I went to get my hair done today. Just a random afternoon, nothing planned, but it turned into something I can't stop thinking about.

The salon was small and cozy - warm light, pale pink walls, a faint smell of vanilla and shampoo. And then her. My stylist. Or maybe I should say femboy like me, just further along the road. She had that graceful softness I've always admired - gentle movements, pastel nails, hair that shimmered silver-blonde in the light.

When I sat down, she looked at me in the mirror and said quietly,

"I'll make your hair in my style, okay?"

Her voice was low but musical. I just nodded - I couldn't even answer properly.

When she started working, I almost melted. The first touch - her fingers running through my hair - sent a tiny wave through me. Her perfume surrounded me: something light, floral, but deep, like jasmine and skin warmed by the sun. Every time she leaned close, the scent wrapped around me, soft and dizzying. I wanted to freeze time, just to stay in that moment.

The sound of the scissors was quiet, rhythmic, almost like breathing. I could feel the faint brush of her arm against my shoulder, the warmth of her presence right behind me. I tried not to blush, but I could see in the mirror how pink my cheeks were.

It wasn't lust. It was something far gentler - admiration, longing, maybe a bit of envy. She was everything I wanted to be: graceful, confident, glowing from the inside out.

When she finished, she brushed away the last strands of hair from my neck. Her touch was so light it made my heartbeat skip. Then she met my eyes in the mirror and said softly,

"You look beautiful."

I wanted to tell her the same - that she was beautiful, that she smelled like peace, that her kindness made me feel safe in my skin. But all I could do was smile and whisper thank you.

When I left, my hair felt soft and new, and so did I.

The air outside was cool and sweet, but I could still feel her perfume on me - like a quiet blessing I didn't deserve, but secretly hoped to keep a little longer.