Trim
"Same chair, same woman, every month for three years. She knows about his job, his mother's illness, his failed engagement. Today she asks if he wants to stay after close—she'll give him a proper shave."
The first thing you notice about Dolores is her hands.
Not because they're beautiful—though they are, soft and manicured and always warm. Because they're everywhere. On your shoulder when you sit down. Brushing your neck when she clips the cape. Threading through your hair like she owns it.
She touches everyone like that. All her clients. It's just how she is.
But after three years in her chair, I've started to wonder if she touches me a little differently.
Dolores runs a one-chair salon on the corner of Fifth and Main.
It's called "Dolly's"—hand-painted sign, striped pole out front, the whole nostalgic package. She does men's cuts and hot shaves and beard trims, old-school style. No appointments, usually. Just walk in, wait your turn, let her work.
But I have an appointment. First Saturday of every month, 4 PM, for three years running.
She made me that promise after the second visit, when I came in looking like death—unshaven, unwashed, barely holding it together. My mother had just been diagnosed. Cancer, stage three, prognosis uncertain. I'd sat in her chair and she'd cut my hair and I'd told her everything.
I don't know why. Something about the mirror. Something about not having to look her in the eyes while I said it. Something about her hands, steady and warm, grounding me while my world fell apart.
"Come back next month," she'd said when I paid. "Same time. I'll keep the slot open."
I've never missed an appointment.
Today is different.
I know it the moment I walk in. The sign on the door says CLOSED, but she'd texted me earlier—Come anyway. Private session.
I push inside. The bell chimes.
Dolores is standing by her chair. Waiting for me.
She's wearing what she always wears—black smock, comfortable shoes, her hair pinned up in a style that's half professional, half I don't give a damn. But there's something in her posture tonight. A tension. An anticipation.
"Marcus." She smiles. "Right on time."
"Always."
I take my usual seat. The leather creaks under me—familiar, comforting. She clips the cape around my neck, fingers brushing my collar. I catch a whiff of her perfume. Vanilla and something spicy. It's always that.
"How's your mother?"
"Remission." I still can't believe it. "Six months now. Doctor says if she makes it to a year, the odds are good."
"That's wonderful." Her hands settle on my shoulders. Squeeze. "I'm so happy for you."
"Couldn't have gotten through it without you."
"Me?" She laughs. Moves to the counter. Picks up scissors. "I just cut your hair."
"You listened." I meet her eyes in the mirror. "Every month. Every session. You let me talk about the chemo and the hospital bills and the nights I didn't think I could keep going. You never told me to shut up. Never changed the subject."
"That's what I'm here for."
"No, it's not." I hold her gaze. "You're here to cut hair. But you gave me more than that. You gave me—" I stop. The words are too big, too heavy. "A place to fall apart. And put myself back together."
She's quiet. Her hands have stilled on the scissors.
"Same time every month," she says. "I looked forward to it. To seeing you. Hearing about your life. Watching you go from—" She gestures vaguely. "From where you were to where you are. Stronger. Steadier."
"Because of you."
"Because of you." She comes back to the chair. Starts cutting. "I just held the scissors."
The haircut takes its usual time.
She's meticulous, as always. Checking angles, making adjustments, her fingers moving through my hair with the ease of long practice. We talk about her weekend, about a movie she saw, about the weather. Normal things. Safe things.
But underneath, something is building.
I feel it in the way her touches linger. The way she leans in closer than necessary. The way her belly brushes against my arm when she circles around me—soft, warm, there and gone.
Dolores is a big woman. Not tall—maybe five-four—but present. Wide hips, full breasts, a belly that curves out beneath her smock. She's got to be fifty, maybe fifty-five, with gray streaking through her dark hair and laugh lines around her eyes.
She's beautiful. I've thought so for three years. Never said it.
"There." She sets down the scissors. Runs her fingers through my hair one last time. "Perfect."
"Thanks."
"Actually." She hesitates. "I was thinking. If you have time."
"I have time."
"A proper shave." She moves to the counter again. Comes back with a straight razor, a brush, a bowl of lather. "I don't offer these to everyone. But you—" She meets my eyes in the mirror. "You've earned it."
She reclines the chair.
I'm lying back now, almost horizontal. Looking up at the ceiling, at the old light fixtures, at Dolores moving around me like a ritual.
"Close your eyes," she says.
I close them.
Something warm and wet covers my face. A hot towel, pressed gently around my jaw. I breathe in—eucalyptus and steam—and feel my muscles unclench.
"This is the secret," she murmurs. Her voice is close. Right by my ear. "Soften the skin. Relax the client. Make them trust you."
"I trust you."
"I know." The towel lifts away. Something cool and soft replaces it—lather, brushed in careful strokes across my jaw and cheeks. "You've trusted me with more than most people ever will."
"You've earned it."
She laughs. Soft. "Flattery."
"Truth."
The razor clicks open. I don't open my eyes. I feel her lean over me—feel the press of her belly against my shoulder, the warmth of her body close to mine.
"Stay very still," she says. "I've never cut anyone. I don't intend to start with you."
"I'm not worried."
The razor touches my skin.
A straight-razor shave is an act of faith.
You're lying there, throat exposed, and someone you trust is holding a blade to your neck. One slip and you're bleeding. One mistake and you're scarred. You give yourself over completely—to her hands, her skill, her care.
I've never felt more vulnerable.
I've never felt more seen.
Dolores works in silence. The razor moves in short, precise strokes, scraping away stubble, revealing skin. Her free hand cups my jaw, angles my face, guides me where she needs me.
Her touch is different now. Not professional. Not distant. Intimate.
"I've been thinking," she says. Her voice is barely a whisper. "About what happens after."
"After what?"
"After your mother gets better. After you don't need me anymore." The razor pauses at my throat. "You'll stop coming."
"I won't."
"You will. That's how it works. People get better. They move on. They forget the places that held them together." She resumes shaving. "I've seen it a hundred times."
"Dolores—"
"Let me finish." She wipes the razor. Repositions. "I've been thinking about what I'd say. When you stopped coming. Whether I'd tell you—"
The razor lifts. I open my eyes.
She's looking down at me. Her face is inches from mine. Her eyes are wet.
"Tell me what?" I ask.
"That I've been in love with you for two years."
Time stops.
I'm lying in a barber's chair, half-shaved, staring up at a woman who's just handed me her heart. Her hands are shaking—the first time I've ever seen them shake.
"You don't have to say anything," she says quickly. "I know it's—I'm older, and I'm not—" She gestures at herself. "I know I'm not what men want. I'm fat and fifty and I work in a barbershop. You could have anyone. You probably don't even—"
I reach up. Cup the back of her head. Pull her down to me.
The kiss is soft. Tentative. She tastes like coffee and surprise.
"Two years?" I murmur against her lips.
"At least."
"And you didn't say anything?"
"You were going through—I couldn't just—" She shakes her head. "It wasn't the time."
"Is it now?"
She pulls back. Looks at me. Really looks, like she's reading the truth in my face.
"Is it?" she asks.
"It's been three years." I sit up. The cape falls away. "Three years of sitting in this chair, telling you everything, feeling your hands on me and wishing—" I take a breath. "Wishing they were somewhere else."
Her eyes widen. "Marcus—"
"I'm not here for the haircuts." I reach for her. My hands find her waist—soft, yielding, warm. "I'm here for you. I've been here for you. I just didn't know how to say it."
"You're saying it now."
"I'm saying it now."
She kisses me.
This time it's not tentative. It's hungry, desperate, three years of restraint breaking loose. She climbs onto the chair, onto me, straddling my lap with her considerable weight.
I've imagined this. Every month, lying in this chair, I've imagined what it would be like to have her on top of me. The reality is better. Her thighs grip my hips. Her belly presses against mine. Her breasts are heavy against my chest.
"The door," she gasps between kisses. "It's locked. No one can—"
"I don't care."
"I do." She pulls back. Her eyes are bright. "I want to take my time."
She climbs off. Extends her hand. I take it.
She leads me to the back room.
The back room of Dolly's is small and warm.
A loveseat against one wall. A vanity covered in products. A space heater humming in the corner. It smells like her—vanilla and spice and the shampoo she uses on clients.
Dolores turns to face me. Reaches for the buttons of her smock.
"I'm not—" She hesitates. "I haven't done this in a while. And I'm—"
"Beautiful." I step forward. Take over the buttons. "You're beautiful."
The smock opens. Beneath it, she's wearing a simple black tank top, stretched tight over her breasts. Black pants that hug her hips. She's bigger than she looks in the smock—softer, fuller, more.
"I'm fat," she says. Not apologetic. Just factual.
"I know." I pull the smock off her shoulders. "I've wanted you anyway. Wanted you because."
"Because?"
"Because you're real." My hands find her waist. Her belly. The soft rolls at her sides. "Because you're warm and soft and every time you touch me, I feel like I'm home."
Her breath catches. "Marcus—"
"Let me show you."
I undress her slowly.
The tank top comes off, revealing a bra that's doing heroic work. Her breasts are massive—heavy and round, spilling over the cups. I reach behind her, unclasp it, watch them fall free.
She's flushing. Embarrassed. Her hands twitch like she wants to cover herself.
"Don't," I say. "Let me see you."
She lets her hands fall.
Her breasts hang low, nipples dark and hard. Her belly is soft, curving out and down, a fold where it meets her waistband. She's got stretch marks—silver lines across her skin, evidence of a life lived, a body that's changed and grown.
"Beautiful," I say again.
I drop to my knees.
Her pants come down. Her underwear—sensible cotton, black like everything else. And then she's naked in front of me, and I'm kneeling at her feet like she's something holy.
"What are you—"
I lean forward. Press my lips to her belly. Feel her shiver.
"I've wanted to do this for three years." I kiss lower. Her thighs. The crease where her leg meets her hip. "Let me."
"Yes," she whispers. "God, yes."
I taste her.
She gasps, grabbing my head, her fingers threading through the hair she just cut. I work her with my tongue—slow at first, learning her, then faster as her sounds guide me.
"Yes—there—right there—"
She's loud. I didn't expect that. Every moan, every cry, bounces off the walls of the small room. Her thighs shake against my ears. Her nails scratch my scalp.
"I'm going to—Marcus, I'm—"
I don't stop.
She comes with a shout that probably carries to the street. Her body shakes, her legs give out, and I catch her—lower her to the loveseat, still kissing her thighs, her belly, the soft undersides of her breasts.
"Inside me," she pants. "I need you inside me."
I strip fast.
She watches, lying back on the loveseat, her body spread open and glistening. Her eyes track down my chest, my stomach, lower.
"Oh," she breathes. "Oh, that's—"
I climb over her. Between her thighs. The loveseat creaks under our combined weight, but it holds.
"Look at me," I say.
She looks.
I push inside.
She's tight and hot and perfect.
Her body opens for me, takes me in, and I watch her face—the way her eyes go wide, the way her mouth falls open, the way she breathes my name like a prayer.
"Three years," she gasps. "Three years I've wanted this."
"You have it." I start to move. Slow. Deep. "You have me."
We move together. Her hips rise to meet mine. Her hands clutch my back, my arms, my face. She pulls me down for a kiss, and I taste her—coffee and want and something that tastes like forever.
"Harder," she begs. "Please, Marcus—"
I give her harder.
The loveseat groans. Our bodies slap together. She's crying out with every thrust, and I'm lost in her—in the warmth and the softness and the rightness of this.
"I'm close," she warns. "I'm so close—"
"Come for me." I thrust deep, grind against her. "Come for me, Dolores."
She does.
Her orgasm triggers mine.
We crash over the edge together, clinging to each other, shaking. I bury myself as deep as I can go and let go, and she takes it all—takes me, holds me, doesn't let go.
Afterward, we lie tangled on the loveseat. Her head on my chest. My arms around her. The space heater hums. Outside, the sun is setting.
"First Saturday of the month," she murmurs.
"Hmm?"
"Keep the appointment." She tilts her head up. Kisses my jaw. "I'll still cut your hair. But maybe—"
"Maybe after, we do this."
She smiles. "Something like that."
I hold her tighter. Press a kiss to her hair.
"Same time next month," I say. "I'll be here."
"I know." She settles against me, soft and warm and real. "You've never missed an appointment."
And I never will.