Moving Forward

Aria had always been athletic. She played sports in school, played rec leagues in the community. But she was also a girl's girl. She dressed up in pretty dresses when she wasn't at practices. She wore make up, and was often mistaken for a model. Her most unique feature was her hair. A dark, fiery copper color, with soft waves, and healthy right down to the ends, which swayed just behind her ankles. She'd never had it cut growing up, nothing more than short trims to keep it healthy. She'd learned how to braid it up so that it didn't interfere with her athletics. And when she graduated high school, it was assumed that she'd go on to college and play professional women's sports.

More than her athletics, though, Aria loved her brother. He was older than her by almost ten years, but she'd grown up admiring him. He had joined the military, become a Navy Seal, and she followed his exploits every time he came home for a visit. She had been anticipating his visit for her graduation, and was anxious for him to get home, so she could show off her new driver's license and the acceptance letter to Brown University, with a partial scholarship in soccer.

The door bell rang, and she raced down the stairs to answer it, yelling out his name. But when she opened the door, there were two Navy officers standing there, looking solemn.

Rather than her graduation ceremony, she was instead attending his funeral. That night, she sat up in her room, looking over the letters that he had sent her. He loved what he did, he loved serving his country. She fingers the words written on the paper, a tear drop falling on the typing paper that he used. Slowly, she folded them up and made a decision. Sleep came easy for her that night, dreaming of her brother. The next day, she was at the recruiting office, talking with an officer. She'd just made eighteen the month before, so she didn't need her parent's permission. She signed the papers, shook hands, and walked back home.

Her parents were out, having had trouble coping with the loss of her brother. She fixed herself dinner, ate, and then went back upstairs to her room. Her room was a typical girl's room--lace and frills and stuffed animals of her childhood, trophies and ribbons from all her competitions, and the computer and books of someone growing up. She undresses to her bra and panties, standing in front of the full-length mirror hanging on her door. She unpins her hair slowly, combing out the copper tresses with her fingers, drawing it over her shoulders, in front of her. She takes her brush, and slowly brushes it out, from the crown of her head, down to the very ends. Over and over again. The highlights of fire shimmer in the light, contrasted against her lightly tanned skin.

Taking a lock of her hair, she reaches over to the corner of her dresser, and picks up the pair of scissors she'd bought at the beauty store earlier in the day. Taking a handful of her hair, she cuts it just below the shoulder. A long swathe, about eight inches wide, and at least three feet long. She holds the thick bunch in her hand and swallows hard, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. She sniffles softly, "This is for you, Andrew. I'm going to carry on." She lays that lock over her desk and turns back to the mirror, smiling softly as she cuts the next bunch. She can feel the 'zzzzt' of the sharp blades as they cut through the copper strands. The weight suddenly lightening. Her head feels off center. She lets this handful drop to the floor...

The light in the room was golden, the sunset through her open window. She could smell the night coming on. She hadn't turned on the lights in her room, and all she had to work by was the glow of the sun setting. Again, she cuts more off, this time a bit uneven, but she drops it to the ground, and flicks her fingers through the end. Reaching behind her, she curls her fingers around another thick handful, and pulls it forward, to her shoulder. The sharp scissors slice through it, and it too drops to the carpeted floor beneath her feet. She lets go, and looks at herself. On her right side, her shorter hair brushes the top of her collarbone, exposing the soft rise of her breast under the lace-trimmed bra. On the other side, her hair falls long, covering her arm and her breast. She tilts her head to the right, feeling the weight of her hair. She tilts to the left, and compares the difference.

As she runs her fingers through the shorter side of her hair, she can smell the shampoo that she washed with this morning. Herbal Essence, with the lilac. She inhales deep, now just barely able to get a handful of that soft hair to her face. Closing her eyes, she lets go of it, and reaches over to the left side now, starting with the front. Her hand reaches up, elbow bent, and she slowly closes the scissors around what is in her hand, watching the strands fall away. She drops that length, and hurriedly does the next one, the hair fluttering to land on top of her bare feet. She licks her lips, feeling a tingle in her stomach, a tension between her legs. Her nipples harden and she can see them start to press against the fabric of her bra. Cutting her hair was...turning her on. She could feel the difference in the weight so much more now.

She's down to the last of it, and she backs up, going to sit on her bed, and turning on the small lamp on the nightstand. She looks over at the pile of red hair on the floor in front of her door. The long lengths, coiled on top of each other like snakes, shimmering in the light. She writhes a bit, this time taking smaller amounts, and trimming them slowly, relishing the vibrations of the fine steel blades as they cut away the hair. She draws out this last bit, cutting two inches from the bottom. Then another two inches. Then another.

When she's done, her lap is full of short strands of her hair, laying over her toned thighs. She brushes them off with her hands, standing up and letting them fall. Then she walks over to her mirror again, and looks at herself. It's a different girl that looks back at her. Even with the unprofessional cutting, the difference is dramatic. Her face looks fuller, her neck longer. She shakes her head back and forth, watching how her hair swings with the motion. She smiles softly, running her fingers through it. Her toes curl, feeling the thick, cut locks beneath them.

But she's not finished. She nearly regrets cutting her hair so quickly. Sitting back on her bed, she folds her legs, and reaches for the scissors, cutting again. In short snips, little bits of the copper hair falling to her shoulders. There's no real rhyme or reason to the way she cuts it, just making it shorter and shorter. The scissors flash in the dim light, and her breathing becomes more rapid. She can feel an almost sexual excitement, each time the scissors cut a length of her hair. "Oh..." she breathes out, pausing and breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling, pressing against the fabric of her bra. Her panties become damp, and she squirms. Reaching up, her fingers try to grasp hair, but it's too short. She reaches around, finding it short all over. Not even, but in varying lengths, all no longer than a few inches.

The scissors drop to the floor with a clatter, and the girl slides off the bed. She stumbles to the mirror on her door and goes to her knees on top of the long strands of hair, and looks into the reflection. Her hair sticks out in some places, and she touches it with her fingers, pushing at it, tugging at it. She looks down at the hair between her knees, reaching for it, pulling it up in her hands, burying her face against the silky tresses, giving a soft cry.