This is our dance. I have been cutting your hair for years. That thick, commanding head of hair, the envy of men and summoner of women. Long before we loved each other, I cut your hair. It was dark chocolate brown then. Somewhere, at sometime I fell in love with you; you fell in love with me too.
It became more than a little off the top then didn't it. I could see how you leaned your head back and luxuriated in the scalp massage, how you would spark when my knees brushed against yours when I leaned in to brush the trimmed hairs from your face.
We dance like this for years. Every few weeks or when your gorgeous Pompadour gets unruly I cut your hair. You sit wrapped in a plastic shield and I hover around you, the buzz of the shaver raking through your locks. There is always a little more silver. That beautiful silver in you hair makes me wild. I never wear a bra when I'm cutting your hair. My teasing gift to you are the shape of my nipples bobbing at your eye level.
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