Sammy

"Check it out!" says my roommate, shoving an unwrapped CD case in my face. "I got his new album!" My eyes focus on the thing in front of me. By 'his', of course, she means Sammy Erickson, the latest teen idol. The picture is disgusting, at least I think so. A nude Sammy, his long hair streaming behind him in a simulated breeze, stands amidst a shower of rose petals. Only his low-slung guitar keeps the album cover from receiving an R rating. What the hell? I think. Sammy doesn't even play guitar! All the music is prefabricated. All he does is sing - and I'm not even sure it's his real voice.

Marcie bounces over to the stereo and pops in the CD. A vague, watered-down techno beat emanates from the speakers. Muzak is the only thing I can think of. Then Sammy begins singing, his generic male voice occasionally distorted by computer effects. Marcie sighs dreamily.

"Oh - Sammy, why aren't you here singing to me in person?"

"Because we don't have millions of dollars of voice-enhancing recording technology in this apartment," I reply.

"Oh, quiet," she says. "You just don't like him because he's got long hair."

This comment irks me, although it's partially true. Marcie knows about my fetish, though one would have to be blind not to. I "came out of the closet" about it when I was 13, and ever since I've been wishing I could go back in.

My side of the bedroom is a veritable temple to haircutting. Neatly enshrined on my dresser are a few artifacts of sentimental value: a pair of rusty shears belonging to my great-grandfather, who was a barber; my first pair of Sears clippers, bought for $8 at an antique shop in Johnson City; before-and-after Polaroids of some of my latest conquests. The wall behind the dresser is plastered with photos, printed from the Internet, of attractive men with various short haircuts. Most of them aren't even celebrities. Marcie's wall space, however, is dominated by a large poster of - that's right - Sammy Erickson. Though not quite as vile as his latest CD cover, it still makes me wince. Here, a shirtless Sammy, looking straight on at the viewer, brushes his golden hair as it cascades down his chest. I sleep facing the wall. Of course, I'm sure Marcie feels the same way about my pictures of flattops and crewcuts.

I narrow my eyes at her indignantly. "I bet you $100 that I could make Sammy Erickson get a crewcut." Marcie looks at me like I've lost my mind, which of course would probably be a correct assumption. "First, neither of us has $100 to spare. Second, why would you want to do that? To gratify your sick little…'thing'? [she can't say "fetish"] Girls everywhere would be crying for weeks, including me. Why would anybody want to cut off his gorgeous locks?" She stares longingly at her CD cover. I have fleeting visions of Sammy Erickson being inducted into the Marines.

I retire to the bedroom and sit cross-legged on my bed, staring intently at my shrine to the haircutting gods. An hour ago, I wouldn't have cared one way or the other about Sammy Erickson's hair, but now, Marcie has given me a mission. I pick up my great-grandfather's shears and hold them tightly, as if channeling his spirit. I don't really know anything about the old man other than that he was a barber and I've followed in his footsteps. "It's a hard living," my dad always says, but I seem to manage all right.

After a brief respite (secret code for "nap"), I begin working on my plan of action. I had met Sammy once, a long time ago, at a party. He had a decent haircut then; it was before he was famous. I try to recall if I'd given him a name or phone number or anything. I try to remember if he had any glaring vulnerabilities I could exploit.

Well, yes, there was one - and she wouldn't take kindly to my little scheme.

Sammy Erickson and Bonita Marquez are the hottest item of the year. Bonita, a failed pop star herself, is Sammy's manager and producer. I had met Bonita, too, back when she was still Bonny MacMillan. Bonny was trying to make it as a contemporary-Christian singer, the kind whose albums are frequently advertised on cable channels. But she never got to that stage - her career was destroyed by rumors, or rather factual accounts, of her promiscuity. Disgraced, but still thirsting for fame, Bonny changed her name, dyed her hair black and adopted an accent. Nobody seemed to notice.

It was also rumored that she, too, was a fetishist, but a different kind. It was her idea, according to some publications, for Sammy to grow his hair long. In publicity shots, she's always shown fondling his waist-length ponytail. Last year she introduced a line of men's haircare products bearing Sammy's name and image. The slogan, coined by Bonita herself: "Hair is a man's crowning glory." Marcie, my roommate, gets annoyed because I throw things at the television during these commercials.

Saturday night. Long story short, I snag some backstage passes for me and Marcie and Sammy's big homecoming concert. Marcie nearly pees her pants when she sees him up close for the first time. I'm rather disappointed. He's much smaller in person than in the pictures, only a tiny bit taller than I am. Without the flashing light show and electronic voice enhancement, he's lost most of his stage presence.

Marcie's got a bad case of verbal diarrhea: "Oh my GOD! Sammy! Mr. Erickson…I love you! I love your music! I love your hair! Can I….can I touch your hair?"

"Sure thing, hon," he says. She twines her fingers in the end of his ponytail and squeals with delight. The hair isn't as pretty in person as it's made to look in his photos, either. It's a three-foot-long mass of tangles and broken ends, dirty blonde in color with sun bleached highlights. I imagine it takes forever to dry, if he even washes it.

Maintaining my composure, I shake hands with Sammy and introduce myself. Folded up in my hand is a piece of paper with my number that says "Please call me, I would like to get together later." Marcie is too worked up to realize that I've passed him a note. I make eye contact and wink. He smiles slightly.

Then it's over and we're walking back to the car. Marcie is still babbling.

"Oh my god, I can't believe I met Sammy, he's even more beautiful than I imagined. I can't believe I touched his hair. I'll never wash my hands again. But what if he thinks I'm weird? Oh, god, I didn't act stupid, did I? I would just kill myself if he thought I acted stupid."

"No, Marcie, you acted fine," I lie.

"Good," she says, "I wouldn't want Sammy thinking I was a freak! Oh, he's so sexy."

I'm nearly as excited as she is, to tell the truth, but I manage to keep it inside. I'm one step closer to winning my bet…and making Sammy Erickson a man.

Tuesday evening. I am in the middle of a nap when the phone rings, startling me out of a most excellent dream. "Can you get that?" I holler at Marcie. I hear her cheerful voice warble "Hello?" and my head sinks back into the pillow.

"It's for you," she calls after a few seconds.

God damn it, I think. "Who the hell is it?" I yell.

"It's a boy," she says, coming to hand me the receiver. Her teasing only makes me more annoyed. "He sounds cute."

I grab the receiver from her. "Hello?" I say harshly.

"Hello, Delilah," answers a silky-smooth male voice. It's strikingly familiar: I've heard this voice a thousand times, belting out of the apartment stereo system.

"Who is this?" I ask.

"This is Sammy," he says. "I got your note at the show, remember?"

"Right," I say, dropping my voice an octave in order to sound more "sexy". "How could I forget?" I stand up and close the bedroom door so Marcie can't hear. "Listen, my roommate's leaving tomorrow to visit her parents. She won't be back till late Friday. If you want to get together, we could do it then. I can cook us dinner here, so we can, you know, avoid the paparazzi."

"I think I'd like that," he said smoothly. "Thursday I don't have anything booked. Tell me where your place is and I'll get the limo to drop me there."

I laugh. "Very covertly, of course."

"Yes."

I give him precise directions to my apartment. We bid farewell, and I sit on my bed trying hard not to burst out laughing from sheer joy. It's happening! It's coming true!

Marcie knocks on the door. "Come in," I say.

"Who was that?"

"Just a customer," I reply, trying to sound nonchalant. "He wanted to know if I could give him a cut this week."

Marcie sighs. "I don't see why you keep giving your 'customers' our home number," she says. If only she knew.

Thursday afternoon. From the shop, I head straight home and begin preparing for Sammy's arrival. Marcie keeps the place pretty neat (whereas I'm a total slob), so there's not much cleaning to do. I've purchased a roast that I pop in the oven, hoping it will be done by the time he gets here. I also have a selection of alcoholic beverages to loosen Sammy's inhibitions…

Six o'clock. I've got an hour before he's scheduled to arrive, plus the time it takes for the limo driver to get lost and drive around for a while. I've put on my new satin dress which is hardly more than a negligee. It makes me feel like a total floozy, but I figure it's worth it. The roast has two hours to go.

Seven o'clock. I'm edgy, to say the least, but three glasses of red wine have lessened my tension quite a bit. I resist chewing off my perfectly-laquered bright red fingernails that I've painted just for the occasion.

Seven fifteen. The doorbell rings. I sprint to the door and look out the peephole, making sure it's not, say, Marcie coming back to get something she forgot. A uniformed limo driver is standing on my front doorstep, with a small, long-haired man beside him. I open the door. Sammy dismisses the driver. "Hello Delilah," he says.

"Hello Sammy. Come inside. I've got dinner in the oven, it will be a little while before it's ready to eat."

"It smells great. And, my god, you look incredible." He bows and kisses my hand. I examine the top of his head, imagining him with his blonde hair cropped to stubble. I smile. It will be quite an improvement.

I get Sammy a drink and we sit down on my couch. He takes off his coat and his famous ponytail appears. He tosses his hair and it lands draped across the back of the couch. I really don't want it touching my leather sofa, but I figure it will be gone soon enough.

"I'm glad you could come," I say. "I'm very attracted to you. And I'm sorry about my roommate."

"She's just like all the rest," he says. "I'm used to it."

We make idle chatter for a while longer. I flirt shamelessly, batting my eyes and acting coy. A few times I get up to refill Sammy's drink, and each time I sit down a wee bit closer to him.

The timer goes off, startling me. I curse silently, then I get up and prepare the roast. I almost wish I hadn't made food, since eating will impede his ability to get absolutely plastered. But, I figure I have to be a good hostess, after all I am entertaining a celebrity. We each have a small piece of meat, no seconds. As we talk over dinner, it's obvious that he's already quite lubricated, as it's getting difficult for me to understand him. I figure he won't notice if I replace his whiskey sour with something harder. Out comes the Everclear.

Back on the couch. Sammy doesn't even try to sit upright, he just sprawls backwards against the overstuffed arm. I cuddle up close to him. Despite my revulsion at the thought of touching his hair, I begin winding locks of it around my fingers.

"I like that," he says.

"Me too," I whisper. "Can I ask you a weird question?"

"Yeah, go right ahead."

"Do you have any fantasies…?"

"What, you mean sexually?" (At least I think this is what he says.)

"I mean…whatever. Sexual or not."

A broad grin creeps across Sammy's inebriated face. "Well there's one thing," he says. "But you can't tell anybody. Especially not Bonita." It's the first time he's mentioned Bonny all evening. I'm rather surprised he's still with her.

"I swear," I reply. "If you tell me…I'll tell you my deepest fantasy."

He throws back his head and lets out a deep laugh. "You won't believe it," he says, putting his hands on my back and pulling me closer to him. "But I really, really want to get my hair cut. Like real short."

My eyes light up. "What a coincidence!" I exclaim. "My deepest, wildest fantasy is to give you that haircut."

"You don't say."

"It's true. I would love to cut off all that hair of yours."

"Would you really do it?"

"Would you really let me?"

"Sure."

"Okay! Hold on a minute!"

I scamper back into my bedroom and get my barber toolbox out from under the bed. I have painstakingly cleaned and sharpened all my instruments in anticipation of this moment. My heart is pounding in my ears like a jackhammer. I'm so aroused I can barely stand up.

I return to the living room. Sammy is trying hopelessly to comb the tangles out of his long hair with his fingers. I doubt I will have better luck with my comb. I take a dining chair and set it in the middle of the kitchenette.

"Sit here," I order. Sammy needs some help standing up, but he manages to stumble over to my chair. I wrap my nylon cape tightly around his neck. "How short can I cut it?" I ask, stroking his long ponytail with my fingers. The ends of his hair are level with the seat of the chair.

"As short as you want to, baby," he says. "I'm getting hard right now."

I grimace. He's so drunk he's behaving like an animal. Still, he's given me total artistic license in giving him the perfect haircut. What should I do? Clip him all over with the 1/16" blade, like a Marine recruit? Shave him with the razor? I'm so excited I'm trembling, afraid I'm going to drop my clippers.

Then I remember my bet with Marcie. A hundred bucks that I could make Sammy Erickson get a crewcut. Sighing, I realize that I no longer have complete freedom with his hair - but it's a small price to pay for what I'm about to experience. "Are you ready?" I ask.

"As I'll ever be," he slurs in reply.

There's no hope of ever untangling his ragged ponytail, so I pick up my shears and begin slicing through the hair just above the rubber band that holds his ponytail in place. It's so thick I really have to squeeze the scissors. Two and a half feet of hair, severed within seconds. I lay his ponytail across his lap so he can see it.

"Holy fuck!" he exclaims. "You're really doing it! God this is exciting! I've never had short hair." "It's going to be shorter," I reply, combing the 4" pieces that remain attached to his head. "Now just sit still, that's the important part." And don't barf on my floor, I add silently.

I fit the ½" attachment onto my clippers and they spring to life, filling the apartment with their melodious hum. I have a Pavlovian response to the sound of clippers buzzing, immediately becoming more aroused as soon as I hear it. Sammy is a little startled but remains seated.

I plow the clippers into the front of his hair, leaving it ½" long. Since his hair is so thick and the plastic guard is rather flimsy, the clippers tug at his hair and he squirms in pain. I use my free hand to remove handfuls of hair from the clippers as they get clogged, to minimize the pulling. Once the top is cut to ½", I start again at the back, clipping upwards to meet the place I've already cut. In minutes I've cut it all with the ½" attachment and it's time to switch to the ¼".

I buzz his entire head again, leaving only the very front part a half-inch long, but blending it nicely with the ¼" top. His blonde stubble sparkles under the overhead light and feels like soft velvet to the touch. I keep rubbing his shorn head with my free hand while I clip him with the other. Then I switch to the 1/8" attachment and cut the back and sides, again making sure the shorter hairs are blended perfectly with the longer ones.

"Almost done," I tell him. I can't tell if his silence is caused by ecstasy, horror or nausea, but he doesn't respond. I taper the back of his hair down to a #000, the shortest my clipper blade will go. Then I shave the back of his neck with some shaving cream and a Mach 3. After I've dusted off as much of the severed hair as I can, I massage his cropped head with both hands. He goes limp, enjoying every second. I do this for a while; at my shop, I can't indulge in this pleasure since I've usually got other customers waiting. When I'm pretty sure Sammy is about to fall asleep, I wake him up by whisking the cape off him and shaking the cut hair onto the floor. He blinks in disbelief, as if wondering if it's a dream or if he did, in fact, have all his hair cut off. The 2 ½-foot ponytail lying at his feet, however, is proof enough that it's really happened.

I stand there for a moment, admiring my work, and thinking about how hot he looks with the crewcut. Then I say, "Well, go have a look and let me know what you think."

He shambles into the bathroom. I stand in the doorway, watching as he inspects the new haircut, getting used to the look and feel of short hair. It always takes a while for new converts to adjust. Then he closes the door and is in there for a while. When I knock on the door to make sure he hasn't passed out, he assures me that he's fine and he won't be much longer.

Eleven o'clock. I sit down on the couch and doze off in a sitting positon. I am awakened by the movement of the springs as Sammy plops down beside me.

"I'm dead tired," he says.

"Me too."

I shift to a more comfortable position and invite him to lie down with his head in my lap. I stroke his head as he drifts off to sleep, and I follow soon after.

The first thing I notice upon waking up is my stiff neck. I had fallen asleep with my head bent sideways against the back of my sofa. The second thing I notice is Sammy Erickson's head in my lap, nearly devoid of hair. This, and the mess in the kitchen, are conclusive proof that last night was not a dream.

"Sammy honey," I saw, shaking him gently. His blue eyes open ever so slightly and he lets out a yawn. "Jesus Christ, turn off that light!" he says, squinting.

"That's the sun, sweetie. It's morning." Ten o'clock in the morning, to be exact, according to the clock on my VCR. Luckily I had anticipated this, and I arranged so I wouldn't have to be at the shop till noon.

Sammy lets out a long moan and rolls over onto his back, freeing my legs. He stares up at the ceiling. "I had the weirdest fucking dream," he mutters.

"Oh yeah?"

"I dreamed I had all my hair cut off. Like really short, I was almost bald."

I smile. "Silly, that actually happened."

He looks alarmed for a minute and reaches up to feel his hair. Then he laughs. "Oh yeah," he says. "I remember. Damn. This feels really good."

"I know," I say, rubbing his head myself. "It looks really good, too."

We kiss. I tell him I've only got two hours to clean up and get to work, so he should probably get ready to leave pretty soon. I tell him he can use my shower and I can throw his clothes in the wash again if he wants.

"No," he says, still squinting from the light. "It's all dry-clean only. I'll just wear 'em again." He disappears into the bathroom and I heat up some of the roast for breakfast. I put on a pot of coffee and, realizing he might not want a big piece of meat first thing in the morning, I scramble some eggs for him. I leave the pile of hair on the floor, however, for Marcie to find when she gets home later.

Sammy spends a long time in the shower. He emerges wearing his same clothes from last night and drying his hair with one of my good towels.

"Feel better?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says. "Wow, my hair is already dry."

"Just toss the towel on the floor, I'll pick it up later."

His crewcut looks even better once it's clean and dry. His blonde hair has a beautiful sheen to it, and his hair is thick enough that he doesn't look like he's going bald or anything. I put my arms around him and give him a kiss, running my hands up the back of his head. "There's food and coffee if you want some," I tell him.

"Thanks," he says. While he's eating, I take a shower myself. Then we kiss some more and he tells me that he loves his haircut and it was so nice of me to do it. Apparently he'd been wanting it cut for a while, but no stylist would let their scissors near his world-famous golden locks. I tell him it was no problem.

Sammy is out of the apartment by eleven-thirty and I leave for work, leaving everything as it is.

It's late when I get home, maybe seven or eight, and getting dark outside. The big pile of Sammy's hair is untouched. I flop down on the couch, exhausted, and turn on the TV, yet I am still too preoccupied with wonderful memories of last night. I wonder if I'll ever see Sammy again. Though I don't want to admit it, I really like him.

I've only been home a while when the front door opens and Marcie comes stumbling in with her overnight bag slung over her shoulder. "Hey," she says.

"Hey Marcie. How was your trip?"

"Good," she says. "The drive home took way too long because of the traffic, but it was good to see my mom and dad. I told them about the concert and they couldn't believe I'd actually met Sammy!"

"Good, I'm glad you had fun," I say.

She heads toward the bedroom to put away her luggage, but stops dead in her tracks when she sees the pile of hair in the kitchenette.

"What did you do?" she demands.

"What? Oh, I gave somebody a haircut," I reply calmly.

"A guy?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"That's the longest hair I've ever seen," she says. "Who was it?"

A sadistic smile creeps across my face and I merely stare at her, grinning. She's confused at first, but her eyes get wide as she realizes what happened.

"You didn't!" she says.

"'Fraid so," I say. "I just did what every barber in America dreamed of. If that hair looks familiar, it's because you ran your fingers through it on Saturday night!"

"Oh my god!" she cries. "You really did it! Why on earth would you…? Are you really that much of a sadist?"

"Now you knew that when you moved in with me," I say. "Think about it this way. Know how many girls want a lock of Sammy Erickson's famous hair? Now you've got his whole ponytail!"

She bends down and lovingly picks up the ponytail, cradling it in her hands. "I at least hope you didn't shave him bald," she says quietly.

"Bald?" I say with a bit of a laugh. "No. I gave him a #2 crewcut, tapered sides and back. I could have gone shorter but I thought that would be a good length for him. Hey! That reminds me."

"What?"

"Our bet, remember? A hundred bucks that I couldn't give Sammy Erickson a crewcut. Looks like you were wrong."

"I never agreed to that!" she snaps, indignant.

I only grin wider. "That's all right," I say, "that experience was absolutely priceless. Besides," I add, "sell that ratty thing on eBay and you'll be a fucking millionaire!"

Marcie's eyes fill with tears and she runs into the bedroom, still clutching the wretched ponytail in her hands. The door slams and locks. Looks like I'll be sleeping on the couch tonight.

Long story short, Bonny dumped Sammy's ass after she saw him without his long hair. He took it pretty hard, but I couldn't have been happier. We're seeing a lot more of each other now. Marcie's calmed down a lot, now that she realizes Sammy is just a (very attractive) regular person.

He's left the music scene, too, at least for a while, because I pulled some strings and got him a modeling contract. I had never seen him so happy. Part of the contract is that he has to keep his hair short, too, and I get to cut it for him. In fact, I even heard a rumor that the modeling firm was thinking of hiring me to cut all their guys' hair, but we'll have to wait and see if there's any truth to that.

Call me twisted, but one of the things I love about dating someone as famous as Sammy is seeing our pictures in the supermarket tabloids. It causes quite a stir in the check-out line when I, thumbing through a National Enquirer, say "Look, honey, it's you!"

"Let me see." He reads from the article: "'Sources say Sammy Erickson, singer-turned-model, is now shacking up with Delilah, the female fetishist barber who cut off his long hair and gave him his trademark crewcut.'"

"Will you look at that!" I exclaim, grinning from ear to ear. "They've made me out to be some sort of sicko! I love those people."

"Yeah, and I've got a 'trademark'. Does this mean you can go into a salon now and ask for 'a Sammy'?"

The old man in line behind us informs us that yes, actually, you can.

On Saturday night, Sammy and Marcie and I are watching movies on the couch. He and I are making out and I'm rubbing the back of his head. Out of the corner of my eye I see Marcie's hand sneak over and rub his head, too. "You know I never thought I'd say this," she whispers, "but I think I like the new Sammy better."

"Yeah," says Sammy, "I think we all do."