Down Memory Lane, Part 2 – Daydream Believer

This story serves as a sequel to “Down Memory Lane, Part 1 – Dream a Little Dream” and it can be enjoyed independently without the need to read the original story.

Frank Lane, the barber, had been recalling happier days in his premises from decades earlier when his wife, Debbie, had worked alongside him and everything seemed possible. Soldiering on alone in his barbershop with little enthusiasm, he bucked up with the reappearance of Marie, an old friend of the couple from way back. Although Frank’s clients were now predominantly male, Marie encouraged him to restyle her hair, which he did extremely well, and she returned the favour by shaving off his combover and rendering his scalp as bald as a baby’s bottom. And then they agreed to meet again after a few days…

Daisy Dreamer

As it turned out, I did not have to wait a whole week to see Marie again, as she barged her way past me immediately after I dropped the latch on my door on Wednesday morning, the following day.

By way of welcome, Marie assaulted me with a bizarre question. ‘Have you heard of Daisy Dreamer?’

I looked at the clock on the wall and tapped my watch. ‘Good morning, Marie. Lovely to see you again so soon, but—’

She ignored my unsubtle hints, interrupting my claim that I needed to work that day. Following Marie’s influence the day before, I suddenly realised that, for the first time in quite a while, I wanted to work that day. ‘The singer?’ she pressed.

I looked blank.

‘The pop singer? Frank, she is everywhere!’ Marie blew out her cheeks in exasperation, a gesture I remembered well from the old days.

I still looked at her blankly.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Frank, she is huge. Twenty-five. Number one album. TikTok queen. Advocate for women of all genders. You really have not seen anything about her?’

I shook my head. ‘Wait? Women were only one gender once upon a time. Is that all to do with the L, G, and whatever symbols? Funny, my doctor never mentioned –’

‘Oh, Frank,’ she puffed her cheeks again. ‘You know very well what I mean!’

I shrugged. ‘But I do not go in for all those social mediums… or whatever.’

Marie groaned. ‘That explains a lot.’

With that, I kept my mouth closed and let her explain as she waved an open magazine in my face. ‘Daisy Dreamer is a pop sensation adored by teenage girls and twenty-something feminists alike. Even I like her… and her music,’ she enthused, but then closed her eyes, deep in thought. ‘Well, I like some of it… a bit.’

‘Well, you will have to introduce me to her songs when we next go clubbing together,’ I quipped innocently, keeping the sarcasm from my voice. However, my jibe brought hazy memories flooding back of nights when Debbie was with us.

= = =

Following my joke, Marie looked at me, stoney-faced, clearly irritated by my casual asides. Then her face softened, and she smiled, doubtlessly recalling the same memories as I had. ‘I might just take you up on that, Mister.’

Her deadpan expression, which made it impossible to read whether she was serious, was sufficient to shut me up.

‘So, Daisy Dreamer, loved by everyone… well, nearly everyone,’ she corrected, giving me a pointed look, ‘has shocked the whole world by chopping off the hip-length hair that was her trademark, her identity, and drastically cutting it into a severe bowlcut. Back and sides shaved to the bone. Just the shortest and sleekest of caps, perched on the crown above… well, above nothing.’

‘Debbie was amazing with bowlcuts when they came into fashion,’ I recalled wistfully.

‘She did not depend on fashion, as she created fashion,’ Marie corrected. ‘Every time my hair got too long and boring, or too overprocessed with colour and perm, she would chop it off into a bowlcut…’ she reminisced dreamily. ‘Inspired by the “Peaky Blinders” TV show, the socials and fashion magazines are saying.’

‘That trend swept through the young guys in town close to a decade ago. It kept me busier than usual for a brief period, until fashion moved on. I did not have a clue what they meant the first few times they asked me for it, so it made me watch the programme to ensure I got it right,’ I recollected. ‘It was quite a good series actually, especially –’

‘Whatever, Frank!’ Marie delicately, but purposefully, stamped her foot. It was the same action she had used with officious types in the past. It had worked too, especially on club bouncers when we tried to gain entry after the pubs closed. ‘Daisy says that rebellion is the inspiration for her bowlcut, and not an ancient TV programme. For her, it is not just a haircut but a statement. A statement of intent.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked, genuinely mystified.

‘Well, er, she says her action was a declaration that beauty was not about length of hair, about compliance, or about flowing locks begging for a person’s touch,’ Marie said hesitantly. ‘It was about geometry, power, and precision…’

I looked at her blankly. ‘What does that mean?’ I repeated.

‘Well…’ Marie screwed up her eyes and pondered it carefully before continuing. ‘I have not got a bleeding clue,’ she chuckled, ‘but the point is that it is spreading like wildfire. Hashtag DaisyCut is trending. It is going viral!’

Charity Begins at Home

‘In the charity shop,’ Marie said, ‘I get loads of students coming in for thrift fashions. I love helping them put together economical outfits that match their current icons and trends. I have even built quite a reputation as a personal stylist for the students!’ she chuckled.

She made her claim smugly. It was justifiable too, by so readily transcending the generations with fashion advice.

‘The first thing I heard yesterday when I rushed in late for work, after you cut my hair, was DaisyCut. Two students had been browsing through vintage dresses, but they looked up at the commotion as I breezed through the door. Hannah recited the hashtag, and her friend, Megan, echoed it.’

‘Really? Who did they see?’

‘Me, you dummy! In the shop they were familiar with my grey and tired old bun, and they were dumbstruck by the change, sidling up to examine it more closely. I know it is an “asym” and that the back and sides are not skin-tight, but if you view it from the longer side, then it does superficially resemble a bowlcut to the untutored eye. It may not be the same, but it shows the same cutting techniques.’

I nodded. She was correct, but her motivation for regaling me with the long explanation was still a mystery to me.

‘Frank,’ she said, leaning in. ‘Dedicated followers of fashion, especially students, want the look. Well, not all want it, but a considerable number do, according to Hannah and Megan.’ Marie looked thoughtful. ‘Well, Megan is not ready to sacrifice her long hair yet. But the fact is that there are students who want to change. But they say that salons charge a fortune for a restyle like that. Cutting long hair attracts a premium, which is ridiculous if it is going to end up short. Then a precision cut demands a senior stylist. Precision… poppycock! I remember Debbie sticking a bowl on someone’s head and clipping around it.’

‘So do I, Marie,’ I recalled. ‘But he was not a client, and we did it as a joke… and we were all very, very drunk at the time.’

= = =

‘True,’ Marie chuckled, pausing as she also remembered the poor young apprentice who challenged Debbie to use a real bowl on him during a late and boozy training session!

‘Anyway…’ Marie went on. ‘I told the students about you and your very reasonable prices.’

My mouth opened. Then closed. ‘You did what?’ I eventually managed, keeping my annoyance under control.

‘Hannah is due in two hours, between her lectures. Hair down to her bum, and she is as nervous as anything. But she wants it. Wants it so bad, to be the first in college with the DaisyCut.’

I had to sit down.

Marie grinned. ‘And since you’re going to be the local advocate of the DaisyCut movement, you can’t walk around looking like a geography teacher from the Eighties.’ She pushed a large paper bag into my hand. ‘Change.’

I was too dumbfounded to argue, so I strolled off to the storeroom and emptied the contents.

= = =

Cream chinos dropped out and fitted me surprisingly well. Next came a tailored floral shirt in pinks, oranges, and greens that gave an impression of a summer meadow. It was not unlike one Debbie had bought for me in 1987. I idly wondered if it had been mine and whether I had inadvertently donated it to the church jumble sale in years gone by.

‘Perfect, Frank,’ she nodded appreciatively when I dared to reappear. ‘But keep that top button done up as you would have done in the past,’ she demanded, stepping forward to secure it.

‘I feel like a clown,’ I remonstrated, staring into the mirror. With my gleaming bald head, I was grateful for my lack of a combover and overly long fringe of grey hair, which would have fuelled the comic illusion.

‘Well, not to worry, Frank. ‘I promise not to buy you a red bowtie that spins around on your neck,’ she giggled, smoothing out the creases. She adopted a more serious expression. ‘You look,’ she said slowly, ‘like you used to look, before grief turned you into a ghost. You look how you were meant to be. How Debbie would want you to be…’

Her words stung, but they were true.

Hannah with the Golden Hair

And then, right on time, Hannah tentatively pushed open the door of the shop, startled by the ding of the bell, and peered inside.

‘Hannah,’ Marie called out brightly, reaching out to take her denim jacket. ‘Come in, come in. This is Frank.’

We shook hands. She looked impossibly young, although Marie had informed me that she was twenty. Tall and slim, she was wearing a pretty summer dress whose pattern clashed with the similar one exhibited by my shirt. Her hair was stunning, pluming from her crown in a thick, dark blonde ponytail that cascaded down her back like a waterfall. I remember thinking, just for an instant, that I hoped the young thing would never decide to cut it. Then I remembered why she was in my shop. And I gulped.

I gestured to my chair, and she sat, visibly trembling.

‘I have never more than trimmed it,’ she whispered. ‘Not since I was ten. It was waist length when Daisy came on the scene, so I grew it even longer.’

I nodded. ‘It is a brave thing, what you are proposing to do,’ I empathised, as the amateur but effective psychology of my younger days came to the fore.

‘It’s just that I want to feel sharp and powerful, like Daisy says,’ she said. ‘It is a declaration to prevent people from just valuing me as someone’s pretty girlfriend. I want to be me. I want to break free!’

She said it with the sort of conviction that Debbie and I once shared when we were championing a cause we believed in. It never mattered whether we were wrong or whether we were right. And it did not matter to Hannah. I felt a lump in my throat.

‘And you will, Hannah, you will,’ I said with resolve, draping the cape over her and securing it around her neck. I briefly brushed through her ponytail, although it did not need it. It was glossy, smooth, and tangle-free. ‘Now, first, I am going to remove your ponytail.’ In response, she whimpered. ‘I will use these hairclippers, rather than scissors, as it will be easier on your scalp and a bit quicker,’ I added comfortingly.

‘It won’t hurt, will it?’ she asked timidly.

= = =

I did not laugh at my client’s concerns. Long-haired clients had often asked if cutting their long hair would hurt. In such an emotionally charged situation for a young woman, ridicule was not what she needed. ‘No, Hannah, I will be very gentle. You will not feel a thing.’

I stole a glance in Marie’s direction. She smiled broadly and nodded appreciatively as I rediscovered my former bedside manner as an amateur “hair doctor”!

I held her ponytail firmly and flicked the switch on the hairclippers. She jumped at the raucous sound approaching her ears. I eased the blade into the thick mass of golden hair emerging from her crown and maintained the gentle pressure. The hair began separating, and in less than two minutes I held Hannah’s magnificent blonde ponytail in my hand. Marie came forward, took it, and secured the end with an elastic band.

‘I am donating the hair,’ she said proudly, reaching out to clutch her ponytail one last time. ‘To charity.’

I looked away from Hannah, towards Marie, and saw that her eyes had reddened, just like mine. I swallowed. ‘We could suggest a charity, Hannah. One who provides free wigs to women who, er… who suffer from hair loss after illness.’

‘Perfect,’ the young woman said clearly, relaxing her grip on her hair that Marie took, then placed safely to one side.

‘And Hannah, in recognition of your wonderful gesture,’ Marie announced, ‘Frank will complete your restyle free of charge.’

‘Will I?’ I piped up, bemused at Marie giving away all my profits. However, her steely glare admonished me. ‘Yes, apparently, I will, Hannah… I will be happy to do so.’

‘Wow, thanks, Frank,’ Hannah gushed. ‘That will probably encourage even more of my friends to come knocking on your door.’

‘And when you are ready for a maintenance trim, you will find Frank’s prices exceedingly attractive when compared with a salon,’ Marie added. ‘Unisex prices,’ she said, thinking on her feet, and I laughed at the long-forgotten reference. ‘Same price, for the same haircut, for men and women,’ she clarified.

‘And everyone in between,’ I reacted without any thought to the consequences of my flippant remark.

Silence. I immediately wondered if my little quip had been inappropriate for the audience.

= = =

Hannah giggled at my careless outburst, and Marie smiled. ‘That’s good because I know plenty of “in-betweeners” in college,’ she confirmed.

PC-bomb averted, I cleared my throat. ‘So, Hannah, now I will shape the bowlcut with scissors,’ illustrating my plan using my fingers, ‘before using hairclippers to adjust the back and sides, providing a contrast with the longer hair on the crown.’

She gulped. ‘Fine,’ she croaked. ‘Fine.’

Detecting her increased anxiety, I smiled warmly in the mirror. I have studied images, and the DaisyCut is quite an extreme variant of the bowlcut. I can leave the top longer, so it touches or even covers your ears. And I can simply trim the back using a technique called scissor-over-comb, so it is shorter and softer, rather than shaving your neck down to the skin. We can call it hashtag HannahBowl.’

A look of relief washed over her features as I gave her a less drastic option. Her mouth opened, then closed again, as if she were about to agree. But then a steely resolve transformed her expression. ‘No, do it, the same as Daisy,’ she demanded in a forthright tone that brooked no argument. After all, “I want to break free” had become her mantra.

So, taking the scissors that Debbie had bestowed upon me, I sliced through Hannah’s remaining longer hair. I cut the perimeter of the bowl high above her ears, way above her eyebrows, and halfway up the back of her head.

All the time, Hannah looked straight ahead, in the mirror, as I transformed her. Sometimes she was wide-eyed, and at other times she screwed her eyes shut. But every now and again a slight grin threatened to pull up the corners of her mouth.

Taking my hairclippers once again, I sheared off all the short tendrils covering her neck and ears until I had achieved a fine and uniform pelt. Next, I took the foil shaver and systematically removed every fine bristle that remained until her white and gleaming skin shone through.

I made minor adjustments to sharpen the overall shape to complement her features. It was clean and angular, and despite it being a style I regularly gave women forty years earlier, it looked modern.

I brushed away the loose snippets of hair, whisked the cape away, and held up a mirror so she could view her transformation from every angle. She shook, either in disbelief or simply to see what would happen, and the glossy cap of golden blonde hair that covered her head obediently swung with her movement. She giggled, and tears welled up. They were not tears of sadness but of happiness and fulfilment.

‘I did it,’ she declared. Marie and I nodded. Hannah held my gaze in the mirror. ‘We did it!’

Hannah cannot have known what a monumental leap in the dark the previous forty-five minutes had been for me. Marie knew that I had struggled, as I could tell from her comforting expression.

‘We certainly did, Hannah,’ I agreed, tapping her lightly on the shoulder and then immediately regretting it. Was my touching her wrong in the current politically correct climate, I wondered? I would not have thought twice about it back in the day, but would the police be knocking on my door to arrest me?

= = =

In response to my faux pas, Hannah jumped to her feet, hugged me like an old friend, and pecked me on both cheeks without a hint of embarrassment. ‘Thank you, Frank. Thank you so much!’

‘My pleasure… and, yes, my honour,’ I added confidently.

‘Can we do a selfie?’ she whooped, digging out her phone from her bag.

Marie leaned in. ‘Do you know what that is?’ she whispered to me with a mischievous grin.

I sighed at Marie’s interjection and nodded at Hannah’s invitation. Hannah cuddled up to me, while Marie stood behind, arms around us both. All three of us crowded together and stared cheesily into the lens. She took a selection of images, all at strange and wayward angles that photographers would never have tolerated in the past.

She reviewed the photos quickly, showing them to us briefly for our approval. I was beaming with a genuine smile, my bald head looking slick and gleaming, while my floral shirt shone youthful and bright.

Hanah followed a series of intent taps on the screen with a flamboyant waving gesture with her hand. I judged that she had upended (or was it uploaded?) the images to the “cloud”, whatever that was! Seconds later, Marie’s phone pinged, she looked down, and she giggled.

Yes, the same image had already appeared, but with a string of characters underneath that was hard for me to decipher… #DaisyCut was easy, #LanesBarbershop was a surprise, and #IWantToBreakFree was inevitable. But #LetsAllBeMoreFrank was gibberish and made no sense to me at all.

= = =

As I pondered the meaning of the hashtag, scratching my bald head, I looked up. Marie and Hannah wore conspiratorial smiles before they began chuckling. It was a scene and a sound that reminded me of happier times when Marie and Debbie would rib me over something I did not immediately understand.

I looked again at the letters, and then the penny dropped. ‘”Be more Frank“,’ I chuckled at the verbal play on my name. ‘It sounds like an excellent mantra for life… for the future. Thanks, Hannah,’ I said, stopping myself from choking with emotion.

She looked at me blankly, unaware of what she had done for me, with Marie’s help, in so short a time. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, ‘and, just so you know, the “Likes” are going up like crazy, and I have already added your location to the post, as people are asking. Hope that it was okay with you?’

‘It’s fine,’ Marie answered for me. ‘Actually, more than fine, as we need to keep this chap out of mischief and utilising his talent to the full.’

‘Oh, that’s what we want, is it?’ I quipped as Hannah skipped out of the shop. She floated past my window, scrolling through her phone with one hand and running her other hand along her bare neck. And smiling.

‘Well, that was a pleasant interlude, Marie, and thank you,’ I said with feeling. ‘Now I should prepare myself for my regular, but more mundane, clientele.’

‘Don’t be so sure, Frank,’ Marie countered. ‘Your socials account is really buzzing, asking if they need appointments or –’

‘Wait? What? My “socials” account?’ I queried, unaware I had one.

= = =

‘You’re welcome. It was easy enough to do while you were saying farewell to Hannah,’ Marie chuckled.

‘You shouldn’t have, Marie,’ I said, miffed that she had not consulted me.

‘You’re welcome,’ she repeated, glossing over my undisguised annoyance.

‘No, you really shouldn’t have!’ I emphasised, trying to press my point home. What did I want with socials?

‘Right,’ she said, ignoring me as she consulted her screen. ‘A young lady called Emily Carter will be here in half an hour after seeing #DaisyCut online. From her profile, she is an attractive girl, and her blonde hair looks to be longer than Hannah’s. And, while you deal with Emily, I will contact the others and schedule them in where I can.’

‘Others? I said dumbly.

She nodded. ‘But you just have time to pop out and get us a coffee and a sandwich. Latte, extra shot, no sugar, and “Brie and Grape” but hold the mayo.’

‘Anything else, your highness,’ I quipped, bemused by her bossy demands, but feeling remarkably uplifted.

She looked up momentarily from her phone, completely missing my mild sarcasm. ‘Yes, if you are going to the artisan bakery just down the lane, then one of their “pain au raisin”. They are delicious. Oh, and whatever you would like.’

I bowed grandly, which Marie ignored, and then I sauntered into The Lanes with a newfound, or rediscovered, spring in my step.

To be continued