Charlotte the Apprentice, Part 2 – Starting Out

A sequel to Charlotte the Apprentice, Part 1 – An Unexpected Summer, and one may enjoy it independently without the need to read the original story.

Having secured a one-week trial at “Blades Hairdresser for Gentlemen” working under Mr Potter, the owner, Charlotte hoped to make a positive impression. If so, he would employ her for the whole summer, and she would be able to top up her savings before she commenced university in the autumn. Having just had her thigh-length hair unceremoniously and unexpectedly chopped off by her new boss into a severe bowlcut, Charlotte was struggling to settle as she began her first day at work.

Prologue

‘Next, please!’ shouted Mr Potter as I walked back into the shop from the adjacent small kitchen. I carried a mug of tea that displayed “World’s Best Barber” on the front of it. I decided to reserve judgement on that epithet, as the only work I had seen him perform was destroying my thigh-length hair and giving me, an eighteen-year-old woman, a little boy’s bowlcut.

Since I left for the kitchen, a couple of men in their sixties had wandered in and were chatting amiably to each other on the red vinyl bench along one wall. On hearing Mr Potter’s summons, one creakily rose to his feet and shuffled over to the chair I had recently vacated.

Mr Potter, in my absence, appeared to have reconfigured his facial features. Instead of the perpetual disapproving frown that he had worn since my interview, he looked far more relaxed. Almost smiling. I imagined he considered the change a necessary concession to “customer service”.

Starting Work

The man shrugged off his jacket and held it up toward Mr Potter.

‘Coat!’ the barber murmured out of the corner of his mouth while looking straight at me.

I put down the mug of tea and hastily took the jacket, as Mr Potter rudely made me aware that being the cloakroom attendant was another one of my tasks. A clothes rail with coat hangers, fitted on the side wall, provided a sanctuary for the old chap’s coat.

Mr Potter, with a fresh, neatly folded cape over his arm, gestured for the man to sit. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Davies. The usual, is it?’

‘Yes, please, Mr Potter,’ the customer confirmed, climbing into the chair.

Mr Potter turned slightly, catching me staring at the floor, fidgeting with the hem of my dress, unsure what I should be doing. ‘Right then, Charley. Pay attention. Watch how we do things here, as you may well be doing it yourself one day.’

I was surprised that he now referred to me by the abbreviated name that everyone except my mother used. I assumed it was another amiable concession for the benefit of the customers.

Mr Potter took the fresh cape from his arm and flicked it open like a matador before draping it over the customer. I shivered, remembering that the person under the cape had been me less than half an hour earlier. ‘See, Charley. We need to be precise and neat to protect customers’ garments,’ he explained, securely fitting the collar around his neck.

I nodded, suddenly aware of my position. I was a temporary employee for the next week, and, if I met his standards, I would remain for all the summer months as well. But that would be all. However, Mr Potter was treating me as his full-time apprentice, a role that he had been unable to fill with a suitable “lad”.

‘A girl called Charley, eh?’ Mr Davies piped up. ‘Well, nice dress and great legs, love, but looks like your hair has had an argument with a lawnmower,’ he chortled. ‘I prefer longer hair on women, rather than a pudding bowl.’

My cheeks burnt with shame that radiated up to the newly exposed skin high above my ears. Before the razor, my hair had provided a curtain of privacy and inescapable femininity. But since then, I felt brutally stripped bare and forced to accept his unflattering mockery.

Irritated, I wanted to tell him that I did have long hair and that it was in the litter bin by his feet. Annoyed, I wanted to say I had borrowed the dress from my vertically challenged mum, and that is why my legs were on view. And, I wanted to add, that once Mr Potter had paid me at the end of the week, I would be buying more suitable clothing. However, I had the sense that if I wanted my trial period to go well, I should bite my tongue and not quarrel with the customers.

‘Thank you, Mr Davies,’ I said, rewarding him with a wide smile. ‘Actually, the bowlcut is an increasingly fashionable style for young women in the city,’ I lied.

Nervously, I looked towards Mr Potter, and I was astonished to receive a wink and a nod of approval, presumably because I had delivered my mild rebuke politely.

Mr Davies harumphed. ‘That told me. I was not aware you employed girls, especially lippy ones,’ he added, but with a gleam in his eye, clearly enjoying the banter.

‘Charley is on trial, but, so far, she’s doing exceedingly well,’ he winked again. ‘Her tea-making skills are excellent,’ he added approvingly after taking a sip.

‘Can I get you a cup, Mr Davies?’ I asked, buoyed up by knowing that Mr Potter held me in such high esteem after my first ten minutes of employment!

‘Yes, please, Charley. Two sugars,’ he said gratefully. ‘Hey, Potter, hang on to this young woman; she’ll go far.’

I quickly went back to the kitchen to pour another cup, then returned to see Mr Potter starting the haircut. I placed the cup in front of the customer and stood attentively to one side. ‘Now watch carefully, Charley,’ he instructed, while I continued to fulfil my assumed role as his apprentice.

Mr Potter began combing Mr Davies’s grey, thin hair into sections, working his scissors with the same determined, machine-like rhythm he had used on me. The raucous hairclippers then appeared in his hand as he loudly and deftly began to clear the hair from the back of the customer’s head. I quivered at the memory of him using them on me, grateful I was outside his clipping range.

‘Now, watch the technique,’ he commanded, and the clippers began their rapid, precise dance again. ‘Especially the back and sides. We do not leave anything fluffy here. Everything is neat and tight.’

Despite myself, I felt drawn in, fascinated by his innate skill.

He ran the machine up the back of Mr Davies’s neck with brutal efficiency, the grey stubble falling onto the cape. It was the same sound that had heralded the destruction of my own hair just thirty minutes earlier.

Then Mr Potter deployed the hot foam, followed by the chilling scrape of the cut-throat razor, leaving a ghostly white perimeter around the older man’s neck. It was horrifyingly compelling, witnessing this ritual of conformity without being the subject of it.

When Mr Davies stood, he paid Mr Potter, saying that he could keep the change. ‘That’s for both of you,’ he added. ‘I hope you are still here, Charley, when I am due for my next trim. Remember, two sugars.’ He grinned broadly and was gone.

‘There you are, Charley. Your first tip, and well deserved,’ Mr Potter praised, popping the cash into a jar by the till. ‘Now wipe down the chair, sweep the floor around it, and have a fresh cape ready for Mr Baxter,’ he coaxed, gesturing to the other waiting customer to come forward.

Leaving Work

After the last customer had left, Mr Potter turned the sign on the door and dropped the latch. The long day had passed remarkably quickly. Despite all the mundane tasks Mr Potter had me do, he continued encouraging me to observe his precise and fascinating work. Dutifully, at the end of the day, he emptied the gratuities jar, and he apportioned the cash between us. I was pleasantly surprised by the sum I received.

‘I have had kids your age working here before,’ he mused. He had not seen me bristling at his careless use of the word “kids”. ‘But they do not stick around. They do not like the discipline. They think my profession is just an old-fashioned game.’ He gave a dry, humourless chuckle. ‘That is why I had to make sure you understood the required standard immediately. A clean and precise standard that, as you have seen, the customers appreciate.’

‘Yes, sir, I understand the need for neatness and precision,’ I parroted, and then I surprised myself by realising that I genuinely believed my words.

He finally turned, leaning his broad frame against the counter, his expression unreadable. ‘You have a good head for this line of work, Charley, which gives you a solid foundation. Furthermore, you listen well. That is what counts. We will have you rethinking that university nonsense soon enough.’

I gulped. Mr Potter did not consider this job a way for me to earn extra cash before embarking on my academic pursuits. He viewed it as a reset that had begun when he gave me a haircut. A journey to transform me, both physically and psychologically. One that ensured I was comfortable working in Blades Hairdresser for Gentlemen under his demanding authority.

I knew I would need to find a subtle and friendly way to adjust his expectations, but the immediate desire to top up my savings during the summer took precedence.

‘See you tomorrow at eight, Charlotte,’ he reminded me, his eyes lingering on the glossy cap of my new bowlcut. ‘And do not be late.’

My Reflection

I nodded to Mr Potter as I hurried toward the door, desperate to escape the sterile atmosphere of the barbershop. But as I reached the frosted glass, I paused. I did not wish to leave the safe and isolated environment I had enjoyed all day. Outside, people on their way home or starting an evening on the town would see me. All they would see was the girl with the severe and unfashionable haircut wearing the short, tight dress borrowed from her mother.

I pushed through the door and stumbled out onto the street, the chilly air hitting my newly exposed neck like a shockwave. I was halfway home before the full, sickening weight of my new reality settled in. Mr Potter had taken my hair and trapped me in humiliating attire for the whole summer. And I had agreed to return to this man who had taken over and controlled my destiny, as I had promised my mum to earn much-needed funds I needed for university.

I lifted my hands to my head, feeling the cold, smooth skin below the helmet-like cap on my crown. And thinking ahead, I slowed my pace as I nervously contemplated how Mum would react to my hair.

Mum’s Assessment

As soon as I walked through the door, Mum saw that my hair had all gone. My appearance shocked her, a massive jolt to her emotionally, as it had been for me.

I explained the haircut was a requirement for working with Mr Potter, careful not to suggest he had forced it upon me. Slightly mollified, she conceded he had cut my hair extremely well and the style suited me to perfection. I was unsure whether she meant it or if she was simply attempting to save me further embarrassment.

Moving past my hair, I told her about Mr Potter’s remarks concerning my clothes. She was surprised that he did not provide a protective overall. Although I thought the same, I felt it unwise to admit that he seemed more concerned about providing customers with something to gawp at while they waited for their haircut!

I reminded Mum that until Mr Potter had paid me and I could go shopping, I had nothing to wear.

‘Nonsense, darling,’ she gushed. ‘I have a wardrobe full of lovely outfits that you are welcome to borrow. ‘You looked splendid in my navy-blue frock.’

Given that I lived in jeans, I had been surprised that I looked moderately presentable in the formality of the dress. However, with Mum being shorter and slimmer than me, the resulting short hemline and tightness across the bust were a little unnerving. However, Mum said it fitted fine, Mr Potter judged it was perfect attire for his establishment, and the customers who gawped at me all day raised no objections.

After trying on a selection of Mum’s dresses, I settled on a plum-coloured one with white polka dots. I choose it because it was the longest option and the most comfortable… oh, and because it looked nice on me, and made me feel pretty.

A New Day

‘Good morning, Mr Potter.’ I greeted my boss breezily as he unlatched the door, and I stepped inside. I was ten minutes earlier than the time he had asked me to start work for the second day of my trial.

The day before, Mr Potter had cut off my extremely long hair. He had given me a severe shaved bowlcut that was more in keeping with the ethos of Blades Hairdresser for Gentlemen and hence more suitable for working there. I had saved half an hour that morning without the need to do anything to my hair other than brushing it through until it shone like a glossy cap on my crown. While I appreciated the efficiency, I was still missing the aesthetics of having long hair. Still, it had meant I was early for work, and I conformed to my boss’s stringent requirements.

‘Good morning, young lady,’ Mr Potter replied, inspecting me carefully as I went to the kitchen area to turn on the kettle without him needing to ask me. ‘Your hair’s still looking neat and precise, and I approve of your attire.’

‘Thank you, Mr Potter,’ I said, looking around the shop to compile a mental checklist of my tasks before the shop was due to open. I noticed the floor was still spotless from my attention the previous evening. ‘Once I have made our tea, I will fill the shelves with fresh capes and towels before polishing the mirrors.’

Mr Potter nodded with satisfaction, and, while I completed my tasks, he settled back in his barber’s chair to read the morning newspaper. At 8.29am I turned the sign to “Open”. Within seconds, the bell above the door chimed as two customers walked in.

An attractive woman in her thirties stepped inside. She was wearing a skirt that looked far too short for a mother her age, paired with an elaborate silk blouse. She had swept her blonde hair into a clumsy updo with a large clamp, leaving long tendrils hanging down around her face. On a younger woman they may have looked artful and provocative, but on her they simply looked untidy. Following her inside was a teenage lad, a similar age to me, with a curtain of hair that covered his collar and much of his face.

‘Hello, Mr Potter,’ the woman said brightly, pulling the boy onto the red bench. ‘Lovely to see you as always. It is time for Leo’s summer haircut, please. And… oh my goodness.’

Her eyes immediately fell on my hair. Other than my Mum, she was the first woman to pass judgement on my bowlcut. Its severity was impossible to ignore. The pale skin of my exposed nape felt colder and barer under her scrutiny, and the heavy cap of blonde hair sat higher above my shaved skin.

I froze, expecting mockery, but the woman’s expression was one of fascination as she studied the finer points of my hairstyle. ‘For a woman, it’s so… well, so short.’

Mr Potter quickly realised the cause of the woman’s hesitation. ‘Good morning, Mrs Taylor. May I introduce Charley. She has commenced a period of trial employment, and she has adopted a neat and tidy appearance appropriate to her role.’

‘Wow,’ the woman murmured, moving closer, tilting her head. ‘She is certainly neat and tidy. Severe, even,’ she said, her breath hitching as, uninvited, she ran a finger up my nape. I felt less like an employee and more like a mannequin. ‘Gosh, that feels shaved,’ she giggled but shivered at the same time. What do you call that style, Charley?’

‘Thank you, Mrs Taylor,’ I said in genuine appreciation, not so much because she liked it but more that she did not make fun of me. ‘It’s called a bowlcut.’

‘Wow, a bowlcut,’ she repeated, transfixed. ‘Where do you have it done?’

‘Mr Potter did it,’ I explained.

‘Really?’ she queried, amazed. ‘I never knew you cut women’s hair, Mr Potter?’

‘Certainly, Mrs Taylor, although my expertise lies with precise, short styles rather than unnecessarily frivolous longer ones,’ he stated, gesturing vaguely at Mrs Taylor’s messy updo.

I thought his unvoiced insinuation regarding her imprecise, long hair was extremely rude. Surprisingly, she did not appear to take offence at his unsubtle rebuke.

‘Charley’s style is a precision bowlcut, offering classic neatness, adapted for the modern woman. It is an efficient, no-fuss haircut with maximum discipline. Charley is setting an excellent example of how meticulous hair can be, irrespective of gender.’

Mrs Taylor ran a hand self-consciously through her own flowing, untamed lengths. ‘You know, my hair is driving me mad. I am always tying it back for work. Look at how neat Charlotte’s head is. It must be so easy to manage.’

I kept tidying the shop, trying to melt into the floor, mortified that they were discussing my forced humiliation as a style aspiration.

Mr Potter, sensing a lucrative opening, leant across his counter, his voice full of practised charm. ‘It requires no maintenance at all, Mrs Taylor. And it certainly shows off a woman’s features, doesn’t it?’

I could feel her eyes assessing the severe lines of my cut, ranging from the heavy fringe through the clipped sides to the smooth, pale skin above my collar.

‘It does,’ Mrs Taylor conceded slowly. ‘What do you think, Leo?’ she continued, drawing her son int the conversation. ‘It shows off Charley’s pretty features, doesn’t it?’

Leo had trudged in behind his mother and, although they were there for Mr Potter to cut his hair, he had silently settled on the waiting bench, his nose stuck in a football magazine. ‘Uh? he grunted, which could have been agreement or questioning what she wanted his opinion on.

‘Charley’s hair?’ Mrs Taylor gestured to me, and I felt duty bound to give a little twirl in my polka dot dress to display my hair, feeling a little silly in the process. ‘Pretty?’

Mr Potter smirked at my action, but he nodded his approval.

‘Uh?’ Leo grunted again, but finally looked up from his magazine, flicking away the curtain of hair in front of his face. His eyes widened, and he sat up straighter. ‘Yeah, she’s pretty…’ he blushed. ‘Er, I mean, yes, her hair is pretty, and, er…’ He stared at me for another ten seconds, a smile forming. Then he noticed his mother exchanging amused looks with Mr Potter. His cheeks went slight redder and he buried his nose in his magazine once more.

When I had long hair, I had all the admirers I wanted, and more than I needed. It was reassuring that a boy of my own age still found me pretty, even if it was a monosyllabic, hairy, football fan.

‘Well, it may be severe,’ Mrs Taylor announced with a sudden, decisive intake of breath. ‘But I simply must have that level of neatness in my life. Can you do that for me, Mr Potter, just like Charley?’

Just Like Charley

An unsettling thrill of triumph crossed Mr Potter’s features. He had secured a new female client by the straightforward action of having enforced his standards on his less than willing trial employee.

‘I certainly can, Mrs Taylor. It will be my pleasure,’ he said, taking a towel from the self and handing it to me. ‘Charley, please guide Mrs Taylor to the basin and demonstrate how we shampoo and condition here.’

I swallowed and, although still feeling humiliated, I responded and moved automatically, as I was now part of Mr Potter’s machine. I assumed the paying clients enjoyed a shampoo before their haircuts to maximise his profits.

‘Follow me, Mrs Taylor,’ I managed, my voice sounding flat.

I noticed Leo looking up from under his distracting curtains of hair, his gaze alternating between my bowlcut and his mother’s long hair. Looking bemused, he shook his head, sighed, and returned to his magazine.

I led Mrs Taylor to the white basin. As I gently washed her long, soft brown hair, it was a painful reminder that my hair had recently been even longer.

Although I had never washed someone else’s hair before, Mrs Taylor appeared extremely contented, especially when I massaged the conditioner into her scalp. Mr Potter watched from a respectful distance, clearly ready to step in if required, but his expression suggested he was satisfied with my work.

Once rinsed, I guided Mrs Taylor to the barber’s chair, boosting it higher for Mr Potter and securing a cape around her shoulders. As I combed through her hair, she seemed excited, though slightly nervous.

Mr Potter stepped forward and thanked me for doing the preparations. I then realised he had not asked me to do that, but it just felt like the natural thing for me to do.

‘Now, are you sure about this, Mrs Taylor? It is a very precise haircut, which is remarkably short on the back and sides,’ Mr Potter confirmed, his tone challenging.

‘Yes, absolutely, Mr Potter,’ she said with resolve. ‘Charley looks so professional. At my age I need a more sophisticated look for work, and greater practicality will be a bonus.’

Mr Potter nodded, a rare, genuine smile pulling at his lips. ‘Excellent. Now, you stand there and watch, Charley,’ Mr Potter instructed, turning slightly to ensure I was observing. ‘Having confirmed the style with the client, you must be decisive and demonstrate authority.’

He buried his scissors in Mrs Taylor’s thick hair high up the back of her head. Then he firmly closed the blades without any hesitation, resulting in a sickening crunch. A thick hank of wet hair plopped on the floor. Without a pause, the scissors followed the line he had established high over her right ear, and then her left. Heavy, damp hair repeatedly fell to the cape with a resounding slap.

Mrs Taylor gasped, her eyes wide with sudden shock. The mound of hair on the cape began to grow as Mr Potter moved to face her, cutting a blunt fringe above her eyebrows.

Although Mr Potter worked with a furious efficiency, there was an economy of movement that was almost balletic in its scope. Mrs Tayor’s long locks had vanished in moments, leaving her crown covered in a damp, helmet-like cap.

I cast a glance in the direction of her son, hunched on the waiting bench with his magazine. Peering occasionally from under his fringe, he did not hide his shock and sadness as he observed the rapid erosion of the version of his mother that he had known all his life.

Mr Potter suddenly grabbed the hairclippers, an excited look in his eye. I watched Mrs stiffen, just as I had done, when she heard the growl of the hungry machine. A tiny whimper escaped her lips.

‘Please do not concern yourself, Mrs Taylor. This is the way we achieve a precise line,’ Mr Potter reassured her. Then he eased her head forward, just as he had mine. Running the powerful clippers up the back of her head, he sheared the nape and the sides up high, leaving a stark contrast between the hair and her white skin.

Having the opportunity to watch the clippers in use, rather than experience them used on me, was a revelation. Divorced from the emotional impact, I marvelled at their efficiency and the ease with which Mr Potter manipulated them to achieve his desired outcome.

I watched as her hair transformed from a flowing, feminine style to the exact severe helmet I now wore. Mr Potter replaced the buzzing of the hairclippers with the surgical scraping of the razor. As he tightened the perimeter, all that remained of Mrs Taylor’s hair was a blunt fringe and a dense cap resting high on her completely shaved neck.

He dried her slightly damp hair with a quick blast of air. It was all it needed for the glossy helmet to fall perfectly into shape around her head.

As Mr Potter stood slightly back, holding a hand mirror, she studied herself, her breath held tight. Her eyes met mine briefly in the mirror, and for a split second, I saw a flicker of the same raw shock I had felt. However, unlike me, she quickly masked it with forced approval.

‘It’s… it’s incredibly neat,’ Mrs Taylor said, touching the blunt, shaved line above her ear. ‘So much tidier.’

‘It looks superb, Mrs Taylor,’ Mr Potter beamed, spinning the chair around and dropping the height. ‘A triumph, if I may say so, and it suits you perfectly. I am sure you agree, Charley?’

He had put me on the spot, but I had to agree with his conclusion that it enhanced her appearance. Given that she was around forty, the shorter hair looked much more suitable, especially working in a professional environment. I hoped she would take the opportunity to review the length of her outrageously short skirts.

‘You look amazing, Mrs Taylor,’ I murmured in agreement. ‘So professional. You make the clippering look so easy, Mr Potter, but manage to produce a precise and disciplined result.’

Mr Potter beamed at my compliment.

The barber removed the cape, and Mrs Taylor looked down at the massive pile of her former hair now sitting limply on the floor. She stepped down from the chair, running a hand over her bare nape. ‘So short,’ she breathed.

Mr Potter collected payment from Mrs Taylor, who seemed oddly satisfied with the transformation despite the severity. I quietly took the brush and began sweeping up the large mound of hair, another poignant reminder of my former length.

Leo

‘So, Leo, what do you think of your mum’s new hairstyle?’ I asked, seeing him staring in wonder.

‘Well, she looks like a proper mum now,’ he remarked, not grunting for once, a satisfied glint in his eye. I suspected he was as unimpressed by her former long locks and youthful attire as I was. ‘But it is even shorter than mine now,’ he chuckled. He ran his fingers through his unruly collar-length hair that he was there to have trimmed before his mum usurped him. ‘Mr Potter does not even use hairclippers on mine.’

At the mention of the fiendish device, I thought back to when the barber had so efficiently and cleanly peeled off the hair covering Mrs Taylor’s neck. ‘Well, if you wanted to ensure your hair remained shorter than your mum’s, you could ask Mr Potter to clipper yours,’ I suggested. He screwed up his face, clearly unimpressed by the idea. ‘A buzzcut would really suit your features, Leo, and it would be practical on the sports field too,’ I added.

‘A buzzcut?’ He looked even more horrified, but then his features softened as he contemplated the suggestion. ‘And it would suit me?’

‘You would look so cool,’ I confirmed, wondering to myself why I was being so pushy.

As he looked at me, he went bright red with embarrassment. ‘Cool?’ I nodded. ‘Gosh…’

‘Over you come, lad,’ Mr Potter called out.

Leo smiled at me, jumped to his feet, and bound over to the chair before settling down. ‘Could you give me a buzzcut, please, Mr Potter?’ he asked eagerly. ‘A number two… or even, er, two’ he added bravely.

‘That is quite a change, young man! Are you sure?’ he questioned, draping him with a cape and looking towards his mum as if for permission.

‘If that’s what my son wants,’ she shrugged. ‘It will certainly be practical for playing soccer… you might even be able to see the ball occasionally,’ she sniggered.

‘Mum!’ Leo complained at her mocking him. ‘Yes, Mr Potter, I am absolutely sure,’ he chirped. ‘Charley says I will look cute,’ he declared proudly. Then seeing his mother’s amused and teasing eyes falling on him, he blushed violently.

Mr Potter took the hairclippers and fitted the six-millimetre plastic attachment. I stood back at a respectful distance, and I would still have an unobstructed view of the shearing of Leo’s unruly collar-length locks.

Mr Potter turned towards me and held out the hairclippers. I took them and then looked at him dumbly, not knowing what he wanted from me.

‘If you are to be my apprentice, Charley, then you will need to gain some practical experience,’ he said, his eyes twinkling.

A New Challenge

I wondered if I had misheard Mr Potter, but as he backed away and beckoned me forward, I knew he was serious. I considered a variety of responses to extricate myself from the impossible situation he had placed me in. After all, I had only worked in his barbershop for a day. And, while I had seen him at work with the hairclippers, I had only ever held the device for cleaning.

I decided the most sensible option would be to treat it as an amusing joke and hand him back the hairclippers. But the device nestling in my hand was having a magnetic pull on my emotions. I thought back to how I had felt when he had used them on me and on the men the day before, and then today on Mrs Taylor.

I stepped forward, mustering all my confidence. ‘Head down, please, Leo,’ and his neck pivoted forward obediently, only stopping when his chin touched the cape.

‘I’m glad you’re doing it, Charley,’ he murmured coyly, for my ears only.

I leant in so the others could not hear. ‘I hope you will still be saying that when you’re a baldy.’

He chuckled nervously as I flicked the switch on hairclippers, pretending I knew what I was doing. Edging them towards Leo’s forehead, Mr Potter nodded to confirm that is where I should start.

Placing the vibrating blade at his hairline, I hauled it back through his thick locks. I marvelled at how efficiently it reduced his hair to an incredibly short and even pelt that resembled suede.

Spurred on by the rewarding sight, I carved a second path adjacent to the first with equivalent results. Such was the enthusiasm I felt for my task that, in less than a minute, I had evenly buzzed the whole of Leo’s head. That said, I examined the hairline on the back and sides of his head, and a slight fuzziness disappointed me. Mr Potter’s quest for perfection in all things was rubbing off on me.

I looked over at my mentor, and he handed me a comb. ‘Remember what you saw me do yesterday,’ he urged, removing the guard from the clipper blade.

I thought briefly, and then I recalled his action of placing the comb against the head, before clippering the hair that showed through the teeth. Even though he had not explained what he was doing or named the technique, I had a good memory for detail.

Carefully I placed the comb to lift the fuzz, then I emulated the action I had previously seen. It looked much neater, and Mr Potter nodded his approval. I moved around Leo’s head and smoothed the entire hairline in precisely the same way.

Finally, I switched off the hairclippers and put them down, and I picked up a hand mirror to show Leo the result. However, Mr Potter stepped in first to inspect my work. ‘Perfect, Charley. A precise and even finish through the top, and you have faded it to perfection on the back and sides.’

I nodded my appreciation of his kind words, then stepped in with the mirror to allow Leo to see the result from all angles. ‘Wow, Charley, I look amazing… Thank you so much.’

‘I’m pleased you like it, Leo… and you do look cute,’ I teased.

He chuckled. ‘In that case, Charley, would you go out for a drink with me?’

It was my turn to blush. With university looming in three months’ time, I was not looking to start any form of relationship. ‘I’ll think about…’

‘Hello, handsome young man,’ Mrs Taylor said as she stepped forward. ‘Who are you, and what have you done with my son?’

‘Very funny, ha-ha, mum,’ Leo responded.

I removed the cape, and he stood up for his mother’s closer inspection. She enthusiastically rubbed his head, while Leo looked mortified by her attention. ‘Yes, Charley’s right, son. You do look cute.’

‘Mum!’ Leo blushed.

I realised what a truly handsome guy had been hiding behind the curtains of the unruly mop that I had just consigned to the floor. Perhaps I really would think about that date…

Epilogue

As I watched mother and son happily leave the shop with their fresh and exceedingly short haircuts, I realised that working in this barbershop was my new reality. I had not just secured a trial job, but Mr Potter had reengineered me into an active advertisement for his uncompromising vision of neatness. Although my humiliation from the day before was still there, my confused emotions at the start of the second day mingled with a terrifying sense of inevitability.

Mr Potter followed my gaze with a look of profound satisfaction. He rewarded me with a smile and a conspiratorial wink before looking towards the men who had quietly entered, unseen by me, when I had been working. He called out using the words that would punctuate my residency at the barbershop.

‘Next please!’

During the summer, I was not Charlotte, the aspiring business student. I was Charley, the apprentice with the perfect and severe bowlcut, a testament to the old-fashioned and disciplined authority of Mr Potter at Blades Hairdresser for Gentlemen.

To be continued

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