fucking way was I speeding this up. I was going to make this last as long as humanly possible.
I gently clamped my teeth around his base, making him freeze. His breathing was ragged, and his whole body was tensed. It wouldn’t take too much more before I had my first taste of Jonny Juice. “Diana,” he said on a whisper. “I can’t take much more of that. It’s been too long. I need … aahhhhh!” He trailed off as I sucked him hard. We’re talking golf-ball-through-a-garden-hose suction. Looking up at him, I saw his head thrown back, those gorgeous eyes closed, and his delectable mouth opened slightly. He was making a guttural sound in his throat, and I felt his vein pulse a split second before he came in my mouth.
Oh my God; this was truly the nectar of the Goddesses. It was a little sweet, with a bit of musk and something else – lust perhaps? I kept up the pressure until he slumped back, heedless of the cool metal of the dryer. I let him slip from my mouth, and rested my head on his thigh, while I lightly stroked his subdued member.
This time, when Jon reached for me, I let him pull me to my feet. He lifted me up, and turned us so he could sit me on the dryer, and move to stand between my legs. This was incredibly sweet, but a bad move on his part. Take an overheated body part, a pretty cold, metal appliance, and what do you get? Yep. You get Jon swearing like a sailor. It was cute, actually, and I laughed out loud at him.
“And just what the hell is so funny,” he demanded; although his eyes twinkled, knowing damn well what I was laughing at.
“That’s some pretty colorful language there, Jersey,” I said. “Everything OK?”
“You wouldn’t be laughing if your bare ass was sitting on that dryer instead of a clothed one.” He carefully bent over to kiss me, keeping himself well away from the cold.
“Oh, and now who’s fault is that?,” I said, looking at him. “I certainly didn’t climb up here all by myself, you know.” God, the banter was fun, but I was wound so tight, it was a wonder I didn’t just explode. “But, if you’d like, there’s a couch in the tanning room across the hall. We could…” Before I could finish my thought, let alone my sentence, Jon had scooped me up off the dryer, FORCING me to wrap my arms around his neck. Oh the hardship. To compensate, I thrust my tongue into his ear, which may have been a mistake, because he crashed into the wall, and nearly dropped me.
He kicked open the door across the hall, and made for the couch. He let my legs drop to the ground, and slid a hand up the back of my neck to cradle my head, tilting it as he kissed me thoroughly. My heart was pounding so hard, I felt sure he could hear it. So distracted was I by his assault on my mouth that I didn’t notice when his other hand slid to my cleavage, and with a practiced motion, flipped open my bra. I gasped when his callous-roughened fingertips gently caressed my skin. Jon chuckled into my mouth at my reaction, and thrust his tongue in harder and deeper than he had before.
I could hardly stand anymore. My head was spinning from the kisses, and my pulse was racing from the gentle assault on my breasts. When Jon pinched one puckered nipple, I screamed into his mouth and gripped his strong, broad shoulders to keep from falling to the floor. Jon broke the kiss to lean back and look at me. His eyebrows rose when he saw the small sunburst tattoo that encircled my right nipple. Chalk it up to stupidity, but I got inked in college on a drunken dare. I was drunk enough to take the dare, but at least we went somewhere reputable, and the art looked good.
“This looks like it hurt,” he murmured, as he stroked the ink.
“Hmmm? Yeah, it did, like a bitch,” I said. “That’s why I only got one done.”
“It’s nice,” he said, licking the tat, and making me shiver. “Very sexy.”
As he bent his golden head to suck the pebbled tip into his mouth, Jon wrapped a corded arm around my back – which was a good thing; otherwise I would have melted into a puddle at his feet. I dug my hands into his hair, massaging his scalp with my fingernails. With his other hand, Jon kneaded my other breast, being sure to tease and pluck at its rosy tip.
He maneuvered me around the side of the couch to lean me against the wall; pinning me to it with his body. I couldn’t move now even if I wanted to. Jon finally stopped the assault long enough to concentrate on unsnapping my jeans. They were tight enough that he couldn’t quite reach inside which was fine by me – that meant he had to take them off.
I smiled to myself.
I had another surprise in store for him.
The taste of him was intoxicating; better than any wine I had ever sampled. Better than the most decadent dessert I had ever had. I’d have to say that his kiss was better than any sex I had ever had. Yet. I had the feeling (both in my head and pressed against my leg) that sex was definitely in my future.
Jon’s hands left my hair and I nearly cried from the loss. Then I felt them trail down over my shoulders and sides, to come to rest on my waist. I let my hands wander down his chest feeling my way down the rough terrain of hard muscle, until I came to his jeans. I grabbed a fistful of the soft blue T-shirt he was wearing and hauled it up. With the other hand, I traced light patterns on his chest, feeling the soft fuzz that was growing back. I grinned.
Jon broke the kiss to look at me. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing at all, darlin’,” I said. “Just glad to see that your chest hair is growing back in. The mags may like you smooth, but damn,” I blushed a little, continuing to stroke his chest. “I like you a little fuzzy.”
Jon chuckled low in his chest, and smiled like I’d paid him a great compliment. “I think you may be the only one. Everyone else thinks I should keep up with the waxing, but,” he blushed himself a little, “damn it, it stings.”
Now it was my turn to chuckle. “Well, whatever the reason, it works for me.”
Jon’s thumbs were making lazy circles on my sides, making me shiver a little. I scratched my manicured nails over his ribs, making him twitch. “It’s not right that I’ve got my shirt off, and you don’t,” I chided. He took a step back, hitched up the hem of his shirt, and hauled it over his head by the neck. The motion made his biceps flex enticingly, and his abs tighten. Good Lord, he was sculpted perfection.
“Better?” he asked, throwing his shirt carelessly over his shoulder.
“Better than I’d imagined,” I said, just mesmerized by the bronze skin pulled tightly over well-defined muscles. I couldn’t help myself, so I helped myself. I touched every inch of skin I could see, and followed it with wet, sloppy, open-mouthed kisses. God, how could I not? Jon’s hands braced on either side of me on the dryer, and his eyes closed and his head dropped back, exposing his neck and that delectable Adam’s apple. I had to tiptoe to reach it, but it was worth it. As I scored my teeth across it, he hissed and grabbed me, pulling me hard against him. I wound my arms around his neck, and pulled, bending him to my will.
Thrusting my hands roughly into his hair, I pulled his head to one side, and God help me, I bit him. Bit right into that sweet spot between his neck and shoulder, tasting the sweat that was accumulating there. Sweat and the musk of a very turned on man. Yum. His arms tightened around me, but he didn’t flinch away. I soothed the bite with my tongue, and I swear, Jon growled. Actually growled like a glorious golden lion. That’s all I needed to hear. The boy liked a little rough play? Oh yeah. Catching him off guard, I spun him so his back was to the dryer, and slammed myself into him, ravaging his mouth.
Before he could react, I broke the kiss. Locking hooded, heavy, eyes with him, I took a step back, scoring my nails roughly over his pecs, being sure to scrape his nipples on the way down. As I scratched at his ribs, he flinched a little – I’d found a ticklish spot. Being a bit of a pain in the ass, I took my time counting each of his ribs with my nails, making him make these little noises in the back of his throat like a mewling kitten. When he reached for me, I gently pushed his hands away, shaking my head slightly. This was my fantasy, damn it, and I was going to do this my way.
I slowly sank to my knees in front of him, not breaking eye contact until I was eye to, well eye (ha ha) with his pelvis. I remembered seeing some of the photos of Jon’s “package” and thinking it looks real good (and seems to always be tucked to the left) but he must be stuffing. Nope. Not at all. With a trembling hand, I traced the lump in his jeans. Jon’s hands tightened on the edge of the dryer when I reached for his belt. Slowly, I unbuckled it and let it fall open. His sharp exhale emboldened me, and I unfastened his jeans and had them down around his boots before I lost my nerve.
God, he’s a man who still wore tightie whities. Wow. Boxers are sexy, but damn, this man fills out these Calvins like nothing I’d ever seen before (not that I’m a slut, mind you, but I’ve seen my share). I grazed a palm over the pulsing bulge reverently, and ever so lightly. I leaned in to press a kiss to it, and just the scent of him made me wet. Jon grabbed for me again, and I swatted at him. “Don’t make me bite you,” I said to him, my voice a rasp. I swear, he smiled, no, smirked at me, and reached for me again. I fit my mouth over the width of him, and bit gently. He growled and arched his back as a small wet spot appeared near his waistband. I smiled. What a rush. I’m pretty sure I was now thoroughly drenched myself, and he hadn’t even touched me yet. Not really.
I hooked my index fingers into the waistband of his Calvins and pulled them down slowly, revealing him inch by glorious inch. He was swollen and purple and pulsing, and just lightly dusted with fine light-brown hair at the base, I licked at the glistening tip of his cock as I slid the underwear down to join his jeans. Jon groaned and dug his hands into my hair, no longer trying to stop me. I bit him again anyway, lightly; just to make him make that feral growl again. I licked up the length of him as I tested the weight of his balls with my hands.
Jon’s breathing was getting ragged and heavy, and I’d only just started. God, this was going to be fun.
“I thought you were coming right back,” he said, making me jump. I spun around, towel clutched to my chest.
“I thought you left!” I said, surprised as all hell that he was still here. “Sorry, I had to get out of that wet shirt…” I trailed off as I realized he was just staring. At me. With unmistakable heat in his eyes. He took a step into the room, and I instinctively tried to take one back, only to find the damned dryer at my back. I was unable to do anything other than watch as he advanced. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the muscles that rippled and clenched as he got closer. How did I not notice before that shirt that was painted onto his body? Oh yeah, I was distracted by his hair. No such distraction now.
He stopped right in front of me. Close enough to smell. Yikes! I had to tilt my head back to look him in the eyes. His hands came to either side of my head, and his fingers pushed into the knot of curls, finding the clips and dropping them to the floor. His eyes darkened even more when my hair cascaded down (God, I am SO glad I kept my hair long) and covered me more completely than that little towel I was holding. At his surprised expression, I said, “Looks like I have a few surprises of my own.”
“You sure do, baby,” he said, as he drove his hands into my hair and all rational thoughts from my brain. I groaned when his fingers started massaging my scalp and my eyes closed at that exquisite sensation. I could feel him leaning in to kiss me, but the touch of his lips on mine still took me by surprise. They were full and soft and strong and – oh! – wonderful. Mine parted on a sigh and he took advantage, thrusting his tongue into my mouth.
This new assault on my senses, God, the taste of him, nearly killed me. He tasted faintly of mint, like he’d brushed his teeth before coming to the salon. The salon. We’re in the salon. Oh boy. I broke the kiss reluctantly, and looked into his eyes. “Jon,” I said, “I don’t usually, I mean, this isn’t what – ”
He laughed softly at my discomfort. “Diana, I know none of this was calculated.” His hands were still playing with my hair, sifting it between his fingers, measuring its length, and generally driving me to distraction. “You have the most beautiful hair I’ve ever seen,” he said, combing his fingers through it. “It’s so soft, so thick. And the color. Is it your own? It’s gorgeous.”
What? Is he asking me something? I have no clue what’s going on other than this God of a man is bracing me against a clothes dryer, and playing with my hair. That’s all I need to know. Yep. I’m just concentrating on the hypnotic cadence of his voice. God, I’m so glad he came into my salon. Salon. Jesus. “Uh, Jon, we are in my salon. We’re not closed yet. Anyone could – ” he stopped me with a kiss.
“I locked the door and flipped the sign before I came back here,” he said.
“Pretty sure of yourself, are you?” I teased. I was thinking I should feel indignant, but somehow couldn’t muster it up. Nope. Not an iota of indignation.
“Not sure, just hopeful.” He searched my eyes, showing vulnerability in his. “I’m not reading you wrong, am I? Let me know if I am – no harm, no foul.”
I looked straight into his eyes. This was no arrogant rock star looking at me – this was a man who’d been badly hurt, who was taking some comfort from me. A man who was unsure of his potency; unsure if his advances were wanted. A man basically unsure of himself. Damn his ex-wife for putting those doubts into his head.
I dropped the towel I was still holding, and tunneled my fingers into the hair on either side of his beautiful face. “You’re not wrong,” I said, as I pulled him in for another kiss.
I laughed out loud at that comment. Once you can get past the on-my-God-it’s-Jon-Bon-Jovi, he’s really just an incredibly funny guy with a good sense of humor. “You’re too much. Now, what do I call you? You going formal on me, Mr. Kidd, or can I use your given name?”
“Jon is fine with me,” he said, laughing.
“OK, Jon, let’s get you washed. Follow me.” I led him to the back of the salon to the row of sinks fronted by armless salon chairs. “Take a seat.” I reached over his head for a towel to wrap around his neck, and a smock to cover his clothes. I gathered his hair up and told him to lean back and to just relax. He settled into my sink and closed his eyes. His fingers were laced together over his chest, his legs slightly parted. Down girl. I turned on the faucets.
As I picked up the sprayer, he said on a groan, “I just love the sensual feeling of having your hair washed by someone else. It’s my very favorite guilty pleasure.” I jumped and hit the trigger on the nozzle, spraying cold water all over myself. Shrieking, I reached over to turn off the water. As I was bent over, damned if Jon didn’t jerk upwards and collide with my, um, shall we say, ample endowments? God, I was mortified. I jumped back, tripped over one of his feet, and fell flat on my ass.
“Shit, are you alright,” he asked. He was containing his laughter, but just barely.
I took one look into those eyes, the little laugh lines around them, and the twitch in one corner of his mouth and lost it. I threw my head back and laughed. Laughed my ass off. “Gimme a hand up,” I said, extending a hand for him to grab. Once safely on my feet, I scowled at him. “Dammit, Jon, you can’t say stuff like that. Not in that sexy voice of yours. Jesus, it’s a wonder I didn’t drown you with my hose.”
He let the laughter he’d been holding back loose now, rolls of it. That threatened to put me back on my ass. “Sorry, darlin’,” he said, not at all sorry.
I called him on it. “No, you are not sorry.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he agreed. “That was too much fun. I don’t know why, but it gives me great pleasure to discombobulate you.”
“Ooooh, a fifty dollar word. So you’re more than just a pretty face, are ya?” I reached up to re-secure some of the hair that had fallen from the clips during my oh-so-graceful-ass-plant, and Jon’s laughter dried up. Shit. Did I cross the line with that remark? I looked in his eyes for some sign of what I did wrong. Gulp. They had narrowed a little, and darkened to the color of a perfect August afternoon sky. “Hey,” I asked, “what’s wrong?” Then it dawned on me. I swear, you could hear the light switch flicking on. Take pale pink cotton, add cold water, and what do you get? A peep show, that’s what. I think I turned the color of ketchup. Maybe the color of a Coke can; I’m not sure which.
“Oh my God!” I screeched. “I’ll be right back.” I all but ran from the salon (real professional, right?) into the back room. I stopped in front of the mirror back there and groaned. Yep, there was pretty much nothing left to the imagination here. The cotton was molded to my body; the outline of my bra clearly visible, not to mention my nips. Great. So didn’t need this embarrassment today. Not any day for that matter.
I chanced a glance back through the door into the salon, and saw the nearly empty chair. In place of that gorgeous hunk of man was a discarded smock and towel. Oh well. I guess I don’t blame him for taking off. This’ll still be a hell of a story to tell the girls tomorrow.
I turned my back on the salon and started unbuttoning my shirt, heading toward the laundry area and a warm, dry towel. I had slipped the wet shirt to the floor, and was bending to take a towel from the dryer when I heard a sharp intake of breath at the doorway, then a man’s voice. His voice.
Turning on the dryer, I came out, rolling my sleeves as I went. Imagine the kick to the head I felt when I saw who was in my chair! Now, to be honest, I noticed the hair first. In my defense, I couldn’t see the reflection in the mirror, but damn, that hair! It was enough to make my mouth run dry. Shoulder length, sun-kissed dirty-blonde, lightly waved – oh my God! I was so looking forward to getting my hands into that! As I got closer, my angle of vision changed, and I saw his reflection in the mirror. I stopped in my tracks. “Holy Hell,” I said. I’m pretty sure I said that out loud.
Smooth as silk, he said, “Sorry for the fake name, but,” he smiled a little half-smile, “it’s tough getting around unnoticed these days.”
Understatement of the century, that. After a very public, very nasty break up with his wife (if you believe the papers, she was cheating on him with a long-time family friend. I mean really, if you had this at home, would you go looking elsewhere? Would you really cheat on this man? With him? Sure. On him? No way. I wasn’t alone on this train of thought – my sisters on the Topix forum were all with me) he was all over the tabloids every time he stepped foot out of his apartment. I guess that’s why he came here instead of his regular place? Why not just have someone come to him? Actually who cares! He’s here. In my chair. On purpose. This is literally a dream come true.
Giving myself a mental shake, I strode across the rest of the room, and offered my hand. “I’m Diana,” I said, pretty sure I wasn’t shaking too badly. “Thanks for coming in. How’d you hear about me?”
Then Jon grinned. Actually grinned that megawatt, eye-crinkling smile at me. I almost came right then and there. “A friend of a friend recommended this place on a Thursday night if I was looking to be somewhat incognito. I can’t get near my regular place lately, and,” he ran his hand impatiently through hair that refused to stay out of his eyes. “I simply can’t wait anymore to have this tamed,” he said as he indicated that gorgeous mop of hair.
“Well, I sure do appreciate it.” God, I sound like an idiot. “Sorry, I’m usually much more well-spoken. You surprised the hell out of me,” I said with a laugh that I hope to God didn’t come out as breathy as it sounded to me.
He just chuckled. “I do have that effect on people. Actually, that’s one of the best parts of my job.”
“Really?” I said, not quite believing him. “Huh. I would have thought the best part was having a job you love, where you actually enjoy going to work, like me.” I winked at him. “Either that, or the pots of money you make or the tons of women who throw themselves at – ” I slammed my mouth shut and clamped both hands over it. OK. I need to shut up now. Jon just arched one eyebrow at me. God. “Sorry,” I said. “Occupational hazard. I make conversation about whatever pops into my head. Don’t mind me.” I passed a hand in front of my face. “OK, the filter is back in place now.”
He laughed at that. A low, deep chuckle that had my toes curling in my Keds. Good Lord, I need to pull myself together. He’s a client, for Christ’s sake. “OK, so, what are we doing to your hair tonight?”
“Nothing too dramatic,” he said on a sigh. “I’d never hear the end of it. I guess keep it like it is, just shorter so I can see where I’m goin’.’
“Darlin’, it’s your head, your hair. I’ll do whatever you want, short of a buzz cut. Frankly, I didn’t like that ultra-short look on you., It showed off your cheekbones to perfection, but a little longish through here,” I put a hand into the hair on his forehead, and nearly passed out from the feel of it, “will really show off your eyes. Much sexier than the short ‘do. Besides,” I put a hand into the hair on either side of his face, and continued, “women like something to hold onto when you kiss ‘em.”
My witty repartee was met with a full throated belly laugh. What an intoxicating sound. “Jesus, Diana,” he said. “You’re good for my ego. I’ve been getting so much shit lately about the divorce, I feel like I’ve become one of those untouchable people. You, I like. OK, baby, I leave myself in your very small, delicate, but capable hands.” He grinned at me again. “Have your way with me.”
I love hair. I always have. Since I was a ten year old playing with that creepy giant Barbie head, I’ve loved styling hair. The colors, the textures – even the way it falls to the floor under my scissors makes me smile. Laugh if you want, but I get to spend my days doing something I love. Can you say the same?
Now that that’s out of the way, let me introduce myself. Hi. I’m Diana, and I’m a hair-o-holic. Ha ha. I run a salon called “Style”. It’s an old-fashioned, full service salon, offering (in addition to the best hair care around) waxing, tanning, manicures, and a hot lather shave for the men. They love it. It’s my gimmick; my stamp on this place. The salon is tucked in between a DQ and a bank in an older strip-mall in Brooklyn, but it’s mine, and I love it. I’ve worked at this place for 15 years, and have owned it for the last five. I’m 35, if you’re trying to figure out the math. 35 and fabulous, if I do say so myself.
Today is Thursday, my late day. I have a few regulars who come in after work, but for the most part it’s quiet with a few walk-ins, and I can get my paperwork and ordering done, Today, though, I have someone coming in for my last slot of the night. Monica, my receptionist, noted it was a man called Mr. Kidd, who wanted a wash, cut, and shave. I smiled to myself. There’s nothing quite like giving a guy a hot-lather shave. Alright, let me qualify that – a young guy. OK, you got me there. He doesn’t have to be young, just hot.
This Mr. Kidd was due in half an hour, which gave me plenty of time to get my hair wrapped up, and to make myself presentable. Why do I have to wrap my hair, you ask? Well, there’s a lot of it. It’s thick, curly, and luxurious, falling to just below my waist. My natural chocolate-brown has been enhanced with strands of caramel that shine like gold in the right light. My hair is my one vanity. I don’t spend a lot of time or money on clothes or shoes, but I do on my hair. Hey, would you go to a salon where the stylist had crappy hair? I didn’t think so. I look at it as an investment in my business – as money well spent.
In any event, I’m by myself tonight, so I’ll be doing the wash. So, I’ve got to get this riot of curls up and back so it doesn’t get in the way at the sink. I grabbed some clips and used them to secure the knot I wound into my hair. A few curls escaped, making me look about 15 years old, but it couldn’t be helped.
I have a young face to begin with, which usually means I get carded when I go out. I’m not complaining about that. I do, however, complain about not getting taken seriously because of the way I look. In addition to the long hair and young face, I have moss green eyes, am 5’6” and am quite frankly built like a stripper. It’s hard to get people to look past the 38-26-28 to the valedictorian underneath. Yep, I'm a smartie. I can’t do too much about my face, so I do my best to downplay my figure.
Today was no exception. I knew I had someone new coming in, and didn’t want to give the wrong impression. Don’t get me wrong; when I go out on the town, I play up my – um – assets to the hilt. At work, though, I try to contain myself (ha, ha). Tonight, I’m slumming in skin tight jeans (alright, maybe I’m vain about my ass too – shoot me, why don’t you) and a loose man’s shirt; palest pink with a gray pinstripe.
I was in the back, just switching over another of the seemingly endless loads of towels when the door opened. “Hello,” I called.
“Hey,” a breathless, and annoyingly familiar voice answered. “I’m a little early for my 7:30.”
“No worries, darlin’,” I answered. “Have a seat at my station; first chair on the left. I’ll be right out.” It bugged me that I couldn’t place the voice; I’m usually quite good at that. The voice was smooth as aged whiskey and a low enough rumble to bring to mind a large, well-muscled youngish guy. Yum. Some days I just love my job.
