Jim needed a trim. The first night of his Sports Journalism class (no pressure, just testing the water, Pam kept reassuring him) the instructor had asked if he was a college student. It might have been his jeans and untucked shirttails, but he was pretty sure it was mostly his hair. As usual, it had been a while between cuts. He wanted it cleaned up enough to clear his collar and get it out of his eyes, but not enough to look like the poster boy for corporate America. He asked Pam her opinion on the matter, but she didn’t seem to want him to look any way in particular.

‘You looked really handsome with your fancy pants hair, but there was nothing to hold on to,’ she’d equivocated.

Pam shared Tracy’s tendency to wind her hands in his hair at heated moments, but it was abundantly – fantastically - clear it had nothing to do with being in pain. And though he hadn’t been this enthusiastic himself since was a teenager, he’d thankfully long since outgrown his fumbling phase. Curled up on the sofa in front of a TV show, or late at night in the dark, drowsily discussing everything and nothing, he’d mention scheduling a haircut. As if on cue, Pam would run her fingers over his scalp and it would feel so damn good he’d forget why he ever thought he needed a trim. He’d forget his own name.

After listening to him repeatedly bring it up for a couple of weeks, but not get around to doing anything about it, Pam ended his procrastination by volunteering to cut it herself. She claimed to have done it before (he didn’t want to know for whom.) She even arranged to borrow good scissors and an electric clipper from Kelly, who’d apparently once attended beauty school for twenty minutes before realizing her interests ran more toward being on the receiving end of the primping.

By the time Kelly remembered the equipment was in her bag the next day, Pam had already left work a little early to go to her graphics class.  So she brought it to Jim instead.

‘Oh my god, Jim! You must love Pam so much,’ she exclaimed. ‘I mean, cutting crazy thick hair like yours is really hard and she has no idea what she’s doing. She’ll probably butcher it and you’ll look totally ridiculous.’

‘Great.’

‘You know how people say the eyes are the window to the soul? Wrong. Your hair is. Why do you think I got this sassy little bob?’

‘Yup,’ he nodded. ‘Makes sense.’

‘Exactly. And, no offense, Jim,’ she continued consolingly, ‘but that haircut you got last spring when you blew the corporate job? You looked hot and everything, but it was just so not you. You looked like some soap opera yuppie guy…’

‘M’kay….thanks.’

‘Anyway, letting Pam cut your hair is so romantic…like Samson and Delia.’

‘Delilah.’

‘What?’

‘De…uh, nothing,’ he decided to cut his losses, reaching for the implements of his hair’s prophesized destruction. ‘I’ll make sure Pam gets these.’

When Pam got home from class that night, she went to change out of her work clothes while Jim set a kitchen chair in the middle of the room and took off his tee shirt, so it wouldn’t get covered in hair. When she returned, she was wearing a tank top and his old boxer shorts that had shrunk too small to fit him, but were still huge on her. They hung low, exposing a few of inches of belly and rounded hips beneath the hem of the shirt. He fought the urge to put his hands there to feel how soft and warm it was; he could tell by the way she was scrutinizing his head that she meant business.

Manning the scissors, she approached with conviction, ready to attack. She moved around him, frowning in concentration as she clipped away. Every few minutes, she’d stand back squinting to assess her progress. Snip, snip, snip at the back. Then the buzzing of clippers. He couldn’t see what she was doing. Maybe Kelly was right and Pam was in over her head. He didn’t care. Snip, snip, buzz and the sides were done. It was only hair.

She straddled his legs to finish the top, pressing the inside of her thighs against his to steady herself. It felt like foreplay. Sometimes everything between them did. He imagined later, sweeping up the floor and then showering the itchy clippings off his shoulders and back. Maybe she’d get in with him. Maybe she’d wait for him in bed. Maybe nothing was impossible.

‘Enjoying the view there?’ she smirked, looking down at him.

He didn’t realize he’d been staring, but as she leaned over him, her thinly covered breasts were only inches away, precisely at eye level.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he felt his face flushing hot, caught in the act. ‘Okay, maybe a little.’

‘Just like at the barbershop, huh?’ she chuckled, taking the last few snips.

‘Hmm… kind of a Hooter’s barbershop. I like it.’

‘Good thing you’re taking that class,’ Pam concluded, setting down the scissors. ‘You’ve obviously been working for Michael too long.’

Jim just grinned and leaned into her, gliding his hands over the exposed skin at her waist until his arms were wrapped tightly around her. Pulling her closer, he rested his cheek against her chest. When he tugged her, just barely, she yielded instantly. She sunk down into his lap, letting her forehead lean against his.

‘You look good,’ she said quietly, her lips almost touching his, fingertips strumming through his freshly cut hair.

It felt like defying gravity, air beneath his feet, the ball swooshing through the rim.

It was in his bones. He knew it.