Kiss that Frog

December 14, 2008 at 1:37 am (Clairissa, Sweet sticky things)

I love the mass hysteria that comes with a few snowflakes. In 2004, during the GREAT GIANT ICE STORM, Mizelle and I went out every day. I loved how the city felt abandoned and we were left to wander through the remains. Since then I’ve not bought into the panic spread by news and weather folk. It’s going to be cold? In December? Really?

Duly noted…

So when I heard that a GIANT ICE AND SNOW EVENT was coming, did I rush out and buy a ton of supplies? Yes, I did. (Confession: I was going to the store to buy a ton of supplies anyway.) Took it home, put it away. Now what? Hunker down, wait for the lights to flicker and the power to go our so all my supplies will begin to rot? Of course not.

I did what any normal thinking red-blooded redheaded pervert would do: I went to see Clairissa.

It’s become a Friday afternoon ritual; an hour or two before the paychecks land, I stop by the barbershop to schmooze with Clairissa and the girls. (Not a euphemism for her breasts. But now that you mention it…) Lately things have been slow. We have time to go to the bar for beers, or hang out in the back. This particular afternoon was jammin’ busy. Two other barbers were working the stands in back, clients were coming and going. She booked me for an hour, even though I didn’t need a haircut.

I got one anyway.

The rains came as I entered the shop. A lady sat on the futon, reading one of my old copies of Rolling Stone. Clairissa came out of the back, saw me and said, “Hey baby!” She gave me a ‘Hi honey, I’m home’ hug, a sweet kiss on the lips. The gal on the couch eyed us suspiciously.

Clairissa reached under the counter and pulled out a box, gift-wrapped in Sunday comics. “I saved it until you got here.” (I’d dropped it off a week or so earlier. I left in a rush, so she said she’d wait to open it.) “Can I open it now?”

“Of course. Just don’t get your hopes up too much…”

“I love how you wrapped it.”

Charlie Brown was staring at a barren Christmas tree, sighing. It summed up how I felt about her leaving.

“I also loved the message you left on the shop phone. Did you leave that from work?”

“Yup,” I admitted. “My co-worker got quite a kick out of it.” Dr T had taken over the till to give me a bathroom break. I took advantage of the lull to make a haircut appointment. The message went something like this: “Hey Hot Stuff, it’s your favorite deviant redhead. I’m hoping I can come by Friday afternoon like I always do, so you can use your Number One attachment on me. You know, the one that buzzes and makes the hair go away. I mean, I’d let you use other singular-digit attachments on me, but your girlfriend might get jealous… So… make my nipple tingle if this sounds like fun…”

Dr T was giving me a world-class smirk. “What the hell did I just hear?”

“Just getting a haircut. Told her to text me if there’s a problem. My incoming-text alert is on vibrate.” I dropped the phone into my chest pocket.

“Like you need a haircut,” Dr T concluded.

Clairissa tore off the comics wrapper. Underneath was a box, White Fudge-dipped Oreos. She looked at it, smiled graciously. “Cute.”

“It’s not what it seems. I know better than to bring you candy. I bring you meat…”

“Yes you do,” she laughed. “I’m a jerky girl…”

“It’s sorta meaty,” I said referring to the present. She opened the box, pulled out the tissue-wrapped goodie inside. It was a roomy white tee shirt, with bloody gunshot holes and big bloody letters. “MURDER BURGER, Davis Calif.” it said.

She squealed. “I love it! And I love you.” I got another sweet kiss, making the girl on the couch squirm. (Not a lot of boy/girl kissing happens at this particular barbershop.) “I’m going to make it my sleep shirt.”

Just as I’d hoped she would.

The girl on the couch went to the barber stand in the back, and I took a seat in Clairissa’s chair. My hair length matched the thickness of her fingers. She tried to grab a handful, then rubbed my scalp and kissed the top of my head. “You really like it short now, huh?”

“I’m stocking up on haircuts. I’ll probably let it grow once you’re gone.” I gave her the puppy-dog eyes.

“Aww… I’m not going for a couple of months, and even then I have a plan.” She plugged in the clippers and began mowing my head. “I went on Craigslist, trying to find someone who’d want to buy my client list. I had one offer, and it turned out to be the guy who bought (the shop Clairissa used to work for.) It became a matter of pride. I love my clients, I want them to be happy and well-taken care of. I have no idea how, or even if, this guy cuts hair, and Appolonia will still be working there. She’s a butcher!”

“Speaking of Craigslist, I see people complaining about her…” I interjected.

“I know! I couldn’t subject my peeps to that, so I said no. He’s been pestering me, offering me 10% of each haircut from the referrals, but I just can’t do it. So I have an idea. My clients usually get their hair cut every six to eight weeks, so I’m thinking I could use a buddy pass, fly up for a week, rent a centrally located motel room and bust out the hair that way. I’d still be seeing my friends, making money and get to live in Cali. It’s not so good for you. You come by every month at least.”

“I’m tempted to get some clippers and train my nephew. It wouldn’t be the same.”

“Hon, you could give yourself this haircut. Just mow…”

“Yeah, and end up with Sharpei head!”

She smacked me atop the skull. “You’re okay there. You’ve lost a lot of weight, this cut looks good on you.” She ran the razor over my jugular and around the back. “You trimmed your eyebrows!” She sounded disappointed.

“Yeah, I was getting bug antennae. Had to dainty them up a bit. It’s only been two weeks!” I have been getting haircuts at an alarming frequency.

“But I love doing your eyebrows. Next time save them for me?”

How could I refuse?

“Ooh, I see something I can fix. Guitar string!”

I have these dark hairs that grow out of my forehead. While most of my hair is either red or gray/white, I have thick pube-like hairs the color of dried blood that poke out over the eyebrows every now and then. (They also grow out the tip of my nose, but those die before anyone has a chance to see them. Hopefully.) When I get a ‘guitar string,’ Clairissa has a special way of removing them. She leaned down. I felt her soft lips on my forehead. Her tongue tickled, her teeth gripped the hair and she plucked. She showed me the hair on the tip of her finger. “One more,” she said. She repeated the procedure.

I looked in the mirror. My face was beet red. I realized I’d stopped breathing. I exhaled and smiled at her.

“You like that, don’t you?” She rubbed my neck.

“I don’t know what’s more electric right now, my heart or my crotch!”

She winked at me. I wanted to elaborate, tell her how soft her mouth was. I also know how strong it is. She’s given me vanity hickeys so hard it’s made her tongue-stud bleed; other times her touch is like a whisper. I tell her these things, and then back away. She knows the effect she has on me. I love the attention, and she loves being worshipped. From a distance. It’s a delicate dance, one that leaves me happy and horny after each visit.

She unsnapped the apron/cape (caperon?) that keeps the little hairs off. I marveled that it could now snap. Before, it was too tight to snap around my neck, so she would use a hair clamp to keep it from asphyxiating me. (I’d made it through the haircut without choking, but not without turning beet red, heh.) I stood up and dusted the tiny hairs from my head.

“You have lost weight!” she said.

I held my arms straight up. “Look, ma. Torso! Here, try something…” When we hug, she wraps her arms around my neck, resting on my shoulders, leaving my hands free to roam her back, sides, further… I brought her hands down to my ribs. “See if you can clasp your hands behind my back.”

She reached around, got a full grip and gave me a bear hug. It was like a Jenny Craig moment. But… I still like our other system better. More for me to play with below the neck…

I pulled back and fished out cash from my tee-shirt pocket. A devious glint flashed in her eye. She pulled her wife-beater and sports bra out, allowing me to hide the money in a place of my choosing. I gave her an evil grin, slid my hand under her breast and lifted. “I want to put it… right…under …here.” Her boob popped out, I slipped the bills underneath. I stared at her steel-tipped nipple, oh so tempted to give it a quick kiss, when from behind me came a loud, shocked voice:


I turned just in time to see Couch-Lady and Clairissa’s barber-partner turning back around. They’d managed to pick that particular moment to spin the barber chair around to check the back of Couch-Lady’s hair. They continued, completing a 360. Now they were watching us with the handheld mirror.

Yet another disturbing visual for the folks that pass through Hot Box Salon.

We went outside, stood and smoked, discussing her future. She reassured me, “I’m still gonna be in touch with you. Most of the people I know and love are here. Just pretend I’m not leaving, okay?”

Our ten-year-old

My ten-year-old

Easier said than done. “I still need to come by and pick up our frog.” (We have joint-custody of a frog ectoplasm. It’s in a jar on her mantle.)

“I scared the shit out of a guy with that today!” she said. “He was looking around, ’cause I’m selling everything, and he asked what that was. I told him it’s not for sale. He asked to look at it, so I brought it down. It freaked his shit out! He’s a big manly-type man, and he freaked out. He left immediately! Dude, it was awesome!”

“That’s our baby…”

Another client came in, a first-timer with her teenage daughter. Figuring that my presence could only be a bad influence, I politely excused myself to the bathroom. I composed myself and wandered out to say goodbye.

Correction: Not goodbye. Until next time. She assures me there will be many more next times.

I hope so. A frog should have both parents in its life…


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