Introducing Isabelle, the Market Stall Barber

I knew it was wrong. I had no training, no license, no right to be wielding sharp scissors on the hair of unsuspecting people. But I had the time, the money, and the burning desire.

These niggling thoughts rippled through my mind as I diligently ticked off each of the items of equipment on my checklist in the confines of my hotel room. Ensuring they were sharp where needed and charged as required. With each flourish with my pen, I returned another treasured item to my wheeled travel bag. When everything was in place, I positioned the case by the door in readiness for my early departure the following morning.

I rationalised my craving by telling myself I was providing a valuable social service, offering affordable haircuts to those struggling in the widespread economic downturn. The reality though was far darker. Fuelled by my secret pleasure, hidden from most, triggered with every snip of the scissors and each pass of the hairclippers.

= * = * =

The run-down seaside town I was visiting on this occasion was a world away from my busy life in the city. It was early spring with the weather still cold and damp. The town had few of the affluent visitors who would provide employment for the local community later in the year. Residents were desperate, just hanging on until the holidaymakers arrived. But the local people still did their best to make ends meet, maintain their standards, and look after their families.

It was the perfect location and a wonderful opportunity, so the time was ripe for enjoying my next adventure. I checked into a quaint seafront hotel, a relic of a bygone era, its faded grandeur a perfect base for my elaborate charade.

I dined as Isabelle, wearing an elegant dress, smart high-heeled shoes, and with my hair in a smart chignon. As the smart businesswoman from the city, I enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine and a delicious meal, excitedly contemplating what lay ahead.

Sleep came easy and my dreams were sweet.

= * = * =

The following morning, I transformed myself into “Lizzie”. Gone were Isabelle’s tailored blazers, smart skirts, crisp blouses, and polished shoes. In their place was a red cotton miniskirt, a black lace top with a plunging neckline, black tights, and scuffed ankle boots. A worn denim jacket topped off the outfit and I had pinned up my hair in a messy bun. A trashy contrast with my usual professional image, but a disguise meticulously crafted to portray Lizzie as a desperate, struggling hairdresser who needed the money.

= * = * =

I arrived at the town’s covered market, a relic of a bygone age. However, unlike elsewhere in the moribund town, it was a place buzzing with life and commerce. It was where the residents were continually searching out bargains to feed and clothe their families, and local stallholders worked hard to turn a profit on the day’s stock.

I set up the stall that I had hired for the day, a temporary haven for my illicit artistry. I arranged a cheap folding chair in the middle of the space. On a table nearby, I laid out my gleaming tools that I had lovingly prepared. I placed a small video camera in each corner of the stall to capture all the action. And I displayed my faded posters promoting Lizzie’s Clip Joint, boasting of impossibly low prices for the services I wished to give the residents of the seaside town.

Sipping a coffee purchased from a nearby stall, I waited patiently by my makeshift salon, judging the hair of all the passing women.

As always, a nervous knot tightened in my stomach. I knew it was wrong, this charade, but the thrilling anticipation of what was to come soon dispelled any concerns.

= * = * =

I did not have to wait long as, within minutes, my first customer arrived. A woman drawn in by the tempting bait of a bargain. Her long, thick braid, the kind I craved, flowed down her back, tantalisingly within reach.

‘Hi there, love, do you really charge so little for a haircut?’ the woman asked, her voice thick with disbelief, but tinged with hope.

‘Yes, my darling,’ I confirmed merrily. ‘I lost my salon due to rising rent and crippling business rates. So, now, like so many of us, I am just trying to make ends meet as well as helping others along the way.’

My voice was as smooth and convincing as when I lived my real life as Isabelle, the assertive management consultant. But my explanation was a total fabrication. I had never owned a salon and certainly did not need the cash. This was just my part-time interest, verging on obsession. I simply loved cutting other women’s hair, ideally exceptionally long hair, and transforming it to something dramatically short.

‘I’ve wanted a change for ages – something more stylish and practical – but I simply can’t afford salon prices,’ the woman said, her fingers nervously tracing her thick long braid. ‘Today, I was thinking, er … just a trim … maybe?’ she mused tentatively.

I met her gaze, my eyes lingering on her thick, glossy rope. ‘A bob would be cheapest, my darling,’ I interjected, indicating the proof on my price list, my voice laced with a subtle urgency.

‘A bob?’ she questioned, sounding genuinely shocked by the suggestion.

‘All the long styles – even just trimming long hair – take so much more time. It means I am unable to help so many people,’ I sighed regretfully, ‘and I need charge more. In the end, it would cost you around the same price as a salon,’ I added persuasively.

The pricing and my smooth explanations were tactics I had planned, a way to ensure the majority would opt for my choice of style for their hair.

The woman bit her lip as she listened to my words, silently studied my posters, and returned her gaze to me. Her sour-faced expression suggested she had been excited by the prospect of an indulgence for herself that she could finally afford, before having her hopes dashed as I snatched away her dream.

My heart pounded a wild rhythm as I waited for her to speak, my experience in professional services informing me not to fill the silence.

Finally, she nodded, her hesitation overcome by the promise of a cheap makeover. A bargain.

‘Sit!’ I commanded, unambiguously directing a finger to my chair.

She perched anxiously on the seat, her trust a fragile thing, quickly crumbling as I grabbed my hairclippers from the table and they loudly whirred to life. In one swift movement I pulled her braid taut with one hand and, with the other, I thrust the blade of the clippers into the base of her braid. A loud thud signified the bulk of her locks falling heavily to the floor, coiling in a dark, silken pile.

She whimpered, suspecting what had happened but staring straight ahead as if unwilling to see it confirmed. It was a common reaction, and one that fascinated me.

I furtively kicked the braid under the table. ‘I will cut it nice and short, my darling,’ I warned, while quickly covering her with a cape. My voice was a heady mix of authority and apology, intended to confuse. ‘You will save a fortune on upkeep, not needing to get it trimmed all the time.’

It was untrue, of course. Short hair requires far more attention to remain looking good, but that not my concern.

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but the momentum of my actions, my unflinching confidence, silenced her.

My practiced hands moved quickly, her head held down and clamped in place. The hair on the back and sides of her head vanished under the shining bare blade of the hairclippers. It provided a stark bald canvas for my final flourish. With the aid of a comb and scissors, I carved a perfect bowl-shaped crown sitting proudly above her ears.

I handed the woman a small hand mirror as I whisked away the cape. With no large mirror before her to view progress, it was her first taste of her transformation. She gasped as she saw her new self for the first time. Silently she viewed it from every angle, and she gasped again.

The shock on the woman’s face was exhilarating, a reflection of the power I wielded. To my eyes, she looked stunningly beautiful, although I knew that few appreciated the timeless elegance of a bowlcut. Hopefully, she would grow to love it, but it did not truly matter. I would be gone by the end of the day, never to return to the town. I had scheduled my next adventure in a similar town but in a faraway location.

‘You have cut it, er, short … er, very short,’ she stammered, as I took the payment she was offering.

‘Thank you, my darling,’ I said brightly, deliberately misunderstanding her heartfelt complaint and accepting as a complement. ‘That is so sweet of you.’

‘Yes … er, no …’ she murmured dejectedly, wiping the corner of her eye. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

The stunned woman ambled slowly away from my stall as others watched her passing. Her face had been a mask of confusion as she took a last look at herself in the mirror. As she moved off, she was absently rubbing her shaved nape, remembering the long braid that had recently hung there. It was a common reaction, and one that I relished.

= * = * =

My first customer of the day had occupied me for less than ten minutes, a heady whirlwind of transformed hair. Already, a line of women had formed along the side my stall, clearly intrigued as they watched me at work.

The group consulted the price of my services and discussed it amongst themselves. Despite the severity of the woman’s haircut, they nodded sagely, murmuring their agreement of what they saw. I liked to view their positive reaction as a testament to my practiced skills.

They might not have been contemplating such a drastic haircut before seeing my work. However, the lure of a bargain made the choice an acceptable and obvious one to the cash-starved locals.

Admittedly there were women who witnessed the brutal efficiency of my work – the way I wielded my tools like weapons – who balked and fled. It was as I wished as I did not need their hesitant energy near my stall, their half-hearted desires for a trim sapping my enthusiasm.

I craved the women who stayed. Those who, despite the prickling unease, sat down and surrendered their crowning glories to my blade. Each snip, each shaved swathe, was a release, a purging of my own anxieties and frustrations. Their loss was my gain.

As each woman sat down in front of me – each with varying lengths, textures, and colours of hair – my glib tongue convinced them of their need for change and the wisdom of my suggestions. All left with a stunning and severe bowlcut, with their napes shaved clean and a neat glossy cap of hair perched on their heads for all to admire.

Mothers, seeing the service I could provide, returned with their daughters. While mothers were seeking practical styles for their children, lured by the promise of a cheap solution, their daughters were looking for stylish looks to replace their ponytails and braids.

Whatever their requirements, I judged that the bowlcut met their needs and, far more importantly, satisfied my desires.

= * = * =

The day by the seaside flowed by in a blur of snips and shaves, a constant stream of women yielding to my ministrations.

At the end of the day, I was tired but exhilarated. I secretly donated the cash I had earnt to a local foodbank. The money was unnecessary, as satisfying my dark desires was payment enough. I slipped away, leaving behind the market, the women, and a plethora of examples of my twisted artistry.

But I took with me what truly mattered. I tucked the long, thick braids and ponytails away in my case for later. They were a secret treasure I would savour in the privacy of my hotel room, accompanied by the symphony of hairclippers and scissors from the scenes of their severance, recorded by my hidden cameras.

The thrill of the hunt, the fleeting power, and the promise of more. It was always enough … well, until the next time …