A New You, Part 1 – A Welcome Opportunity for the Women of Gerancia

Prologue

The corporate world does not break people like me. No, it simply refines us, allowing us to redefine ourselves.

When head office decided to pull the multinational firm’s operations out of Gerancia, they did not just leave a hole in the country’s local economy. No, they left me, Claudia Kurtz, without a kingdom to rule. I had been their director of human resources with fifteen years of experience in corporate streamlining and personnel management. I had been their hatchet to dismiss their staff. And then, with a vicious sense of irony, I directed myself to pack my own cardboard box before I turned out the lights, and I left the building.

But a woman of my calibre does not mourn a lost job. No, she immediately picks herself, identifies an emerging market opportunity, and wastes no time in going for it!

The Concept

The idea crept up on me, uninvited at first, and then I began to imagine the lucrative possibilities.

The national television news continually reported on the recession that was looming over Gerancia following the abrupt withdrawal of international investment. Gerancia had been modestly wealthy when compared with its neighbours to the east, but that fragile assessment was slowly slipping away.

Every evening, the TV screen pummelled us with dystopian visions of those eastern countries as if predicting what our beautiful country was to become. There were repetitive images of austere factories, mines, schools, and other establishments with a universally drab and grey appearance. It was disturbing and upsetting, and, while everyone was saying someone needed to do something, no one was doing anything of note.

It felt like the press was trying to bludgeon our spirit, even before our national pride had the chance to fade away gracefully. As I walked around the city, the sad and defeated faces I observed suggested the strategy of the reporters was working all too well.

Watching one report, I saw men waiting sullenly in line by a row of ABX3 booths, a classic image of the East and one we had once denigrated. I recognised the machines simply because their manufacturer had exhibited at the same trade fairs that I had attended with my former company. The ABX3 was a monstrous device and the subject of great ridicule in wealthier countries, including Gerancia, nations that had never entertained the idea of installing them.

Away to the east, the ABX3, or the AutoBarber, as people usually referred to the dreadful device, was as common as a vending machine. It was cheap, fast, hygienic, and brutally efficient. It was for men such as soldiers, miners, and factory workers who valued time and efficiency over frivolous niceties such as style. They were for men who needed shearing like sheep, allowing them to quickly return to their vocation, avoiding deductions from their meagre wages.

In appearance, the ABX3 was a utilitarian box of grey steel. It automatically buzzed your hair if you were fortunate, and it shaved your head clean if you were unlucky. The only manual intervention during the operation was the pressing of a button. The machine offered minor variations of hairstyle, but bosses frequently locked out the options in the administrator settings.

For example, a flattop is a remarkably short haircut, but management often viewed it as a far too refined and frivolous option. And the longest hairstyle that the machine could conjure up was a severe pudding bowl, cut high and clean above the ears. All the schools in the east chose this option to keep their boys looking uniform, neat, and clean.

Although monstrous in appearance and action, I had often covertly observed the demonstrations of the ABX3 at trade fairs. I had always had this strange fascination about hair and haircutting. It originated from an occasion when I was younger, when a well-meaning neighbour had bobbed my long hair. At the time, I was distraught over the loss, but whenever I touched my sharp bob or reflected on the cutting process, I felt a sense of arousal. I know it sounds weird, and it is why I have never told anyone about my strange feelings until now.

The final item on the TV news, following the weather forecast, showed a line of grey ABX3M vehicles abandoned in a scrapyard. An inset image revealed a row of shiny ABX4M vans, the upgraded replacement. The ‘M’ suffix referred to a vehicle with a self-contained AutoBarber installed in the back that facilitated a mobile haircutting service for small groups of men at remote locations. The male weather presenter, with a gravity-defying pompadour hairstyle, flicked his quiff with a mischievous grin. He quipped that with austerity looming in Gerancia, an enterprising person might consider importing a redundant ABX3M, allowing him to use it when his money ran out.

Joking aside, to the common observer, the van was simply a bygone relic of austerity. To me, based on an idea he had inadvertently prompted, it was a potential goldmine.

The Opportunity

I already knew the value of human hair. Not the short snippets of male hair that the ABX3 would remove and recycle for composting, but long female hair. Traditionally, women rarely cut their hair in Gerancia, yet those in the wealthier countries to the west valued it highly.

During management meetings in the past, the glamorous ladies from head office had frequently discussed replacing their “tired” extensions. And the cost of doing so would exceed a couple of months of a typical salary in Gerancia. I had understood that the price had dramatically increased because it had become increasingly difficult to source raw human hair of sufficient length. The wealthy businesswomen had lamented the shortage and the resulting high price, and I was now imagining the pot of gold hidden in plain sight.

In Gerancia, we were entering a period of “economic realignment”, a polite term the government used to disguise poverty. After I had watched the news report, my mind was buzzing, so I went for a walk around the city to clear my head. I saw thousands of young women walking the streets with valuable assets growing out of their heads. But they were assets they could not afford to maintain, and they did not know how to profit from.

My idea began to take shape.

The Implementation

Implementing my concept began with recruiting Josef Mesier, a former work colleague. He had worked in the engineering department and was now jobless too. Josef was technically gifted, but he had that soft and artistic temperament that made him easy to manipulate.

Together, we hit the road, driving the long distance to the east in comfort, my beloved red car eating up the kilometres. Being unemployed, my vehicle was my last remaining luxury, but it was one that I could no longer afford to run. We drove directly to the scrapyard featured on the TV news. I had Josef examine each ABX3M and told him to select the most mechanically sound. Once he had selected a suitable candidate, I negotiated hard with the proprietor, exchanging my lovely little car for the hulking grey van, receiving cash for the difference in value.

It took a great deal longer to reach home, and it was a far less comfortable experience in the ponderous grey van. During the journey, I had outlined my crystallising plan to Josef. I told him we would adapt the machine to harvest the silken gold of long-haired women of Gerancia. I could tell he was sceptical as he stared longingly at the doorhandle every time we drew to a halt. However, without doubt, because I was paying for his time, he did not challenge my ideas or make a bid for freedom.

Although it had been a gruelling journey, I was excited to start operations. So, I insisted that Josef be ready to help with the preparation early the next day.

The Preparation

At 7am the following morning, I met Josef at a disused factory unit I had rented for a pittance. Sadly, so many similar establishments had recently closed. Scruffy as always, Josef was wearing a T-shirt proclaiming knowledge of a band of which I had never heard. His jeans were so torn that they had more patches than original denim. Even so, they still exhibited rips that might either be a fashion statement or a future sewing task. And his unkempt hair tumbled around his shoulders in an unruly mass. But I excused his appearance, as he was extremely competent and trustworthy.

‘I want the harvesting mechanism modified,’ I told him, pointing to the internal schematics. ‘The original design just vacuums the waste hair into a recycling bin, but I want it preserved. The blades need to sever the locks length at their root,’ I instructed him excitedly, ‘and then have the internal grippers bundle the hair up so there are no tangles and no damage.’

Josef leafed through the operating manual, then looked at me, his eyes wide. ‘Claudia, these machines… they are not meant for women. The longest setting is a pudding bowl style for schoolboys, and even that exposes the ears. I simply will not be able to adapt the mechanism to cut longer styles.’

‘I do not want it adapted to create longer styles,’ I said sweetly, but firmly.

‘But the pudding bowl is barely ten centimetres on top. Claudia, you are going to be, er… scalping them,’ Josef complained, clearly appalled.

I casually smoothed my own hair away from my face, secured in a jaunty ponytail. Enjoying the flicker of discomfort in his gaze, I let the silence lengthen before speaking. ‘I am giving these women a choice, Josef. In this austere economic climate, a haircut is a luxury for the majority, even just a trim. I will be offering the service for free. Better yet, I am compensating them for the privilege. I call the bonus for their long hair a “subsidy for aesthetic streamlining”.

Josef frowned, clearly not understanding the finer points of my campaign. ‘But women love their long hair,’ he whispered. ‘I love women’s long hair,’ he added sorrowfully.

I leaned in, letting a cold smile play on my lips. ‘For me, that is the beauty of it, Josef. I have always found a certain… professional satisfaction in watching a woman lose her vanities. Stripping away the excess until only the utility remains is the ultimate form of managing human resources,’ I explained gleefully.

He gave me a peculiar sideways look, one that either suggested he did not know me as well as he thought, or he completely failed to understand my explanation. At that moment, I was grateful that I had not disclosed my fascination for cutting women’s hair. If I had, he might have thought me weird and run away.

The New You

By the end of the week our very own ABX3M was ready.

As Josef addressed the mechanical aspects, I got my hands dirty by painting the grey exterior. I created a base of sickeningly cheerful pink and sunshine yellow, then adorned it with stylised flowers. By the time I had finished, it closely resembled an ice cream van or a cupcake stall at a music festival. Whatever others thought, in my eyes it had a sweet mission to perform.

I wished to dispense with the utilitarian formal designation of ABX3M, with its austere connotations. And even AutoBarber seemed unwise for a service targeting women. So, I proudly called it A New You, with a vinyl wrap along both sides and on the back to reinforce our mission and to advertise the service.

‘It needs a final calibration,’ Josef smugly declared, standing by the open back doors and wiping his greasy hands with a piece of rag. The machine filled the space inside like a high-tech iron maiden. A utilitarian metal and leather chair sat behind a glass screen, with a control panel of levers, buttons, and dials by the door. Partly retracted in the ceiling and sides of the unit were a dizzying array of robotic arms and sensors.

‘Although I know you will not be using the finest setting on women,’ Josef chuckled nervously, we need to ensure that the sensors used for controlling a skin-tight shave are accurate to the millimetre.’

You may very well think A New You will not be shaving women, I chuckled silently, but I choose not to comment.

‘Evaluate it on yourself, Josef,’ I commanded.

Josef hesitated, running his fingers through his scruffy, messy, collar-length hair. ‘I, er… would rather not, Claudia. I like my hair… and so does my girlfriend.’ He tried a weak smile to soften my stance, but he was wasting it on me.

‘And is your girlfriend paying you, Josef?’ I challenged, cruelly but necessary. ‘You are on my payroll now. And just look at you. You look like a revolutionary or a member of an unsuccessful rock band. A New You needs to project a professional image. Go on, Josef, get into that chair.’

He whimpered, but he did not argue. No one argues with me for long. He sat down, and I strapped his wrists into the armrests. I stepped up to the control panel outside the Perspex window. Through the clear shield, I saw his reflection, pale and fearful.

I spun the refinement dial to zero and enthusiastically stabbed the “Bald” button with mounting anticipation. As I did so, I could not help thinking that the labels describing the styles could do with a lighter description to satisfy the feminine aesthetic. But for now, unseen and unexpected by Josef, the dial and button together would give him the finest, most aggressive shave imaginable.

The machine hummed to life. A blue laser ring descended, mapping the topography of his skull in a frantic dance of light. Then, the mechanical arms moved. To the casual observer, it was a blur of silver. To me, through the window, it was a perfectly choreographed symphony. A set of clamps held his head secure, while soft rubber grippers seized his hair, pulling it taut. A ceramic blade, vibrating at ultrasonic speeds, swept across the base of his neck.

I watched through the glass, mesmerised. His hair did not just fall, but the blade systematically removed it. The vacuum intake hissed, whisking the brown locks into the specialized collection canister that, ironically, Josef had built. The clippers followed, a three-headed rotary system that moved with the fluid grace of a predator. Josef, his head unable to move, winced as the cold steel met his skin, but the machine was relentless.

In exactly ninety seconds, the Perspex shield retracted. Josef sat there, blinking. His head was a perfect, pale orb, polished to a high sheen by the integrated buffing pads at the end of the cycle. He looked clinical; he looked clean; he looked corrected.

Just as he stood, a small vacuum-packed cellophane package popped out of the chute at the side of the machine.

‘Perfect,’ I said, running my fingers lightly over his scalp and marvelling at the intense smoothness, ‘and your harvesting modification works like a dream. However, I am not sure there is enough from your head to interest the hair merchant, so you may want to keep that small packet of your former locks as a souvenir… for your girlfriend,’ I chuckled. ‘So, Josef, how do you feel?’

‘Bald,’ he despaired as he gazed at the mirror integrated into the van’s panelling.

‘Well, you certainly look polished,’ I giggled. ‘A New You.’

The Operation

Josef turned up at the storage unit at 7am as I had demanded but wearing his usual failed rock-musician outfit. Although his attire worked at one level with his gleaming bald head, it fell short in the professional hairstyling stakes.

‘Now, put on the suit I bought you,’ I demanded, gesturing to the black ensemble on a hanger that I had picked up cheaply from a charity shop.

He grumbled, but he exchanged his T-shirt for a crisp white shirt. Then he forced himself into the snug-fitting black jacket and trousers. He held up the sombre tie as if he had never seen one before, and I helped him secure it around his neck. The result was as unlike Josef as I could imagine, but, while the suit was cheap and a little too tight, it beautifully complemented his gleaming bald head.

‘Very smart,’ I concluded, giving an extra tug to his tie, emphasising who was in charge. ‘Let’s go to market!’

In contrast to Josef’s formal look, I was wearing my favourite power suit. Left over from my corporate career, it still fitted me like a glove. A sharp pink-and-white miniskirt coupled with a matching blazer, the latter nipped in at the waist like a corset. I paired the suit with a crisp white silk blouse with a pussy-cat bow at the neck. Professional, I deemed, and approachable.

I wanted to deflect any questions about why I had not submitted my own long hair to my machine. In my previous role, I would have simply stated that there was nothing wrong with my “old you” requiring an upgrade. But, in my new career, that comment risked alienating customers. So, I had pulled back my hair into a bun so tight, low down on my nape, that it felt like a facelift. Furthermore, I plastered it down with enough gel to make it look varnished on my scalp. So, if anyone asked why I did not use the machine, I had my lie ready. I would simply tell them my hair was beneath the minimum threshold for harvesting.

Once suited and booted, we drove into town and set up in the corner of the market square. We unfurled the banners around the van:

FREE MAKEOVERS

INSTANT CASH BONUSES

BECOME THE NEW YOU

As I hoped, with poverty acting as a powerful motivator, it did not take long for someone to approach us.

The Execution

A woman marched towards us, her face etched with the worry of not being able to feed, clothe and support her family. She had a girl of around twenty in tow, her daughter, who had a magnificent, heavy, chestnut mane that reached down to her hips.

‘Is it true?’ the mother asked, eyeing the inviting posters and the cash box I had placed prominently on my table. ‘You would pay for the hair of my daughter, Laura?’

‘Exactly so,’ I chirped, my voice honeyed and professional. ‘A free “Berlin Bob”,’ I enthused, using the new, female-friendly term I had coined for a bowlcut. ‘It is our most popular and fashionable bobbed style, emulating the catwalk chic you will find beyond Gerancia’s borders, and it would suit you perfectly, Laura.’

‘Never heard of it,’ the daughter griped.

I ignored her. ‘And a sizeable bonus for the length and weight of hair that you leave behind,’ I added encouragingly, scribbling an estimated amount on a scrap of paper and showing it to her mother.

‘Goodness me,’ the mother remarked, her eyes widening with eager anticipation.

‘And Laura will receive loyalty card for A New You, offering a modest discount on her maintenance cuts,’ I added, ‘when we return here every month.’

‘Well, thank you for the information,’ the mother said, appearing unconvinced, while Laura simply looked relieved. ‘We will think –’

‘And remember, long hair is such a drain on family resources,’ I pressed, never one to miss any sort of deal. ‘Think of the money you spend on your daughter’s shampoo and conditioner, not to mention the time she wastes on brushing and styling. It is all so inefficient and so unnecessary.’

Comprehension dawned in the mother’s eyes. She smiled. ‘Yes, you are quite right. Laura –’

‘Mama, no!’ The daughter’s frightened eyes showed understanding too, but they were wide with a mix of terror and rebellion. ‘I have been growing my hair for years. For my wedding –’

‘And you have been living in my house for twenty years, eating my food, wasting water and electricity on that hair, without a job. And not even a boyfriend to appreciate your hair or consider marrying you,’ the mother snapped, fixing her eyes on the cash I was absently twirling between my fingers. ‘Get in the van, Laura.’

I escorted the girl towards the machine, then nodded to Josef to install her in the chair. He mouthed “No”, but, after the dark stare that I fixed him with, he quickly changed his mind.

Josef ushered Laura into the chair and strapped her arms in place. He lifted her hair, and I could see him shivering, looking horrified, over what was about to happen. By contrast, I was quivering with delight for the same reasons as I watched him pull the Perspex screen across and step back.

Laura, staring out from behind the screen, sat trembling as I adjusted the settings on the control panel by the door.

‘The “Berlin Bob” is our longest option,’ I explained through the glass. ‘It is a classic, er, style, very chic. However, if you opt for the “Cannes Cue Ball”, the bonus increases by as much as twenty per cent. There is more hair to harvest, you see, and you would be completely bald just like Josef.’

‘The Bob! Just the Bob!’ Laura cried after glancing at Josef’s gleaming scalp.

Her mother gave a resigned nod for me to proceed, clearly disappointed by the loss of the extra cash.

I sighed, frustrated by their lack of vision, but I pressed the activation button anyway. Then I stood back, arms folded across my chest, and eagerly observed proceedings.

Through the Perspex window, the show began, starting with a fast-moving laser mapping the dimensions of her head in the blink of an eye. The machine’s mechanical fingers threaded through her chestnut hair, lifting it. Laura had squeezed her eyes tight shut, tears leaking out. I watched with a mounting sense of exhilaration. This was what I had missed from my corporate days when I had the absolute power to reshape a person, both mentally and physically.

The primary cutters engaged, snipping enthusiastically as if they were enjoying the exercise in the same way that I was. They severed large, heavy hanks of hair that the machine sucked upwards into the chute before the “waste” disappeared into the mechanical innards.

Then the shaping arms descended. They moved around her ears with terrifying speed and precision, the clippers humming a high-pitched vibrato that added to the wonderful symphony. I watched as the multiple blades bared the back of her neck before moving up to her occipital bone, leaving nothing behind but smooth, pale skin. As the sharp edges cleared her temples of their blanket of hair, they deliciously exposed her prominent ears, so that they stuck out from a wide expanse of white scalp.

The zooming blades cut the remaining hair evenly around her head, leaving a harsh perimeter that a spirit level would not find fault with. The line continued at the same level around the front, leaving her with a blunt fringe high above her eyebrows, exposing her forehead.

When the machine stopped, the “Berlin Bob” was complete. It was a severe, punishing style comprising a thick helmet of hair on top, with the back and sides shaved completely bald. Rather than the abundant locks of a young woman looking forward to marriage, it was the haircut of a futuristic orphan.

Punctuating the silence was a whooshing sound, accompanying a neat, vacuum-packed plastic package popping out of the machine’s side chute. It contained one metre of thick, pristine chestnut hair.

I helped the girl out of the machine. She reached up, her hand trembling as it met the cold skin where her hair used to be. She looked in the mirror and let out a choked sob.

‘A New You,’ I declared proudly, and she emitted a louder sob.

‘You look streamlined, Laura,’ I said, handing her mother the cash bonus for the severed hair. ‘You look like a supermodel on a Berlin fashion catwalk,’ I lied, when the truth was that it would be more likely that such models would be wearing expensive hair extensions made from Laura’s very own tresses.

The mother did not even look at her daughter. She eagerly counted the money twice, and then she walked away, confident in the knowledge that she had enough money to feed her whole family for a month.

‘See you in a month for your trim, Laura!’ I called out to her as she trudged after her mother, but she did not turn around. ‘And do not forget to tell all your friends about A New You.’

Epilogue

Around the market square, people had watched, a couple of women even coming closer to observe the machine and snatch a flyer. I engaged in conversation where I could, as did Josef, encouraging women with beautiful long hair to consider A New You.

It was fascinating to observe the psychology of the crowd as their curiosity led them to question us. The women were desperate to maximise their compensation. However, a sliver of vanity would drive them to choose the longest option of the “Berlin Bob” if they ever succumbed. Consequently, I decided the default labels for the machine’s styles were obviously too stark. So, we rebranded the shorter styles so they would sound more enticing to our female clientele. The flattop became the “Paris Pixie”, and the crewcut was the “Brussels Buzz”.

Our marketing effort soon bore fruit.

‘Come on, Katya. The “Brussels Buzz” sounds so cool,’ a man’s voice behind me eloquently urged. ‘It conjures up the ambience – the buzz – we would experience if we visited a western city. And it denotes the hairstyle you should have so that you would feel part of it.’

‘A New You,’ I whispered to Josef with a gleam in my eye as I stepped forward to greet them.

To be continued

A Note from the Author

Further to sharing a selection of my stories here, they are also available on my personal story archive, including the next part of this series:

A New You, Part 2 – Enhancing the Lives of the Women of Gerancia

Also freely included on my archive are a great many additional stories that are not published here or elsewhere

You are welcome to share your thoughts on my stories on My Personal Story Archive, with no login or registration required