Dating the hairdresser

I was laying in bed early one evening, when I thought I’d see who was around on PoF.

I never really got on with Plenty of Fish, but it was there and available and I had a few minutes so I thought I’d try it.

I found a profile I liked.

And the person behind that profile was online right now.

So I said ‘hi’.

The profile said ‘hi’ right back, straight away.

And we were off and running.

I haven’t fallen off the wagon, this was about six months before my current relationship started.

I was young(er), free(er), and totally was a single.

We chatted in real time.

We liked what we had to say.

We exchanged photos.

We liked how we looked.

I broke with tradition and took the risky strategy of taking an actual photo of me right at that moment, sitting up in bed, in a clean pair of PJs, in a lovely bed of clean linen.

‘When can we meet!!!!’

I ignored the overuse of punctuation and checked my diary (this took about three seconds), and hedged back with a hopeful ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes please! Can you be outside the wine bar in Witney (the small Oxfordshire town where we both lived) at 8pm???’

I said I could.

We chatted more and it got flirty and a little bit dirty.

My appetite was whetted.

Around 24 hours later, wearing very smart but cooly casual, I was outside Hackett’s wine bar.

A Mercedes two-seater drove past me, a very attractive blonde at the wheel.

The car parked.

I tried to remain cool but was actually getting hot.

The driver’s door opened and MY HAIRDRESSER GOT OUT!

I mean, wow. Small town and all that.

But that’s my hairdresser!!!! (my turn to overuse punctuation)

Let’s be honest.

She looked absolutely gorgeous.

The simple white dress fitted her like a glove, and emphasised her beautifully feminine shape that (until now), I’d only seen hidden beneath her usual jeans and t-shirt as she worked on my hair.

She could tell I was surprised.

‘I didn’t think you knew it was me’, she said.

I had no clue. The photograph was reasonable, but it didn’t show me, well, my hairdresser.

I said I didn’t.

‘I loved that photograph you sent. I wanted to be there, in bed with you’, she said.

I told her I would have liked that.

We kissed on each cheek, and went in to the wine bar.

We talked.

We talked a lot.

And this time it went way beyond our usual ‘Are you going anywhere nice for your holidays’ chat.

I’m not much of a chatter, and less of a people person.

But that night we had a good old chat, like two proper friends.

At the end of the evening we split the bill, and I walked her out to her car.

We kissed; long, deep, sexy.

‘Not tonight’, she said.

‘OK’, even though I was disappointed.

‘Saturday?’

So Saturday it was.

She texted me her address on Saturday morning, and at 7pm I drove to her house, parked up, and rang her doorbell.

Nice strappy shoes,  1/2″ heels (bare feet, toenails painted screaming scarlet to match her fingernails), cream jeanos (like jeans, but actually chinos), cream t-shirt with an inlaid gold design across her breasts.

Edible.

And I was very hungry.

We went to a nice gastropub in Ascott-under-Wychwood; a bit out of the way, but quiet.

Dinner was good, but we both knew it was a starter for what would follow.

I took her home later; we kissed in the car, but kept our hands away from indiscreet areas.

‘Coming in?’ she asked.

‘That would be nice’, being all supercool.

The minute we were inside with the door shut we were all over each other.

I helped her jeanos off, and the silk pants underneath quickly followed.

She was beautifully shaven, and shavenly beautiful.

I pushed her down on to a large comfortable chair and for ten solid minutes without a single break I ate her out.

She was delicious.

Four hours later I struggled back in to my clothes, French-kissed her goodbye, and drove home.

Despite the next date being on a school night (Wednesday evening), we had dinner out and then both ate in.

She was very similar to me.

Same dirty, uninhibited tastes.

Same dirtiness.

Same unrestrictedness.

Same lustfulness.

Followed by the same early morning creeping home on my part.

We hooked up a dozen times over the next nine weeks.

Each meeting ended in dirty sex.

We experimented, we pushed boundaries.

This was never unadventurous, comfortable fulfillment.

Fulfillment, yes.

Unadventurous?

Comfortable?

Never.

This was dirty, passionate, teasing, painful, satisfying.

We both had a bad case of extreme lust, we both pushed each other’s buttons.

And then, one day, she just drifted off.

Got herself a new date.

I wasn’t heartbroken.

We never loved each other.

But we did fancy the hell out of each other.

And I missed that.