House Call.

Today was a self-care day, but I made an exception for Bryson since I was his favorite barber—shit, I was his only barber. I only took this house call for him because I’m serious about my “me time” when I’m not at the shop, plus, I enjoyed entertaining his flirtatious gestures. It was lighthearted, it was fun, but at the shop, it wasn’t the most appropriate behavior.

His knock turned into the Clipse’s “Grindin” beat after I took too long to open the door. Whenever he came to the shop, he would turn his knock into a classic rap beat—which, I’d either have to guess the song, or discount his haircut. It was our little thing. He absolutely hated to lose. The one time he did win, he didn’t accept the discount and he always paid extra, regardless.

“Damn, what took you so long to answer the door?” he asked, scrunching his eyebrows together in confusion comprised with nosiness.

“I was tidying up. I don’t want you thinking I’m a slob.”

“You call this tidy?” he asked sarcastically, but in all seriousness, nonetheless.

I looked at him and rolled my eyes.

Although my place wasn’t filthy, I had piles of laundry occupying my sofa that needed to be folded. My habitual spending on home décor made the living room look similar to HomeGoods. The half-eaten bag of rice cakes had been resting on my TV stand since last night and is probably stale at this point. Shit…maybe I am a bit of a slob.

Bryson proceeded inside, looking around and examining every corner.

 “Umm, what was the song, Sabrina?”

“It’s “Grinding”. Who wouldn’t know that?”

“I was taking it easy on you,” he added.

“Nah. Don’t take it easy on me. I’m nothing like those prissy girls you run around with who knows absolutely nothing about classic rap music. You should already know I’m a hip-hop connoisseur. I got this.”

He smirked while twisting the hairs in his beard, impressed and turned on by my presumptuous demeanor.

“Oh you got this, huh?” he asked, rebelliously, wanting to put me up for a challenge.

I continued to the den where my barber chair and other cosmetic instruments resided. Bryson spectated as he purposely lagged behind. My bedroom door was halfway open. Although he didn’t think I’d notice, due to being a few steps ahead, he swiftly snuck a peek inside then kept strolling. I oddly found his meddling to be quite cute—contrary to the despise I have against people who pry in my business. It was almost flattering how curious he was about me since all he knew was “Sabrina the barber”.

Opposed to what the living room looked like, the den was spotless—it was my sanctuary. I’ve practiced my barber skills on numerous family members, friends, and classmates, who turned into recurring clients, amongst others. Before I rented a chair at the barbershop, this is where I made my money, and a name for myself.  

The cutting chair was espresso brown, made of quality leather. The stainless steel clippers, scissors, and razors were laid out neatly, shiny, and sanitized. The dark hardwood floors complemented the white cabinetry with gold handles, which made the gold knickknacks on the shelves really stand out. The oil diffuser dispensed notes of lemongrass, eucalyptus, and tea tree oils. A candle was always lit to enhance the therapeutic vibe that I was trying to channel—both in the barbershop, and at home. I took pride in my work and this space of utopia certainly concurred.

 “Ok, come on. Sit your ass down. I don’t have all day”, I said jokingly while slapping the backrest of the chair, knowing good and damn well I had all day.

He side-eyed me and said, “Watch your tone”, while slowly taking a seat.

My feminine muscles instantly clenched.

I sanitized my hands and grabbed a neck strip from its container. As I reached across his face to grab the other end of the strip, my right arm softly brushed his lips. Aiming to bring the neck strip underneath his beard, Bryson slowly turned his head and softly landed a kiss on my inner wrist. I blushed, but only internally as I didn’t want the mirror that was stationed in front of us to mirror the unexpected butterflies that arose. I placed the haircutting cape on him and began the process as if nothing happened.

“Leave a little on the top”, Bryson requested, so I fulfilled his desire and gave him the usual fade he’d always get.  

“Hold on real quick,” he then said.

He got up from the chair, reached in his pocket, pulled out a doobie, and lit it with the candle flame. He inhaled it, sat back in the chair, and then exhaled. Bryson reached over his head to hand it to me. I took it from him and gave it a couple puffs until I started choking. I either overestimated myself, or this was the chronic shit that Dr. Dre used to rap about. Bryson stood up to tend to me and make sure I was alright.

“Easy, easy”, he said while trying to soothe me. “Don’t fight it. Take it in slowly, like this.”

Bryson demonstrated, then gently grabbed my face with his hand and blew the smoke into my mouth. I exhaled and we both stood there slightly stoned, yet full of adrenaline.

I snapped us both out of the daze and continued with his hair cut. I slowly worked my way to the front of the chair and began perfecting his hairline with precision. I paused as he reached out his hands and pulled me in between his legs by my hips, keeping them there until I finished. The weight and masculinity of them turned me on. I began lining up his mustache and trimming his beard while still occupying the space where his groin and my thigh met. Reaching behind him, my breast met his face as I grabbed my signature beard oil and began applying it thoroughly. Turning his head from left to right, I was impressed with my own work, especially while distracted. I complimented him with a shoulder massage—something I like to do every so often to add a smidge of luxury and to top off the experience. He rolled his neck around and from side to side to loosen his muscles and release tension. The feeling of his shoulder traps flexing exalted his manly qualities. I knew if I kept going, I’d be opening up a door that I’m not sure I would want to close.

“Alright, you’re all done,” I stated as I backed away from him.

“Oh, am I?” he questioned while pulling me back.

“You are. You weren’t due for another cut until next week, but you insisted on coming”, I said nonchalantly.

“Yeah, I did, huh?” he asked, rhetorically.

He tugged at the waistline of my pants until my lips were briefly exposed. I was taken aback and quickly pulled them back up. He sat there and stared at me with a slight grin as I remained standing front and center of him.

“Lower the chair”, he ordered.

I was confused, but I complied and used my foot on the lever until his head was adjacent to my thigh gap.

“That’s better”, Bryson stated as he attempted to lower my pants, again. This time, I didn’t resist. I let him do what we both wanted him to do.

 Assisting him pull my right ankle through the rest of my pant leg, he slowly lifted my leg over his shoulder while helping me keep my balance. He brought his freshly groomed mustache into union with my moist labia. I tried to push his head away until he grabbed my hand and interlocked our fingers. It became a challenge—a challenge that I liked. He began devouring me as his tongue flickered and his lips sucked on all the right places. I stopped fighting the urge to make him stop, and grinded in his face, making sure he covered all areas—front to back. The vibration of him humming to what seemed like a melody on my clitoris elicited nothing short of elation. I pulsated, and pulsated some more, shaking uncontrollably until I erupted. I pulled away and watched him lick his lips. I looked at him, looking at me, with a half-smile and a beard that glistened even more now than before. He stood up in front of the mirror and rubbed his hands around his fade, then down to his facial hair in admiration of my work. He turned to me and clutched my chin, then drew in to kiss me, assuring I could taste every drop of the sweetness I left on his lips.

He cleaned himself off to make sure he looked decent enough to step back out into the public. I walked him to the door with little to no words, but so much satisfaction. I was pleased, and he knew it.

“Same time next week?” he asked.

I thought to myself, “He won’t need another haircut by—,” then immediately cut off my overthinking before I robbed myself of a sequel.

As he exited, he turned around and asked, “What was the song, Sabrina?”

He sneered vindictively while I had a look of confusion on my face. I then realized that he was referring to the humming melody that had me squirming uncontrollably, which was another challenge for him to know, and for me to find out.