Tom didn’t know why he booked the appointment.

It had been over two years since he last cut his hair. At first it was laziness. Then pride. And then… something else. He never said it aloud, but he liked how it looked in the mirror. How it felt. How it moved. Especially after brushing. The glide, the shine—it stirred something.

But now he was standing in a boutique salon, pretending he was ready to chop it all off.

A single chair. No receptionist. Just her.

The stylist looked up from her phone and froze.

“…Wow.”

She stood, eyes glued to the chest-length waves tucked behind his ears. “You’re Tom?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Eleven o’clock.”

“I’m Ella.”

She shook his hand, slow and deliberate. Her eyes never left his hair. “You’re donating all that?”

“That’s the idea.”

She led him to the chair. “Let’s take a look before we do anything crazy.”

As soon as the cape settled around his shoulders, she stepped behind him and pulled his hair forward over his chest.

“Oh my god. You’ve been growing this how long?”

“Two years.”

She ran her fingers through it slowly, from scalp to ends, following each stroke with her palm. “You condition?”

“Twice a week.”

“You can tell.”

She picked up a brush and started at the ends, working methodically. Her hand followed the bristles each time, smoothing it down until it rested heavy against his chest again.

Tom stared at himself in the mirror.

She’s not just brushing it. She’s enjoying this. A lot.

“You ever tie it up?” she asked.

“Sometimes.”

“May I?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

She swept it up into a high ponytail, pulling it tight. His scalp tingled. The tension made his back straighten.

Then she stepped in front of him, wrapped her hand around the base of the ponytail, and gave it a slow, deliberate tug.

Tom inhaled sharply.

“Mm,” Ella smiled. “You ever modeled?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m serious. With this hair, and that face? You’d make stylists lose their minds.”

He chuckled nervously. “I don’t think I’m cut out for that.”

She tugged the ponytail again. Harder.

Tom’s mouth parted involuntarily.

“Let me try something,” she said, her voice low now. “Before we cut it. Just styling. No pressure.”

His body said no.

But then she straddled the chair.

Her thighs pressed against his as she grinded downward and thrust against his pelvis. Her hand still gripping the ponytail like a leash.

“…Fine. Just styling.”

Her smile widened.

“Good choice.”

The shampoo basin was warm. The porcelain cradled his neck as Ella adjusted it for him.

“Lean back,” she said softly.

Water poured over his scalp. Warm. Steady. Her fingers spread the strands apart.

Then came the shampoo.

Soft pressure. Tiny circles. Her thumbs worked behind his ears, her nails gently teasing the nape.

His breath hitched.

“Relax,” she whispered. “I’ve got you.”

She combed her fingers through the length, squeezing lather through it, letting it cling and slip.

“This hair was meant to be touched.”

He didn’t answer.

She twisted the wet length gently and ran her knuckles along his jaw.

“Still want to cut it?”

“…Maybe.”

Conditioner came next—thicker, richer. Her hands spread it from root to tip. She rinsed slowly, fingers never leaving him, the water pooling under his spine.

By the time she towel-wrapped his hair, his hands were gripping the seat.

She guided him back to the chair in silence.

Ella removed the towel and began combing out his hair again—this time with reverence. The wet strands glided through her fingers. She switched to a dryer, but kept it low.

Warm air. Round brush. Section by section.

“You okay?” she asked, brushing a damp lock down his chest.

“I… yeah. Just didn’t think this would feel like anything.”

“Oh, it’s going to feel like everything.”

He didn’t respond.

She leaned in close. “Do you like when I pull on it?”

Tom’s eyes flicked up to hers in the mirror. “What?”

“Honest question.”

“…It’s not bad.”

Ella’s eyes gleamed.

She took a fresh section and brushed it slow, tugging tight at the root.

Each glide of the brush ended with her palm against his chest.

Then she bent slightly at the waist, her hip brushed his thigh.

His breathing changed.

She finished blow-drying. Then she picked up the flat iron.

“I want this sleek.”

“Isn’t it already?”

“You haven’t seen sleek yet.”

She sectioned and straightened it inch by inch. Each pass of the iron hissed, leaving the hair like glass.

By the time she brushed it all forward over his chest, Tom was biting his lip.

The hair framed his collarbones, grazing his skin.

“I need a minute,” he mumbled.

Ella smiled knowingly. “Take two. But you’re not going anywhere.”

She tied his hair back into another high ponytail. This time even tighter. It pulled at his scalp in a way that made his core tighten.

Ella watched his reaction in the mirror.

“You feel that?”

“Yes.”

She took the ponytail in her hand and twisted it into a clean, tight braid.

Every tug made his body respond.

Then she stepped in front of him.

And straddled him again, settling into his lap.

The braid dangled between them.

“I want to color it.”

Tom shook his head. “I didn’t agree to that.”

She didn’t argue.

She pulled the braid forward and dragged it across his chest.

Then she rocked her hips once—just a slow, teasing grind against the stiffness he hadn’t acknowledged.

Tom’s jaw clenched.

Ella leaned forward, breath hot against his ear. “Still saying no?”

“…I don’t know.”

She ground again, slow, gentle pressure. Her hands threaded through the braid and pulled.

Tom’s voice was tight. “That’s not fair.”

Her lips brushed his cheek. “Neither is wasting hair like this.”

Another tug. Another rock. She reached down and stroked the bulge in his pants.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “Do it.”

“Say it louder.”

“Color it.”

She smiled.

“That’s what I thought.”

She undid the braid slowly. Her fingers dragged through the strands, brushing them out again until they shimmered loose and wild.

She parted it into quadrants and mixed the color; a soft, champagne gold.

Then she sat back on his lap, brush and bowl in hand.

Her thighs tightened around his.

She dipped the brush and painted his roots.

“You’re letting me do this,” she said.

Tom clenched the seat.

“I guess I am.”

“Why?”

He hesitated.

“…Because you do something to me.”

Ella smirked.

She painted section after section, brushing the color through carefully, letting her body press closer each time she moved.

Her fingers stroked through the hair as she clipped each finished piece.

“You like the way this feels,” she whispered.

He grunted softly.

She rocked again—firmer now.

Tom moaned.

When she finished, she leaned back and kissed his collarbone.

“Processing time,” she said.

Ella rinsed the dye slowly.

Her fingers massaged the new blonde scalp, gently raking the base. She combed through the wet hair with care, then wrapped him again in a towel and whispered: “You’re glowing.”

Back in the chair, she sectioned the golden-blonde hair with precision.

She didn’t blow-dry all at once. She took her time, brushing and drying each segment until it gleamed. Her eyes stayed locked on him in the mirror.

“This next part,” she said, “is just for me.”

She gathered the top sections high on his head and pulled them into two symmetrical pigtails.

Each elastic was secured with a faint snap that made his scalp twitch.

She brushed them forward so they curved in front of his shoulders.

“Look.”

He did.

The pigtails framed his face. His expression was already flushed.

Tom stared at his reflection.

How is this me?

He shifted. The pigtails bounced slightly.

God, I can feel them…

Then she held out a dress.

Black. Fitted. Thin straps.

“Stand.”

He hesitated. “Ella…”

“Now.”

He stood. She pulled the robe off. Cool air hit his bare chest.

She helped him step into the dress.

It hugged him immediately. Tight at the waist, snug across the chest. His new blonde pigtails swung gently as he looked down.

Ella touched his arm.

“Makeup.”

She applied it with the same care; soft foundation, warm highlight, shimmer on the eyelids. Gloss on the lips.

He sat there, trembling slightly as the pigtails tickled his collarbones with every breath.

Then she turned the chair to face the mirror.

Tom stared.

An unrecognizable woman stared back.

“Pose for me,” Ella said. While bringing him to a white backdrop.

Bare legs. Hair shining. Lips parted. Hands folded in his lap.

The pigtails swung slightly with every tiny movement. He could feel them against his chest, against his throat, teasing with each breath.

Ella took photos in silence. No direction. Just the sound of her slow breathing and camera clicks.

Then she set the phone down.

“You ready?”

Tom opened his mouth but she was already peeling the dress off.

One long, slow pull. Fabric sliding over his skin.

He stood bare before her.

Blonde pigtails. Glossy lips. Bare chest rising and falling.

She stepped forward, eyes never leaving him.

“Lie down,” she said.

He obeyed.

Ella took off her own clothes this time and got on top again. This time keeping her thighs firm against his while she rode his cock.

She pulled the pigtails gently, wrapping them around each hand like leashes.

“You're never cutting this hair,” she whispered.

Tom whimpered as the pigtails grazed down his chest with every breath, his body already trembling.

She leaned down, kissed the inside of his wrist, then slid her hand lower.

One long thrust.

Then another.

The hair swayed with the rhythm back and forth, brushing over his shoulders and tickling his nipples.

She pulled out her phone and showed him the photo she took. A hot blonde standing with her hands on her hips and hair tied up in playful high pigtails draping down her chest.

"Look at this beautiful babe. Cum for her," she whispered in his ear.

She pulsed against him again and yanked the tails, tighter now.

The pigtails slid forward.

Tom cried out and came, hard, gasping, trembling beneath her.

The last thing he felt was hair clinging to his skin and Ella’s hand smoothing it flat against his chest.

She leaned down.

Next to his ear, she whispered:

“Come back here tomorrow, I'm not done with your hair yet.”