It's the simple things that can make a man's day start out right. Things like drinking your coffee in peace, and the sound of the microwave heating up your muffin. This is what I'm thinking when Marie walks into the kitchen, and it's my last sensible thought for the day.

"Hey Logan," she says. Her voice is soft, never too loud for my sensitive ears, and smooth like aged whiskey. The kind of a voice I wouldn't mind hearing first thing in the morning. Um…that's…not what I mean.
"Mornin," I say.

I watch her float through making another pot of coffee like it's some kind of lyrical dance. Thank God, at least today she's not wearing one of those tight sweaters she's taken to recently. Damn things are wreckin' my head! First, because the clingy cotton leaves too little
to the imagination; second, because every horny guy over the age of twelve can't help but stare when she wears them. They keep gawkin' and sooner or later, my `smack `em upside the head' urge will get the better of me.

Today she's got on a regular button-up shirt with her jeans, so everyone should be safe.

I go back to glancing through the paper and enjoying my breakfast. I try not to watch her in my peripheral vision as she walks over with her cup of coffee and slides into the chair opposite mine.

"You not eatin'?" She never skips breakfast. Not that I keep tabs.

"I'll get something later, all the muffins are gone."

"Here," I say without hesitation, "I'll split mine with ya."

If anyone knew what a soft touch I'd become … not that anyone will know. Ever.

"Thanks." She gives me one of her lower wattage smiles but it still makes her eyes light up, so I immediately flee back to the paper.

After a while, I realize that I'm the one being watched. No – not watched – studied. I raise my eyes to see Marie looking at me with all the calculation of an unimpressed drill sergeant. I cock my eyebrow, wondering what the hell could possibly be going through that
head of hers.

"Somethin' on your mind, Marie?"

She gives me one more long, critical look and announces, "Logan…you need a hair cut."

Oh hell. Here we go.

"Nah. It's fine," I say, running a hand through my hair confidently.

"No…it's definitely time for a trim. It's kinda…scruffy lookin'," she says with a giggle.

Now she's laughing at me and calling me scruffy, so I'm gettin' a little self conscious.

"Tell you what, so you'll get off my back, I'll get it cut just as soon as I find the time."

She throws another smile at me.

"I can cut it for you, you know," she offers.

Uh-oh.

"Yeah, why don't you let me cut it for you?" She lights up like it's the best damn idea ever.

"No, no. Really. It's okay. I can go somewhere this week and get it done."

Now I'm getting' "the look". The "you don't think I can do it and that hurts my feelings so I'm gonna pout and manage to look sexy while I'm doing it" look. I'm a real sucker for the look.

"Come on – please! I've been practicing. I won't mess up and I promise you won't be disappointed. I like doing it, Logan and I'm reeeeally good at it."

No way she meant that double entendre, I tell myself. Mind out of the gutter.

"Uh…I don't know if it's…"

"Oh for cryin' out loud! It's just a haircut. Quit being such a weenie about it!"

A weenie?! Grrr. Now its time for her to get "the look". My look is different though. Mine is the "No one calls the Wolverine a weenie and gets away with it" look. Now I gotta let her cut my hair out of sheer principle. Of course, she knows this and I'm sure that's why she said it. But she doesn't know that I know she knows it.

I don't like to dwell too much on who has outmaneuvered who. I might not like the answer.

Either way, it's haircut time.

******

She's got a chair moved to the middle of her room with her night stand slid over and set up with all kinds of little instruments that could be used to cut hair – or they could be torture devices. It's tough to call.

I plop down begrudgingly and she tells me not to be a spoilsport. Next thing I know, there's a huge flowered towel being draped around my neck.

"Ho-whoa whoa! What the hell are you putting on me?" I say, jumping back up.

"You gotta have something to cover you so you don't get all those little hairs down in your shirt. They itch. My beach towel is the biggest towel I have."

I take a breath to contemplate the logic as the bright pink and green towel hangs off my arm. I know she thinks I'm going to leave as I walk over to the door and click the lock. I turn back to see an intrigued look on her face and I can't help but feel a bit of triumph. She may not know the reason I did it, but it looks like the
prospect of being locked in a room with me doesn't bother Little Miss Marie one bit

"If I'm gonna be wrapped in a pink towel, I don't want one of your little friends wandering in to witness it," I explain.

"Oh."

That's all she says before I sit down for her to readjust the towel. She snaps on a pair of latex gloves and the sound makes me flinch and laugh at the same time. At least until she stands in front of me with that critical look again. Now she's Little Miss Serious.

She bends down for a close look and I get an eyeful…of cleavage. I admit, I'm transfixed for a second, but then I do try to look elsewhere. Really. I feel her push my head forward and her warm hands dip into the collar of my shirt as she clips the towel in place.

It hits me that the towel underneath my nose reeks of Marie. Not just normal Marie either. No, it's Marie and sweat, water, warm skin and sun lotion all poorly masked by some sort of floral detergent. Now I have this image of Marie and her cleavage, all hot and sweaty…and there are coconuts and flowers…and it's just all down hill from
there.

"You can lift your head now."

I really don't want to. But I do and I try to think of hockey stats as she's running her fingers through my hair, using a spray bottle to dampen it before cutting. She's working from the back and whenever she leans forward; her chest bumps against me. So now it's not only
flowers, cleavage and coconuts; my imagination adds a warm, wet, and willing Marie, bumping against me with no scissors in sight.

At what point did I think this was a good idea?

Thankfully, she quits the finger running and chest bumping and moves on to the trimming. The trimming is alright. This is good. This is normal and elicits no wild fantasies. Then she gets around to the shorter hair at the back…Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! She's snipping and
fluffing and pulling at the hair a little and I can feel every nerve along my back come to life. I feel like some damn cat that's being rubbed a little too gently and I want to buck up against her hand and make her pull and rub harder. Scratch me, dammit! I can't take it anymore as I grip the chair and move my head forward, clearing my
throat.

"Did I clip you?" she asks, full of concern.

"No…no, just uh, tickles a little."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know you were ticklish."

"Neither did I."

"It's okay; I'm finished with the back anyway."

Maybe some greater power is taking mercy on me.

I try to sit stock still as she moves around to snip at the hair on the sides. Little hairs fall down to tickle my ear. Before I can lift a hand to dust them away, she (I shit you not) leans down and blows; fucking blows, them off my ear! Both of them! Now, Little Logan thinks this is GREAT and I squirm a bit to relieve the pressure. I'm ticklish, and that's it.

I gotta quit settin' myself up for this kinda hell.

She stands in front of me and steps back to take a look at the finished project. I'm just trying to keep from ripping the arms off the chair.

She tilts her head to the left, to the right and then I actually see a light bulb click on in her mind. Yeah, I could be in over my head here. She disappears into her bathroom and comes back with something in her hand, I can't make it out. I hear her fumbling around behind
me and then I hear the unmistakable buzz of electric shears.

Marie stands back in front of me and makes a move to indicate my chops.

"I'm just gonna trim these up on the sides," she says sweetly.

This is plainly not a good idea.

"Mmmm - I don't think that's such a good idea, Marie."

"Well you can't go out all half cocked with an incomplete haircut. You'll ruin my reputation and no one else will ever let me cut their hair. So just sit still."

Yeah, I got news for her. She ain't cuttin' nobody else's hair; I don't give a good god damn about her reputation. No finger runnin' or ear blowin' for any of them!

I snap out of my internal rant as she gently tilts my chin to the right, then the left, trimming the hairs as she goes. Her face is inches from mine and she keeps dancing her fingers lightly across my jaw line to brush away the stray whiskers. I swear to God, if she even thinks about blowing on my neck, I'm going to tie her to the chair with this fucking towel and perform somepassive aggressive torture of my own.

"There! All finished. See?"

She hands me a little mirror for inspection and I release my death grip on the chair to look. It's actually a damn good haircut. Too bad no one else will ever get the benefit of her talent.

"Not bad," I cut my eyes up at her.

"I knew you'd be pleased," she replies and bends forward, giving me another view down her shirt (okay, button up *not* such a safe shirt option after all).

I'm about to pop off with a comment of my own, when she puts her arms around my neck to remove the towel. I'm struck dumb when faced with a terrific pair of breasts, right within licking distance. I have no excuse, so I won't even try. She brushes at my collar again because
apparently there are some renegade hairs that managed to break through the towel barrier, and…as fate would have it, she starts blowing against my neck to shake them loose.

That is it! I am done playing beauty shop with her! She's screwed six ways to Sunday because there is no way in hell that I'm leaving this room until she admits it.

I lunge from the chair and grab her before she knows what's happening.

"Okay Marie, you win! You've got me strainin' in my jeans - now admit it. Admit you know exactly what you're doing."

Her eyes are wide with shock as she says, "But…I already told you I knew how to cut hair."

"That is *not* what I mean," I manage to growl.

I'm watching her face to gauge her reaction, a sign that she is knowingly playing the seductress because she can't possibly be doing this unconsciously. There's just no way.

I don't read anything on her face and suddenly I feel like the world's biggest pervert. What was I thinking? I'll never be able to look her in the eye again. Screwed, indeed.

Then, slowly, she moves into me, rubbing her chest against mine and reaching to toy with my collar.

"You see Logan," she whispers, flashing her eyes at me, "I told you I was reeeeally good at it."