Shear Luck | joel miller x f!reader | [masterlist] {18+ minors DNI}
|part 1| The first cut is the deepest |2.5k words| Joel Miller, single dad, came into your salon for a haircut, but he never expected to leave with a crush. Sarah's alive, tension's are high, the jokes are bad and the chemistry is crazy!
Fluff ?✔️ Slow burn? ✔️ Age gap? ✔️ Puns? ✔️
sprinkle in a little bit of smut 🔥 and dbf!joel energy and BOOM. You got this sweet-feel good fic.
“What’re we doin’?” You ask, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “Hopefully performin’ a miracle,” he replies in a tired Southern drawl.” |A/N| I was at work today blowdrying my clients hair and this storyline came to mind, I thought I'd end up just doing a one-shot but when I started writing I immediately fell in love with these two, so I decided it would span over a few shorter chapters. I hope any of you that stumble across this love them too.
Warnings: Mild language, flirting, fluff, puns, age gap (Joel's 38, reader's 23). eventual smut, daddy kink (if you squint) alcohol use.
It’s Saturday, your back is screaming, feet killing you from two kids haircuts after a marathon balayage, you’re hunched over like a gremlin, salon empty now. It’s just you, sweeping up glitter-dusted hair. You’re beat, the clock is mocking you, and you don’t remember the last time you ate, or if you ate today at all. You check the clock, 5:45 fifteen more minutes till close, “finally” you mumble to yourself. Your phone has 4 missed calls and 5 missed texts, half of them probably trying to get a last-minute appointment.
Who the fuck takes walk-ins on Saturday?
The door chimes open and you curse under your breath, turning to face the front desk; you throw on your best customer service face and stop dead—oh.
The fake customer service face drops and turns into something a hell of a lot more sincere when you see him.
The gentleman that just walked in is your type, tall, rugged as hell—medium-length wildly curling hair that’s got a few silver streaks right at the temples. His beard is patchy like he's been at it with dull scissors, and he’s got a flannel thrown on over a faded Pink Floyd tee paired with dark-wash jeans—covered in sawdust no doubt. He looks tired and devastatingly handsome, he's probably got a decade on you at least. You can smell the pine on him from the front door.
He walks in quietly towards the front desk, looking down at his shoes, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“I need uh—you got time for one more cut?” His eyes lift from the floor to meet yours, big, round, and coffee brown.
“Only if you say please,” you give him a smirk, “and you gotta give me your phone number first.”
He freezes for a second, looking back at you and cocking his head to the side, eyebrow raised, half-confused, half-intrigued. He opens his mouth to speak but you cut him off before he gets a chance.
“Need to put you into the computer system,” you say with a wink clicking open a new client profile.
You watch as his face relaxes, shoulders drop, he breathes out half a chuckle before saying “It’s Joel, Joel Miller,” handing it off to you like you’ve won something.
He gives you his phone number and you type it into the system, setting him up a profile.
“Alright, big guy, looks like you’re officially my last victim of the week, come on in,” you smile and gesture towards the salon, walking behind your chair and patting the leather seat. “Okay, let's see what we’re working with then, sit”
His boots shuffle across the laminate and he sits down heavy into the chair, slouching down low, without you needing to ask him to.
Thank god, my shoulders are already screaming.
You pick up a comb and start raking through the mess on his head, coarse, wavy, dark hair speckled with, you guessed it. Sawdust.
“What’re we doin’? You ask, making eye contact with him in the mirror.
“Hopefully performin’ a miracle,” he replies in a tired Southern drawl.
You can see he’s exhausted, his voice is flat and rough.
“Sounds good to me, turnin’ water into wine costs extra though, that alright?” You try to crack his shell but he just stays silent.“Tough crowd, damn—okay—rough day cowboy?”
“Somethin’ like that, rough week,” he replies, looking at the mirror, avoiding your gaze.
You start trimming, keeping it longer, it looks good on him. “Well you’re in luck, I’m about to make it a lot worse! You get to end it with my bad jokes!” You grin, trying to get him to bite but he still doesn't, you’ll get him though.
“Why’d the client tip extra?” Silence. You snip louder, “The bangs were a real blast— get it?”
His lips twitch, just barely but you’ve almost got it so you barrel on. “how about: I told my last client he had a head like a bowling ball—smooth and full of holes… Yeah, he didn’t laugh either.”
A smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—finally, a low rumble of a laugh breaks through, and you beam. “There it is! Thanks for humoring me. I like to think of this gig as more than haircuts—it’s dinner and a show, except there’s no dinner, no show, and most folks leave thinking, ‘What the fuck’s wrong with her?’ But they always come back.”
He chuckles again, deeper this time, shaking his head. “You should do comedy,” he says, voice gravelly, warming up.
“Yeah, you know I tried stand-up for a bit,” you say, grabbing the trimmers to get the few stray hairs on his collar. “Realized I’m more of a sit-down girl—better at bad puns than punchlines.” You place your hands on his shoulders and squeeze, “Wash time.”
“Nah, don’t need that, 'm fine” he protests.
“Not askin, Mr. Miller, I’m tellin. Come on let's go, move it.”
He gets out of the chair with a groan, and you walk him over to the shampoo sink, guiding his head down into the bowl, dragging your nails slightly up his neck as you do it. “Hairs like a sawdust magnet by the looks of it.” You turn the water on and let it trickle over his hair, grabbing some ‘manly’ shampoo, tea tree, and mint instead of flowers or grapefruit, or whatever other girly shampoo you’ve got on the back bar.
You massage slow circles into his head, lightly scratching your fingernails into his scalp, a soft grunt escaping despite himself. The radio’s blasting dad rock, Springsteen, maybe—and he mutters, “Good taste,” voice lazy now. Unsurprising, doesn't usually take long to make em’ end up like putty in your hands.
“Only the best for my VIPs,” you tease, massaging longer than necessary, watching his jaw slacken. He fuckin’ loves it, you can tell—but he’d never admit it. You rinse, towel him off, and bring him over to the chair again. “Gotta style it now,” you use a paste, sweeping it back and off to the side, sharp but not like a cop. “Beard next,” you say, grabbing clippers, and he stiffens.
“Ain’t gotta—” he starts but you’re already in his space, getting halfway between his legs for a closer look, combing it out. His breath hitches for a second, rough stubble under your fingers, your chest brushing against his shoulders. You feel him tense, anxious, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Relax, Joel, I’m a pro,” you murmur, trimming it neat, square along his jaw, full but tamed, “At least that’s what everyone keeps tellin’ me.” Up close he’s gorgeous, like he was carved out of stone, but still soft. Lines jagged, dark eyes—you step back, smirking.”Okay, done. You outta’ pay me double for making you look so good, wife’s gonna be one happy lady!”
He stands up, rubbing his jaw, checks over himself in the mirror and smiles, barely but he smiles. “No wife to impress, my kids gonna be happy though, she was gettin’ embarrassed to be seen with me.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “Double huh?” he says, handing you two twenties instead of one, a real grin tugging at his lips now; showing off a dimple in his cheek. “Fair.” He lingers, eyes on you for a beat too long.
“See you next time, cowboy, nice meetin’ you,” you yell at him as he heads for the door, boots scuffing, leaving you buzzing.
Later when you’re at home you lay on the couch watching SNL with your dad, you pull out your phone to shoot off a text to your friend Kim.
(9:45PM)
You: Hot older dude, probably mid/late 30’s idk im guessing, came in today. quiet, sexy as hell, laughed at my stupid jokes.
(9:49PM)
Kim: ok!!!! 🤔🤔he tip big??
(9:49PM)
You: yup, im fucked! 😩
(9:50PM)
Kim: i mean… lets hope you are, eventually at least 😉
You smile down at your phone, replaying your interaction with Joel. He feels familiar, but you can’t place your finger on it so you shrug it off—probably just a regular type, lotta’ blue-collar guys in Austin.
//
Two Weeks Later
It’s Saturday again, your booking system’s got “Sarah M., trim + straighten” in midday. A 10-year-old bounces in, curly hair a mess, and trailing behind her is none other than Joel, hands in his damn pockets again.
“She wants it straight,” he says, low with a hint of flirtiness to it, winking when Sarah’s not looking. “I’d probably fuckin’ burn her tryin’.”
“Smart man,” you laugh, settling her into the chair. She’s chatty—her eyes shining as you flat-iron her hair, turning her curls into sleek waves instead.
“It’s like you’ve got magic in your hands!” she squeals, twirling it, and you laugh.
“You wanna be a hairdresser now, kid?” you ask, and she nods, beaming. Joel just watches, leaning against the counter, smirking.
Sarah groans, “Dad stop staring at her, you’re being weird,” but she giggles anyway.
You give Joel a wink and shake your head at him “dang, Joel, called out tryina’ flirt by your kid, you need to step up your game old man.”
When Sarah's hair is sufficiently straight, and the ends are trimmed neat she rushes out to the truck, making sure to swipe about 6 lollipops on her way past the front desk. Joel lingers again, voice dropping down low. “You do house calls, darlin’”
You grin, leaning close. “You wish cowboy. Gotta take me to dinner first at least.”
“That so?” he drawls, stepping nearer, invading your space, eyes glinting. “You’d wanna be seen in public with an old man like me?
“First of all, don’t even know how old you are, wouldn't exactly call you an old man. Secondly, try me.” you shoot back, and he chuckles.
“38, probably old enough to be your daddy.” he laughs, “and you?”
“Didn’t take you as the kinda guy to be into that,” you reply with a wink, leaning in just a bit closer.
Okay brave, we see you, girl, make him sweat!
You continue, “I’m 23, my dad’s still got a few years on you.”
You see watch him swallow and his eyes widen, jaw opens like he's about to say something but can’t.
He just bites his lip, like he doesn't want to regret what might come ou,t he gives you a nod and turns on his heels to the door. But before he leaves he stops for a second to look back and says “You don’t know much ‘bout me darlin’, not yet,” smiling again, he adds “I’ll think about that dinner,” and he’s gone.
//
Another week and Joe’s back again, showing up at the end of the day; just as you’re about to clock out. His hair is a little wild again, beard creeping back to chaos, clothes a mess—that rough handsomeness hitting you like a brick.
“I thought you’d be closed,” he says, rubbing his neck like hes almost embarrassed to be there. “Got a thing this weekend,” settling into your chair. “Make me extra pretty.” He jokes, actually jokes with you, how rare!
“I think most of us have ‘a thing’ this weekend, fourth of July n’ all,” you tease. “Hot date or what?” Sit down, handsome, ill make you into a real heartbreaker.
He grunts, settling in, body too big for the space, cape snapping as you drape it over him.
He snorts, eyes meeting yours in the mirror, dark and steady, maybe with a flicker of something in thiem. “No date, just a…thing. Don’t need Sarah to give me shit about lookin’ like a caveman.”
His tone is casual, but theres a dodge there, you let it slide, snipping away.
“Big, brooding, Joel Miller—so mysterious,” you say, hovering close, breath brushing his ear as you cut. “Thank god you’ve god me, huh?” you flash him a grin and he chuckles, warm, loosening up.
“Capes a little tight darlin’, you tryin to choke me?” he says, hooking a finger in the front of the cape. You undo the snaps and let out a low chuckle.
“Sorry honey, didn’t mean to, usually charge extra for that.” You say real low, giving him a wink.
“Ah, theres that comedian comin’ out again.” he says, voice dipping a bit, “Keepin’ me entertained.” His hand shifts under the cape, brushing your thigh—accidental, maybe? But he doesn't move it fast, and your heart jumps.
You tidy up the sides, cutting half an inch off the top.
“Okay let's go wash it, no fighting,” you say ripping the cape off. You bring him back to the sink and lean him back, scratching his nape with your fingernails a little rougher than last time, purposeful, just to see him shiver. You wash, fingers deep in his scalp, massaging watching his gruff expression melt away, noticing how the frown line between his brows softens.
He exhales a groan, and it makes you smirk, “Purrin’ again, huh? I got you hooked now.”
“Keep dreamin',’’ he mutters, weak—lazy, his hands unclench in his lap. You hum along to the radio, Led Zepplin, this time Ramble On low in the background.
You bring him back to the chair and style it, a little slicker this time, more pomade.
“There, now if you don't get too crazy tonight, this might stay lookin' good till tomorrow,” you say, “beard needs a bit of work still.” You clean up his neckline, and trim his mustache, leaning in extra close this time to get a good look—or maybe for him to get a good look—you wore a lowcut shirt today. You tilt his chin up and catch him swallowing—hard, adams apple bobbing, his dark eyes flicking up to you. You feel the heat of him under his stubble.
“Careful.” He warns, drawl low, but he doesn't pull away.
“Always am,” you murmur, cleaning up his neckline, and framing it up just right. You oggle again. He’s stupidly good looking, smile lines, plush lips, faint scars, coffee eyes—and you step back, smirking. “There, too pretty for your own damn good, owe me double again”
“You’re a magician,” he says, handing you forty bucks again with a flirty “worth it.’
“Damn straight,” you say, leaning against the counter, knee brushing his thigh, close, casual, but the air’s thick now. “So, this ‘thing’—gonna tell me, or keep me guessing?”
“You’ll figure it out, darlin’. You’re a smart girl,” his hand hovers near yours nearly touching it, then it drops. “See you around, be good.” and he leaves.
You’d be lying if you said that you didn’t sulk a little when he left, no mention of dinner, no ‘house call’ comment to be heard.
You’ll live, girl calm down.
You immediately text Kim again.
(7:03PM)
You: DILF strikes again, i need him biblically. 😩
You laugh at yourself as you flick off the open sign and head for the door, heart still racing from that damn smirk of his.
(7:07PM)
Kim: oh you’re down BAD bad huh? I need to see this guy 😂
You lock up, grinning like an idiot, wondering if Joel Miller’s worth all this trouble.
Spoiler: he probably is.
