Prologue

The dry heat clung to me like a second skin as I sat slumped outside Hairlines. Almost thirty, and this was my life. The town hairdresser, presiding over a salon that felt less like a vibrant business and more like a sleepy museum of outdated coiffures.

I had inherited Hairlines from my grandmother, bless her, three years earlier. I had left behind the buzz of a senior stylist role in a cool city salon, where I had sculpted edgy cuts for a young, demanding clientele. Taking on my own place had felt like a huge opportunity then, a chance for independence, even if the town itself was about as cutting-edge as a butter knife.

For the first year, I had poured everything into it. I tried updating the place, introducing new products, and pushing styles that required a bit more than just a trim. I was doing all right, but just all right. It was a constant uphill battle against the town’s deep-seated conservatism. Here, hair was not just hair; it was an inheritance, a legacy, a symbol, not measured in inches, but in feet. Long hair was the norm, revered and mostly left untouched. Knee-length, and even beyond, was not unusual.

My own hair was a statement against the tide. I wore a shoulder-skimming inverted bob, sharp and sweeping high at the back with the nape shaved clean. Most people did not comment and some, I suspected, actively disliked it. But it was attractive and edgy, and felt like the last piece of myself from the city that I had not compromised.

Polite smiles were all that met my attempts at persuading anyone into a modern hairstyle, followed by a booking for another light trimming of split ends. For a special occasion, women of the town might even grant me the doubtful privilege of creating updo that would invariably involve pinning up yards of thick, heavy hair. My bread and butter, to my endless frustration, were the older ladies who needed their weekly shampoo and set, their perms maintained like sacred rituals.

Still, I kept reminding myself that Hairlines was mine, and things would change.

The Change

And change did come, but not in the way I had envisioned. Instead of a sudden embrace of contemporary style, we got a drought. The town, nestled among vineyards that were the source of its wealth and reputation, became a dustbowl. The town council were responsible for imposing water rationing, a stark necessity as the precious vines withered.

For my business, the drought was a death knell. The authorities restricted the services that I could offer like shampoos, conditioning treatments, and anything that used significant quantities of water. But honestly, even when I could technically do them, people were too aware of the crisis to book an appointment. They were letting their long hair go unwashed for longer than usual, tying it up or braiding it, or employing a dry shampoo. Anything that would avoid using too much water.

Which brought me to where I was now, sitting disconsolately under the salon’s small umbrella, nursing a lukewarm coffee and vaping, watching the dust motes swirl in the oppressive heat.

The Mayor

That is when I saw him. Mr Lucas, the mayor, early forties, always impeccably suited, his short back and sides slicked neatly against his head. He was walking by with his secretary, Katie. She was young, early twenties, in a cheerful blue and white polka dot dress and a white blazer, looking smart and professional. Katie embodied the town’s hair aesthetic perfectly. She wore a single, massive golden braid slung over one shoulder, thicker than my wrist, swinging down almost to her knees.

‘Hello there, Miss Jacobs. It’s a lovely day.’ Mr Lucas stopped, offering his usual polite greeting, as he did to everyone in town who might vote for him when election time came around. ‘We’ve just been for a spot of lunch before a busy afternoon in the office.’

I was unsure why he felt the need to justify to me his assignation with secretary. Judging by the slight aroma of alcohol that accompanied his arrival, I imagined it was a fairly liquid lunch and that had resulted in his tongue being looser than usual. ‘Hi, Mr Lucas. Yes, always lovely these days,’ I responded gloomily, gesturing to the blue skies and ever-present sun, ‘unfortunately …’

‘Quite so,’ he nodded sagely. Then, as he often did, and as always struck me as a little strange given the general local indifference towards me, he paid me a compliment. ‘Miss Jacobs, your hair always looks so … well, so neat and professional.’ Most people ignored my inverted bob, but Mr Lucas seemed fascinated by it whenever we met. He chuckled, glancing at Katie. ‘I was just trying to convince Katie here that something similar might make her look more the part of the mayor’s secretary. Less … well, bohemian.’

Katie blushed, looking utterly mortified. Cut off her braid? The idea was preposterous in this town, even to please her boss. It was a bizarre thing to say, exposing his own peculiar fixation, and it made Katie squirm awkwardly.

I exchanged a knowing womanly raise of the eyebrows with Katie, unseen by Mr Lucas. But as I observed Katie’s discomfort, studying that enormous rope of hair, an idea began to bubble up in my mind. An audacious, slightly wicked idea. It was not only about helping the town, although I would present it that way. It was about me. About saving Hairlines, maybe even thriving. And the fact that it seemed to align with Mr Lucas’s unusual preference for short hair? Well, that could only be a good thing.

‘Mr Lucas,’ I piped up as he was about to move away. ‘Please could I have a quick word? About the water situation?’ I eyed Katie pointedly. She caught my drift instantly.

‘Oh! Yes, of course,’ she stammered, her hand instinctively going to her braid. ‘I’ll … I’ll head back to the office.’

Mr Lucas watched her go, then turned back to me, curiosity in his eyes. He sat down opposite me under the patch of shade offered by the umbrella.

‘The water,’ I began, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘It is the long hair, isn’t it? People are trying to wash less, but it still uses water. What if …’ I paused for effect, letting the absurdity of it hang in the air for a second before I delivered the solution I had just invented. ‘What if we encouraged everyone with long hair – the women, the girls – to have it shaved off?’

Mr Lucas blinked slowly. ‘Shaved? Emily, that’s…’

‘Audacious,’ I finished for him, a small smile playing on my lips. ‘But hear me out. A campaign. Sponsored shaves. Families, friends, and customers of the vineyards sponsoring women to shave their hair. The money collected then goes to help each vineyard, and the entire town. And we can donate the cut hair to a suitable charity.’

I conveniently failed to specify which “charity”. The “Charity of Hairlines” came to mind as a worthy recipient. I knew with absolutely certainty just how much that quality, uncut, incredibly long hair was worth back in the city for the extension market. Selling it would be my private windfall. And of course, on top of that, I would invoice the council for every head they required me to shave.

‘Think of it, Mr Lucas,’ I purred, my voice low. ‘A win-win-win. The town gets funds, we all use less water, much less water, and the women … well, they would have practical hairstyles that are more suited to this intolerable heat, and they would always appear clean and tidy.’

I breezed over the part about them being bald. Besides, it was not a disadvantage in my eyes.

Mr Lucas was silent, clearly processing the sheer outrageousness of the proposal. He looked past me, his gaze distant. At that moment, two young women walked slowly by, giggling and looking pretty in their sundresses. One had a ponytail like a horse’s tail, thick and swinging against her backside with every step. The other’s loose hair was a blanket of gold, held back from her face with a velvet band, reaching to her knees.

‘Yes, Mr Lucas,’ I said softly, following his gaze, ‘with your wisdom and support, all that,’ I gestured with my chin towards the retreating figures, ‘could soon be gone.’ I watched his eyes closely and saw the flicker of interest in transformation, exerting control. ‘Can you imagine them bald?’ I pressed, pushing the boundary just a little. It was a gamble, but I saw it land. His eyes narrowed slightly, a different kind of intensity entering them. His mind was racing, yes, but so was something else much lower down in his body.

Like floodgates opening, repressed intrigue soon gave way to excitement. I saw it clearly. Obvious signs of arousal at the thought of watching me sever all that hair from those pretty young women, then shaving their heads to a gleaming finish. He was trying to hide it, but I saw the subtle flush, the tension in his posture.

‘Really? Completely bald, you suggest?’ he clarified, his voice a little huskier than before, the swinging ponytail taunting him as it disappeared across the market square. I nodded eagerly. ‘Okay, Miss Jacobs. I will, er … put it to the town council,’ he said eventually,

The Council

It was not easy, I heard later, there was resistance from the more conservative council members. Mrs Adams who organised the town’s annual long hair pageant was particularly vocal, as were some of the men who subscribed to the outdated view that all women should maintain long hair as a birthright. However, with his smooth forcefulness, Mr Lucas eventually pushed it through. The “Balding for Water” initiative became a local law.

The Launch

The launch event for the initiative was a spectacular. The ornamental bandstand in the market square, usually reserved for summer concerts, was repurposed for public shearing.

Katie, Mr Lucas’s secretary with the golden braid, was the first on stage. Under duress from her boss, undoubtedly, teary-eyed, she marched up the short flight of steps and lowered herself onto the wooden stool I had placed there. Cheers and applause had accompanied her approach, but then a silence fell over the whole market square as they watched, curious and expectant.

I lifted her magnificent braid and, using my powerful cordless hairclippers, I sheared through her locks as close to her scalp as I could manage. It put up a valiant fight but, after a short struggle, Katie’s hair came away in my hand. Theatrically, I held it up as a symbol of the sacrifice expected from everyone in the town.

My gesture released the pent-up emotion around the square. However, only subdued polite applause rippled from the audience compared with the raucous manner that greeted her initial appearance. The worry arising from the reality of what was to come appeared to be affecting everyone. I tossed the braid into a large crate that I had placed at the back of the bandstand, and the audience went quiet once more.

Taking my hairclippers once more, I ran the blade back and forth over Katie’s head until only a dark shadow remained. Stoically, she looked out across her audience towards a point in the distance, attempting to maintain control.

Exchanging the hairclippers for a foil shaver, I removed all trace of hair from Katie’s scalp, leaving behind a gleaming dome. With a broad smile, I massaged a moisturising oil, that also served as a sunblock, into her skin as if I were polishing a cue-ball. The reflective shine I achieved reached the same level.

The oil I applied would be free to each woman after her first shave, although paid for by the council, and I would sell additional quantities so that the women could protect their scalps from the sun.

Mr Lucas stepped forward to add further words to his opening speech about sacrifice and bravery. Unusually, he appeared tongue-tied, repeating words and phrases. He reiterated the initiative’s tagline of a “Bold New World Ahead” but it kept coming out “Bald”. I imagined the audience attributed his rare awkwardness down to his sadness that it should be necessary. But I was certain it was attributable to him witnessing the delightful scene of me shaving his long-haired secretary directly in front of him.

Since taking over Hairlines, I had little need to use my clippers and shavers as the styles that the town’s customers requested did not need them. Hearing the familiar hum of the clippers, was a comforting sound. I had frequently buzzed heads during my time in the city and I remembered the strange satisfaction, even a slight thrill that it engendered. I gestured Mr Lucas forward to inspect my work.

Seeing Mr Lucas examining Katie’s freshly shorn scalp, I saw the obvious bulge in his trousers as he was standing so close to me. I felt his gratitude at allowing him a key role in the process, under the guise of ensuring “council quality standards” were continually satisfied. It was good to keep him on side for whatever might happen in the future.

‘Most satisfactory, Miss Jacobs,’ he judged, his voice trembling.

The Progress

Other notable women from the town followed Katie onto the stage, their long hair meeting the same fate. Photos and videos of the event were shared online. They provided a publicity blitz for our little town’s dramatic step towards water conservation. And my crate of severed hair for sale in the city was overflowing.

I explained the arrangements for all the remaining women in the town to visit Hairlines to allow me to shave their heads too. And, over the next few days, there was a steady stream of women with a social conscience who passed through my doors. However, after the initial wave of volunteers, things slowed down.

There was still far too much long hair around the town. People were holding onto it, finding ways to eke out their meagre water ration to ensure their hair remained presentable. Although my business picked up with the shaves, it was not the deluge of work that I had hoped for that would keep me busy all day.

That is when I had my next idea.

The Enforcement

If gentle influence was not working, then I would need to employ stronger methods of persuasion. When Mr Lucas next stopped by Hairlines, I suggested the council apply a hefty levy to household water rates, calculated per inch of long hair in the household. He nodded dutifully and made a note.

On a roll, I further proposed random, unannounced checks of women’s hair length. I would wander around town, clipboard in hand, ostensibly checking for compliance. Anyone found with hair over the maximum allowed length faced an on-the-spot fine and an immediate trip to Hairlines for a forced shave. A second offence? A painful chemical depilation, ensuring a long-term baldness. Mr Lucas raised an eyebrow, and I thought I may have pressed too far, but he nodded sagely and updated his notes.

It was harsh, but it worked. Faced with crippling penalties, even the most resistant families eventually brought their wives and daughters in. The sight of husbands leading their visibly distressed wives, or mothers guiding their tearful daughters, towards my salon became commonplace.

The Assessment

As I had expected, the actual water saved by the campaign was negligible in the grand scheme of the drought. After all, the issue was not just washing hair, even if such a visible sacrifice gave the campaign focus.

However, despite the initiative’s limited success, the people of the town praised Mr Lucas for daring to attempt change and seeing it through with decisive action. Furthermore, a considerable sum of money was raised through the sponsored head shaves, and this would provide significant support to the struggling vineyards. And Mr Lucas also seemed perfectly content with his newly “professional” secretary by his side.

The women of the town with their heads, polished with an efficient sunblock, were now gleaming domes under the relentless sun, walked around with a quiet, shared uncertainty. Had their personal sacrifice been worth whatever the town had gained? Their expressions suggested doubt.

As for me, I was doing simply fine. The payment from the council for each shave, and the regular re-shaves needed to maintain the required length, provided a regular income. And selling those crates of severed braids and ponytails back in the city was incredibly lucrative. I made a small fortune. I took frequent trips, ostensibly for supplies, but really to make my deliveries.

Epilogue

Mr Lucas never tired of performing his frequent “inspections” at Hairlines. Sometimes his enjoyment was at risk of bubbling over, and he would excuse himself to the bathroom afterwards. Most importantly, his support for the campaign remained unwavering.

A certain rapport had developed between me and Mr Lucas. He might have been older, more established, but I saw the benefits of keeping him on side. After one busy of afternoon of “quality checks” by Mr Lucas, I closed the salon a little early.

‘Mr Lucas,’ I said, turning to him with a smile, ‘Could you possibly help me with a delicate problem?’

His eyes widened, clearly worried about what favour I might require. ‘Er …?’

I gestured to the back of my own neck. ‘This undercut of mine. It is growing out and I am finding it so hard to get a clean smooth finish myself.’ I pulled his fingers gently to my nape so he could feel the stubble there. ‘See, it really does need attention.’

He looked slightly flustered, a nervous energy about him. ‘Ah … yes, er, I see …’

I sat down in the styling chair, picked up my hairclippers from the counter, and offered them to him, handle first. ‘Perhaps you would do the honours?’ I met his eyes, adding softly, a promise hanging in the air, ‘And I’ll make it worth your while afterwards,’ I added, gently brushing his crotch with my fingers as I withdrew my hand.

I watched the comprehension dawn on his face, followed by that familiar flicker of excitement as I bowed my head and exposed my neck to the hairclippers.

‘Just make sure, Mr Lucas, that you shave it right down to the skin,’ I purred.

Yes, things had certainly changed around town, but just not in the way anyone might have expected.

The End