Sally’s Exhibition at the Mall Opening

It is Saturday morning. The arriving winter has brought with it clouds and chilly air. My teenage son, Luke, is still asleep, as he usually is on weekends. I woke up early to do the weekly cleaning of the house. This house, that I’ve inherited from my parents, isn’t a bungalow, but it isn’t small either. In fact, it is a little too big considering it is only I and Luke who live here. It takes an hour at the least to do a full sweep of the house’s entire floor space.

I’m in the middle of cleaning the living room when the vacuum suddenly begins to make sounds of sputtering. I ignore it and continue on, until it completely gives away and stops. I thump the side of the device, hoping that it would get the thing running again, but no luck. I open the casing of the cleaner to investigate, and the cause of the problem is immediately clear.

Inside, wrapped around the rotating brush of the cleaner, is a huge mass of hair. Not just hair of one kind, no. There is some brown hair, and then there is some blond hair. My hair and Luke’s hair.

I grab the mass of hair and slowly unravel it from the motor. It takes a bit of work, as the hair has wound itself through the bristles of the rotating brush quite securely. After the hair comes out, I sift through it with my fingers, examining the composition of the mix. Most of it is mine, which is no surprise, but there’s a good amount of blond in there too.

Luke has been growing his hair for almost two years now, and while it is healthy, it falls out quite a bit and ends up in all kinds of places. I love his hair, yet every time I clean it up I’m reminded that he is long overdue for a haircut. It is something that I often brought up in his first year of growing it, but after he refused again and again, I simply left it at that. Maybe I should talk to him about it today when he wakes up.

But of course, that brings up a question that has always nagged me when it came to Luke and his hair – a question of hypocrisy. Is Luke really expected to get a haircut, if my own hair is so long and thick and falls too? I have not had a haircut since Luke’s father left us. That was more than ten years ago, when Luke was only a toddler. I shake my head. As a woman, I’m expected to have long hair. But as a boy of nearly working age, Luke is expected to get it cut. That is all there is to it, I tell myself.

With the hair out of the way, I resume vacuuming the house. The hair inside seems to have been collecting for a while now, because now the vacuuming is so much smoother. In fact, I don’t think it worked this smoothly since its first week of usage. After I’m done covering the house, I look around, and the difference is clear. Satisfied with my work, I go to the kitchen and make myself breakfast.

With the newspaper in one hand and my spoon in the other, I begin to eat. I’m not much of a reader of news, but I do enjoy reading through the gossip pages. But before I can open the paper, my attention is piqued by the big page-wide advertisement in the front. It is an advertisement for the new mall in town square. The text reads that the opening ceremony will happen next Sunday, and that it will be attended by the Governor of Michigan himself, as it is, apparently, set to be the biggest mall in the Midwest. From the images, it seems quite luxurious too – a place where even the simpler things are sold at double the prices. Not the kind of place I’d shop at unless I had a mad desire to burn through our savings. I roll my eyes and flip through to the gossip section of the paper.

Luke walks in not too long after. He is still half-asleep, his eyes barely open and his body slouched. His hair, which goes a little past his shoulders, is untied and forms a thick curtain around his head. I smile at the sight of him.

“Good morning,” I say. “Did you sleep well?”

Luke yawns. “Yes, I think. Where’s breakfast?”

“It’s on the kitchen island.”

“Muesli and milk, yay.” Luke inherited his dry sense of sarcasm from me.

Luke joins me on the dining table and begins to eat. His blond waves are now long enough that the pieces in the front, on him bending forward over his bowl, nearly fall into it. What I find most remarkable about his hair is the thickness. Luke never let me introduce him to my hair routine, but the lack of routine has had little effect on his hair’s health. I’m proud of my son’s hair. But it has to go.

“Luke,” I say, “what are your plans for your hair?”

Luke looks up, startled, some of the sleepiness gone from his face. “What?”

“Your hair is quite long now. Don’t you think it’s time for a haircut?”

Luke frowns. But he does not scowl or glare at me, like he did a year ago when I made the same suggestion. There’s something different in his expression.

“I… have been thinking about it, actually.”

My eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah. I was thinking of bringing it up myself. I just… didn’t know how you’d feel about it. Since it seemed like you’ve begun to like it.”

I chuckle. “I do like it – you have beautiful hair. But I still think that you need to get a haircut.”

“Okay, that’s good to know.” Luke pauses, and thinks for a while. “Actually, if you’re okay with it, I’d like to get it done today. The anticipation has been eating me up from the inside, and I’d like to get it over with.”

That was surprising. “Okay, today is fine. I’ll come with. The usual barbershop, right?”

Luke hesitates, and shakes his head. “There is a new barbershop that opened last month. Some of my friends have been there, and they say it’s really nice. I’d like to go there too. But… it’s in the new mall. Y’know… the luxury one.”“Luke…” I sigh. “How much is the price there?”

“I’m… not sure.”

“What’s the name of the shop?”

“Ali and Sons.”

I open my phone and look up the name. I find the prices on the mall’s website, and unsurprisingly, a men’s haircut in the shop costs three times the normal price. However, on the side of the page is text saying that a promotion is going on in anticipation of the mall’s opening. 50% off on all services. I do the math.

“The prices are actually quite reasonable.” I offer Luke a smile. “If you’d like to get your haircut there, let’s do it.”

Luke leaps up from his chair and gives me a hug. “Oh Mom, you’re the best. Thank you.”

I pat Luke on the back and ruffle his hair. Gosh am I going to miss his blond locks. “Anything to see my boy happy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The mall exudes grandeur both outside and within. Our town is not home to many buildings taller than three floors, and so, the structure came into view even when we were more than a mile away. Its facade is modern and grey, yet unlike the many bland structures that have appeared around town over the last decade, it possesses a distinct elegance. Inside, gold accents dominate the floors and walls. The website said that the barbershop is on the top floor, but instead of taking one of the six elevators that greeted us at the lobby, we decided to go up from the inside, looking at the many stores and restaurants that the mall has to offer. However, most are closed, with signs outside informing that they will begin service after the mall’s opening ceremony.

Whereas the mall’s theme is regal gold, the barbershop’s is a sleek white and black. The shop is decently big, with two rows of five chairs and at least eight barbers currently working. Luke and I sit on the waiting couch, but as we do, I cannot help but feel self-conscious. I’m the only woman in the shop.

This isn’t my first time inside a barbershop. With Luke’s father out of the picture, the duty of taking him to the barber was left with me. But back then, I’d schedule my grocery shopping on Luke’s haircut days so that I could leave him at the shop, buy the groceries, and pick him up when it was done. He never asked why I never stayed – I guess he just understood I didn’t belong, seeing other boys with their fathers. This time, however, there was no shopping to be done nearby unless I wanted to blow the little money I have in my purse, and so I’ve decided to stay inside. Also, I want to be there to see Luke’s long-awaited haircut.

One of the barbers, on seeing us enter, comes over to us. He’s a tall young man, likely in his early twenties – not much older than Luke. His shoulder-length hair is tied in a fashionable half-up half-down do, and his beard is cropped close to his skin. His face bears a warm smile. He’s handsome in every sense of the word.

“Hi,” he says. “Welcome to Ali and Sons. I’m Pasha, and I’m glad to be of service to you today. What are you looking for?”

“Hey,” I say, “this is my son Luke, and he’s in need of a haircut.”

“How much are we cutting?”

“All of it,” answers Luke, before I could. “I want a regular short haircut.”

Pasha turns to Luke, and strokes his chin as he studies Luke’s hair. He then closes his eyes and buries himself in thought, as if he’s forming a mental picture of how he will go about the haircut. After a few moments, seemingly satisfied, he opens his eyes and flashes a grin. “I have just the right hairstyle for you. Let’s get started.”

Pasha leads Luke to one of the empty chairs, and Luke sits, albeit hesitantly. It has been two years, after all, since he last sat in a barber’s chair, and it shows. He nervously touches the front strands of his hair as Pasha readies his tools and wraps him in a cape.

“So, you’d like the top to be a little longer, yes?”

“Yes… that’s right.”

“Long enough to be tied?”

Luke considers it. It seems to me that he’s torn between going for a standard short haircut and a cut which keeps some of his hair decently long enough so that he does not miss his long hair entirely.

“Actually… no. Just take it all off.”

Pasha grabs his scissors and comb. He had first looked at the clipper, but presumably chose to use the scissors instead to make it easier for Luke, taking away his hair in stages instead of all at once. With precision, Pasha sections off Luke’s hair into different layers, and snips away, reducing the length section-by-section and bit-by-bit. I film parts of it on my phone, because as much as I hate to admit it, there’s something about seeing Luke in such a delicate state, as he’s not usually one to be emotional over things.

Pasha takes off the cape. Staring back from the mirror is not the Luke who sat in the chair. Luke’s haircut is short, but it is not lacking in style. Without the long hair clouding his face, his sharper features are more visible. Luke himself seems to have gotten over his emotional state and is grinning from cheek to cheek. While Luke admires his new haircut in the mirror, I go and join Pasha at the billing counter. The screen displays the price.

I frown. “Isn’t there a discount going on? 50% off on haircuts?”

Pasha is dazed. “A discount?”

“Yes. It said on the shop’s page on the mall website.”

“Oh. You’re talking about that. The promotion.”

“Yes?”

“Uhh… do you know what the promotion is?”

I chuckle nervously. “I guess?”

Pasha shakes his head. “As a part of the mall’s opening, our barbershop is doing an event. The 50% off only applies to those who have registered.

“Okay… well, sign me up then.”

Pasha hesitates. “The idea of the event is that a day before it, a random name from those who have registered will be chosen. At the mall’s opening ceremony, we will give a free haircut to the chosen person. Except… the haircut will be a shaving. A head shave, in front of all attendees.”

“Oh,” I say. I shudder as I think about what I just heard. A head shave in front of potentially the entire town? That sounds like quite an ordeal for someone to go through. I should just pay the full price. Unless the chance of getting selected was incredibly small. I had to confirm.

“How many have registered so far?” I ask.

“We’ve received upwards of a thousand.”

“Okay,” I say. One in a thousand is much better odds than I had expected. “Register my son.”

Pasha shakes his head. “He is not eligible for it since he has just received a haircut from us already. Usually, when teenage boys like Luke come for a haircut, it’s the accompanying father who signs his name to receive the discount. Perhaps I could sign your husband up?”

“Luke’s father… he isn’t with us.”

Pasha flusters, clearly embarrassed about his honest mistake. “Please forgive me, I wouldn’t have asked had I known.”

”It is alright.” My mind is racing. A public head shave sounds terrible. But if the chance of getting selected is one in a thousand, does it really matter? There are a lot of ordinary things we do everyday that carry with it a lot of risk, but that does not stop us from doing them. Had it been one in a hundred, it would have been worth mulling it over, but with one in a thousand, this is virtually free money.

“I would like to register. Where do I sign?”

Pasha’s eyes widen in surprise. “Uhh, are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m positive. Show me where to sign and let’s get over with it.”

After the paperwork is done, I pay the discounted price and leave with Luke. He is incredibly happy about the haircut, and says that he cannot wait to show it to all his friends. I’ve always considered most short guy haircuts to look the same, but even I think that his cut is done well and looks rather stylish. But what I’m even more impressed by is the money saved for basically nothing. So impressed, that I decide to spend some of the money saved on some fancy ice cream for the two of us. As Luke happily talks about his new haircut over ice cream, the registration form is already somewhere behind us, filed away among hundreds of others. One name out of more than a thousand. Surely nothing would come of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A week has passed since our trip to the mall, and it feels as though the shift in hair has also brought out a shift of personality in Luke. In retrospect, it seems like Luke’s long locks were holding him back, in a sense. With his shorter and smarter haircut, he feels more confident even in his general demeanor. But what hasn’t changed is his love for me. I still give him his goodnight kisses, and he still appreciates them just as much as he did before.

After my goodnight kissing him to sleep, I head to the living room and slump myself on the couch. Saturday nights are for movies, and this night will be no exception. I remember the smoky romance movie I found while scrolling through Instagram a few days back, and search for its availability on my streaming service. To my delight, it is there. But before I hit the play button, my phone rings. I pick it up.

“Hello, who is this?” I ask.

“Just to confirm, I’m speaking to Mrs. Carson?”

The accent sounds familiar, but I cannot place it. “Yes you are. What is this about?”

“Uhh.. Mrs. Carson, please don’t freak out.”

“Okay…”

“I’m Pasha, calling from Ali and Sons. If you remember, I cut your son’s hair last week.”

The color washes right off my face. It does not take more than a few seconds for me to realize exactly what this call is likely about.

“Hello, are you on the line?”

“Yes… yes I am.”

“For the event, the head shaving event, we selected twenty candidates, and I’m afraid you’re one of them. But this is only a preliminary list. The actual single person will be selected at the event.”

The odds were supposed to be next to nothing. Yet, I was chosen. Twenty out of a thousand. One in fifty. I get back down on the chair. My heart is palpitating.

“Anyone could be chosen tomorrow, and we request you to be there. You will find details about the ceremony on the mall’s website. I wish you a good night.”

I clutch the sides of my head in frustration and scream. What on earth was I thinking when I signed my name up? Somehow, the possibility that I could be the one chosen to have my hair shaved in front of thousands of onlookers didn’t materialize in my mind. It occurred to me as nothing more than a number – a tiny probability. But now, a vivid image of the actual scene is in mind, and I do not like what I see.

I run my fingers through my hair. Oh, my beautiful hair, how did I think that it is worth only a small discount on my son’s haircut? I pour myself a glass of water and force myself to think. One in twenty is not too bad. It is much more likely that I’d be one of the nineteen who are spared. But god, whichever way things go tomorrow, I’ve realized how badly I fucked up by signing up in the first place.

I turn off the TV, as I think that even if a movie played in front of my eyes, my mind wouldn’t be in it. I crash on the bed. The very possibility of being selected keeps me from falling asleep for a few hours, before I eventually give in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

I have had long hair for much of my life, and I’ve always been self-conscious of it. In school, I was known by everyone as the girl with long hair, by both guys and other girls alike. I would get asked all kinds of questions about my hair, and there were some who’d even ask if they could touch it. I let them, but I hated it. On a more general note, I hated being known as the girl with long hair, and the attention that came with it. But I loved my long hair, and so I always kept it long, but I’ve since been more thoughtful about how I’d wear it outside.

I wore my jeans and wore my top. Nothing extravagant, but not too shabby either. I brushed my hair, and brushed it for a while I did. If things went the wrong way today, this would be the last time I ever brushed my hair, and I wanted to savour every moment of it. When the hair was brushed and the part was smooth, I tied it up. A simple ponytail, a little loose, to give my nape some breathing space. Ordinarily, that would have felt good enough, but today it felt naked. With my hair down, tied or not, I felt exposed. It felt like I was advertising what I had to offer in the event I am selected. I find my handy claw clip, and pin my hair up in a bun. Satisfied, I take Luke and head outside.

The streets were filled with people, and they all seem to be headed in the same direction we were. Was the opening of the mall that big a deal? I see all kinds of people – a family of four, an elderly couple, a young man who’s alone, and a group of teenage boys around the same age as Luke. Will they all be watching the opening ceremony?

By the time we reached the mall and the stage inside for the ceremony, crowds have gathered on all floors, standing by the railing and peering down at the unfolding event. I mentally wish that they quickly lose interest and go back to their shopping, when a voice on the mic begins.

“Ahem, now that most of you are gathered, we will be underway with our headliner – the head shave! But before we get started, I’d like to introduce a special guest. Please give a round of applause for Mike Graham, Governor of Michigan!”

I had seen Mr. Graham many times on TV, and he has always appeared to be dashing despite being in his fifties, but amazingly, his features are even more striking in real life. He strides to the stage with the energy of a young boy, yet in a manner that is dignified. His mouth is flashed with his classic grin that has been on the front pages of newspapers across the state for at least two decades. He grabs the mic and grins. He is a politician now, but was an actor once, and that much is clear from his demeanour.

“Good afternoon! I’m so excited to be here, and boy does seeing all of you, so many of you, gathered here really fill me with energy. Who’s looking forward to the event?”

The crowd cheers. They sure are energised. Mike Graham was once my crush. As a teenage girl, I had posters of him on my bedroom wall. Today, he could shave my head.

One in a twenty, I remind myself. Nineteen in twenty is much more likely. I’m only here because I was asked to as a formality. I let out a breath.

A bowl of chits sits on the table in front of Mr. Graham. The host of the event explains what the twenty chits are. I had forgotten that Mr. Graham was set to attend, but even when I did remember, it did not dawn on me that he’d play a role in the selection – I simply assumed that he’d be a spectator throughout. As Mr. Graham ruffles about the bowl with his hand, a few men from Ali and Sons, Pasha included, begin setting up a chair on the stage and with it on the side a desk with all the hair cutting tools. Mr. Graham finally picks a chit, and squints his eyes as he reads the name on it.

“Salvatore… what is this? I can’t read the surname! What kind of name is this? Italian? Are we in New York?” It a lame joke, but such is Mr. Graham’s charm that he still brings out laughs from the audience.

Mr. Graham tears the chits into tinier bits and tosses them off. He dips his hand back into the bowl, and picks another chit. This could be the one. I close my eyes and pray.

“Sally Carson. Sally Carson? Sally, would you please come up on stage.

The crowd falls silent. My body freezes. My name has been called, but I do not, or rather cannot, answer to it. Beside me I feel Luke’s presence, and he seems just as immobilized as I am. My head is overcome with a feeling of light-headedness. I suddenly become hyper-aware of every cell in my body. But more than anything, I become hyper-aware of my hair. It is still in its bun, pinned against the back of my head, but it feels heavier now. A part of me tells me to just walk back home and never let my hair down again, and keep the bun as is for the rest of eternity.

But instead, I walk, with slow steps, towards the stage. I walk past all the assembled dignitaries, and stand between Mr. Graham and the barber chair. There is only a hint of it on his face, but it seems even Mr. Graham is a little surprised that it is a woman who has been chosen. I look up at the audience in the front, and I immediately regret it. From the stage, the crowd seems bigger, much bigger, than I thought.

“Okay then, our participant is here. Would you like to introduce yourself?” Mr. Graham points the mic towards me.

I try to think of what to say, but my mind is a blank slate. “Hi… I’m Sally. I’m thirty-two years old.”

Sensing that there’s no more to my opening, Mr. Graham takes back the mic. “That was a nice introduction, Sally. Do you have more to add? Do you have a family? What do you work as? What are your goals in life?”

“Yes… I have a family. My son, Luke. I work as a florist, at my friend’s store, sometimes. As for goals…”

“Okay, that is lovely to hear, Sally! It seems that Sally is a young working class mother, a key component of my voter demographic, one of many disillusioned with the policies of the previous state government. But enough about me! Let’s proceed with the event.”

Mr. Graham hands me a folded cloth. “Now, Sally, please wear this shirt. You can… wear it over what you’re currently wearing.”

I open up the shirt. It’s a simple white tee, but its front has a printed image of the mall and a cartoon of Mr. Graham. Splayed across the image is text that says “ONE LUCKY HEAD!”. It is a terrible shirt and the text is humiliating, but I put it on because I know I have no choice. I adjust the hem, tucking it snugly into my jeans.

Mr. Graham places a hand on my shoulder. A chill passes through me the moment he makes contact. “The chair is setup, and our diva is ready. You look beautiful, Sally. Have a seat, and we can get started.” I do as I’m told, and Mr. Graham moves behind me.

“Okay, let’s first see what we are working with.” Mr. Graham’s hand leaves my shoulder and I feel it hovering above my bun. “May I?” he asks. I nod.

Mr. Graham takes off the claw clip, and I feel a decrease in the weight of my head as my ponytail falls down. He then swivels my chair around, showcasing my hair to the audience. Gasps emerge from the crowd.

“My, my, her hair is nearly touching the floor!” exclaims Mr. Graham. “How long have you been growing your hair for, Sally?”

“It has… been long for most of my life.”

“Everyone, a quick round of applause for Sal’s beautiful hair!” The clapping and jeering of the audience from all sides fills the atmosphere. My chair is swivelled back so that I again face the front. Many people have taken their phones out, cameras pointed at me.

“Now,” says Mr. Graham, “this is my cue to hand it over to the men from Ali and Sons to get started with the big event. But, after seeing your hair Sal, I must admit that I’m tempted to do the initial cut myself, that is the chopping of your ponytail. Do you mind, Sally?”

Knowing that I have no other choice, I shake my head.

“Excellent!” he says, turning me back to give the audience a view of my hair, ostensibly so that they can see it get hacked off. “Now, before we get started, here’s a little fact about me – I have previously cut hair!” I feel a tug at the back of my head, and the movement of hands and pulling of different sections of my hair. “It was for the filming of a movie early in my career, and the producers didn’t have the budget for a hairstylist, so I was asked to do my female co-lead’s hair. She had gorgeous long hair, much like Sally here, and I cut it into a nice bob. Of course, this was years and years ago, but I think I can still do a good job.” Mr. Graham reaches to the tool desk for what appears to be a zip tie, and I feel the very ends of my hair being secured. Mr. Graham has just braided my hair.

“The setup is complete. Everyone – last chance to take pictures of Sal’s incredible braid before I cut it.” He leaves the chair and goes off to the side of the stage, where the barbershop employees stand. I can only just catch a glimpse of what is happening. Pasha takes out a packeted thing, and rips the packet open. Inside are shears, new shears, and they are bigger than shears I had ever seen before. Mr. Graham tries the shears and snips and snaps, getting a feel for them. He then grins like a mad scientist who is about to test his latest poison on his guinea pig, and walks back over to the chair.

I feel another tug as Mr. Graham pulls back my hair. He has a steady grip, and one that hurts my neck too, as it is pulled back against the chair.

“Sally, I will now be shearing off your long and beautiful hair. Hair that you yourself have said you’ve been growing your whole life. Do you have any last words?”

My eyes swell with emotion. I close them, hoping to stop the oncoming stream of tears, even though no one can see my face. At a loss for words, I shake my head.

I then hear the sound of the clacking of shears, and the sound of hair being snipped. The shears make clacks loud enough that I can imagine the cold metal of the shears touching my neck, and my hair is thick enough that the snapping of the shears leaves behind a trail of crunching sounds. The shears snip and snip, and Mr. Graham pulls my hair harder as the cut deepens. I then feel a sudden decrease in weight, and the malls is filled with the sound of cheering. The chair is turned to the front, and I cannot believe what I see.

Mr. Graham stands in front of me, shears in one hand, and a shorn off braid in another. The braid is long, longer than Mr. Graham’s torso, and it is a warm dark brown that I know too well. In Mr. Graham’s hand is my hair, my long hair that I’ve kept long for much of my life, gone in mere instants. My hand reaches for the back of my head, hoping to find my braid still in place, but instead I flinch as I realise that my hair now barely touches my shoulders.

Mr. Graham bows, and the cheering grows louder. “Thank you, everyone. Every time I come here, I’m reminded just how much people in the smaller towns rally behind my message. But of course, today is Sally’s day, and what a wonderful participant she has been. I have to go now, as I have some business to attend to. I’m now handing it over to the wonderful men at Ali and Sons to finish off the rest.” Mr. Graham walks over to the barbershop employees, and hands them the shears and my braid. They then come over to me, spray bottle and razor in Pasha’s hands, as it is seemingly him who’s given the responsibility of shaving my head. Whereas Mr. Graham was cheery and entertaining throughout my ordeal, Pasha walks with apprehension. The look on his face suggests that he feels guilty, even.

I wish to plead for my braid, to keep it on my lap for comfort as my head is shaved. But I am at a complete loss of words. I bend my head down, forcing myself to look at the floor in front of me, daring not to look up towards the crowd. I hear the spray bottle spraying, and feel my hair turn progressively wet. The wetting of my hair makes me feel more naked and exposed than I was before. Pasha places the blade at the front of my hairline, and the crowd falls silent.

If the chopping of the braid was no fun, the shaving was torture. Pasha started with the top of my head, pushing the blade from the front to the back. With each stroke of the razor, a new strip of bareness formed on the top of my head, and clumps of wet hair fell down either side and collected in my lap. After the top was done, Pasha moved to the sides, and then the back. His strokes at first were delicate, but seeing that I had gotten over my initial shock, Pasha made swifter strokes later.

When all is done, I get up. The huge mass of wet hair that had collected in my lap falls down on the floor. It is my hair, but in the state that it is in, it feels alien. I do not mean to be boastful, but my hair was a thing of beauty. Whatever ugly mess lay on the floor then was not. As Pasha and the other barbers sweep up the fallen mass of hair, I walk ahead, not daring to look behind. The crowd parts as I make my way towards Luke, and then the exit. I feel wet clumps of hair on my arms and clothes, but I will dust it all off only after getting home. I have never felt so embarrassed and naked ever before in my life.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A little over a month has passed since my public execution of sorts. My hair has barely grown back, and what little did grow back is thin. Apparently my long hair disguised how much hair I’ve lost over the year, but now it is clear.

The town has seemingly to quickly gotten over the whole event. The mall is flourishing, but I haven’t visited it again since, and I don’t think I ever will. Luke got a few comments of sympathy from his classmates at school, and contrary to what I had feared, no one has been a bully to him about it. Which is a relief, since that would have only added to Luke’s new alienating attitude towards me.

The town has gotten over my haircut, but that does not mean that my spectacle has erased itself from the public eye. The mall’s channel posted a full video of my head shave on YouTube, and the video went viral. Not because of Mr. Graham’s participation in the event, because his hung-ho attitude is nothing new to the public, but because of me and the head shaving itself. There were all kinds of comments, and a rabbit hole led me to the Internet’s hair fetish community.

I was well aware that the Internet was home to people of many varied sexual dispositions, but it was a genuine surprise to me to discover that there is such a thing as a fetish for hair. First I found the first sub-reddit, and then I found the Discord servers. People post pictures of long hair and the cutting of it, and my video ended up there too. However, my video hit like no other, and I soon discovered that I became a celebrity of sorts within the community. Everyone couldn’t stop talking about Bald Sally and her beautiful hair and her spectacular head shave.

“The way she held back her tears is so hot.”

“If I was the one who cut her hair, I would have stripped her first.”

“My favourite part was when the governor held up the braid for us to see.”

“My god, Sally is so powerless. Zero resistance. Pathetic.”

The comments were all I could think of even when I engaged myself with normal everyday activities. I found them disturbing at first, but over time, I’ve weirdly come to lean on them as validation. It frightens me that those comments no longer disgusted me as much as they had the first night. They weren’t talking about me. They were talking about an image, a woman on a screen. Yet some lonely part of me still found comfort in the fact that someone, somewhere, remembers and admires Sally’s beautiful hair.