exposed brick walls of the salon are lined with tall, modern mirrors framed in gold. Lila watches their cascading reflections within them as Jeanne helps her on with a black cloak.
Once comfortably settled on the stylish leather chair, Lila keeps her eyes fixed on Jeanne’s neck scarf. She traces the subtle pattern of the fabric up and down in its looping figure eight until these curves lead her to track the others on her stylist’s body. The lush spread of her breasts, for instance, held firmly in place from the front but spreading decadently under the dress at the side-view, as though her lingerie can’t quite contain them. Then on to rounded hips, shaped by the girdle of the leather belt and swaying as Jeanne moves in preparation behind her.
Jeanne murmurs, ‘Your hair is beautiful.’
Lila’s rush of pleasure at the compliment is intensified by the sudden sensation of fingertips grazing her temples. She nearly moans in approval at the lingering touch before Jeanne cards her hands through Lila’s straight hair, pulling long strands through splayed fingers. The rolling motion of it is lazy, haphazard – almost like Jeanne’s distracted by the colour, the texture – before settling into tugs too deliberate, too evenly timed, to be anything but by design.
Her eyelids feel heavy from the delights of this petting. They drift shut of their own accord, but she fights to open them, wanting to see Jeanne’s expression as she assesses Lila’s assets. Jeanne’s reflection is studying her, her full lips parted just enough to show a hint of pink tongue. In the mirror she can see flashes of Jeanne’s nails and the way Lila’s own hair seems brighter in contrast as it skims over the polish. When Jeanne steps away, assessment over, Lila feels the sudden lack of contact acutely.
‘Join me in the back?’
There’s laughing invitation from Jeanne, just like there was at the pub. Lila feels like she’s pressed up against the glass of that Conran Shop, looking in at all the expensive pretty things out of reach. Yet here she can walk right in and take what she wants. It’s an intoxicating feeling.
In the back of the salon there’s a spiral staircase leading up to a mezzanine, and a row of chairs slouching low before curving sinks. To Lila’s over-sensitized skin, reclining into one feels like an embrace.
‘How much will we be doing today?’ Jeanne asks formally, her hands resting on Lila’s shoulders.
It’s a question about cut; it’s a question about whatever Lila wants it to be.
‘I think,’ Lila says, ‘I’ll leave myself in your capable hands. I’ve heard that you would know exactly what to do with me.’
A low laugh that’s part triumph, part promise. ‘In that case, we have a new conditioner that I think you’ll love,’ Jeanne teases. ‘Mint and rosemary. The scent’s divine.’
God, her voice. She makes it sound like she’s never seen anything so fascinating as Lila’s hair. It makes Lila want to know what Jeanne will think of the rest of her, whether she’ll get that husky note when considering Lila’s breasts, or her bum. Will her touch there be this expert, too?
Mental note, Lila thinks, as Jeanne lifts the gauzy curtain veiling the back of the room and disappears to find the supplies: Do not let this gorgeous woman talk you into hundreds of pounds’ worth of product. Though she can’t fool herself. If Jeanne gives her that smile again, even at half the wattage, she’ll be styling putty in this woman’s hands and her nurse’s salary be damned.
‘Lie down for me.’
Lila responds instantly to the note of command in Jeanne’s voice, her thoughts trailing off into one long arch of her back and tip of her head. Jeanne rubs a thumb down her throat in a long, rewarding caress before she begins to shampoo her without further comment.
Jeanne’s hair falls in a warm curtain, smelling sweetly of woody spices and the alcohol tang of hairspray. Lila inhales deeply as Jeanne bends over her task.
‘You like being touched.’
It’s all too easy to simply moan in agreement. The water splashing the back of Lila’s neck feels cooler against her suddenly flushed skin.
‘Occasionally my clients fall asleep when I wash their hair,’ Jeanne murmurs.
Lila’s unsurprised, what with the stroking of strong fingers, the pounding of the water, and the soporific heat. But it’s nearly impossible to imagine that she could sleep in this situation – on the contrary, every part of her is singing from proximity, from being the focus of this woman’s careful attentions.
‘Tell me if it’s too hot.’
All of it’s hot, but Lila has no plans to complain. Jeanne’s hands keep up their excellent work. Her knuckles scrub vigorously across Lila’s scalp, rubbing all thought from her mind. Everything goes deliciously blurry again and resistance is impossible against the onslaught of endorphins. She coasts on it, listening to the water and Jeanne’s soft murmurs of approval, until she’s dimly aware that her hair is being gathered into a towel. She’s tingling, from root to tip, feeling cool and hot all at once. Her hair feels nice, too.
Unsteadily, she follows Jeanne up to the mezzanine over the main floor, clinging to the rail of the spiral staircase. In contrast, Jeanne moves confidently as she fetches Lila a glass of water and settles her into another leather chair.
Lila has never paid much attention to her hair. She wears it long from habit, keeping it out of the way on shift with a ponytail. It’s always been easy to manage, being poker-straight and thick. And, most importantly, in the right light it’s got enough gold in it for her to have avoided the worst of the schoolyard catcalls. Beyond summertime highlights and a few experimental fringes, she’s never been particularly adventurous.
All that is swiftly changing, however. Jeanne pins up thick shanks of hair, choosing her starting point and tickling the lobe of Lila’s ear with the edge of the comb as she brushes out more strands. There’s something riveting about the dangerous possibilities offered by the glinting scissors she reaches for next.
‘Trust me,’ Jeanne urges, and the blades flash.
Lila feels the tension-release of the metal through her hair an instant before the strands fall away. She stares dumbly at them, at the way they’ve fallen in disarray along the heavy cloth of the cape. Then she catches sight of herself in the mirror.
‘Short,’ she manages.
Jeanne’s naughty grin is unrepentant. ‘Take it like a good girl,’ she counters, and snips again. And again, until the sudden nerves in Lila’s tummy flutter in time to the staccato clicks. She can feel the cool metal against the back of her neck, blending with the brush of Jeanne’s working hands. It’s too early to see where this is going other than ohmygod short, yet she already feels exposed.
‘When was the last time you had a proper cut?’ Jeanne’s razor-sharp scissors snip. Lila’s locks yield, slanting to the floor as the bold cut takes shape.
‘Too long,’ she breathes, adrenaline transforming nerves into something dirtier.
Jeanne’s breasts brush the side of Lila’s skull as she sways close. ‘Then I hope you’re enjoying yourself.’
God, yes.
It’s exhilarating, being a captive audience to her own seduction. The massive
