A Deliberate Brush with Jasmine, the Barber

A standalone story, narrated by Jasmine, starting with her persuasive transformation of Ethan, one of Sara’s acquaintances, leading to Sara’s unexpected and stimulating encounter at Jasmine’s barbershop.

A companion story An Accidental Brush for Sara at The Jagged Edge incorporating Sara’s perception of the same encounter, is available separately … although the recollection by each woman differs slightly!

Prologue

Jasmine’s Jagged Edge is an unpretentious name for my very own unassuming little barbershop that I have owned and run for fifteen years. It is located down a quaint little lane off the high street and has always attracted a loyal band of customers across a broad spectrum of ages, occupations, and genders.

As one might expect, the majority of those entering are men and boys requiring short, sharp haircuts for a modest price. Women and girls do venture inside from time to time, usually looking for a straightforward trim of their long hair for a far cheaper price than a salon would charge for the same service. I would prefer the females to continue frequenting their salons if that is all they request, but I do not wish to turn business away, so, naturally, I do as they ask.

I do not think of myself as a hairdresser or even a barber. One might argue that this is where my pretentiousness shows, as I consider myself a sculptor. For me, the distinction is vital. Hairdressers cater to whimsy, providing suggestions and negotiating compromises, pandering to what the customers believe they want. But they rarely have given thought to what they want, so, inevitably, that road only leads to uncertainty, confusion, and disappointment. By contrast, I provide definition, and I enforce structure to give customers what they need.

Ethan

One Monday morning, the bell above the door chimed for the first time that day. Somebody walked in who I had never seen before. The floppy brown hair traversing his collar in no semblance of style was a giveaway, as I would never allow a regular customer to grow out their hair into such a messy thatch. Furthermore, neither did I recognise his bland features, confirming that he was a new customer. I directed him straight to my huge leather and chrome barber’s chair.

‘Hi, I’m Ethan,’ he said overly breezily, his voice hitching slightly as if he was hiding his nervousness in my presence. ‘I have just got a promotion – to a director – and feel I should smarten myself up a little. A friend recommended you, so I –’

‘Fine, Ethan. I am Jasmine,’ I interrupted, as I did not wish to know any more of his life story. After working my fingers through his unsightly hair, I followed up with an emphatic sigh. I could not help myself. ‘I know what you need. Trust me?’ I added, tossing back my abundant curls, and covering him with a white cape and fastening it at his neck.

Ethan’s eyes widened. ‘Well, yes, but I was thinking –’

‘No need for any of that thinking nonsense with me, Ethan,’ I urged with a tight smile. ‘That path just causes uncertainty and confusion, resulting in disappointment. So, just relax, and if you do trust me, then let me do my job,’ I encouraged, taking my hairclippers and fitting a number six attachment.

‘Fine…’ he mumbled hesitantly, my assertive manner catching him off guard, ‘but—’

= = =

I flicked the switch of my Osters, drowning out his irritating grumbles, then tilted his head downwards as far as it would go, holding it there. ‘We’ll get the worst off, Evan, then see where we are.’

‘It’s Ethan,’ he corrected, grumbling at my deliberate use of the wrong name, designed to unsettle him and distract him from what I intended.

However, by then, I was focusing on the task in hand. With new customers that had unruly hair, that task was to immediately shear it down to a sensible working length – three-quarters of an inch works best for me – then sculpt it into the style that I decide will be most suitable. The style that he needs.

As I peeled away his neglected floppy waves, I was pleased to see that the remaining hair was thick, in good condition, and with an even growth pattern. Perfect for what I needed to do. The clippings piled up on his shoulders before rolling into his lap, eventually collecting in a pile surrounding the chair.

After removing the attachment on my hairclippers, I enjoyed shearing away all the unnecessary hair covering his neck and the back of his head. I took pleasure in doing the same around each of his ears. I faded the remaining hair sprouting from his crown so that it merged with the bare back and sides. Then, using my large plastic comb, I meticulously levelled off the short hair on the top to create a perfectly level, brush-like surface.

= = =

Having checked the accuracy of my sculpting, I took my foil shaver and eliminated the faint shadow that covered the back and sides of his head, leaving behind smooth, white skin.

‘There we are, Evan. You now have my director’s cut, eminently suitable for your promotion,’ I announced, whisking away the cape and lowering the chair. ‘A precise, masculine sculpture I refer to as a flattop haircut. Sharp and unapologetic, it draws the eye, exactly as intended. What do you think?’ I asked, holding up a mirror so he could view his transformation from all angles.

‘It’s… it’s so short… brutal, even,’ he confirmed hesitantly.

‘Thank you,’ I replied, smiling, being deliberately obtuse. ‘A flattop is meant to be short. Brutal even.’

He grimaced. ‘Yes, but—’

I never liked to hear a “yes, but” when I put my soul into improving the appearance of a new customer. I never had to worry about my repeat customers, as they would never dare to make such a complaint.

‘You said you trusted me, Ethan,’ I said, sounding hurt, although sniggering inside.

He looked disappointed with himself that he thought he had upset me. ‘Oh, you have cut it well, Jasmine, but –’

‘You are a walking advertisement for my skills,’ I said, in appreciation, ‘so do tell your friends where you had your hair cut.’

‘I will,’ he murmured, sounding uncommitted, as he quickly paid me. But at least he placed a good tip in my hand before rushing to the door.

‘See you again in two weeks,’ I called out breezily. He froze, looked around at me, and forced a sickly smile before swiftly stepping outside.

Another satisfied customer, I said to myself smugly, popping his generous gratuity into the jar I displayed for my tips.

Sara

The rest of Monday proceeded steadily with barely a moment to step outside to the lane for a cigarette and chat to fellow shop owners. By contrast, Tuesday morning was terribly slow. It had me wondering once again whether it was sensible to highlight reduced prices for senior citizens on that morning each week. I was quite happy to do so, but I accepted it might put off younger clientele from entering during that time. Still, the older chaps that popped in for me deal with their sparse hair and enjoyed their flirting, so I was pleased to accept that I was providing a valuable social service to the community.

Just after midday, while I finished trimming the hair of one guy, with two more waiting, the bell over the door sounded. The new arrival, stepping tentatively inside, was quite different from my gathering of senior citizens. Young and with a full head of hair that flowed down past the waist, the major point of variance was that the individual was a woman.

Nervously, she stared at me before turning away. She surveyed my shop and the other customers before returning her timid gaze back to me once more. Her hand had remained on the door handle, appearing as if she had not made up her mind whether to stay. ‘Can I help you?’ I finally asked, keen to break the stalemate of her just standing there.

‘Er… can I… get my hair trimmed here, please?’ she asked timidly, using the “T” word that no sculptor of hair likes to hear.

= = =

I looked her up and down, my mass of curls dancing against my back as I did so. Narrowing my eyes, I frowned for intimidating effect.

‘I work just around the corner… for the firm of accountants…’ she chirped proudly. She said it in a manner that suggested her claim would entitle her to my services, even if I had decided to refuse her. ‘You were recommended…’

I jerked my head towards the waiting area before she could regale me with the rest of her boring life story. She selected a vacant chair, avoiding eye contact with the old chaps who were awaiting my services. I found it amusing to see them surreptitiously appraising her feminine assets and her pretending not to notice. She picked up one of my glossy magazines and began flicking through it. She looked so anxious that I doubt she absorbed a word. If she did not want to be here, then why did she stay, I wondered.

Even if she had not said where she worked, then I would have been able to guess, as she looked like so many of her colleagues of a similar age. Older ones from that office, managers I assumed, charged up and down the high street with coffee in one hand and a mobile phone in the other. With their power suits and longish corporate bobs, they would never even consider stepping inside my domain.

Then there were the flouncy office secretaries wearing fashionable clothes. With their expensively styled and highlighted long hair that someone cared for elsewhere. The only women from that firm who ever entered my barbershop were recent recruits. Hybrids, who still dressed as if they were attending college, looking for a cheap trim of their boring student-like hair.

She fitted that stereotype perfectly. A floral dress, worn just above the knee, looked old and boring, topped off with a white blazer that almost fitted. Her hair, the central offender, was a dull cascade of waist-length, centre-parted brown. It hung around her face like a heavy curtain and flopped lifelessly against her back, falling to her waist. As she looked down, perusing the magazine in her lap, she was perpetually tucking one side of her hair behind her ear and then repeating the action on the other side. It was a shame, as I could make out fine features and a lovely head shape lost under the blanket of hair. It was an exquisite canvas, tragically obscured.

I finished off and dusted down the regular old chap in my chair. And the next customer obediently stepped forward without my prompting, familiar with the routine. And the same occurred with Harry, the final chap who was waiting for me. Despite the woman’s nonchalant attempt to look as if she were reading, I saw her astonished expression and the shiver of uncertainty as I refreshed Harry’s sleek bald head. Fear radiated off her in faint, nervous pulses.

= = =

With my chair empty, I waited for the dull-looking woman to step forward, hoping she had learnt the routine from watching her predecessors. Annoyingly, she had not invested her time appropriately, and she remained seated.

‘Next!’ I bellowed as she obliged me to call out to her. However, I was unable to inject a great deal of enthusiasm into my voice. The prospect of merely trimming a youngster’s hair for a low price was unexciting. Furthermore, I imagined she was already earning a great deal more than I earned from the shop each month, so I failed to understand why she felt the need to save money by not visiting a women’s salon.

However, it was amusing to see her quivering with nervousness as she stood, casting an eye to the door as if looking for an escape route. She moved with the jerky uncertainty of a deer caught in headlights. As soon as she sat, I swiftly snapped the white nylon cape around her neck. Visibly flinching, she looked neatly trapped and nicely vulnerable. Restrained as she was, I knew I would be able to finish her off quickly and then have time to pop outside to enjoy a cigarette after enduring the humdrum activity.

‘So, just a trim?’ I said, trying to keep the boredom from my voice, as I reached for a spray bottle to dampen the ends. ‘Looks like you just need the straggly ends cleaned up,’ I added when she said nothing, forcing an encouraging smile.

She flinched at the word “straggly”, but her demeanour was as limp and floppy as her hair. I used it deliberately, desperate for her to display a reaction to what was taking place.

‘Actually,’ she interjected, her voice thin. Surprising me, she even turned around, staring up and meeting my assessing gaze. ‘I was thinking of something different. Layers… or even a fringe… or something shorter?’

I nodded, inordinately pleased that she had given a little thought as to why she had entered my domain, even if her precise instructions were not yet forthcoming. She was fishing for validation, waiting for me to offer a consultation. But I never consult. After all, a true sculptor does not ask the clay what it wishes to become. I filled in time by silently tapping my foot and artfully arranging her long hair to flow down the back of the chair.

She looked flustered, even in a panic, as if she were struggling to articulate what she really wanted. But she could not expect me to read her mind. So, I battled with my facial features to avoid frowning in exasperation.

= = =

‘You did such a good job on Ethan,’ she suddenly blurted out, flattering me with unexpected praise for my abilities, suddenly looking far more excited and animated.

So, she knew the guy whose floppy, unkempt hair I had transformed a day earlier, and she liked it. I had finally discovered why she had come to my shop, but I was extremely surprised.

It took a short while to get my head around her admission. I nodded with a slow, knowing movement. ‘Oh, right, I did not realise you knew Ethan.’ I sighed, wishing she had had the sense to tell me as soon as she arrived, rather than keeping it a secret.

Still, it was a step in the right direction. With increased enthusiasm, I grabbed the lever on the chair and jerkily pumped her up. As well as giving me a comfortable working height, perched so high off the ground would, assuredly, make her feel more vulnerable and malleable.

I reached forward to retrieve my Oster hairclippers from the rack next to the mirror. She looked surprised by my action but did not question what I was doing, falling back into her silent mode after her moment of decisiveness.

‘Let’s get started,’ I stated bluntly, applying gentle but persistent pressure to the back of her head. ‘Head down!’

Satisfying

Although her prone position muffled her voice, she appeared to have gained a second conversational wind. ‘He looks really good, by the way,’ she piped up. ‘Ethan. The cut you gave him. It looks so striking, so professional.’

That was the confirmation I needed. There could be no misunderstanding. Although her circumspection puzzled me, I accepted that there are women who find it difficult to admit their true desires to a stranger. But she left me in no doubt that she wished to exhibit the authority that Ethan’s flattop haircut represented.

Yes, she was offering me a compliment, but I heard her plea for the strong influence I had exerted over Ethan. I was confident that she needed the change he exemplified, but she was confirming that she wanted it too.

I was delighted that we had reached a mutual understanding. With that in mind, I did not elaborate, not wishing to give her any chance to backtrack on her decision. So, I raised the chair with a gentle hydraulic hiss, raising her head to my comfortable working height. I reached out, grabbed a thick section of the heavy, lifeless hair hanging from her neck, and let it slide through my fingers one last time. It felt like worn old rope that served no purpose.

= = =

Then, without another word, I switched on the hairclippers. The low, purposeful vibration filled the small shop. I began by pressing the cold metal of the unguarded blade against the delicate skin at the base of her neck. The effect was instantaneous and deeply satisfying.

The machine surged forward under my guidance, and the motor stuttered as the blade tore into her thick hair. Great, thick swaths of her past dull identity bounced onto her shoulders, then tumbled down the white cape to gather in her lap.

She flinched violently, her shoulders locking rigid beneath her nylon constraint. It was apparent that she had not expected the clippers, but sadly women rarely do.

I worked steadily, my eyes focused only on the path of the steel, watching the scalp revealed beneath. The abundant hair that had taken her a considerable number of years to grow, I eliminated in mere minutes, leaving only a velvety stubble behind.

‘That’s rid of the worst of it at the back,’ I chuckled. ‘It’s always so satisfying.’

‘Worst of what?’ she mumbled, although I would have thought that was so obvious. It had been her hair, after all.

Her breath hitched in the mirror. I could feel her trying to articulate a question, a protest, but the sound of the clippers was too loud, too final.

‘Worst of what?’ she repeated, a hint of panic in her voice. I decided it was easier to pretend that I had not heard her words.

= = =

‘It doesn’t look like the weather is getting any better, does it?’ I said casually, highlighting the forecast on the radio in the background, raising my voice to cut through the mechanical roar.

She offered a squeak of agreement. She was responding to my social cue as any customer should. As a courtesy to them, I needed to maintain the illusion of routine. I had no interest in the weather, but maintaining a facade of triviality overrides any latent concerns that a customer may have.

‘Last night’s episode was crazy, wasn’t it?’ I enthused, referring to my favourite reality TV show that they were now eagerly discussing on the radio.

She behaved as if she had never watched the thrilling antics taking place on the island. I paused, annoyed by her unwillingness to converse. But I decided not to reprimand her, simply rewarding her with a long, pointed stare.

With her nape clear, I moved from behind her to one side. Holding her head steady with one hand, I guided the clippers around each ear in turn, pushing the line higher, exposing the perfect, white curve of her temples.

I turned her head from side to side to examine my work for symmetry, noting her trembling jaw as if holding back on her emotions. ‘It’s a crying shame more women don’t go for a flattop when they have such perfect bone structure and head shape as you,’ I smiled, pleased with my precise work so far.

‘You’re giving me, er… a flattop?’ she questioned, her breath hitching as she emphasised the operative word.

I paused the clippers, looking directly into her wide, reflected eyes. ‘Yes. That is what we call Ethan’s style. Did you not know that?’

She nodded hastily, terrified, retreating from the confrontation. ‘Yes. I just… yes…’ she murmured unconvincingly.

Flattening

Having prepared the foundation of the style, its architecture demanded sculpting. I applied a generous amount of firm-hold gel to the remnants of her hair that still sprouted from her crown. I forced the strands skywards, making them stand stiffly. Then I took my wide plastic comb, along with the bare-bladed hairclippers.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ I chuckled. ‘I won’t send you out looking like a punk… unless you want me to, of course?’ She did not respond.

My comb went flat against the crown, held with laser-like precision, horizontal, like a spirit level seeking absolute equilibrium. My hands were steady, my breath controlled.

‘Now, it is important that you do not move during this next stage,’ I demanded, holding her gaze in the mirror. Rather than adjusting her pose to speak, which would have attracted my wrath, she obediently blinked to signal her acceptance of my order. Good girl, I thought to myself, she is learning.

I ran the blade of the hairclippers across the top of the comb, producing the rattling sound of metal on plastic. I sheared off the last vestiges of her hair. Each pass of the blade was a decisive blow against her past softness. She sat perfectly still, immobile beneath the white nylon, a perfect monument to enforced submission. I ran the clippers back and forth, refining the level surface of her emerging flattop. Eventually, every single strand stood perpendicular to the floor, creating an immaculate stiff brush of dark silk, which was both rigid and aggressive.

‘Yes!’ I exhaled in satisfaction, following my intense concentration. ‘Perfect hair for executing this style. Well done.’

It seemed appropriate to congratulate her on having such perfect hair, even if remarkably little of it remained on her head. But I was also praising myself for my precision, for a job well done.

Shaving

Finally, I needed to eliminate the shadow covering the back and sides of her head. The style is not complete without the erect bristles displaying a clinical contrast to the pristine white skin. I smoothed shaving cream onto the freshly clipped nape and along the stark lines above her ears. I brandished my straight razor, honed to surgical sharpness, reflective and shining.

‘Again, do not move!’ I warned.

Leaning in close, I pressed the blade to her skin. I could feel her shallow breathing and the tension in her neck muscles. I worked slowly and methodically, shaving the entire area below the flattop ridge to a smooth, bare slickness. My breath, warm and focused, grazed her exposed nape. We experienced an intimacy born of my need for absolute control.

When I had finished, the lower section of her head was entirely bald, flawlessly smooth, contrasting savagely with the dark, bristling surface above. I had transformed her, stripping away her former softness, rendering her as a harsh geometric sculpture.

Completing

Whisking away the cape and lowering the chair, I used a hand mirror to show her the wonderful entirety of the hairstyle. She looked stunned by her transformation. Her eyes were wide, not with horror – although, doubtless, that would come – but completely mesmerised with shock.

There was a stranger looking back at her in the mirror. No longer able to hide behind her former softness, her striking facial features were now boldly exposed. I had not just restyled her, but I had completely reinvented her.

Leaving

Sara fumbled for her purse, her hands shaking slightly as she paid. The tip she added was surprisingly generous, but I imagined it had more to do with her desire to leave my shop quickly than with appreciation of a job well done.

‘Thank you, Jasmine,’ she croaked, her voice still timid but carrying a firmer resonance that I knew would improve as her confidence in her revised appearance grew. ‘It’s… it’s… different…’

‘It suits you,’ I said with honest feeling. ‘Now, I want to see you again in two weeks. Or sooner, if the top becomes unruly or you would like the back and sides freshened up with a shave.’

Although she nodded, her eyes widened in horror at my proposed frequency. Remembering her straggly hair from when she entered, I doubted she had visited a salon more than every six months in the previous few years. I hoped her subtle acknowledgement indicated that she was planning to submit to the necessary ritual I had dictated. After all, it was a command, not an invitation.

When she stepped outside, I saw her shiver as the cool air caressed the pristine skin of her exposed nape. I observed heads turning as they spotted the brutal contrast between her floral dress and her severe military haircut. From my perspective, I saw a delicious juxtaposition that other women would do well to follow.

As she walked away, she held her head higher than when she arrived. It may have been a newfound confidence in her appearance. That would certainly come, but, quite rightly, for now she appeared more concerned not to disturb the immaculate brush I had engineered on her crown.

Returning

As she left my view, I basked in the quiet confidence of knowing she would return. A transformation like hers is addictive. Once you experience the feeling of pristine structure, the vulnerability offered by soft and messy hair becomes unbearable and untenable.

Exactly seven days later, the bell chimed, and there she was, smiling and confident. The floral dress was gone. She was wearing an immaculately tailored plum-coloured blazer paired with a matching short pencil skirt. Her attire was as sharp and aggressive as her haircut.

‘One week early,’ I observed, gently nodding my approval.

‘The sides needed definition,’ she stated assuredly, her index finger tracing the soft, dark down that had sprung up at the edge of her shaved nape. ‘It was getting unruly.’

Hearing “lacking definition” and “unruly” from her was music to my ears. I smiled, recognising her newly acquired satisfaction with extreme grooming. It was obvious that she craved the precise scrape of my razor and the subsequent feeling of absolute smoothness.

While I ran the clippers over the sides of her skull, re-establishing the sharp contour, she talked, her voice steady and authoritative. She spoke enthusiastically of the reaction to her haircut by her colleagues in the office. As I would have expected, the women were intrigued, while the men fell silent, unnerved by the outlandish authority of the cut.

‘Short hair is wasted on men, isn’t it?’ she mused. ‘They take it for granted. For us, it is a revelation.’

I set the comb flat and ran the clippers over her crown, levelling the surface and restoring her immaculate, stiff brush back to perfect form.

‘You look excellent, Sara,’ I told her honestly. And she did. She was no longer soft and yielding. She was a force of nature, honed and polished.

‘Thanks, Jasmine,’ she said warmly, ‘and next time I hope to bring along Emily, a friend of mine. I have told her she is in desperate need of, er… correction.’

I smiled in gratitude at her proposal. She paid, tipped generously, and scheduled her next appointment for the exact same time the following week.

Epilogue

Sara realised that she could never return to her soft and messy former existence. She would be mine every seven days, submitting to the ritual of redefinition. Her dedication would ensure that the beautiful sculpture I had created would remain perfect and uncompromising.

The End of “A Deliberate Brush with Jasmine, the Barber”

 

Please note: An Accidental Brush for Sara at The Jagged Edge recounts the same story from Sara’s perspective.