HairApparent
This story serves as a sequel to A New You, Part 1 – A Welcome Opportunity for the Women of Gerancia and one can enjoy it independently without the need to read the original story.
Prologue
After my mobile hairdressing service, A New You, had transformed its first customer, promising a healthy profit from the hair that we harvested, Josef and I focused our energy on encouraging more women to follow suit.
Positioned on the edge of the market square, there was considerable curiosity surrounding our endeavour throughout the morning. But after a couple more hours we had no further takers. We tweaked our marketing campaign as we engaged with those who passed nearby. Finally, we heard a couple approaching our van from behind us, deep in their conversation.
‘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, stepping around the doors of our van to greet the couple.
The Production Line
Hearing the man’s articulate and persuasive words, I had decided I needed this imaginative man on my marketing team to drive the production line. Given his eloquence, I had expected to see a scrawny intellectual type appearing in front of me. Therefore, I was surprised to see a great hulk of a man. Not fat but muscular, although not muscle-bound, he filled his sportswear perfectly. His shining bald head was a match for Josef’s smooth cranium, and it perfectly complemented his overall appearance. However, his gentle voice belied his intimidating look, presenting a fascinating character.
I looked around to see who he had been talking to, and I was surprised to see no one else nearby.
‘I’m very happy as I am, thank you, Kurt.’ A husky woman’s voice sounded from nowhere. However, as the man adjusted his position, a slim woman was visible behind him, although his bulk could have hidden a whole family.
‘Nonsense, Katya. That hair of yours is a liability. It is always getting tangled in the gym equipment,’ he grumbled. ‘And do not even get me started on the shower’s drain… and then there are the expensive carpets,’ he sighed.
She stood there, perfectly toned in Lycra, shaking her head, her black hair held in a magnificent braid swinging like a pendulum. ‘Look, Kurt, I do not want to be bald like you. I –’
‘Excuse me, Katya, if I might intervene,’ I chirped. ‘The “Brussels Buzz” will not render you bald. You would, as Kurt rightly says, look like a cosmopolitan city girl,’ I explained.
I let her digest my statement, and with that perfectly aimed comment, her lips curled into a slight smile.
‘And I would of course pay you for the privilege of transforming you, and perhaps you could put the cash towards a holiday of a lifetime?’ I smiled sweetly, realising that poverty was not the driving force in her decision-making, but enjoying the best things in life certainly was.
‘You would pay me?’ I nodded, scribbling an estimate on a scrap of paper and showing her.
‘And I wouldn’t be bald?’ I shook my head. ‘You can simply look forward to A New You.’
I could see Josef mouthing “almost bald” behind her, but I glared at him to dissuade his intervention.
I turned my smile back on for Katya’s benefit. ‘Kurt, are you sure you would not mind seeing me with shorter hair?’
He stared at her, visibly gulped, and then blinked a couple of times. After a cooling-off period, I realised he was having second thoughts.
‘She will look beautiful, Kurt; I am sure you will agree. Just come this way, Katya,’ I urged, putting an arm around her shoulders and feeling that magnificent thick braid that I planned would soon be mine.
‘Well, er… perhaps we should have a think about it,’ Kurt hesitated, ‘and then maybe come back tomorrow, or –’
‘We will not be here tomorrow,’ I snapped, shutting down his miserable objection. ‘No time like the present. Josef, ready Katya for A New You.’
With all the uncertain chatter expressed by the couple, he looked hesitant.
‘Now!’ I insisted, lowering my voice.
Josef guided Katya to the chair and strapped her arms in place. He lifted her heavy braid and lowered it down the back of the chair. He reignited my excitement as he pulled the Perspex screen across.
Katya looked like a deer in headlights, unsure of what was about to happen. I adjusted the settings on the control panel by the door.
‘The “Brussels Buzz” is very chic,’ I explained through the glass. ‘However, if you opt for the “Cannes Cueball”, the bonus increases significantly. There is more hair to harvest, you see.’
‘I do not want to look like Kurt, and I do not need the extra cash,’ Katya yelled. ‘Just do what we agreed and do it quickly.’
‘Speed will not be an issue,’ I whispered enigmatically, as I pressed the button, then stood back with arms folded across my chest.
Through the Perspex window, the show began, with the laser rapidly mapping her head’s dimensions. The machine’s mechanical fingers encircled her thick braid close to the nape and lifted it. Katya’s eyes showed panic, unable to see what was happening behind her. That became more apparent when the primary cutters engaged, snipping off her braid in one swift movement. The machine sucked it upwards into the chute before disappearing.
Then the shaping arms descended. In constant motion, the clipper blades moved all over her head with terrifying speed and precision, covering every millimetre. In their wake, a uniform fuzz of less than a centimetre covered her whole scalp. I nudged the refinement dial, and the blades adjusted. Then they repeated their task over the back and sides of her head, producing a perfect “Grade 3” crewcut, faded down to the skin at the hairline.
When the machine stopped, the “Brussels Buzz” was complete. It was a neat, uniform style, and one that would not have looked out of place on a convict in prison.
Out of the side chute, a neat, vacuum-sealed cellophane package popped out. It contained over eighty centimetres of heavy, still-braided dark hair.
‘The New You,’ I stated, pointing towards the mirror, but she ignored me and headed over to her dumbstruck partner. Kurt ran his hand over her denuded scalp, smiled, and then kissed her fully on the lips. I counted out the cash. As the couple only had eyes for each other as they wandered off arm-in-arm, I stuffed the cash into the pocket of Katya’s leggings. Neither took any notice.
‘Well, that was different,’ Josef said, shaking his head with confusion.
‘It all adds variety to the working day,’ I chuckled.
The Dutiful Son
Once Katya and Kurt had departed, looking so attractive and happy, it had the snowballing effect of encouraging more women to come forward. However, the most peculiar encounter arose at the end of the morning.
Standing on the periphery and watching intently, I had noted an older boy. From his demeanour and his informal mode of dress, I judged him to be a college student. With him was a much older woman who, given their resemblance and interaction, could only be his mother.
Despite the woman’s age, she wore fashionable clothes, although her garments looked tired and worn in places. Her floral minidress with a plunging neckline appeared a little too short and revealing for an older mother, but her height allowed her to carry it off well. Worn over her dress, the leather jacket looked ancient. Was it “shabby chic” at its best, or was she simply unable to afford anything newer? She had clamped her honey-blonde hair in a youthful, messy updo that disguised its length and thickness. But, given her age, it was unlikely to rate high on the harvesting scale.
They had watched at least three transformations, although it was the son who did the greater amount of the looking. He was mesmerised by the changes he witnessed, so I wondered if he had the curious interest in haircutting that I enjoyed. I quickly dismissed the idea, unable to believe such a strange trigger could arouse any men or boys.
After each transformation, his mother made a move away, but he grabbed her hand, had a brief conversation, and tried to nudge her forward to speak to me. But each time she resisted. Finally, after the latest customer left and the audience had faded away, he grabbed her hand and pulled her in my direction.
‘This is Jelena, my mother,’ the boy announced, maintaining his firm grip on the older woman.
‘Stop being silly, Matty,’ Jelena complained, trying to pull away. ‘Come along, we have vegetables to buy in the market.’
‘But what about the new trainers for my birthday, Mama?’ he stated, waving his free hand at his perfectly serviceable footwear. ‘These are so old-fashioned.’
‘I’ve told you I can’t afford them, Matty,’ she lamented. ‘You know it has been tough since your father left, and it is worse now since I lost my cleaning job at those foreigners’ posh offices. Christmas, perhaps…’ she concluded without conviction.
‘Christmas! I need them now, Mama,’ Matty insisted, waving his arm again. ‘And these people will pay you more than enough for my new trainers, with some left over for you… or even to buy more, even fresher, vegetables.’
‘Is it true?’ the mother timidly asked, eyeing our decorated van and the surrounding posters. ‘You would pay for my hair?’
‘Exactly so,’ I chirped, my voice honeyed and professional. ‘Not only that but, free of charge, we would give you a sophisticated “Berlin Bob” hairstyle,’ I enthused. ‘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, Jelena.’
‘Really?’ the mother questioned doubtfully. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Of course you have, Mama,’ Matty chimed in. ‘Just like that actress on TV that you really like.’
‘Do I?’ Jelena said thoughtfully.
I had no idea who Matty was referring to, or even if it was true, but I nodded enthusiastically, as did her son.
‘Oh… right…’ she murmured thoughtfully. ‘And how much –’
‘The bonus depends on the length and weight of your hair that you leave behind,’ I added encouragingly.
I scribbled an amount on a scrap of paper, offering a paltry estimate as to the value of her hair. Disguised in its messy updo, I did not expect it to be worth a great deal.
‘Nice,’ she nodded, starting to unravel her hair, ‘but I would have expected more.’
I shrugged. ‘As I say, it depends on a combination of factors but mostly… oh shit!’
My professionalism escaped me as Jelena’s honey blonde hair tumbled down her back, not stopping until the thick mass caressed her hips. She looked at me smugly as I recalculated and jotted down a revised figure that was three times the amount I had written before.
Matty leaned in. ‘Wow, Mama,’ he exclaimed. ‘Do you realise –’
‘Goodness me,’ Jelena interrupted, showing a mix of complete surprise and resigned, even unsettling, acceptance.
‘And you would receive a loyalty card for A New You,’ I pressed enthusiastically, ‘offering you a modest discount on your monthly maintenance cuts.’
‘Well, thank you for the information,’ the mother said unconvincingly, while her son looked devastated. ‘I will think –’
‘And remember, long hair is such a drain on family resources,’ pushing harder, willing the valuable prize not to escape.
‘Exactly so!’ Matty agreed, acting as my willing accomplice to the destruction of his mother’s hair. ‘Think of the money you spend on shampoo and conditioner.’
‘Not to mention the time you spend on brushing and styling,’ I added. ‘It is all so inefficient and so unnecessary, and your child does need new shoes… and well before Christmas too.’
A resigned look entered the mother’s eyes as she weighed up the benefits against the loss of her hair. ‘Fine, Matty, if you don’t mind having a mother who looks like a convict, then you can have those trainers,’ she gambled, her hopeful expression suggesting that her final statement would be sufficient for her son to review his priorities.
‘Mama!’ he cried, his mother smiling in renewed hope that her appearance was more important to her son than a pair of unneeded shoes. ‘That is so cool. With the amount the lady has promised, Mama, we should be able to afford the customised colour that I really do need.’
Jelena’s face crumpled in disappointment when confronted by her son’s singlemindedness. ‘Fine,’ she grumbled, climbing into the back of the van and sitting, without any prompting from me.
‘Josef!’ I hissed as he attempted to once again adopt the stance that he would not be complicit in the madness unfolding before him. ‘Secure the lady!’
My colleague stepped forward to fasten Jelena’s wrists to the armrests, avoiding making eye contact with her.
‘Will I… will I be as, er, bald as you,’ Jelena stuttered, looking at Josef’s smooth head.
‘No, no, no, madam,’ he stated defiantly, aiming a pointed stare in my direction. ‘I will set the controls for the heartiest and longest style we are able to provide. We call it the “Berlin Bob”.’’
‘Thank you,’ Jelena murmured thankfully, clearly not appreciating that even the “Berlin Bob” was extremely short.
Josef moved her hair to fall down the back of the chair, and then he pulled the Perspex screen across. As I began adjusting the controls, he nudged me out of the way, demonstrating a moderate degree of character for once. ‘I will do this,’ he hissed, so I backed off, holding up my palms in mock subservience.
Jelena was staring out from behind the screen, eyes glued to Josef’s finger hovering over the activation knob. She gave a resigned nod for him to proceed.
With obvious reluctance, he jabbed the start button while 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 Jelena’s head in the blink of an eye. The machine’s mechanical fingers threaded through her thick honey-blonde hair, lifting it.
Unlike most women in that chair, she had not squeezed her eyes tight shut. By contrast, she was looking intently straight ahead with an accusatory expression. I saw her gaze fall upon her son, who was attempting a comforting smile, but now that reality had struck, he looked like he had sucked on a lemon.
I watched the primary cutters engage with a mounting sense of exhilaration. They severed large chunks of honeyed gold that the machine sucked upwards into the chute before the “waste” material disappeared inside the ever-hungry contraption.
My excitement peaked as I watched the shaping arms move with inhuman speed and precision around Jelena’s head. The multiple blades shaved her neck and around her ears before slicing off the remaining hair. They left a harsh perimeter around her head, including a short, blunt fringe high above her eyebrows.
When the machine stopped, Jelena’s soft waves had changed into a severe helmet perched on her crown, with the back and sides shaved completely bald. From the side of the machine a neat, vacuum-packed cellophane package popped out, containing almost one metre of thick honey-blonde locks.
Josef helped the woman out of the machine. She reached up, her hand trembling as it met the cold skin where her hair used to be. She glanced in the mirror, her expression unreadable as her son nervously stepped forward.
‘You look so cool, Mama,’ he said, appearing to genuinely mean it. ‘Younger… prettier,’ he blushed. ‘A New You,’ he declared proudly, giving her a hug that softened his mother’s disappointment.
The machine had instantly assessed the length, thickness, weight, and condition of Jelena’s hair. I consulted the screen on the machine’s control panel that displayed the price I was to pay. I counted out the cash and held it out between the two of them.
Jelena took it and handed half to her son. Surprisingly, he held up his palm. ‘No, Mama,’ he said, ‘it is yours to do with as you wish. I should not have been so selfish… but you do look amazing – like a supermodel on a Berlin catwalk – so a wonderful benefit has come from this,’ he said, reddening again.
‘I’m so proud of you, Matty,’ his mother said, ‘but no son of mine is going without shoes for Christmas… or even his birthday,’ she giggled, putting an arm through his. ‘So, where is that shoe shop?’
‘See you in a month for your trim, Jelena!’ I called out to her as she marched off.
Although she did not turn around, she waved an arm in acknowledgement and called out. ‘Looking forward to it already,’ she claimed, ‘and I’ll be sure to tell all my friends about A New You.’
Her reaction bemused me, and, given Josef’s expression, he shared my confusion. That was not how it was supposed to work! But if women enjoyed the experience of the ABX3M, then that was better and easier for us… and even more profitable.
To celebrate our profitable morning, I sent Josef off to buy coffee and a snack, and I totted up our expected profits from the venture. I extrapolated the figure for a full day, then a week, and even a whole month. Those estimates convinced me that I could soon return to the style of living to which I had previously become accustomed. I even pondered whether I should buy another red car or choose an alternative colour.
The projections depended on a steady stream of women with long hair, but looking around the market square, I observed the ample quantity of raw material still available. And as our service was mobile, there were a considerable number of other towns we could visit.
I settled back, waiting for Josef to return with lunch. I watched the market square fill with businesspeople, fortunate to still have a job, taking a break from their offices.
And one of those smartly dressed women was marching steadfastly, directly towards me.
The Blonde Enigma
The woman was extremely tall, statuesque even, in her early thirties. She wore a simple red dress with small white polkadots, topped off with a smart black leather jacket. Her hair was a waterfall of platinum blonde, so long it brushed against the back of her knees as she walked. In the sunlight, it looked like spun silver. It was the kind of hair that would fetch a small fortune on the international market, as so few women in Gerancia had hair like it.
‘Good afternoon,’ I said, but her neutral expression did not change.
I was about to launch into my usual sales patter. However, she raised her arm and pointed at the graphic for the “Cannes Cueball”.
‘That is an extreme choice, Madam,’ I said, my heart racing. ‘Are you sure?’
Her cold eyes held my gaze, and, unusually for me, even I felt intimidated. She gave a curt nod before climbing into the van. She sat in the chair with an upright posture, staring straight ahead. Her pose suggested she usually commanded rooms at a conference table, not sitting dumbly in a mobile barber van.
With Josef not yet returned with our refreshments, I strapped “Blondie” in, pulled the Perspex screen across, and moved to the control panel. I turned the refinement dial to maximum, as I wanted to harvest every single strand of this wondrous bounty. My finger hovered over the hastily drawn “Cannes Cueball” label.
The woman, still expressionless, nodded and then appeared to grit her teeth as the machine’s innards came to life. Through the Perspex, I watched the blonde curtain lifted by the robotic arms. It was so thick it almost jammed the intake. So, I made a mental note to inform Josef that he needed to adjust the mechanism to allow for future bounteous harvests.
The primary blades sliced through the mass of her locks gathered at her nape. They shaved so close and with such precision that they immediately revealed her skin. Her eyes widened slightly and her head jerked forward as the silver treasure separated from her head, consumed by the roaring vacuum tube. The machine was gloriously efficient; it did not just cut, but it also erased.
The rotary blades then lowered, moving in a spiral pattern starting from the crown. I watched as the last vestiges of her platinum hair vanished, replaced by the pure white scalp that had never seen the sun. When the buffing pads came down, they polished her head until it reflected the overhead lights like chrome.
I stepped forward and pulled back the screen before unfastening the restraints. She stepped out of the machine, and although I gestured to the mirror, she did not look. I handed her the cash, and, after counting it, she thrust into the top pocket of her leather jacket. She just nodded, her unsmiling face remaining neutral, and walked away with her bald head gleaming like a beacon in the crowd.
With her white marble-like scalp, expressionless features, and stiff movements, she looked like a statuesque shop window mannequin.
‘That… that was a crime,’ Josef whispered, handing me a cup of coffee he had just bought.
‘No, Josef,’ I said, feeling a warmth in my chest. ‘That was a hefty profit margin.’
“Blondie” was an exception. We would never know her reason for wanting to be bald. However, the remaining customers that afternoon all fell into the impoverished category, needing the cash for daily living expenses. Still hanging on to that last vestige of vanity, they all opted for the “Berlin Bob”, foregoing the additional bonus for anything shorter.
As the collection basket by the side of the machine gradually filled with efficiently packaged hair, I looked forward to a relaxed evening when I could afford to open a bottle of expensive wine for the first time in weeks.
Epilogue
The sun was beginning to dip behind the buildings surrounding the market square when a woman in a navy-blue skirt suit approached. She did not look like the others. Although older than I was, she looked like me in the best possible sense, as she had an aura of being hard, sharp, and professional.
Her hair was an immaculate silvery pixie cut, styled expensively by a human hand, so her presence by the van was confusing.
‘Good evening,’ she announced briskly. ‘I am Martha Snipt, the principal of the Academy of Government Civil Service. You have heard of us.’
It was not a question, but a confident statement. ‘Of course, Ms Snipt,’ I confirmed, recognising her profound influence in the running of the town.
She gave a curt nod and a tight smile to acknowledge my recognition.
‘Welcome. I am Claudia Kurtz, and how may we help you today?’ I asked, gesturing towards Josef and then our van, unable to imagine why she would wish to speak to us.
I knew the Academy was based in the grand old building on the edge of town. It was a finishing school for the Gerancia’s central and local government bureaucracy. Over a two-year period, they took women straight from school and moulded them into the clerks and administrators of the state. In my professional and personal life, I had met a considerable number of the petty bureaucrats, and it was never an enjoyable experience.
‘I have been watching your operation this afternoon, Claudia,’ Ms Snipt said, eyeing the interior of the van. ‘Uniformity is a core pillar of my curriculum. I have achieved it with the dress code, but the hair remains a stubborn vestige of individualism. My students spend too much time on their appearance and not enough on the filing protocols that are necessary for their future career.’
I felt a kindred spirit. ‘Individuality is the enemy of efficiency, Martha,’ I empathised.
She rewarded me with a subtle nod and a tight smile, acknowledging our kinship. Despite her lofty status in town, her gesture confirmed my use of her forename was acceptable.
‘Exactly, Claudia. It is satisfying to find someone else who understands,’ she said. Now, I have two hundred students, and I need them all processed. I want each one to have a look that screams “State Asset”. And I want them all to look precisely the same. So, what is the daily throughput of your machine?’
‘Ten an hour, allowing time for regular servicing of the device… so sixty in a day,’ I said confidently. ‘We would have all your students processed in a week. And then we can move on to a fortnightly, or even weekly, mandatory maintenance cycle.’
‘Oh, weekly, I think, Claudia,’ Ms Snipt judged casually as if the decision were obvious. ‘Henceforth, all students will look extremely neat, perfectly clean, and precisely identical at all times.’
‘Exactly so, Martha,’ I gushed.
The academy principal smiled, exuding a predatory expression. ‘We will start tomorrow, Claudia, by processing twenty volunteers. If the results are satisfactory, then we will process all students over the following days before moving to the compulsory weekly maintenance for the entire student body.’
‘One other small matter, Martha,’ I remarked. She raised an eyebrow. ‘What will be the status of the hair that our machine harvests from the students?’
‘Keep it, Claudia. Consider it your fee for providing the service,’ she offered casually.
I could not believe my luck. However, I disguised my emotions, a skill inherited from my corporate days. I wished to avoid disrupting the lucrative opportunity. ‘Thank you, Martha, but that amount would be far too generous. But may I suggest I offer a proportion to make a charitable donation on the academy’s behalf?
She nodded, looking pleased. ‘A contribution to the Academy’s local outreach partner would not go amiss.’
‘Consider it done,’ I agreed, realising that even making a sizeable charitable donation would leave me with substantial profits.
‘Excellent. We will tell the students that their donation will bolster our nominated charity, and their demonstration of altruism will look good on their performance review.’
‘I imagine that will circumvent any refusals,’ I chuckled.
‘Quite so, Claudia,’ she confirmed, joining in with my laughter.
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 3 – Upgrading the Officials 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
