Biebe Gets a Trim

He let out an exasperated sigh and she glanced up from her book in time to see him run his hands through his hair in a quick coif maneuver, the sure sign he was agitated.Her heart went out to him.
He was sitting at the kitchen table reviewing copies of his arrest report and notes, preparing for a very difficult trial in the morning.

A drunk driver had swerved his way through Mystery on his way to God-knows-where and had hit one of the Pitcher kids playing near the school. The boy had only suffered a broken leg, but John was determined to get this creep as much jail time as possible. His role was to testify tomorrow at the trial to the procedures he followed in arresting the driver. John’s procedures were flawless, as usual, but this idiot had a fancy lawyer from Nome that John knew was going to try to grill him on the stand. She felt sorry for him and, although she had full confidence in him, she was a little worried about tomorrow as well.

As a former prosecuting attorney in a small Midwestern state until that fateful vacation into the wilderness and into the arms of a gorgeous Alaskan sheriff, she had watched many of her witnesses buckle before the vicious torrent of doubts and accusations from defense attorneys.

She had helped John review and prepare for any possible curveballs the defense might try to throw him, but she knew that he felt very responsible for the case and would be deeply heartbroken if somehow this guy got off the hook. John had testified plenty- in his job it was routine- but the high-powered out-of-town attorney and the fact the injured boy was the son of one of John’s oldest and closest friends, who was also the mayor of Mystery, didn’t help any.

Quietly watching him, she couldn’t help but admire his shoulder-length, soft brown hair and his handsome face, which was handsome even with worry’s furrows showing on his brow. She loved the way his Rangers t-shirt accented his chest muscles and how his sweatpants hung just loose enough to tantalize the imagination.
Her eyes wandered to his broad shoulders and neck, thick biceps and taut forearms. He was so strong, and fuzzy, she reminded herself looking at his hair. Those were the main reasons she had nicknamed him Bear. Well, that and his prowess in other areas.

She noticed he had a few stray hairs dancing around his face with the static electricity of a dry winter night. With a small grin she acknowledged that maybe a trim might do him good. And considering how he loved to have his hair played with, anything else that might come along would do him good for sure…………..

She threw off her grandmother’s afghan, quietly ambled into the kitchen and pulled the scissors and beard trimmer out of the drawer. She walked up behind him and put her hands on his shoulders, slowly massaging them.

Planting a kiss on his neck, she murmured, “Looks like you need a trim, Bear.”

His reply was a dismissive grunt.
She gave him a knowing smile he couldn’t see and started running her hands through his long, soft brown hair.
She marveled at it every time she looked at him- how this man could have such soft velvety locks that were never out of place no matter what John was doing. One of her friends visiting from Vancouver had once termed them “Byronian waves” and that was the best description she could find. His hair just always fell into those soft waves and held there.
She didn’t understand it. Her long blonde hair was usually soft, but it didn’t have that sheen John’s did. And all he used was Pert Plus!

It was truly unfair, she thought, for a man to have gorgeous drip-dry hair like John’s. His hair even always smelled good- a combination of Pert Plus and his own scent. She had never liked guys with long hair before, but she couldn’t imagine John without it. His hair seemed to fit him, along with his trim beard, which tickled her skin wherever it touched her.

John had kept his head down, but had closed his eyes. There were few things better than this he thought with a knowing grin, but this was pretty close to the top. She had such soft hands and playing with his hair almost always put him half to sleep.

This was exactly what he needed, he thought. The stress of the trial was keeping him awake at night. What if this major league a-hole got off because he hadn’t followed police procedure?
He knew he had read the guy his rights and administered the breathalyzer correctly—it had read 1.2 BAC so there really was no doubt the guy was drunk—but doubts still lingered in his mind no matter how many times he played the incident over in his mind.
What if the defense attorney asked him a question he wasn’t ready for?
But with each soft caress, these troubling thoughts seemed to melt into the recesses of his mind. Her hands knew just how he loved to be touched, and not only on his scalp, he thought. Oh my, was he drooling?

Then he noticed she had stopped. He opened his eyes- didn’t she say something about cutting his hair? Did she skip the trim or had he zoned out so long she did it already and he didn’t notice?

He sat up and cleared his throat. “Thanks, honey. That felt great,” he murmured.

His mind returned to the stress of tomorrow’s trial and he subconsciously lifted his hands to run them through his hair, but this time they stopped on something strange. His bangs weren’t there! Or, more accurately, they seemed tied up somehow….

He spun around to see his wife laughing silently, her face almost purple from containing her glee. She had been watching him try to figure out what was wrong with his hair and when he turned around and looked at her she could no longer hold it back.

“You French braided my bangs again.”

She was unsure what was funnier- the way he actually looked, or the look on his face. Or the fact he hadn’t figured it out when she was doing it! She was in full gales of laughter now, bent over and hugging her trim waist. This wasn't the first time she'd taken advantage of his absentmindedness while getting his hair messed with, but it still cracked her up every time.

Even as frustrated as he was with her version of a joke, he couldn’t help noticing how great she looked in his hockey warmup and jogging pants. But now tears were coming down her cheeks. He frowned.
”Yookie, it’s not that funny. Now help me get my hair out of this damn knot you’ve put it in!”

He turned around and waited for her to help him. Since he used her nickname, a play on UK, the university initials where she’d gone to law school, she knew he wasn’t really angry.
He sensed her walk up behind him and with a couple of deft moves of her hand, his hair was free again. He ran his big bear paw through it once, just to reassure himself, and went back to reading his report.

“Ok, Ok,” she conceded, “Sit up straight.” He paused, but then lifted his head and laid it against her firm tummy and closed his eyes.

With one final chuckle, she kissed his back of his neck and the top of his ear and gently started combing and trimming his hair. Just a little off the bottom and each layer would do the trick. That was the other thing she loved about his hair. It was so agreeable. Even if she got a little ambitious with the scissors, his hair would forgive her and fall right into place.

John was sitting perfectly still, and she could tell he was loving every moment of it, no matter how much he liked to pretend playing with his hair didn’t affect him. She finished trimming his hair, tilted his head back and kissed his forehead.
John let out a long sigh and then stood up and turned around.

“But I didn’t finish. We still have to, um, trim your beard…” She noticed he had “that” look in his eyes. They had turned a darker shade of green and she knew what that meant. A wide smile broke out on her face.

“Don’t you want to know how you look?” She asked playfully.

He gave her a smile.
“There’s a mirror in the bedroom” and with that, he swooped her off of her feet and padded down the hallway.

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