Hugo Sees Her Hair Undone, Kathy Feels Her Life Resume

Prologue

My life had become a relentless cycle of zipping up my polyester supermarket overall, scraping my long hair into an unflattering updo, and experiencing the ache in my feet from double shifts stacking shelves.

For the three years since the divorce, I existed solely for my daughter, Abigail. She had just turned eighteen, and her brilliant mind was navigating the stressful final run of exams before university. Earning enough to support her meant I was a ghost in my own life. I was too busy, too exhausted, and too emotionally guarded for anything frivolous for myself, especially romantic encounters with someone new.

I had forgotten what it felt like for someone to notice me as an individual in my own right, not simply Abigail’s mum or a supermarket functionary. But that all changed when I, quite literally, bumped into someone who was going to change my life.

Collision

It was late on a Tuesday afternoon. I was scrambling out of the staff entrance after a long and exhausting shift. Juggling a couple of heavy canvas bags filled with discounted fruit and half-price vegetables, I was unravelling my long hair from its practical restraint. Suddenly, I collided with someone coming around the corner. My bags went flying, scattering my meagre groceries across the car park.

‘Oh, I am so sorry!’ I gasped, immediately dropping to my knees to retrieve my groceries that had fallen from my bags and were rolling away.

‘Not a problem,’ a deep voice replied.

I looked up to see a heavenly vision. Tall, fit, and handsome, an impeccably presented man stood over me. He moved with a relaxed grace, quickly gathering my spilt items.

‘Let me help you with that,’ he said, his fingers brushing mine as he tucked a couple of wayward oranges into my bag.

As I stood up, smoothing the front of my wrinkled blouse, I thought I recognised him. A customer, I believed, but one who would shop in the aisles for organic produce and fine wines, and not the kind who hung around the staff exit of the supermarket.

He held my gaze, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘You know,’ he began, tilting his head slightly, ‘I have seen you around the store. Usually, you have that beautiful hair piled up on top of your head.’

My hand instinctively went to my loose hair, dragging my fingers through it to make it look more presentable. My hair, thick and deep brown, was my one vanity. It fell in a neatly trimmed line above my waist. Without a hint of grey, my abundant locks were the envy of women who were less than half of my forty-two years.

‘It looks so much better worn loose, Kathy,’ he said, surprising me that he knew my name, reasoning that he had glimpsed my name badge in the store. ‘A woman of a certain age who wears her hair piled up on her head or in a ponytail should just have it all cut off.’

The comment was an odd thing to say to a stranger, niggling me more than him using my name. But his good looks and charm instantly melted that unsettling feeling.

‘Hugo,’ he said by way of introduction, thrusting out a confident hand.

‘Er… Kathy,’ I responded, blushing as I grasped his palm.

‘I wonder, would you care to join me for a drink… or perhaps a meal… tomorrow evening?’ he asked, lifting an enquiring eyebrow, his attractive eyes twinkling with promise.

My heart performed a ridiculous, fluttering dance that I had not felt since long before my divorce. ‘Thanks, Hugo. Yes, that would be lovely,’ I heard myself say, trying to sound coolly agreeable, while internally screaming “Yay!” with excitement.

Preparation

When I got home after my encounter, I had received a message from Hugo, suggesting where to meet the following evening. By the time my daughter had walked through the door, I was brimming with excitement. She shared my enthusiasm, as she had been urging me for ages to get out more often. I knew she had been concerned that I would be lonely when she left for university, so she saw this opportunity as a timely first step.

The following evening, having swapped shifts at work, I was home with time in hand to get myself ready. Furthermore, Abigail ensured she was home early enough to help me prepare for my date with Hugo.

I flicked through my functional wardrobe but already knew I had nothing thrilling to wear. I dragged out a smart brown woollen dress with a high neck and a hemline below the knee.

‘You’re not wearing that,’ Abigail scoffed, presenting me with a skimpy little black dress that she always looked stunning in.

What little there was of it fitted me perfectly. ‘It is too young for me, Abby. Too short and revealing, and it is so sheer in places you can see right through it,’ I moaned, despite enjoying my reflection as I excitedly twirled in front of the mirror.

‘Nonsense,’ Abigail countered. ‘You have a wonderful figure, and that dress makes you look ten years younger. By the time we have done your hair and makeup and added accessories, Hugo will not be able to take his eyes off you.’

Looking younger was the decisive factor for me, as it meant I stood a chance of appearing closer to Hugo’s age. ‘I guess I should wear my hair up,’ I mused, playing with my hair to determine options that looked elegant rather than frumpy.

‘No way, Mum! Didn’t you say he remarked on how nice your hair looked when you had worn it down after work?’ I nodded, pushing to the back of my mind his peculiar words about cutting it short if a woman habitually wore her hair up. ‘So, it looks glossy and stunning now, with it loose, so I’ll use my heated brush to inject some alluring waves, and you will be good to go.’

And in half an hour, I was ready! For the first time in an exceptionally long time, I looked and felt amazing.

Dinner

Hugo was everything for which I had hoped. He was attentive, funny, and appeared utterly mesmerised by me. He was flattering regarding my appearance and gave special mention to my loosely flowing wavy tresses. In my mind, I was completely his, even before the first sip of the red wine he was pouring.

When I asked about what he did for a living, he was vague, saying he worked in the creative industries. Each time I asked for more detail, he effortlessly steered the conversation back to me, which I found intoxicating. Unexciting as I saw myself, I was happy to talk at length about my beautiful daughter. Just chatting away, he made me feel cherished and desired.

We both deemed the evening an immense success. One thing then led to another, and in less than two weeks, Hugo was frequently visiting me and staying over. My home suddenly felt brighter, warmer, and less lonely.

Abigail, however, remained reserved. She was polite in his company, meticulously so, but I noticed a cool distance whenever Hugo was around. She retreated to her room, claiming she needed to study, and I saw the occasional flicker of worry in her eyes. I tried to dismiss it, telling myself it was just the natural protectiveness of a daughter seeing her mother move on.

Undone

The first major bump in our relationship came one Saturday afternoon. I had just finished cleaning the kitchen, my hair scraped up into a practical ponytail, when Hugo marched in. He was carrying a sleek black bag that I had not seen before and placed it on the kitchen worktop.

‘Come here, darling,’ he said, his voice playful, as he dragged a stool from the breakfast bar into the middle of the kitchen and patted the seat. ‘Sit down.’

‘Er, why, Hugo?’ I asked, wondering if he had a present for me in his bag, although I was confused by his invitation for me to sit. Obediently, I perched myself on the stool. ‘Something lovely, is it?’

‘Absolutely,’ he chuckled, pulling out a white sheet from his bag and flicking it open like a matador. He draped it about my shoulders and secured it firmly around my neck. My hair, still in its high ponytail, flowed down my back. ‘Ponytail, eh?’ he remarked from behind me, lifting it up as if sampling its weight. ‘Ah!’ he added meaninglessly.

At that moment, Abigail walked in through the kitchen door, her eyes opening wide as she took in the scene.

‘Wha… what’s going on?’ Abigail asked uncertainly, her voice high with shocked confusion. ‘Look, Hugo, put those down… please.’

Not knowing what she had seen, I quickly turned around to see Hugo, smiling broadly, with a huge pair of scissors in his hand. ‘Fine, but only after I have given your mother her haircut.’

‘Mum?’ Abigail shrieked.

Perched on the stool, I felt instantly sheepish, as if caught in a silly and secret game. ‘Oh, er… yes, well… the creative industry of Hugo’s is hairdressing… well, actually he is a men’s barber, but he says the skills are all the same…’ I waffled on, ‘and he has been offering to give me a haircut for ages.’ I accompanied my explanation with a weak, embarrassed laugh. I was too proud to admit to my daughter that he was controlling the situation.

‘A haircut? From a barber?’ Abigail cried in amazement. ‘But there is nothing wrong with your hair, Mum. I only trimmed it for you a couple of weeks ago.’

Hugo had quietly watched our fraught exchange with tolerant bemusement. ‘Perhaps, but she always wears it in a ponytail… and, well, a ponytail for a woman of her age –’

‘For a woman of her age, it suits her perfectly… just as it is,’ Abigail defended.

Hugo merely scoffed.

‘And he is doing it for free!’ I chirped, trying to convince myself as much as Abigail.

Despite Hugo’s initially complimenting my loose hair, over the next two weeks he had been subtly, then relentlessly, persuading me to cut it. At first, I laughed it off, and I did not see the need to mention it to Abigail. I assumed he would drop the subject eventually, but he pressed on, saying short hair was chic and far easier to manage with my job. He had even cited my updos, however stylish I made them, as proof that the excessive length of my hair was just a burden.

He used every argument imaginable to break down my resistance. Even when I suggested the compromise of a shoulder-length bob, he insisted a pixie cut would be best. Although Hugo still enchanted me and I did not want to stop seeing him, his unrelenting pressure was growing tiresome. So, I kept deferring any decision regarding my hair, as I did not wish to upset him. But I realised that I should have said something to Abigail before finding myself in this unplanned and unexpected predicament. However, I did not want to admit to her that he had decided it was time for my hair to go.

I knew Abigail was horrified. She and I had always bonded over our hair. We would trim each other’s ends every six months, a quiet ritual that kept the hair healthy and strong. At forty-two, my hair, without a hint of grey, was undoubtedly my best feature. But if my new love – a professional hairdresser – thought I would look better with a shorter style, then perhaps he was right.

‘Mum, are you sure?’ Abigail asked, her eyes searching mine.

‘Yes, absolutely,’ I insisted, but the tremor in my voice betrayed me.

= = =

Hugo, sensing my hesitation, launched into action before I could dissuade him. I felt an insistent tug on my ponytail as he pulled it taut. I heard the heart-wrenching sound of steel eagerly slicing through hair. Within seconds, I felt the weight of my ponytail falling away.

‘No!’ Abigail shrieked.

I spun around on the stool to see Hugo holding up two feet of thick brown hair as if it were a trophy, beaming triumphantly. He secured the ends with a rubber band and slipped it into his black bag. ‘Little souvenir,’ he quipped, before unravelling the short stump of a ponytail that still plumed on my crown.

A raucous noise sounded behind me, not unlike the noise of the motor of my food processor. I tried to turn around again to identify the noise. But Hugo’s powerful hand pushed down on the back of my head, clamping it firmly in place, forcing me to look down at the floor.

‘You have to be joking,’ Abigail groaned disbelievingly.

I was wondering what my daughter might consider so amusing when I felt cold steel sliding up my neck. The noise became more of a snarl, accompanied by snippets of my hair bouncing on my shoulders, then tumbling into my lap, before falling to the floor.

Then I understood. Hairclippers! My boyfriend was shaving my head.

The aggressive sound echoed through my skull as he cleared my nape before clippering around my ears. Abigail continued her entreaties. They were barely audible above the incessant noise of the hairclippers, but he paid her no heed as he ploughed on with his unpleasant task.

My mind was reeling, unable to accept that Hugo was acting in such a single-minded manner. Eventually, he silenced the clippers. When I imagined I had no hair left, he slightly reassured me by using scissors and a comb to finalise the style. The short clippings that filled the air suggested that I still had hair left on my head.

‘Ta-da!’ he announced, removing the cape with a flourish. ‘All done!’

= = =

I jumped up to look in the kitchen mirror, and I nearly screamed when I saw the unfamiliar person staring back at me. The hair on my crown I could best describe as a thick brown brush with every strand standing rigidly to attention. The length faded on the sides, leaving my ears protruding from a vast expanse of shaved white skin.

Hugo moved behind me, beaming like a Cheshire cat, holding up another mirror so I could see the back of the haircut. It was no better. He had shaved the back of my head to the bone, the bareness only relenting where the bristles emerged on the crown. It was certainly not the soft, feminine pixie that we had discussed as one option for consideration. It was a very severe haircut, almost masculine in its appearance.

I hesitantly touched the smooth skin at my temples and felt a wave of cold panic. I looked completely exposed and ready to join the marines.

‘Hugo, it’s… it’s very short,’ I stammered. ‘Why did you take so much off the sides?’

His eyes, usually warm, were glittering with a sharp intensity. He smiled, a slow, sensual smirk. ‘Because it excites me, Kathy.’ He shifted slightly, out of Abigail’s view, and I saw the undeniable evidence pressing against the denim of his jeans.

‘It excites you?’ my daughter spat in exasperation.

Ignoring her, he added seductively, quietly so Abigail could not hear. ‘We’re going to have a very exciting night.’

I felt incredibly upset by what he had done, but still, the thought of being so desired, so intensely focused upon by a handsome younger man, silenced any criticism.

Abigail, however, did not share my muted acceptance. Her face was dark with silent fury. She shot Hugo a look that could have curdled milk, turned on her heels, and stalked out of the kitchen.

As she left, Hugo’s eyes followed her, his gaze lingering on the incredible cascade of her crowning glory. Her hair was impeccably conditioned, reaching past her hips, much longer than mine had been. He smirked, a look of greedy satisfaction crossing his face.

Aftermath

The night Hugo and I spent together after he cut my hair was all that he had promised, even if it had come at a terrible cost.

After he had left and Abigail and I were alone, I expected her to say something about my hair. But my daughter pointedly did not look at me as we chatted amiably. I wanted to say something, ask her opinion, but I was certain it would cause a greater rift between us. Therefore, I avoided saying anything, and she left the house without mentioning it.

That morning, I still had a couple of hours before starting my shift at the supermarket, and I was dreading what my colleagues would say. After my shower earlier, my hair had dried in minutes. It fell into the identical flattop style that Hugo had sculpted, the skin on the back and sides gleaming defiantly. I tried to flatten the brush-like crown with hair products and styling tools, but nothing made the slightest difference. I was stuck with it until it grew out. Or I had to keep the style until Hugo allowed it to grow out. They were thoughts that niggled at the back of my mind.

The feedback at work was mostly encouraging, at least it was from the women that I spoke to. The men studiously ignored mentioning it to my face, but I heard them lamenting the disappearance of my long hair in quiet corners. Over the next week, things settled down at home with Abigail, while Hugo’s intense passion resurfaced each night that he stayed over. I even began appreciating the simplicity of caring for my short hair, even if I was unsure about the angular severity of the flattop.

As my daughter knew that Hugo still enchanted me, she simply accepted it and allowed our relationship to blossom.

= = =

On an infrequent evening when it was just me and my daughter at home, I decided it was time to broach a subject that had been on my mind. ‘Abi, darling, haven’t you ever thought about a change… you know, a change to your hair?’

She looked across at me from the sofa, protectively guarding the elaborate long French braid I had just fashioned for her. ‘No, of course not,’ she grinned, assuming I was joking.

‘Think how much time you would save for studying, not washing and conditioning that huge mane,’ I went on, feeling anxious. ‘After all, university life will be busy, and I will not be there to help you with it. I think it would just look better… more mature…’

Her grin remained, but now it looked plastered on. ‘Who thinks that?’ she asked pointedly, arching an eyebrow.

Abigail had known instantly where my words were coming from. My frantic desire to appease Hugo had replaced my traditional motherly pride in her spectacular hair. ‘Hugo told me he would be upset if you keep it long. He said it looks bad for his image as a barber if the two women in his life do not have short, modern haircuts.’

‘Modern, Mum? He scalped you!’ Abigail screamed, her face laced with pity and disappointment. ‘And, besides, you may be in his life, but I am not.’

That was harsh, but I knew, deep down, that it was fair, so I kept away from the subject for the rest of the evening.

= = =

After reporting Abigail’s reaction back to Hugo the following day, he sneered, insisting I did not know how to bring up my own daughter. Away from Abigail’s influence, I realised there was an element of truth to his words, and I had been a little too easy-going when it had just been the two of us. Although she would soon be leaving for university, she was still my daughter, so offering her a little discipline was sensible.

My desperate pleading with my daughter continued, using an endless supply of justifications provided by Hugo. Although, in the back of my mind, it felt like I was betraying her, I was so deeply under Hugo’s spell that my old life of invisibility seemed terrifying compared to his intense, if strange, devotion.

Finally, worn down, Abigail agreed to a compromise. ‘Just a trim, Mum. To keep you happy, he can take off the ends.’

I felt relieved.

Concession

The following Saturday afternoon, the setup was chillingly familiar. Abigail sat on the stool, draped in the sheet, her magnificent hair flowing over the edge and hanging like a dark waterfall just short of the floor. I watched, pensive and guilty, as Hugo approached her with the same enormous, terrifying scissors.

‘No more than a few inches at the most, Hugo,’ Abigail reiterated, her voice flat.

‘I hear you, Abigail, my dear,’ he purred.

Leaning against the kitchen worktop, I attempted to look nonchalant, trying to reassure Abigail. I wanted to stand by her and hold her hand, but I thought that would be going too far. So, I smiled, but I immediately wondered if I should have followed my instinct.

My eyes widened as Hugo, flexing the scissors, remained standing behind my daughter as she perched nervously on the chair. He did not stoop down to place the blades around the ends of her hair as I expected, but he defiantly pressed them against her nape.

Abigail’s eyes widened like saucers, matching my own as she felt the cold brush of steel against her skin. Before she could gasp, before I could utter a single word of warning, I saw the glinting blades close. Before either of us could react more decisively, there was a terrible crunching sound as the scissors began sawing through my daughter’s magnificent long locks. Hugo’s eyes screwed up with the effort to sever her thick hair, but a huge smile grew on his lips to compensate.

His forceful action was powerful and decisive. Abigail’s heavy ribbon of knee-length hair detached completely, leaving her neck bare. As with my ponytail, he held up his prize in triumph, admiring its length of over three feet.

Abigail let out a small, strangled sound of utter shock. She scrambled to touch the back of her head, finding only the ragged, uneven ends of the little hair that remained.

Hugo ignored her distress. He was already tending to his prize. Demonstrating a speedy claim to ownership that was profoundly disturbing, he gathered the immense bundle of locks, secured it expertly, and dropped the massive coil into his equipment bag to nestle down with my less impressive trophy.

‘What have you done?!’ Abigail choked out, turning on the stool, tears streaming down her face.

I could not meet her gaze. I felt a crushing wave of shame that I had allowed this man I had invited into our home to strip my daughter of her crowning glory.

‘No more than a few inches, you said, Abigail, my dear,’ he shrugged, completely unfazed by her tears. ‘That’s what I have left you.’

‘You know I did not mean that,’ my daughter snapped, her voice trembling with disbelief.

‘It’s what your mother asked me to do,’ Hugo lied, staring right at me.

I had said no such thing. I stared back at him, wide-eyed, and he gave me a cold, cautioning look that I had never seen before. It chilled me to the bone. I was about to remonstrate, but he talked over me.

‘The easier care of short hair will save you time for your studying, and it will be far more fashionable when you reach university,’ he explained, rattling off the same reasons he had fed me to persuade Abigail. Then he added the cruellest betrayal. ‘Your mother insisted I do it. She did not want you struggling with that burden when you were away from home.’

I wanted to scream, to deny it, but my throat went dry. I stole a look at Abigail, but she had reserved her icy stare solely for Hugo.

‘I’ll just even it all up for you now,’ Hugo announced lightly, ‘if you like?’

Abigail tried to stretch the sad remnants of her once-glorious mane without success. Then she flicked it away in disgust and lowered her head in disappointment. ‘Whatever…’ she mumbled, defeated, allowing him to finish the job.

I expected, or dare I say, hoped that he would simply even up the ends and keep as much of the remaining length as possible. But, before I realised what he was doing, I discovered that he had a more ruthless solution in mind.

Hugo had retrieved the hairclippers he had previously used on me and then turned them on. Abigail flinched, but his spare hand clamped her head in the prone position she had sunk to. Using the inverted blade, he edged a horizontal line around Abigail’s head, above her ears, including a fringe halfway up her forehead. It was harsh and brutal, made more so when he used the bare blade to shave all the hair below the cap of hair that now perched on top of Abigail’s head. I recognised the pudding bowl style emerging, like the one my brother had to wear in junior school.

He continued running the hairclippers up the back of my daughter’s head until all that remained was bare white skin. He then meticulously shaved the bristly hair around her ears and temples right down to the bone. The sheer contrast between the thick, heavy cap of hair sitting starkly on her head and the white skin beneath was shocking. Hugo had reduced her extravagant mane, which that mother and daughter had tended her whole young life, to the severest of schoolboy bowlcuts.

‘Ta-da!’ he announced, as he did when he cut my hair, removing the cape with a flourish. ‘All done!’

= = =

Abigail slid off the stool. But unlike me, she did not look in the kitchen mirror or the hand mirror that Hugo eagerly proffered. Nor did she touch her hair or even look at him or me. Silently, she stormed up to her room, the sound of her door slamming echoing through our home.

I knew I had to think quickly and speak carefully, mindful of not upsetting my boyfriend. ‘Hugo, I didn’t insist… you know,’ I stuttered, gesturing to the remnants of Abigail’s hair surrounding the stool. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. ‘I mean, er… you cut it very short.’

‘Thanks, darling,’ he laughed, clearly pleased with his handiwork. ‘Although it could have been even shorter if I had used the foil shaver,’ he said, his expression suggesting that he believed I really had complimented him.

His eyes were glittering with that newly familiar sharp intensity. He tried to pull me close, and I noticed the rigid bulge in the front of his jeans that I had become accustomed to. Then a dreadful thought entered my mind.

‘Did that… cutting off my daughter’s hair… did that turn you on, Hugo?’ I asked, my voice hollow.

He did not hesitate. ‘Of course, it did, Kathy. Now, do you want to find out just how much?’ he grinned, licking his lips. ‘And I was planning to use the foil shaver on your back and sides, then take the top shorter, before we go upstairs.’

Having seen Abigail shattered by what he had done and feeling ashamed by my complicity, something snapped inside me. The spell with which he had held me suddenly shattered. The shame of being his puppet was finally greater than the desperation of someone desiring me.

‘No, Hugo,’ I said, looking him straight in the eye, wondering if he did not intend stopping with my hair until I was bald. It hurt me to reject the source of my happiness, but I needed to do all I could to comfort my daughter that evening. ‘I would prefer you not to stay tonight. Let us catch up tomorrow.’

He stared at me for a long moment, his smirk returning. I hoped he would beg me for forgiveness or at least beg to stay with me. But he did not argue. He did not even try to kiss me. He simply zipped up the black bag containing the evidence of his obsession and walked out the door without a word.

Explanation

Three days passed. Silence.

When I called Hugo, his phone went straight to voicemail, and text messages were unread. There was a creeping dread that he might never come back, ever again.

However, I had to confront him. It was not just for me but also for Abigail. Hugo owed her an apology, and I needed to clear the air so I could salvage what remained of my self-respect. And, although I was hanging on the flimsiest of hope, I wondered if we might even rekindle what we had once shared together.

‘We’re going to the barbershop,’ I told Abigail on Wednesday afternoon.

Eyes wide, her hand automatically shot up to her head as she examined the severe lines of her bowlcut. We had managed to get through the last few days without too much upset, although Abigail’s mood remained sullen. I tried to encourage her by insisting she looked cute, but that did not seem to help. I attempted to reassure her by saying her hair would soon grow out. However, she clearly knew how long it would take for her hair to restore itself to its former glory.

Abigail rubbed her bare neck, her lips trembling. ‘Mum, I don’t really need—’

‘No, no, darling, not for a haircut,’ I interrupted, sorry to have caused her even more grief. ‘To get you an apology, and to clear the air between us.’

My daughter sighed, appearing not to care one way or the other about an apology, but she agreed to go with me. Undoubtedly, she realised that, despite everything, I hung on to a slim hope of getting back with Hugo.

= = =

The name that Hugo had given as his place of work was The Arcade Barbershop, but with all that had occurred, I wondered if the establishment even existed. However, tucked away in the corner of a quaint shopping arcade, we found an unpretentious shopfront that neither Abigail nor I had noticed before. Noting the frosted, opaque windows, I wondered if the shop was open. I pushed the door, and a traditional bell chimed weakly above the door.

The shop had an old-fashioned appearance, but it was certainly operational. There was a smartly dressed middle-aged woman wiping down a counter, and behind a barber’s chair, a balding man of similar years had just completed the haircut of a much older man.

The woman looked up as we entered with a raised eyebrow accompanying her jolly expression. ‘How may I help you, ladies?’

I was unsure whether her enquiring expression related to the presence of two women in her barbershop or if it was her judgement on the brevity of our haircuts.

‘We’re looking for Hugo,’ I announced, trying to keep my voice steady.

‘Hugo?’ The woman frowned while using her apron to wipe her hands. ‘There is no Hugo working here, dear. Just me and my husband, George.’ She pointed to the man who was saying farewell to his client. ‘We have been running this place together for over twenty years.’

The air rushed out of me, leaving me dizzy. The floor seemed to tilt.

So, Hugo’s ownership of The Arcade Barbershop was a fabrication. The quality of our haircuts – my severe short back and sides, and Abigail’s amateurish bowl cut – all made sickening sense. He was not a professional barber, at least not in the sense we understood it. He was a man with a deep and unhealthy obsession.

I had sacrificed my signature hair and my daughter’s glorious tresses for a short burst of attention from someone focused on hair for sexual gratification. He was someone who had a fetish for hair, if such people existed. Hugo was a fetishist that collected ponytail trophies.

I looked at Abigail, standing next to me, her mutilated hair a living testament to my devastating failure of judgement. She stared at the woman, realising the awful truth as I did. Hugo had not simply left me; he had never even existed in the way I pretended he had.

The fragile composure my daughter had stoically maintained for three days, mindful of my hurt and disappointment, crumbled completely. Abigail buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as she burst into heart-wrenching, silent tears.

Epilogue

I put my arm around my sad daughter, holding her tightly. The owners of The Arcade Barbershop sidled up to each other and observed us intently. The barber was murmuring something to his wife, but she waved a hand to quieten him.

I nodded to them in farewell before gently guiding Abigail towards the door. The loss felt staggering, the guilt insurmountable. I knew then that we were not just lamenting the loss of our hair but also mourning the safety and trust I had carelessly thrown away. In the months and years ahead, as our hair grew out, I hoped my daughter would find it within herself to forgive me.

The door slowly began to swing closed behind us. I heard George complaining quietly to his wife. ‘Looking at those atrocious haircuts, dear, it appears that our Jason – that wretched and despicable son of ours – is up to his nasty old games again.’

I froze in the doorway, as an icy chill travelled along my spine.

‘Hugo, he calls himself now, George!’ his wife added mournfully. ‘Hugo…’