Princess Beth Commences Her Reign at The Royal Oak

Prologue

Successful and lucky people portray the transition from school to the real world as an exciting leap into a future that is overflowing with possibilities. However, for me, it had been more like a slow, agonising crawl through a swamp of rejection letters. At eighteen, the world had trapped me – the formerly carefree princess known as Beth Gibson – in that isolated and lonely tower where it considered I was too old to be a child and too inexperienced to be an adult. So, when the letter finally arrived from The Royal Oak hotel, confirming my appointment as a junior receptionist, I felt as though I had been handed a golden ticket at the chocolate factory.

The Royal Oak was the town’s crown jewel. A sprawling Victorian edifice of red brick and polished mahogany that stood on the slight rise near the central marketplace, like a castle watching over the population. It was not just a hotel for tired businessmen resting between clients or for loving couples seeking a well-earned minibreak; it was a well-established and appreciated institution.

Although the offered job was starting at the bottom, they had been clear on their demanding expectations and the enticing prospects. The Royal Oak sought “keen young people” who possessed a certain sharpness in intellect and in the way they presented themselves.

The Royal Oak promised swift advancement for those who looked and acted the part, and that was the thought I carried with me as I prepared for my first day of work.

Preparation

On Sunday night, the weight of their expectations settled in my chest. I retreated to my bedroom to prepare. I dug out my “interview suit”, a hardly worn charcoal-grey number I had picked up for a song in a charity shop. It was a classic skirt suit, but as I pulled it on, I realised I had either grown an inch or two, or the cut was simply more daring than I remembered. The skirt sat high above my knees, too short for modesty in a traditional establishment, and the jacket was snug and emphasised my curves. Pairing the ensemble with a crisp white blouse that I buttoned it all the way to the throat, I hoped the decorum of the neckline would offset the daring length of the hem.

I stood before the full-length mirror, trying to channel the energy of a professional woman of the world. I looked smart and capable. Then, my gaze travelled upward, and my heart sank.

My Rapunzel-like hair was my pride and my curse. Thick, dark, and reaching all the way to my hips, it was a wild mane that I usually wrestled into a messy, voluminous bun. It was a “casual chic” look that was satisfactory for every occasion I had attended in the past. But as I stared at myself in the professional suit, it looked like a disaster. The ends of my hair that almost reached the hem of my skirt were ragged and thin, split from months of neglect.

I had intended to get my locks trimmed as soon as I received the job offer. I had been considering having it cut even shorter than usual, even as high as my waist. That would allow me to wear it loose, if permitted by the hotel, or tie it in a neat ponytail. But time had slipped away and I had forgotten to make the appointment at the salon.

From my perspective, the problem was not just the length and untidiness of my hair, but it was related to my ears. They were, to put it bluntly, prominent. Ever since primary school, I had used the bulk of my hair to camouflage them. If I scraped all my tresses into a tight professional bun, it would pull my hair back from my face, leaving my ears to stick out like the handles on a trophy. Mum said I was oversensitive, but my messy updo was the only thing that kept my most disturbing assets hidden from mocking eyes and prevented me from feeling humiliated.

I pulled the hair tie out fully, and the huge mass tumbled down my back, swamping me. It was a mess. There was no way I could walk into The Royal Oak looking like I had just hiked across a wild and windy moor. Pointlessly, I checked the time, and it was 8pm, but I already knew that no salons would be open at that time on a Sunday. Panic set in as I was due to report for my first shift at the hotel before 9am the following morning. However, I could not start my career looking like a scruffy teenager.

So, I grabbed my laptop and frantically searched the local business listings. But I discovered that each salon opened later Monday mornings or they remained closed for the entire day. I scrolled through pages of high-end stylists and boutique salons until a small, plain entry caught my eye for Arcade Hair detailing “Opening Hours: Mon-Sat, 8am to 6pm”.

The location was a narrow, cobbled arcade, away from the high street. It was an old-fashioned shopping mall that I had walked past a hundred times but never entered. Noting it was on the direct route to the hotel, the tagline promised “Appointments Not Always Necessary”.

‘Okay,’ I whispered to my reflection. ‘8am, and I will be waiting outside Arcade Hair before they open. A quick and simple trim – ten inches snipped off the ends – and I will be at The Royal Oak by 8.45 easily.’

Arcade Hair

I did not sleep well. I dreamt of scissors and ticking clocks as they counted down to my early alarm call. With a mixture of trepidation and excitement, I leapt to my feet and prepared myself for the start of my new life.

The morning air was cool and crisp, but the sun peeking over the horizon promised a bright day to start my glittering career. I marched toward the shopping arcade, clutching my handbag, feeling the uncomfortable tug of my too-short skirt. To expedite the stylist’s task, rather than my customary messy updo, I had tied my hair into a low and limp ponytail. It felt like a heavy rope, and every time it brushed against my lower back, it reminded me of how straggly the ends were. But I comforted myself in the knowledge it would soon look sleek and feel smooth.

I reached the entrance of the arcade at 7.45am and entered the deserted passage with the shops still all shuttered. At the end, I found the sign for Arcade Hair. My heart skipped a beat when I realised it was not a salon but a barbershop!

The window contained sun-faded posters of men with various outdated masculine haircuts that I had only ever seen in films from fifty years earlier. A traditional red-and-white pole whose sole purpose was to spin and attract customers sat motionless above the doorway.

I hesitated, reviewing my options that seemed few. I decided I should leave and rush off to find somewhere I could use the tools and products secreted in my handbag to construct a bun that was as sleek and as unmessy as possible.

But then, a loud click signified someone unlocking the door, and it squeaked as it swung inwards. A person stepped out onto the threshold and then stared at me as if I were something unwelcome that a person or animal had deposited there during the night.

The Barber

The barber was not what I would have expected. An imposing woman of between forty fifty, standing to attention with the ramrod-straight posture of a drill sergeant, dressed entirely in black. She wore an attractive black lace top that hugged her body, a short black miniskirt with a sheer edging, black patterned tights, and black boots with a heel. It was a simple outfit that looked entirely functional for a working barber, but the woman’s confident posture and the feminine detail of the outfit meant she could have swanned into a cocktail party and not look out of place.

But it was her hair that stopped my breath. What there was of it had a glossy black sheen, swept back from her forehead in a graceful arc. But the back and sides were gone, shaved down to the bare, pale skin in a brutal, masculine fade. Despite the drastic style, it only served to enhance the femininity of her striking features and lithe body.

The barber took a long drag from a cigarette she had just lit, exhaling a plume of smoke that swirled around her head like a halo. Her eyes, sharp as flints, raked over me. She looked at my suit, then my face, and finally, her gaze settled on the mass of hair hanging limply over my shoulder. She looked at it with the same expression a gardener might give a particularly stubborn patch of weeds.

I froze, my feet feeling like two lumps of lead. I wanted to run, but her demanding presence functioned as a barrier to my movement.

‘Well?’ she barked in welcome. Her voice was like gravel.

‘I… er –’ I stammered meaninglessly.

‘Haircut?’ she interrupted, her eyes narrowing.

I nodded dumbly, wanting to add that having seen her and her premises I had changed my mind… but I was unable to formulate the appropriate words that would not give offence.

‘This is a barbershop,’ she said, her tone flat. ‘We do not do fancy girly styles here. No perms, highlights, or any of that business. And certainly, no long feathery layers!’ She spat the last word like a curse.

‘I just want it trimmed,’ I said, my voice sounding incredibly small relative to her thundering barrage. ‘Just a little off the ends. Nothing fancy,’ I added apologetically. ‘I’m starting a new job at The Royal Oak and –’

‘Working there… looking like that?’ she smirked, looking amazed by my confession as she again cast her eyes down my hair. She might as well have added “with that mop on your head”.

I was going to rebuke her for rudeness, but the pressing need to get myself in a presentable state for work took over. Neither of those intended options came to anything once I had begun coughing on her smoke as she took another drag of her cigarette.

Ignoring my discomfort, her eyes furtively travelled up and down the lane as if looking for someone more worthy of her time. Once I had recovered from my coughing fit, I had wanted to put her mind at rest by politely informing her that I would be on my way.

But, before I could, she sighed – a heavy, dramatic sound – and then stepped back from the doorway, beckoning me into the dim interior. My jaw dropped open.

‘Quick, then,’ she insisted, flicking her cigarette into a lichen-covered plant pot by the door, which held a withered conifer and an ageing collection of old butts. ‘Before the morning rush starts. Come along, princess, do not just stand there dawdling and catching flies. Inside! Now!’

Doris

Despite its tired appearance, the Arcade Hair barbershop looked and smelt clean. Antiseptically clean. But it was a time capsule. There were two massive, hydraulic barber chairs that looked like they belonged in a museum. Doris pointed to the one closest to the window.

‘Up you get, princess,’ she insisted. ‘I am Doris, by the way. And you are?’

Although Doris was propelling me to the chair by the window, I was still unsure whether I should even stay. ‘I’m Beth… but I’m not sure about this,’ I said, pointing at the chair.

‘By the window’s best,’ she snorted, misunderstanding the reason for my caution. ‘Who knows, with that huge mop of yours, you could attract quite an audience.’

I had no idea if she was joking, but I did not relish the prospect of anyone gawping at what was unfolding from the cobbled lane outside.

Against my better judgement, I climbed into the chair. It was so large I felt like a child, my feet barely reaching the footrest. Before I could say another word, Doris snapped a heavy vinyl cape around my neck. It was so tight I had to swallow hard to make sure I could still breathe. She pulled it taut, tauter than necessary, pinning my arms to my sides, and then she cranked the lever on the side of the chair. The hydraulics complained, but I rose higher, and higher still, until I was eye-level with the barber behind me.

My reflection looked terrified, as if trying to understand how it had come to this place. Despite my limp ponytail hanging loosely, it was sufficient to make my ears seem more prominent than ever in the harsh fluorescent light.

‘Now, Elizabeth,’ Doris said, standing behind me, using the unabbreviated form of my name that only my mother had ever used, and then only when I had done something wrong. She lifted my ponytail, weighing it in her hand. ‘This lot is all coming off,’ she said matter-of-factly.

Moment of Truth

‘No!’ I shrieked, the sound more high-pitched than I would have liked, choked by the tightness of the cape. ‘Just a trim!’ I explained. ‘To my waist might be nice?’ I gulped. ‘Or even to the middle of my back?’ I elaborated less willingly. ‘Honestly, Doris, just that much would be quite enough.’

She did not answer. Instead, she reached for a pair of scissors sitting on the marble counter below the mirror in front of me. They were not the delicate, thin shears I had seen in salons. They were huge, heavy-duty things that looked like they could cut through leather. She clicked them together… once, twice… the clicks cutting through the silence.

‘To your neck,’ she barked.

‘Excuse me?’ I demanded, knowing I must have misheard but somehow finding enough inner strength to demand clarification.

‘No, I –’

‘If you are starting a job at The Royal Oak, you need to look presentable,’ she said, her voice rising with an air of absolute authority. ‘I have seen the way young girls look these days. Fringes in their eyes, hair hanging like curtains, loose layers and bits falling around their faces. It is not only slovenly, but it is also unprofessional.’

‘I know,’ I accepted, whining more than I had intended, ‘but, really, I just need a trim, you know, for work, and –’

‘Elizabeth, I am not,’ Doris continued, ignoring me entirely, ‘having you tell people at The Royal Oak that I let one of my customers leave my shop looking like a bird’s nest. I have a reputation,’ she stated menacingly. ‘Do we understand each other?’

She clicked the scissors again, closer to my ear this time, adding emphasis to her firmness.

‘Okay,’ I whimpered, but still wanting to wrestle back control. ‘But please, not too –’

‘That’s good, Elizabeth,’ she stressed, her face transforming to a mask of grim satisfaction following my agreement.

She had not waited until the end of my sentence when I had intended to repeat my modest requirements. No, she simply dived in. I felt the cold and unforgiving steel of the blades brush against the sensitive skin of my nape. There was a sound, a terrifying crunch, the pain of thousands of hairs being sawn through at once. My head suddenly felt radically less heavy.

Doris stepped around to the front, holding my severed ponytail aloft like a trophy. It was a massive, dark rope of hair. She tossed it into a plastic rubbish bin under the shelf without a second thought.

I stared long, and longingly, at the bin overflowing with my discarded tresses before dragging my eyes up to face the mirror. I stared, tears welling in my eyes. My hair now barely touched my cheeks, but it was not a “style” in any conventional sense. It was a ragged and uneven thatch.

The First Cut

‘What… what have you done?’ I whispered disbelievingly.

‘Besides…’ Doris said, ignoring me, as if nothing untoward had occurred in the seconds since she last spoke. In that brief interlude, she had callously erased a lifetime of memories.

‘What -’

‘Besides,’ she interjected again, ‘I know Miss Hampton, the manageress over at The Royal Oak.’ She took a fine-toothed comb and, holding my head firmly in place, she painfully dragged the teeth through what remained of my hair. ‘Fiona is a stickler for appearance. She would have sent you packing before you had even clocked in if you had turned up with that straggly mess. She likes discipline, and she admires a girl who is not afraid to openly show her face.’

‘I realise all that,’ I whined, my voice shaking with exasperation. ‘That is why I came here! To you! So that I would look nice. For her!’

‘No more back-chat, princess,’ she snapped. ‘I need to concentrate. It has been a while since I have done one of these on a woman.’

‘One of what?’ I pleaded, my heart hammering against my ribs, as I searched my mind for any conversation that we might have shared concerning the style she had in mind for me.

However, she did not answer. She began to comb my remaining hair down evenly around my head, flat against my skull. Using different scissors, mercifully smaller than those she had first used, she clicked the blades together in her customary manner. Then a satisfied gleam invaded her serious expression.

Using the comb to guide her, she snipped with a terrifying efficiency, carving a perfectly straight line around my head, above the tips of my ears at the sides and above my eyebrows at the front. In a moment of clarity, I realised that she had given me a fringe for the first time in my life, and so far up my forehead that it was as though it was making up for lost time. I watched in horror as my prominent ears were fully exposed, prominently peeking out from beneath the blunt shelf of hair as if sprung from captivity, excited for their world premiere.

Doris paused, studying my ears. A small, dry chuckle escaped her throat. She reached out and gave my right ear a playful tug. ‘Cute,’ she said. ‘See, Elizabeth? Nowhere to hide now.’

Before I could protest the violation of my personal space, a new sound filled the shop. It was an almighty, raucous whining, the sound of a high-powered electric motor. I looked at her hand and saw that Doris had picked up a pair of ancient-looking, heavy-duty hairclippers, their appearance suggesting she had found them in a museum. Plugged into the wall socket with a thick, coiled black cord, even from a short distance they looked and sounded terrifying.

‘Wait!’ I gasped in astonishment, foolishly attempting to edge away from her hand while still confined in the barber’s chair. ‘Hairclippers?’

Head Down

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, accompanied by the dry chuckle once more. Her tone suggested that she saw it was quite normal to use hairclippers on women, even one who, until moments before, had hair down to her hips.

‘Head down,’ she commanded, her hand landing heavily on the crown of my head and forcing my chin into my chest.

Momentarily, movement on the other side of the window distracted me. Two girls, not much younger than me, were staring in. They were standing just a short distance away, only separated by a pane of glass. One was pointing, and both were laughing as they mischievously tossed their long ponytails from side to side. I felt thoroughly humiliated as they moved off, their disappointed expressions suggesting they were sad to be missing the rest of the show.

‘See, I said you would attract an audience, Elizabeth,’ Doris chuckled. ‘Now stop squirming, otherwise I will have to bring out the straps,’ she said deadpan.

I was moderately sure that she was joking and that there were bounds to be laws preventing the restraint of customers in barber’s chairs against their will. But based on my experience with her up to that point, I was unwilling to take the risk and force the issue. I stiffened my posture and ensured my chin was firmly resting down on my heaving chest.

And that is when things got worse.

Vibration

The vibration started at the base of my skull. It was an insistent buzzing sensation that sent shivers down my spine. I could feel cold metal teeth hammering against my skin, as if attempting to dislodge every individual hair rather than simply shave it off.

Unrelenting, Doris was moving the hairclippers in firm, upward strokes.

With my head locked in a prone position, I was unable to see what she was doing. But I could hear the hair falling. It sounded like dry leaves hitting the vinyl of the cape, swishing as it glided down to the floor.

Doris worked with the calm confidence of a woman who manipulated the hairclippers like an extension to her hand, having performed thousands of short haircuts over the years. Once she had cleared the hair from the back of my neck, she forced my head over to one side and held it firm. I felt the vibration travel around my ear as she cleaned the hair from my skin. Without ceremony, she bent my head the other way and repeated the task.

‘I am just buzzing it evenly all the way around,’ she claimed as she gave my neck more attention. But I knew it was more than that. I could feel cool air hitting parts of my scalp that had not seen daylight since I was a toddler.

Finally, the whining stopped. The silence that followed was deafening. I slowly raised my head, exercising caution in case she located a recalcitrant bristle demanding her attention.

Doris stepped back, dusting stray hairs off my shoulder with a soft brush. She reached for a handheld mirror and positioned it behind me.

‘There we go, Elizabeth,’ she said, her voice demonstrating a terrifying source of pride, as if her drastic action was justification for her to make a claim on me. ‘A nice, neat bowlcut for your first day at work. A style fit for a princess with a position to uphold at The Royal Oak.’

I stared at the stranger in the mirror.

The Stranger

My hip-length hair was gone. In its place was a rigid, geometric cap of hair that sat on my head like a helmet. She had cut it in a perfectly level line all the way around, hovering above my ears and revealing half my forehead. Below the perimeter, on the back and the sides of my head, she had obliterated all my hair, buzzing it down so only skin showed. It was a stark white wall that made my ears look like satellite dishes.

Doris had promised that she did not offer “girly” haircuts at Arcade Hair, and the evidence before me confirmed that. It was a military-grade barber’s special, normally reserved for punishing naughty schoolboys. It was drastic, severe and, undeniably, a bowlcut.

I was in total shock. I could not move or even blink. Doris looked at me expectantly in the mirror, still moving the hand mirror around behind me, as if further intense observation would help me come to terms with my transformation. It did not help.

‘It’s… it’s very short,’ I eventually managed to choke out.

‘Thank you,’ Doris beamed, as if ensuring that my hair was impossibly short had been her sole intention and she had passed the test with flying colours.

‘No, I mean, it’s too short –’

‘Nonsense, Elizabeth. It is a professional style,’ she countered, unfastening the cape with a flourish. ‘You look like someone a guest can trust with a room key. You look like you have got nothing to hide.’

She lowered the chair. I stood up, feeling light-headed, my legs unsteady. My neck felt strangely naked, the air in the shop feeling icy against my newly shorn skin. I reached into my purse and handed her the cash she requested. It was a tiny amount, barely a third of what a salon would have charged for a simple trim.

‘Back every three weeks without fail, Elizabeth,’ Doris said, holding my gaze with an intensity that brooked no argument. ‘Short hair like that needs maintenance. If you let it grow out shaggy, you will look like an unemployed layabout.’

‘Y… yes,’ I stammered, not believing that any hair worth cutting would emerge in that short interlude or that I would ever feel the desire to return. ‘Three weeks.’

She leaned in, a conspiratorial glint in her eye. ‘Tell you what, young lady. Any morning you can get here before 8am, I will freshen up those back and sides for free. Your revived appearance is my contribution to enhancing the local economy,’ she chuckled.

‘Thank you, Doris,’ I said dumbly, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else.

‘And let Fiona Hampton know that Doris sends her regards,’ she added, heading toward the door to flip the “Open” sign. ‘Although, once she sees your haircut, she will know you’ve been to see me anyway.’

She giggled then – a dry, raspy sound – as if she were in on a joke that I had not yet understood.

‘Yes, I will,’ I said flatly, relieved to be outside again but standing rooted to the spot, momentarily disorientated. ‘Cheerio, Doris,’ I murmured politely, but without feeling.

I snapped out of my brief trance when I heard the click of the barber’s lighter as she lit a cigarette, a cloud of blue smoke circling over me.

‘Cheerio, Elizabeth,’ she called out breezily from behind me as I walked out of the arcade and back into the morning sun. The world felt different. Every gust of wind felt like a cold hand stroking the back of my head. Striding towards The Royal Oak, my heart thudding against my ribs, I felt exposed, vulnerable, and utterly ridiculous.

I kept imagining people staring at my ears, the shaved skin, and the harsh line of the bowlcut.

The Royal Oak

The walk from the narrow, darkened arcade towards the grand, imposing glass doors of The Royal Oak had felt like a trek across a foreign country. Beneath the light, airy bowl of hair that sat atop my head, I felt strangely exposed. The breeze kept caressing the back of my neck. It was a sensation that I had never truly known, given that my hair had been a constant, heavy shield since childhood.

When I reached the grand entrance of the hotel, I paused at the glass doors. I caught my reflection one more time. I saw the tailored grey skirt suit, the crisp buttoned-up white blouse, and the severe, clippered haircut. My ears, once hidden by the messy, bohemian updos of the past, now stood out with a newfound prominence that matched the sharp, severe lines of the haircut.

No longer appearing like a cool and casual princess anymore, I looked formal and disciplined, as if I belonged to the traditional institution personified by The Royal Oak.

I pushed the doors open. The lobby was a cathedral of hushed voices and clinking teacups. I walked toward the long mahogany reception desk. Behind it stood the senior receptionist who had interviewed me, talking to an imposing woman who could only be the manageress, Miss Hampton. She was in her fifties, wearing a dark navy suit that looked like it cost more than my father’s car. The silk blouse she wore underneath had an ostentatious bow at the neck. She had pulled her hair back into a knot so tightly that it looked painful. Both pairs of eyes locked on to me as I approached the desk.

‘Miss Hampton, this is Beth, who I have told you about, and who is joining us this morning,’ the younger interviewer explained.

I stood attentively, briefly nodding towards her but maintaining eye contact with the manageress.

‘Thank you, Jasmine,’ Miss Hampton said curtly. ‘A customer requires your attention,’ she noted, jerking her chin to the other end of the desk. ‘I will care for Elizabeth.’

Her eyes were cold, professional, and discerning. They swept over my suit, clearly noting the length of the skirt, and then moved upward.

She froze when her unblinking gaze alighted on my hair. She surveyed the sharp perimeter of the bowl, then studied the shaved skin of my temples, before leaning in and peering behind me, examining the back of my neck.

Blushing, I felt my face heat up. ‘I prefer “Beth”,’ I asserted, by way of an unorthodox greeting.

I wished my identity to be clear and fixed from the start of my employment rather than suffering the plethora of uninvited abbreviations so often bestowed upon me. Only Mother called me “Elizabeth” and usually only when I had done something wrong, although Father slipped in an occasional “Liz” as an annoyance from time to time. I had only allowed Doris to get away with it earlier, as I knew I would never see her again.

‘Do you, Elizabeth, do you indeed?’ she replied with a doom-laden resonance, ignoring my overly timid request. She continued watching me, her patience lasting a breath longer than my ability to remain silent.

‘I am the new junior receptionist,’ I said needlessly to fill the unending silence, my voice trembling more than I would have liked. She pointedly returned her gaze to my hair. ‘I am sorry for being late, Miss Hampton. I went to get my hair trimmed this morning and –’

‘You are not late, Elizabeth,’ she said, and I followed her gaze to a large clock on the wall. ‘You are ten minutes early. Very commendable.’

Given all that had occurred with Doris, I could have sworn she had incarcerated me in Arcade Hair for an hour or even more.

Miss Hampton stepped out from behind the desk. She walked a slow circle around me, her heels clicking rhythmically on the marble floor. I felt like a prize exhibit she was inspecting at a dog show or a recruit under the piercing gaze of a drill sergeant. She stopped behind me, and I knew, from her warm breath on my skin, that she was closely examining the shaved nape of my neck.

‘Doris?’ she whispered, coming back around to face me, a hint of a smile touching her lips. Despite her intonation, it was not a question, as she already knew the answer. She looked me dead in the eye, and I nodded to confirm her assessment of the perpetrator of my bowlcut.

Acceptance

For the first time, Miss Hampton’s expression softened slightly. It was not conveying kindness exactly, but an emotion I could only interpret as a form of respect. Reaching out, she lightly tapped the side of my head, right where the transition from the thick, bowl-shaped hair to the close-clipped skin began.

‘Very brisk… very orderly… very sound,’ she remarked, nodding to herself. ‘I had told Jasmine that we needed to recruit associates who understood the necessity of discipline, but I did not expect you to take the initiative so, er, aggressively.’

Foolishly, I felt the need to explain how the bizarre situation had unfolded. ‘Thank you, Miss Hampton. But I –’

She was uninterested in my explanation. ‘Most girls of your age present themselves at The Royal Oak with hair like a multi-hued haystack and an attitude to match,’ Miss Hampton said. ‘They believe we provide these hallowed halls for their personal use as a fashion catwalk. They do not understand that this traditional and valued institution operates as a slick machine. And every part of the machine must look polished and function precisely.’ She finally took a breath. ‘You demonstrate remarkable potential, Elizabeth.’

She reached out and adjusted the collar of my blouse, her fingers brushing the skin of my jaw. It was an invasion of my personal space and one I would never have tolerated in the past. But I allowed it to pass on this occasion, accepting there must have been a minor shortcoming in my appearance that required correction.

‘It takes a certain kind of girl to walk into a barbershop and come out looking like you do,’ she continued. ‘Demonstrating a lack of vanity, it shows a willingness to be part of this institution and encompass its traditional values.’

I stood up a little straighter. ‘Thank you, Miss Hampton.’ I exhaled a breath I did not know I was holding.

‘Doris always did have a keen eye for who belongs at The Royal Oak,’ she murmured wistfully, adding a small dry chuckle reminiscent of that employed by Doris earlier.

Doris, I thought, a shiver running down my spine. The woman was a force of nature, a relic of a bygone era who treated hair as something that needed managing rather than styling.

‘Oh, Doris asked me to pass on her regards, Miss Hampton,’ I suddenly remembered.

Miss Hampton chuckled again. ‘I am sure she did. Well, Elizabeth, you certainly look the part of an associate at The Royal Oak now. You look sharp. You look smart. And you have certainly got the ears for the job,’ she tittered, lightly touching my right lobe. ‘You will need to keep these tuned in and listen to everything that goes on around the reception area.’

She gestured toward the space behind the desk. ‘Come. Let us get you started. Jasmine and your fellow associates have a great deal to teach you, although I suspect you will adapt well and learn quickly. Right, Jasmine,’ she said, attracting her attention, ‘please take over the remainder of Elizabeth’s orientation.’

‘Thank you, Miss Hampton,’ Jasmine and I chorused.

The First Day

My first day at The Royal Oak was unlike any I had experienced before during my young life. A punishing schedule of completing employment paperwork, visiting each department, and trying to remember everyone’s name. Choreographed professionally by Jasmine, my immediate boss, I even spent a trouble-free spell working on reception where I avoided overcharging anyone and did not send guests to the wrong room.

By the time 6pm rolled around, I felt exhausted but felt a strange and addictive satisfaction deep inside of me. I had survived my first day. As I left the hotel, the chill evening air brushed against the back of my neck again. This time it did not cause me to feel exposed but made me feel sharp and injected me with a quiver of excitement.

I found myself taking the long way home, tracing the path back toward the lanes. As I passed the mouth of the arcade, I saw the shop window of Arcade Hair. It was dark, and Doris had flipped the sign on the door to “Closed”.

I studied my reflection in the glass, the bowl cut clean and precise. In that moment, I realised that what I had endured that day had not just been simply a haircut, but a commitment and my journey that evening a pilgrimage.

The First Week

My first week at The Royal Oak was a whirlwind of adopting procedures, learning the phone and computer systems, and adjusting to guest relations. It was exhausting, but Miss Hampton was correct that I adapted to it all extremely quickly. Following my cluttered life beforehand, I discovered that I enjoyed the order of the hotel, liking the way everything had a place, and every person had a role.

But more surprisingly, begrudgingly at first, I began to appreciate my hair. There were the practicalities of no longer reaching up to fidget with a loose strand when I could be doing something more productive. And not worrying about a more unruly than usual updo falling apart before my next break. But it was more than just the practical benefits.

At first, the bowlcut was a source of shame, but towards the end of the week, I noticed something had changed. When I walked through the lobby, guests looked at me differently. They did not look at me as a “keen young person” trying to make their mark. Instead, they looked at me as someone radiating authority. The severity of my hairstyle gave me a gravity I had not possessed before. And without the constant weight of my hair to hide behind, I found myself standing taller, looking people in the eye instead of staring at the floor.

My ears, which had been the bane of my existence for eighteen years, were just ears. Nobody laughed. Nobody pointed. In the context of the professional environment, they just added character to my features, consolidating my new identity.

Another Week

On the following Monday at the start of my second week, I found myself waking up early. I looked in the mirror and noticed that the white wall on the back and sides of my head was beginning to feel slightly fuzzy. The crisp, clean edge that Doris had created was becoming blunt.

I dressed in my uniform for the first time. They had taken my measurements a week earlier, and two complete outfits had been handed to me when I completed my shift at the weekend. Although the material was maroon rather than the dark grey of my “interview suit”, the cut was surprisingly similar, including the shortness of the skirt.

‘Our guests appreciate the aesthetic, especially the businessmen,’ Jasmine winked, when I questioned the brevity of the skirt in such traditional surroundings. I left it at that, but during the week I became aware that its appearance was beneficial. It contributed to the size of tips, keeping associates happy. And it encouraged repeat bookings, and that kept management happy. Although that explanation did not sit right with my values and my understanding of those of the hotel, I settled on a short skirt being a clean and tidy professional look. And I did appreciate receiving my share of the appreciative gratuities from the guests.

So, I slithered into my pencil skirt, checking the hem. Then I buttoned up my tightly fitting blouse to the throat, noting how neatly the material sat across my chest. I slipped on my matching blazer and, glancing in the mirror, gave a celebratory twirl. I felt neat and complete, so I headed out.

However, I did not go straight to The Royal Oak.

Return to Arcade Hair

Instead of going directly to work, I took a detour through the cobbled arcade where it was still quiet. When I reached the still motionless red-and-white barber pole at 7.55am, my heart skipped a beat with an emotion I could only describe as a potent fusion of excitement and fear.

In the porch, Doris was already there, standing on the threshold, a vision in black with her brutally clipped hair. She was smoking, the smoke curling into the morning air.

When she saw me approaching, there was no disguising the slow and triumphant grin that spread across her face. She tried to rein it in, attempting to maintain her customary detached air, but her obvious delight shone through. She did not say “I told you so”, as she did not need to.

‘Back already?’ she probed nonchalantly, flicking her cigarette into the overflowing plant pot, adding more poison to the home of the sparse conifer.

‘I like the back and sides of my head to be clean and smooth,’ I said, my voice firmer than it had been a week ago. ‘Miss Hampton says precision is key.’

‘Fiona is a wise woman,’ Doris chuckled, stepping back and holding the door open for me. ‘In you go, then, Elizabeth. The chair’s waiting.’

While it had only been a week since I had been there and she would have seen no one else like I had appeared in her recent memory, I was still unaccountably pleased that she had remembered my name. As everyone at the hotel knew me as “Elizabeth” despite my attempts to force adoption of my preferred abbreviation, I was pleased to allow Doris into that limited circle.

‘Oh, and you fill that lovely new uniform remarkably well, young lady,’ she observed, patting me lightly on the bottom.

The old me would have complained at her taking such a liberty. But I did not. ‘Thanks, even though the skirt’s a bit short,’ I commented.

‘Yes, as I said, it’s lovely,’ she chuckled dryly, and I joined in.

I clambered up into the massive hydraulic seat, slightly hampered by the tight pencil skirt, but I found a way. As I felt the heavy vinyl cape snap shut around my neck, I recognised that Doris had given me more than just a haircut. She had completely stripped away the girl I had been – the one who hid behind a messy bun and a shield of insecurity – and she had engineered me to become the woman that The Royal Oak required.

The heavy-duty hairclippers began their raucous whine, and as the cold blades touched the back of my neck, I did not flinch. I sat perfectly still, staring at my reflection, ready for Doris to reveal me to the world once more, with nothing left to hide.

I felt more relaxed on this occasion. As Doris moved my head around to ensure she did not miss a bristle, my neck’s muscle memory followed her manipulated guidance with ease. That gave me greater opportunity to take in more of my surroundings, although there was little to hold my interest in the clean and unadorned space. My eyes fell on a framed sheet of paper, and I began to read the words, my heart skipping a beat at the audacity of my thoughts.

Second Thoughts

‘Doris?’ I murmured as the hair hairclippers went silent, all too quickly, and she was about to unfasten the cape.

‘Yes, Elizabeth?’ she responded, raising an arched eyebrow to indicate I should continue.

Taking a deep breath, I tried to explain. ‘I know it’s because my hair grows so quickly that the fuzzy edges are already appearing in just a couple of days… and it can’t be helped… and that’s how it is… and it’s nothing you did, or did not do… or anything,’ I paused, waiting for an answer, but then I realised I had not asked anything, causing me to feel flustered and hot under my tight collar.

She gestured for me to continue with whatever was worrying me.

‘I see on your “Price List” here, on the wall, that you offer razor shaves… to men… well, obviously only to men… and their faces,’ I rambled, wondering why my newfound confidence and assertiveness from the past week had temporarily deserted me. ‘I mean, does it work… that is, can you shave… er, like the back and sides of a woman’s head to slow down the appearance of the fuzziness?’ I blurted out.

Doris paused as she was about to release me from the cape and held my gaze in the mirror. Then a smile formed as she snapped the cape tightly around my neck once more. ‘Yes, it will make a significant difference, although I was going to wait until you had visited me for a couple of months before suggesting that option,’ she remarked as I watched her preparing the creamy lather. ‘Do you know, Elizabeth, you’re a quick learner.’

‘Yes, it has been said,’ I giggled, swinging my legs freely above the footrest of the overly large chair.

Doris tilted my head forward and, obediently, I allowed my chin to rest on my chest. The first contact of the warm lather on my neck was delectable, like drinking creamy hot chocolate on a freezing day. She used a brush to smear the foamy substance on my nape, up the back of my head, and around my ears. I stole a glance in the mirror and observed the crisp helmet perched on my crown, sitting atop the blanket of white lather. Seeing that the hair that remained was already cut short, and a barber about to shave half my head to the bone, was not a sight I would have ever envisaged a week earlier when I was bustled inside Arcade Hair by Doris with my limp ponytail trailing behind me.

The touch of the cold razor on my neck was incredible. With short, deft strokes she scraped away the lather and any fine bristles that had escaped the clippers. It was a delicious, meditative experience as she, with economy of movement and great care, scraped the back and sides of my head completely clean.

Doris wiped away the remaining foam and then checked the smoothness of my skin with her fingers. It was pristine.

In reality, once she had removed the cape and examined my head closely in the mirror, there was only a slight difference from before. But it felt completely different somehow. Cleaner, smoother, more like the person I wanted to become.

‘Next time, Elizabeth,’ Doris forewarned as I was leaving, ‘we’ll take the perimeter a little high.’

I turned back as she lit her cigarette behind me, and I beamed a genuine smile. I might have hugged her if it had not been for all the smoke swirling around her. ‘Thank you, Doris.’

Epilogue

Once again, willingly the second time, I had allowed Doris, that terrifyingly efficient woman at Arcade Hair, to keep me in perfect working order. Miss Hampton, my fellow associates at The Royal Oak, and our guests would be the beneficiaries.

I walked to work with my head held high. The prominent silhouette of my ears accompanying my shadow was no longer a source of embarrassment. Instead, they were a badge of the freshly disciplined life I had chosen to embrace.

The Royal Oak required perfection, and for the first time in my young life, I knew exactly how to provide it. I was no longer an eighteen-year-old girl drifting through job applications. I had grown into a professional woman, and I was going to be the most impeccably groomed receptionist that the hotel had ever seen.

For the first time, I had a future that was as straight, as neat, and as orderly as the hair on my head.

A Note from the Author

Further to sharing my stories here, on the Hair Story Network, they are also collected on my personal archive, along with additional exclusive material, at The Hair Apparent Stories.

Traditionally, I have always relied on my own imagination and that of my readers to visualise my stories. On my own site I have added an AI-generated image to serve as a “book cover” for each story, providing a pictorial introduction to the characters and scenes portrayed in the text that follows.