Chronicles of Christina I – The Start of My Hair Journey

Prologue

Sitting here now, the afternoon sun is slanting through the bay window of my study. I am flipping through old photo albums. It is a strange exercise, this review of a life well-lived, and as I pore over the faded images, a familiar theme keeps cropping up.

Hair! Yes, unbelievably, hair has been an utterly pivotal architect of so many key moments in my life. So, this, the first of my hair chronicles, occurring during the mid-nineteen-seventies, describes The Start of My Hair Journey.

Beginning

In the beginning, before I reached my eighteenth birthday, my identity was inextricably linked to my hair. It defined me throughout my young life. A cascade of auburn hair that flowed well beyond my waist had been all I had ever known.

Looking back at these photos, I see a young girl swallowed by her own locks, a living embodiment of the prevailing fashion. My friends sported similar lengths, with the varying hues our only distinguishing feature in an ocean of flowing hair. Everyone considered it the height of fashion, despite it being a lingering echo of the hippie era, a decade earlier. But sadly, no one was offering any fresh ideas for us to adopt.

My parents and I had simply accepted that it was my destiny to perpetually present myself with waist-length hair. There was never any discussion. Along with my friends, we competed for having the longest hair. We only accepted minimalist trims to preserve the length but rid us of split ends. But Mum would often sigh, lamenting the time and effort it took every day to keep it shining, untangled and presentable. By contrast, Dad countered her grumbles by referring to me as his little princess with the long hair. Just that was sufficient to stem any thoughts of change.

But then, after a fallow period, the mid-seventies arrived, introducing a seismic shift in fashion. Contemporary trends emerged, and my hair, as I would soon discover, was about to become a battlefield of style.

Miss Baxter

It was during a physics class, in my final year before going to university, that I first truly noticed Miss Baxter. She was our science teacher, a woman around thirty-five, around twice my age, and a fascinatingly contradictory figure. She wore plain skirts whose hem rode high above her knees. They were a nod to the miniskirt trend that had been popular a decade earlier but now felt a touch anachronistic. She paired these with crisp blouses that would have aged any other woman significantly. But on Miss Baxter, they somehow only enhanced her aura of authority.

Miss Baxter underlined her powerful charisma with her hair. Perpetually scraped back from her face, she twisted it into an impossibly tight bun that perched on her crown. She commanded respect, not through intimidation but through demonstrating fairness, treating each of us as individuals. However, one significant aspect of her personality tempered her tolerant nature; she was a stickler for the school’s rules.

I will admit that I harboured a secret, not even known to my closest friends. I had an intense, adolescent “girl crush” on Miss Baxter. No one used that phrase to describe that type of infatuation in those days, but it would have been entirely apt. It was the kind of inexplicable admiration that made my stomach flutter, a sensation I usually reserved for the heartthrob pop stars plastered on the cover of teen magazines.

Looking at Miss Baxter’s smart appearance, while recognising her sharp intellect and her uncompromising adherence to order, sent a delightful squidgy feeling all the way through me.

The Rules

I went to a traditional grammar school, and the rules affecting all aspects of our appearance and behaviour were absolute, regardless of age. From the eleven-year-olds to the eighteen-year-old seniors like me, our hair had to conform to rules etched on tablets of stone since time immemorial.

Long hair was acceptable, but only if confined in neat braids or a functional ponytail while wearing school uniform. The school governors prescribed a precise, one-inch-above-the-collar bob for hair that was too short to tie back neatly.

While the younger girls were content with their practical shorter haircuts, for us older ones, it was a different story. We craved the freedom to let our hair down once out of uniform, to make ourselves more attractive to boys. So, enduring the unflattering confinement of our hair throughout the school day was a necessary compromise.

Feathers

One Sunday afternoon I popped over to borrow an LP record from my cousin. Aunt Helen, her mum, was my mother’s far more fashionable and younger sister who worked as a hairdresser in the city. Remembering I was off to university soon, she fingered my Rapunzel-like mane with her customary disdain before making an inevitable pronouncement.

‘Christina, sweetie,’ she had said enthusiastically, her eyes twinkling with professional excitement, ‘you will be entering a new and exciting world of possibilities very soon. But not looking like that! Your hair needs a bit of an update. Something fresh and modern, not looking like an ageing hippie. Come and sit down in the kitchen and let me do something with it. Layers through the top would be a good start,’ she suggested eagerly, tugging strands this way and that, ‘and feathering around the face to draw attention to your features and liven things up.’

I was hesitant, despite her enthusiasm being notoriously infectious. ‘Not while I am still at school, Aunt Helen,’ I stated reasonably. ‘I was going to wait until I started university and see what the student fashions are like,’ I politely demurred, keeping my mind clear of what adventurous styles she might have intended.

‘Oh, nonsense, sweetie! You leave school soon anyway, and you do not want to start university looking like a reject from a decade ago,’ she opined, positioning me on a kitchen stool with both hands. ‘Famous actresses on TV and top models are all getting the feather cut. It is just so chic and so modern. You will be ahead of the fashion curve amongst the other students, not just following it!’

A feather cut sounded incredibly exotic and exciting, although I had no idea what it entailed or how it would look. But I was wavering, under the influence of my aunt’s unbounded enthusiasm as she lifted and pulled sections of my hair, mumbling excitedly to herself. Her absolute confidence in her ability to dramatically improve my appearance and make me look more stylish was persuasive.

‘It will still be long, I promise, sweetie,’ she soothed, ‘but the wispy, feather-like layers will give it so much more body and frame your face perfectly. You will look so much more fashionable.’

I do not remember agreeing to her proposal, but neither do I remember telling her to stop. As in everything, her enthusiasm simply wore me down. At eighteen, the thought of looking more attractive and standing out from the crowd was intoxicating, whatever the cost.

My cousin had listened in to our conversation and lifted a small leather suitcase onto the kitchen table, smirking in my direction as she did so. My aunt shook out a folded haircutting cape and then draped it over my whole body.

‘You won’t regret this, sweetie,’ Aunt Helen assured me as she dampened down my hair. I hoped she was right.

The actual process was a blur of vigorous tugs and decisive snips. It was terrifying to watch so much of my precious hair fall to the floor, a tangible representation of my long-held identity vanishing with each cut. When satisfied with the cutting, she coated the still damp hair with a white foamy substance she called mousse. Taking a brush and a powerful hairdryer, she forced it to submit to the look she had envisaged.

When the dryer went silent, she whisked away the cape and directed me to the mirror on the kitchen wall. My striking transformation was undeniable as I preened, turning my head side to side.

My hair looked so different. Aunt Helen continued to reassure me it was fashionable in the city and would soon catch on. But I had seen no one on TV, and certainly nobody in our town, with an explosion of hair like mine.

Despite her promises concerning the length, it was a great deal shorter than I had anticipated. Behind me, it barely reached the middle of my back. And using a hand mirror, I saw she had layered the ends, or were they feathered? Whatever, they gave a much softer outline when compared with the blunt line with which I was familiar.

At the front there was an abundance of wispy layers that were, scarily, even shorter. They framed my face, flicking outwards around my jawline with a feathery lightness that looked so much more modern than the straight curtains that used to hang down on each side.

Despite the abbreviated length, my hair made me feel stylish and daring, and overall, I loved it.

Tragedy

The real trouble began on Monday morning. Preparing for school, those wispy, feather-like layers, which had looked so chic when styled, now refused to cooperate. Forced into a ponytail, the ends were thin, and the hair around my face was unconstrained. Attempting to braid what remained of the length resulted in a chaotic explosion of stray strands. Worse still, the even shorter layers on my crown stuck up at odd angles, making me look like I had stuck my finger in a light socket.

With Mum’s help and a great deal of patience, we managed to flatten the buoyant layers and curl the ends under, producing a facsimile of a longish bob. However, even that was vastly different from the regulation style, as it covered my collar.

As I made my way to school, I calmed myself. Surely, being eighteen, always an excellent scholar, and about to leave for university, the school would show leniency. Wouldn’t they?

Discovery

By taking judicious routes between lessons, I managed to avoid any confrontations with the teachers, although I did get strange looks from my friends. Fortunately, they promised not to draw attention to my predicament, but they whispered entreaties for me to reveal all during the lunch break.

During a physics lesson, immediately before lunch, I kept my head down at the back of the classroom, trying to disappear into my work. However, when I heard the familiar clatter of Miss Baxter’s heels approaching directly behind me, it sent a jolt of anxiety through my system.

The footsteps paused, and there was a brief period of silence. I did not look up. I prayed for her to pass me by. But no such luck.

‘Christina!’ Her voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet hum of the classroom, quite unlike the tone she had used with me in the past. ‘I am surprised by your flouting of the hair regulations,’ she exclaimed disbelievingly. ‘It is neither properly constrained nor is it cut in the regulatory bobbed style.’

My heart sank. I tried to plead my case, floundering as I explained about my age and the imminent end of my school days. ‘But Miss Baxter, I am eighteen!’ I whined. ’And I am leaving the school shortly. As soon as the exams are over…’

However, she just stared, remaining implacable. ‘At eighteen, you should be setting an example to younger pupils, Christina, not providing an excuse for defiance,’ she scolded. My eyes moistened, not because of the reprimand itself, but because the object of my “girl crush” was so disappointed with me. ‘I will have to report this,’ she lamented, slowly shaking her head. ‘To the headmistress. I need to seek authorisation for you to have your hair corrected immediately.’

‘Yes, Miss Baxter,’ I croaked dutifully.

Despite her solemn expression, I detected an unmistakable hint of gleeful anticipation in her tone.

Summons

I hid away in the library during the lunch break, not keen to talk to anyone. Miss Baxter, I hoped, would remember all the assignments I had completed on time. She would then recall the high marks I had achieved. Then she might consider my minor transgression trivial. I wondered if she might even forget about our confrontation and not tell tales. By the end of the afternoon, I had heard nothing more about the matter, and I was allowing myself to relax. However, just as the final bell was about to ring, the teacher instructed me to report immediately to Mrs Watson, the headmistress.

I knocked on the door of Mrs Watson’s study, and, when summoned, I stepped inside, my stomach churning. Mrs Watson immediately strutted from behind her imposing oak desk to inspect my hair. Miss Baxter, standing alongside the desk, arms folded across her chest, watched with an unsettling gleam in her eye.

The headmistress was a formidable woman, always in a perfectly tailored navy-blue skirt suit, with hair so short and tightly permed that it seemed sculpted to her scalp. After circling me twice, she directed a curt nod towards an overly smug-looking Miss Baxter, undoubtedly confirming my teacher’s report concerning my hair.

After the headmistress moved back behind her desk, she did not waste any time. ‘Christina,’ she began, her voice crisp and businesslike, ‘I have spoken with your parents.’ That came as a surprise, and it was a worrying development. ‘They understand that your hair contravenes school rules and requires corrective action. Until it achieves compliance, you will remain suspended, which would mean missing your final examinations.’ She paused, letting the weight of her words sink in. ‘Your parents have authorised the school to ensure corrective action takes place immediately. I assume, Christina, that you are also in agreement?’

‘Yes,’ I hissed, feeling the weight of betrayal from my parents and from the teacher who I held in such high regard. ‘But –’

I opened my mouth to present my case for leniency. However, the combined force of the two powerful women’s impatient gaze made me realise that any hope for clemency was long gone. Sighing loudly, I gave a curt nod of reluctant acceptance.

‘I will visit my aunt at the weekend – she cut it like this, but she works in the city, so I am unable to see her before Sunday – and then I will ask her to… er, rectify it,’ I conceded, wondering if there was any way she would be able to keep some of the feathery layers and still make my hair compliant with the regulations.

Miss Baxter looked towards the headmistress, and they both scoffed.

Mrs Watson sighed. ‘Suspended for a whole week would mean you miss the first of your exams, Christina.’

I had hoped my agreement would allow a degree of latitude. ‘Oh, but I thought –’

‘Under the circumstances, it would be best if you do not think too much,’ Mrs Watson interrupted. ‘Thinking would have led you to asking your aunt to fashion that horrendous bird’s nest on your head,’ she smirked. ‘When we agreed your hair should be immediately corrected, then that is what we meant.’

Confused, I looked at the two women to determine what was meant.

‘Please proceed, Miss Baxter,’ the headmistress instructed with a regal sweep of her hand. ‘You have my full authority to perform the necessary corrective measures, using my library next door.’

Preparation

On hearing those fateful words uttered by the headmistress, I froze. Miss Baxter had an infamous reputation for dealing with those who had dared to defy the school’s strict rules by wearing their hair loose, either deliberately or by accident. With parents’ approval so they avoided suspension, and to prevent a recurrence, they received the drastic, no-nonsense “Baxter Bobbing” to bring them back into line.

Miss Baxter stepped forward, a twinkle in her eye, and placed a hand on my back. She gently guided me to a half-opened door that led to an unoccupied smaller room. It resembled a storeroom more than a library, but what proved more worrying was that Miss Baxter had clearly been there before. A cleared space in the middle of the floor held a substantial wooden chair. And on a table to one side, she had neatly laid out a comprehensive array of haircutting equipment.

Miss Baxter directed me to the chair where I reluctantly sat, while she busied herself with her preparations. As I turned around, I saw the headmistress was hovering in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest like a formidable bouncer at a nightclub barring my escape. It seemed I would have an audience.

‘Please do not concern yourself unduly, Christina,’ Mrs Watson advised, barely concealing the smile on her lips. ‘Miss Baxter has a great deal of experience and an unenviable reputation for dealing with unruly hair. Even the boys’ school next door will call upon her to correct those who contravene their even more stringent rules.’

It was unclear where a science teacher had gained her experience at haircutting, but her fearsome reputation was legendary. We had seen boys at that school who were almost bald after the attention of Miss Baxter.

Miss Baxter slipped on her crisp, nylon lab coat to protect her clothing, which lent her the air of a serious barber or even a medical professional. She dextrously flicked open a starched white sheet, draped the scratchy material around my shoulders, and then fastened it securely around my neck.

‘We’ll be giving you a short bob, Christina,’ she announced, her voice taking on a slightly breathy, almost excited tone as she fingered my hair. ‘This will rid you of these ridiculous short, feathery layers that your aunt decided to slice into your lovely long hair.’

‘Excellent,’ the headmistress murmured from the doorway.

My breath hitched in my throat. Feeling Miss Baxter’s fingers touching my hair, especially with that eager glint in her eye, was unnerving.

Correction

Using a comb to lift and tug at the layers, Miss Baxter followed through with the scary sensation of her cold scissors pressing against my scalp. I could feel the comb against my head, the sharp bite of the blades shearing away sections of my hair. She was sculpting something that felt shorter than any bob I had ever seen. It felt disturbingly high above my ears, but without a mirror I was unable to witness the devastation. But it was happening so fast, and I was utterly powerless to prevent it.

The weight of hair on my scalp quickly became much less. I could feel no hair covering my ears or my neck, a sensation that I found extremely worrying. But it got worse, as she picked up a huge set of hairclippers, unravelled the cord, and plugged the device into a nearby outlet.

‘These I normally reserve for the boys’ school, Christine, to cut their hair very short to satisfy their stricter regulations,’ she explained casually. ‘They aren’t really needed for our school’s regulatory bobbed style,’ she went on, her voice tinged with a peculiar excitement that did little to reassure me, ‘but your short layers make it essential to allow me to produce a neat, finished look.’

‘Oh…’ I opened my mouth to dissuade her, although I doubted that she would listen, especially with the headmistress watching. But I suddenly felt a strange vibration at the nape of my neck, which resonated through my skull. ‘Oh. My. Goodness…’ was all I could manage while surrendering to the alien sensation.

As Miss Baxter worked the clippers around my ears and up my neck, I fought hard to maintain my composure, trying not to imagine she was shaving me bald. The sheer volume of the fallen tresses piling up on the floor at my feet seemed to confirm my worst fears. Anxiously I recalled the sight of the scalped boys leaving the adjacent school, and I shivered.

Miss Baxter held my head forward gently, her touch precise, ensuring a smooth, almost surgical finish to the neckline. She repeated the action around each ear. When she finally ceased with the clippering, she ran her fingers through my newly shorn hair with a thoughtful, appraising look on her face. ‘I wonder,’ she murmured, toying with the shorter sections, ‘if I could go even shorter.’

‘Please, Miss Baxter, no!’ I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper, even though I had not had the opportunity to look in a mirror.

She yielded to my entreaties, but then, with a sudden, sharp movement, she lunged forward and attacked my fringe. With swift and precise movements, the scissors slid against my skin, high above my eyebrows, and the blades closed with a sickening crunch.

‘Geometric and sharp,’ she declared, as if commenting on a science experiment. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her cheeks flushed, and she fingered my neck again, confirming it was smooth to the skin.

‘Oh my…’ I mumbled, matching her breathing, unable to stop myself.

‘From now on, Christina, I expect you to keep your hair neat and tidy,’ she instructed, her tone firm as her piercing gaze held mine.

‘Yes, Miss Baxter,’ I murmured, a warm blush spreading up my neck, flooding my features. ‘I will, Miss Baxter.’

Assessment

With it feeling so incredibly short, I did not see I had any option for the brief time I had remaining at the school. After she whisked away the sheet, I finally felt free to stand on my trembling legs. I caught my reflection in a mirror on the wall and realised she had not given me a “Baxter Bob”. It was more like the pageboy bob that had been fashionable for a brief period recently. Except even shorter. A great deal shorter. Drastically shorter. A pudding bowl haircut like my brother once had when he was younger.

‘Well done, Miss Baxter,’ the headmistress sighed from the doorway. ‘You have excelled yourself. Not just one of your legendary bobbed haircuts, but a “Baxter Bowl”, as I shall christen the style henceforth.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Watson,’ the teacher simpered, looking smug, soaking up her superior’s praise.

‘Smart, neat, undeniably tidy,’ the headmistress summarised. ‘I wonder if we should adopt it as the regulatory style for shorter hair?’

Miss Baxter looked pleased, flushed and exhilarated by the transformation she had performed on me. ‘An excellent suggestion, Mrs Watson. I would be happy to apply my skills further, should you require it.’

My teacher opened a second door, one that led to the outside corridor rather than back into the study of the headmistress.

‘Run along now, Christina,’ Mrs Watson instructed.

‘And make sure you turn up neat and tidy tomorrow morning,’ Miss Baxter added in her delicious authoritative tone, waving an admonishing finger.

‘Yes, Miss…’ I managed to croak as my throat constricted while hurrying out of the room.

As I made my way along the empty corridor, I felt conflicted. Although I had experienced a terrible event, the oddest thing, and the thing I could not understand at the time, was the faint thrumming sensation that had persisted in my tummy and between my legs. It was the same arousing feeling that I had only ever experienced when poring over magazines filled with images of my pop music heartthrobs. It was incredibly disconcerting.

By the time I had arrived back home, those deep feelings, the sight of a flushed Miss Baxter as she administered my haircut, and my flutter of attraction towards her were all inextricably linked. My adolescent “girl crush” had just taken a very sharp, very unexpected turn.

Reaction

My friends’ reactions at school were a mixture of shock and amusement. ‘Wow, Christina, your hair!’ they would exclaim, a little wide-eyed. Then they would quickly glance at their own hair, ensuring their braids and ponytails were impeccably in place. Clearly, they did not wish to risk suffering the same fate as me.

My mum, however, was relieved. ‘Well, that’s much neater, dear,’ she had said, a hint of relief in her voice. ‘Much less fuss, especially in the mornings.’

My dad mumbled about me no longer being his little princess. Disparagingly, under his breath, he even said my hair made me look like a little prince. I was upset, but, admittedly, my hair was much shorter than his.

Epilogue

Over the next couple of days, I had resolved to let my hair grow out immediately, hoping to achieve a more casual, softer look before I started at university.

Each morning that followed, I looked in the mirror and tugged at my hair, willing it to grow. I then brushed it through, and in no time at all I was ready for school.

But seven days after my stark and geometric transformation, something shifted within me. The blunt line of my fringe did not look so sharp. Unruly strands marred the concave smoothness of the bowl. Fine bristles softened the precisely shaved hairline.

After school, I slipped into the science lab and found myself shyly approaching the architect of my transformed hair. ‘Miss Baxter,’ I stammered, ‘I wonder, would it be possible… for you to trim my hair… just a little… to how it was last week?’

A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. She nodded, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment. And then, with that familiar flush rising on her cheeks, she beckoned me towards the room we had used previously.

The afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the floor. The hairclippers vibrated against my nape and her fingers delicately traced my hairline. With a peculiar mixture of apprehension and excitement, I knew that my relationship with my hair, and with Miss Baxter, was far from over.

To be continued