Celine and Fleur, Part 1 – We Are Here to Help

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Celine and Fleur, Part 1 – We Are Here to Help (Illustrated Edition)

Prologue

In simpler days, I had always thought that the most outrageous thing about my life was having hair that fell to my knees. My best friend, Fleur, and I, Celine, would spend afternoons measuring the length of our tresses with a tape measure and arguing over whose strands would brush the floor first.

My hair was a cascade of sun‑kissed gold, while Fleur’s was a soft, chestnut waterfall. We brushed each other’s locks and concocted styles, occasionally for practicality but more often just for fun. We turned the simple act of growing our tresses longer into a ritual, a competition that felt like a shared and private war against the inevitable march of time.

After our first year at university, we were both looking forward to enjoying the long summer vacation. However, we found ourselves wanting – no, needing – to do something more than simply hang out with each other in the countryside around our homes.

Earlier in the year, we had considered volunteering abroad for a charity that protected wildlife. However, we could not afford the surprisingly prohibitive cost that would allow us to demonstrate our altruism. We had hoped to contribute our time to local projects, but nothing suitable came to light. Just when we decided it would be easier to simply chill together for the whole summer, Fleur discovered a charitable opportunity advertised in the quaint coastal holiday destination of Fleethaven.

The Fleethaven Community Outreach Initiative (FCOI) supported seasonal businesses, helped struggling residents, and offered temporary respite to underprivileged families from the cities. The initiative recruited volunteers, principally students, during the summer months. They provided free board and lodgings in exchange for a modest number of hours spent helping on a variety of tasks around the town. Scanning the online advertisement, it offered us a perfect way to balance girls wanting to have fun in a vibrant seaside location, and our genuine desire to give something back to the community.

Our excitement was palpable. When we saw there were only two volunteer places available, and then only following a cancellation, we submitted our applications without delay. They soon got back to us quickly and asked us to join them for a couple of months. It seemed a perfect way to spend our summer, with purpose, while still having time to soak up the sights and sounds of a beachside town.

Registration

On a Sunday in summer, we excitedly hopped off the coach with our luggage and breathed in the fresh salty air that told us we had arrived. The warmth that greeted us suggested that in the coming days I was unlikely to need my leather jacket or Fleur’s denim one. While Fleur had an endless supply of light floral dresses – the lovely red floral one for travelling – I would need to reconsider my wardrobe of heavier skirts and opaque tights.

As instructed, we made our way to the Fleethaven Community Outreach Initiative cabin by the quay.

‘Celine and Fleur,’ we chorused on arrival. ‘We are here to help.’

Mrs Jameson, the supervisor, frowned as she consulted her clipboard, then welcomed us to Fleethaven. A warm and pleasant, middle-aged woman, she seemed perpetually flustered. She dressed as if working in a city office and wore her hair in a tight bun.

We completed registration, and she gave us a joining pack of information related to the town and the charitable initiative. Handing over a key to our caravan, she instructed us to return to the FCOI cabin at 7.30 the following morning. There, we would complete all the outstanding formalities, and then she would assign our tasks for the day. We had a plethora of questions about how we might be helping and what we should wear, but, distracted by a new influx of volunteers, Mrs Jameson had already moved on.

We dropped off our bags at our clean and surprisingly spacious caravan before exploring the seafront. The distant sounds of music from a beach party further along the sands tempted us. But it had been a long day of travelling, so we grabbed a beer at a lovely pub by the quay and watched the sun go down. Then, with the prospect of an incredibly early start the following morning, we retired to our beds.

Assignment

The alarm sounded at 6am, yanking me from a delicious dream where I had met a wonderful guy at a beach party and we had sloped off towards the dunes. Irritated that we had not reached the sandy mound, I was further annoyed when I saw that Fleur was already in motion, even if her eyes were barely open.

We consumed strong coffee and buttered toast while taking turns in the bathroom. With our tasks for the day not yet prescribed, we were unsure what to wear. We anticipated a balmy day, so we decided to keep our attire simple and light. With no jackets or cardigans required, I slipped into my distressed denim miniskirt and a white camisole top, while Fleur selected her delightful blue floral dress.

In a familiar move, I sat on a chair on the decking and handed my friend my hairbrush and elastic bands.

‘Sleek and high ponytail, Celine?’ she questioned chirpily, already running the brush through the length and gathering my hair at the crown.

‘But of course!’ I said haughtily, trying to keep the amusement from my voice. ‘Need you ask?’

‘Sorry, Madam,’ she chuckled, as she secured the remarkably heavy weight of my hair with a couple of strong elastics. It was a practised safeguard to ensure my hair did not slip throughout the day. As always when she did my hair for me, it looked precise and perfect.

We swapped places, and I did the same for Fleur. We discussed whether plaiting it or a French braid might be more practical on subsequent mornings. However, we agreed that we could only decide how we would style it once we knew what tasks we would be doing. After all, neither of us wanted to be dipping the ends of our ponytails in a pot of paint or have it tugged incessantly by renegade youngsters we were herding during an adventure camp.

As we had been doing for years, we looked each other up and down, and we nodded approvingly at our hair and attire. And as our tradition demanded, we tugged each other’s ponytail taut as a final check, both feigning a squeak of pain as we did so. Silly, we knew, but the familiarity was part of us being best friends.

We drained our coffee and, despite the early hour, found the air was already warm along the promenade as we made our way along the quay to the FCOI cabin.

‘Good morning, Mrs Jameson,’ we chorused once she had sent all the other volunteers on their way with their assigned tasks. ‘Celine and Fleur,’ I added.

‘Er…’ she murmured, looking confused, flicking through notes on her clipboard for inspiration. ‘Ah, the newbies!’ We nodded as she surveyed our appearance. ‘Uniform style,’ she murmured, and we rewarded her with a questioning look. She sighed. ‘FCOI outfits in the locker at the back of the cabin, corresponding to your caravan number,’ she indicated, after looking down at her clipboard for confirmation. ‘Then get along to Bouleur, just there, along the promenade,’ she said impatiently, as four more volunteers jostled behind us. ‘You can’t miss it,’ she sighed, turning her attention to the newcomers.

Uniforms

‘Celine, did you catch what we will be doing at this Bouleur place that she mentioned?’ Fleur asked, never one to enjoy not being fully informed.

‘No idea. But I am sure it will not be hard to find it, and we can certainly jump to it in our uniforms when we get there,’ I quipped.

Supporting my assertion, I held up a pair of distinctly unfashionable navy-blue jumpsuits that I had discovered in our locker. Nipped in at the waist, it had a silver zip along the front and long sleeves. The garment was practical, for sure, but it also felt like a uniform of surrender.

‘At least they aren’t dungarees,’ Fleur sniffed, holding hers at arm’s length. She had always been the one who was more sensitive to wearing unfashionable clothing.

‘Or tracksuits,’ I grumbled disparagingly, and she quivered in horror, making the sign of the cross.

Having removed our own attire, we clambered into the close-fitting jumpsuits. We giggled while zipping each other up, trying to decide the extent of cleavage that we should leave on show. We noted that the tailored fit did show off our figures well. So, along with our magnificent ponytails, we looked incredibly efficient and not too frumpy.

We returned to the front of the cabin to present ourselves to Mrs Jameson before making our way to Bouleur.

Inspection

‘Zipped up to the throat, girls,’ Mrs Jameson frowned as we stood in front of her, leaning in and performing the task before we had a chance to complain.

‘Oh…’ Fleur lamented as the supervisor quashed her attempt at stylistic individualism at the first hurdle.

‘We may task you with wheeling around the older chaps who are convalescing after serious health issues,’ Mrs Jameson explained with a wry grin. ‘If they see you with your tits hanging out, then the arousing sight may set them back weeks.’

‘Or it may perk them up and put them on the road to a full recovery,’ I opined, trying to keep a straight face.

‘True, but let’s not take the risk, Celine,’ Mrs Jameson suggested with a cheery sigh. ‘The associated paperwork for workplace incidents can be very time-consuming.’ And, with that, the perpetually flustered supervisor rushed off when someone else called her.

‘I suppose it would be worse,’ Fleur conceded, as she wriggled her bottom for a more comfortable fit.

‘Really?’ I questioned, wriggling my own backside in sympathy. We looked as if we were auditioning as a pair of choreographed rabbits in a pantomime, causing us to burst out laughing.

‘Bouleur, now!’ Mrs Jameson snapped, peeking around the door, alerted by our laughter. ‘Otherwise, I’ll stick cottonwool tails on your arses using very large drawing pins.’

She was attempting to sound like an authoritative drill sergeant. However, she gave an excellent impression of a frustrated feline mother failing to control a pair of unruly kittens.

‘Yes, Mrs Jameson,’ we sung out together, giggling as we set out along the promenade.

Bouleur

Leaving the FCOI cabin, we walked along the sun-kissed promenade, looking at the signage on the establishments we passed. An ice cream parlour was not yet open, while an amusement arcade was already flashing its colourful lights inside. But neither displayed the word for which we were searching.

Then, on a corner plot by the sea, a magnificent structure of geometric extravagance rose up. It gave the impression that, upon entering, one would travel back a hundred years in time. An ornate veranda shaded an elegant terrace with bistro tables and chairs. Sitting proudly above the entrance were a row of large gilt-edged sculptures, cast in the shape of letters, that together spelt out the name Bouleur.

‘I guess this must be the place, Celine,’ Fleur pondered as she looked towards the building.

I placed a finger on my chin questioningly. ‘What makes you think that, Fleur?’ I said innocently, following her gaze.

‘It’s just that…’ my friend began to explain, pointing at the letters, before noticing that I was suppressing a giggle. ‘Very funny, ha-ha.’

Bistro

‘It is an amazing old building,’ I commented, appreciating how beautifully it conjured up a bygone age.

‘Art deco, I believe the style’s called,’ Fleur claimed. ‘It looks like it might be a café, or restaurant, or something.’ She giggled when she noticed that I was about to pounce with another one of my “insightful” questions, but she dived in quicker this time. ‘On account of all the bistro tables and chairs that are located in front of it.’

‘Well, let us hope they do not want us to climb up on that veranda to repaint those gold letters,’ I said.

‘I agree. Mind you, Celine,’ Fleur sniffed, looking down at her functional jumpsuit, ‘I suppose we are dressed for a spot of painting and decorating.’

Bakery

We crossed from the promenade and stepped through the doors of the marvellous art-deco building. Clustered on one side, close to the windows that opened onto the sea, were a further row of bistro tables. Further back and facing the door was a long and ornate glass-fronted cabinet topped with a mahogany counter from which delicious aromas emanated.

As we approached, we saw it was brimming with assorted breads, scrumptious cakes, and, particularly enticing, golden croissants full of chocolate. I made a mental note to forego the coffee and toast at the caravan the following morning and make an early start to enjoy breakfast at this place before starting work.

Along the wall, behind the counter, flowing gilt-edged italic text fashioned from ornate metal confirmed this was Bouleur. Smaller letters, below that single word, elaborated on its purpose further as Bistro – Bakery – Barber.

Wait! Bistro… tick. Bakery… tick. But a barber?

What a peculiar combination of services, I thought to myself. If I had seen the words on an electronic sign, rather than one that looked as though it came from the previous century, I would have assumed it was a misprint. As I tried to make sense of the signage, Fleur stood beside me licking her lips as she admired the contents of the patisserie.

Suddenly a clear and confident voice interrupted our musings and startled us.

‘Good morning, my dears,’ an elegant woman greeted us, popping up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the display cabinet. ‘How may I help you this lovely morning?’ she asked, observing us expectantly.

In her forties, she was strikingly attractive with a clear and melodious voice. She wore an elegant lace blouse that incorporated sheer panels, paired with a classy black skirt, partially obscured by a pristine white apron tied at her waist. Framing her perfectly made-up face was a sleek and severe A-line bobbed hairstyle. A deep fringe touched her eyebrows, and, while the hair at the front touched her chin, the back was much higher, exposing the bare skin of her nape.

I could not help but stare. If I were less interested in guys, and if she had not been twice my age, and if I had not had a pathological dislike of short hair, then I might have been even more interested in her. As it was, I found her sophisticated presence in a bakery intriguing. Unusually for me, I struggled to find my voice.

‘We’re here to help,’ Fleur chirped, resulting in a puzzled frown from the woman. ‘We have been sent by the Fleethaven Community Outreach Initiative,’ she elaborated.

‘Ah, Celine and Fleur, of course,’ she beamed, clapping her hands together, causing a small cloud of white flour to fill the air in front of her. She promptly wiped her hands using her apron, which she then removed. ‘Mrs Jameson informed me you would be coming.’

‘Please,’ she said, gliding to her right and waving expansively.

We followed her lead and looked where she was pointing, revealing a hidden alcove tucked away in the rear corner of the premises. We both did a double take once we had seen what was there.

Barber

The modest space possessed a style that resembled the rest of the establishment. There were two large, elaborate mirrors trimmed in gold that dominated the far wall. Located in front of each mirror was a large metal chair constructed of chrome and red leather mounted on a robust metal pedestal. Neatly draped over each chair was a large, crimson sheet made from a silky material. It looked, for all the world, like a section of a traditional hair salon had incongruously dropped inside the premises.

Recalling something from earlier, I turned my gaze back to the sign on the wall. Bistro – Bakery – Barber.

‘Barber?’ I murmured to Fleur, who failed to stifle a giggle at the absurdity of the bizarre combination of services.

‘Exactly so,’ the woman agreed, looking a little put out by our reaction. ‘What is it that you find so funny, my dear?’

Fleur bit her lip to stop herself sniggering. ‘This is a bakery. And a bistro,’ she said, waving her hand vaguely, then pointing to the sign. ‘And a barber?’

‘Exactly so, my dear,’ she confirmed. ‘We have – how you say – diversified for the times when the summer tourists are no longer here. Mr Bouleur, my husband, is the master baker,’ she said proudly, waving to a closed door marked “Staff Only” behind the patisserie counter. As if on cue, there was a loud crash followed by muffled swearing.

‘Albert! We have customers!’ Mrs Bouleur bellowed, immediately followed by a grumpy refrain from the other side of the door that might have been an apology. ‘I beg your pardon, my dears. Like me, my husband is an artiste,’ she explained, although where her creative skills lay was unclear.

‘Not a problem,’ I said, keen to move things along and understand why she had asked for our help from Mrs Jameson.

‘My children – Chloe and Charles – serve in the bistro, even if,’ she looked towards the ceiling, ‘they are still in their beds now!’ She exclaimed, purposefully loud enough for them to hear. ‘They stay on the beach, partying with their friends on Sunday night, and forget they start work early Monday morning. Pah, it is not good enough!’

‘I… I am sorry,’ Fleur muttered unnecessarily, the sensitive one who never appreciates any kind of emotional conflict.

Mrs Bouleur took a deep breath and reverted to the character of the pleasant woman who had greeted us. ‘No, my dears, it is I who must apologise,’ she lowered her chin in deference. Regarding my artistic talents, they focus on the cutting and styling of hair,’ she smiled warmly. ‘Yes, my dears, I am the barber,’ she added pompously, patting her immaculate bob.

‘Very nice,’ I said, acknowledging her long-winded, if superfluous, family background. Fleur and I needed to understand why we were there to help.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ Mrs Bouleur simpered, running a finger along her bare nape. ‘My darling daughter, Chloe, trimmed it for me just yesterday, under my direction of course,’ she continued, completely misinterpreting my dismissive comment aimed at closing off an extended family history.

I looked at Fleur, silently communicating the question of whether we should correct the woman’s misunderstanding. Like me, she had decided it would serve no purpose, indicated by a subtle shake of the head. I was fearful that, with only the slightest encouragement, Mrs Bouleur would relate the life stories of her grandparents, including all her aunties and cousins too.

‘We are here to help,’ I reminded Mrs Bouleur, looking around the premises to see what she might want us to do. Given how immaculate the interior looked, I was still concerned that she might get us to go on the roof to touch up the lettering of the Bouleur sign. I whispered as much to Fleur, and that started her giggling again.

‘No!’ Mrs Bouleur snapped, clapping her hands once, causing Fleur to stop laughing immediately. Clearly volunteers did not have permission to laugh. ‘You are not here to help,’ she corrected, ‘or to snigger,’ she added pointedly. ‘You -’

I took a deep breath, feeling irritated but ready to apologise. ‘Mrs Bouleur, we—’

‘You are here for your Fleethaven Community Outreach Initiative uniform-style haircut,’ she smirked.

Our jaws dropped as we suddenly spun around to face each other, our ponytails inevitably swinging wildly and slapping each other in the face.

‘Haircut?’ we chorused.

Negotiation

‘Exactly so,’ Mrs Bouleur chuckled, ‘and, given those terribly dangerous weapons you possess, then not before time. Please, one of you, take a seat.’

As we were growing up, our long hair had often been the subject of comical and dangerous incidents, and once I had even got a black eye from Fleur’s heavy braid. But I did not see that the length of our hair was anyone’s business other than our own.

‘Sorry, Mrs Bouleur. There appears to have been a misunderstanding. We –’

‘No, I am here to help,’ she smirked, paraphrasing our recently coined motto. Whether she had done so intentionally or not, I was unsure. ‘Please take a seat,’ she repeated, having lifted one of the crimson sheets from the back of a chair, holding it up and enticing us forward like a matador.

Neither Fleur nor I had ever felt enticed by a haircutting cape, red or otherwise. Indeed, whether consciously or not, we found ourselves backing away from Mrs Bouleur, placing a protective arm around each other.

Mrs Bouleur was chuckling at our obvious reticence, but, at the same time, she looked confused. ‘Mrs Jameson will have explained the uniform style. Is that not so, my dears?’

We both waved our hands vaguely over our navy-blue jumpsuits to denote the evidence that the FCOI supervisor had fulfilled her duty.

‘No, no, no, my dears, your jumpsuits are just the uniform clothing. The uniform style demanded by the FCOI not only specifies the attire you must wear but also the uniform haircut that is necessary for you to have.’ She looked upon our remarkably long ponytails extremely gravely. ‘For you, very necessary!’ she scoffed.

‘No way!’ Fleur squeaked, grabbing her ponytail protectively, the initial surprise and subsequent shock immediately apparent in her voice.

‘Yes, exactly so,’ Mrs Bouleur countered, irritation creeping into her tone. ‘We do not want all that,’ she said dismissively, waving at Fleur’s ponytail, ‘falling into an old person’s soup. Or into a pot of paint.’

‘So, you do want us to paint the sign above this place?’ I yelled, pointing in the direction of the veranda above the bistro.

‘No, no, no! Where do you get this silly idea?’ Mrs Bouleur let out a long, exasperated sigh. ‘It is not only for the practicality, but the uniform is to generate a cohesive team spirit amongst all the volunteers. With a uniform haircut, my dears, you will look aesthetically pleasing.’

‘I will look like a dork,’ Fleur blurted out, and I tended to agree with her.

Mrs Bouleur took a deep breath and let it out very slowly. ‘I am here to help,’ she repeated, almost sneering. ‘To help our local charitable initiative by freely providing my services for free for the volunteers. If you do not wish to avail yourself of my services, then you will leave now, as I have so much more to do this morning.’

Fleur and I looked at each other, stunned by the unexpected obstacle to our carefree summer. ‘Mrs Bouleur, what we need –’

‘What I need,’ she countered, ‘is for you to sit! Right here! Right now!’

I felt the need to apologise. ‘Sorry, but no… there has been a misunderstanding…’

Mrs Bouleur gave a curt nod. ‘Not a problem, my dear. Not from me. But if you do not adopt the complete FCOI uniform style – the clothing and the haircut – then you must leave -’

‘Yes, we are leaving,’ I hastily interjected, backing towards the door with Fleur’s hand in mine.

‘No, no, no. You must leave the initiative… leave Fleethaven… completely,’ she stated dogmatically. ‘You will give up your caravan immediately, and never darken our towers again,’ she added dramatically. ‘But, for me, it is not a problem,’ she went on dismissively, placing the silky crimson sheet over the back of the chair once more and smoothing the creases.

We exchanged a bewildered glance. We were so looking forward to this break before returning to university, and we desperately wanted to help the community. But the idea of a regulation haircut for volunteers was ludicrous. I swallowed, my throat becoming dry and feeling tight.

Fleur, bless her, tried to make the woman see reason. ‘Mrs Bouleur, we were told –’

‘The supervisor, Mrs Jameson, sent you here. She knows the rules, and she would have only sent you here if you had signed the contract,’ she cut in, smiling sharply. ‘Did you sign?’ she snapped.

I recalled that we had electronically authorised the paperwork, but such was the last-minute rush to secure our places on the initiative, we did not read it all in detail. I attempted to reason with the woman. ‘Mrs Bou -’

‘You either sit and obey, or you leave. As I say, for me, there is no complaining either way, my dears,’ she said sternly. ‘But for you, it may be different.’

Mrs Bouleur’s tone left no room for negotiation. If we wanted to stay, the only choice was clear. We stared at each other, long and hard, before nodding in unison.

Her eyes twinkled. ‘Then who will be first, my dears?’

Decision

Having finally agreed that we would allow Mrs Bouleur to cut our hair so that we could remain with the initiative, I was still feeling incredibly anxious. With that in mind, I nudged Fleur forward, and Mrs Bouleur’s eyes gleamed with an almost predatory delight, clearly relishing our awkwardness. Collecting the red cape from the back of the chair once again and waving her palm, she invited my friend to sit.

Fleur took short steps, looking behind her a couple of times as I held my ground. Finally, she was in the range of Mrs Bouleur, who scooped her up and deposited her in the chair. Within seconds, she had draped the large crimson cape over Fleur and fastened it securely around her neck. Then the barber pumped up the base of the chair, lifting my friend high off the ground with her massive ponytail trailing down the backrest.

Mrs Bouleur smoothed the cape across Fleur’s body, the hem almost touching the floor. Amazingly, so did the ends of Fleur’s chestnut ponytail, coiling in a pile on the floor. Given my observation, having a little more than a trim might not be such a bad idea, after all.

In the large mirror, I could see her terrified expression reflected, framed by shelves and hooks containing an array of gleaming cutting tools designed to cause havoc on anyone’s hair.

‘And for you,’ Mrs Bouleur invited, having quickly moved next to the second chair, lifting the red cape and placing it over her arm.

‘I’ll just watch for now,’ I mumbled, rooted to the spot, partly in fear and partly recognising that I was near an escape route.

‘And for you,’ she repeated, more firmly, her voice syrupy. ‘We do not want you escaping, do we, my dear?’

A defiant “yes!” was the response on the tip of my tongue. But seeing Fleur’s desperate expression, imploring me to stay and show solidarity, I acquiesced.

I sank into the red leather cushion of the chair. The crimson cape billowed in front of me before settling over my entire body, the silken fabric whispering against my skin. The material felt cool at my neck as Mrs Bouleur drew the material taut. Then she snapped a series of poppers that rang a note of finality. Dwelling on that thought, I suddenly found myself jerkily moving up and away from the floor, the chair rising to the same level as Fleur.

Mrs Bouleur stood behind me, one hand smoothing the length of my ponytail, the other fingering the hairline at my nape.

‘For sure, you both have such lovely length and condition, my dears. I imagine you both care and style hair for each other,’ she said wistfully. We both nodded, keen to establish a common connection with her and secure a degree of empathy. ‘It is a shame, in some ways, that today it will soon be short,’ she added, sounding a little too keen as she reached for the largest scissors on the shelf before me.

‘Wait! Short?’ we chorused. ‘You mean shorter? Just a trim?’ I added for clarification.

‘No, no, no. The regulation is not for “just a trim”, or whatever style that you choose,’ she scoffed. ‘The regulation is that all volunteers will adopt the uniform short style.’

I tried to turn to ascertain Fleur’s opinion of this turn of events. But I found that my head would not turn. Mrs Bouleur prevented it from doing so by virtue of holding my ponytail taut. Peering over the top of my head in the reflection, she wore a beaming smile like all her Christmases had come at once.

‘You may wish to close your eyes,’ Mrs Bouleur suggested, sniggering, as the open blades of the scissors paused momentarily around the base of my high ponytail.

Severance

Yes, following Mrs Bouleur’s invitation, I did wish to close my eyes or turn away as she prepared to cut my ponytail. However, morbidly, I was unable to do either as I stared straight ahead, watching the astonishing and unprecedented sight of the large glinting scissor blades closing around my hair.

When I heard a sickening crunch, every part of me froze. Mrs Bouleur, biting her tongue in excited concentration, began sawing through my magnificent ponytail. I desperately wanted to tell her to stop, but I already knew it was too late.

‘Please… please… no…’ Fleur whimpered ineffectively, on my behalf, beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her watching Mrs Bouleur severing the hair she had tended, on my behalf, for our whole lives. ‘Please… please stop.’

‘For sure, I have stopped,’ Mrs Bouleur claimed, and, for sure, the tugging on my scalp had ceased, rewarding me with a moment of relief. That was until I looked in the mirror. Disbelievingly, I stared at the grinning barber who held up my huge ponytail like a trophy. ‘A formidable opponent, for sure, my dear,’ she claimed, patting me on the shoulder, ‘but I have won! I have severed it, and it is mine.’

Mrs Bouleur tossed my hair into a drawer under the shelf before me. My remaining hair was still in a sleek ponytail, but that ponytail was now a pitiful length, a pluming stump of just a couple of inches.

The barber immediately adjusted her position, moving so that she was standing behind Fleur. Without hesitation and despite her squeals of protest, Mrs Bouleur pulled my friend’s ponytail taut, and she sawed through it with equal enthusiasm. After a casual glance at Fleur’s ponytail that I had tended for so long, she shrugged and tossed it into the drawer to join mine.

As Fleur and I had used two elastic ties to secure our heavy hair that morning, the remainder plumed from the top of our heads in that ridiculously short stump of a ponytail.

‘Did you have to cut our hair so short?’ I snapped, finally finding my voice again.

‘Yes, my dear, of course,’ she confirmed. ‘You require the uniform short style.’

Fleur

Snipping the band securing Fleur’s hair, Mrs Bouleur tousled the remnants of her once bountiful locks, arranging them evenly around her head. Taking a comb, she distributed the hair into a horrendous, jagged chin-length bob. It looked nothing like Mrs Bouleur’s own immaculate bobbed style.

With a practised skill, the barber fashioned a precise horizontal parting around Fleur’s head, just above her ears. She pinned the top half out of the way, leaving the remainder loose. Leaning forward, she selected large red hairclippers from a hook by the mirror. They looked as old as the shop’s fixtures and fittings, having a thick black lead plugged into a power outlet. They were functional, not the sleek and elegant modern rechargeable devices that I had occasionally seen in salons. As she turned the device on, the hum of the motor rose to a crescendo like a warning siren.

‘No!’ we cried out in unison, fearing she was going to shave Fleur bald. ‘Please… no…’ Fleur added, whimpering, as Mrs Bouleur eased her head downwards. ‘Not those things…’

‘Do not be silly, my dear,’ the unfeeling barber chided. ‘These are necessary to achieve what is required.’

I was opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish. I wanted to insist that the mad barber did not completely shave my friend’s head. However, my life’s experiences had not prepared me to find the right words for such a ridiculous and unexpected situation. Besides, the incessant whine from the awful device was so loud that it is doubtful she would have heard me. And even if she had heard me, I doubted she would have delayed her intentions.

The messy, uneven hair fell away under the insistence of the blade of the clippers, revealing Fleur’s elegant neck and her lovely ears. Over the years, I had been as close to Fleur’s nape as Mrs Bouleur was, styling her hair in ways that had, temporarily, placed her hairline on display. But it was a transient change, as, come each evening, the release of her hair from its daytime style would mean her swan-like neck and her neatly formed ears would be off show until the next time.

However, I realised that Mrs Bouleur intended the back and sides of my friend’s head to remain on permanent display. As more tendrils tumbled down, she adjusted the blades and buzzed Fleur’s chestnut hair to a fine and even pelt that looked like velvet. Despite the horrendous transformation, the temptation to reach across and feel its smoothness was almost overwhelming.

Like curious rubberneckers watching a car crash, the unusual and dramatic sight held my attention. Captivated by Fleur’s cruel exposure, I felt an unexpected frisson of excitement pinging throughout my body. It was one that I did not wish to acknowledge and one that I quickly suppressed.

Eventually, the whine of the clippers ceased, and Mrs Bouleur returned them to their place on the hook by the mirror. Releasing the hair pinned on Fleur’s crown, the messy bob reappeared, albeit less thick now that she had eliminated the underlying hair and created an undercut of sorts. Working with comb and scissors, Mrs Bouleur skilfully adjusted the length of the longer hair. She trimmed the back and sides so that they just overlapped the lower area she had buzzed. Then, with a dramatic flourish, she swooped in, skimming the scissors along Fleur’s forehead and leaving a straight blunt fringe that sat high above her eyebrows.

Fleur looked strange, as neither of us had ever had a fringe. We had discussed it often, sharing our mutual fears of the time taken to grow it out if we did not like it. No longer would Fleur have the worry, as all her hair was the same length as her fringe, albeit extremely short in a bowl-like shape that sat primly above her ears like a glossy helmet.

Mrs Bouleur took a couple of steps back to survey her work. ‘Perfect!’ she judged.

I glanced at Fleur, and she was just staring disbelievingly straight ahead into the mirror, her eyes wide. She had managed to disentangle a hand from under the crimson cape and was tentatively feeling her transformed hair. Unsurprisingly, her eyes widened even further as she touched her buzzed nape. Despite the terrible vision, I found myself wanting to touch it too.

However, before I could, Mrs Bouleur moved across from Fleur, distracting me. ‘And now you, Celine.’

Celine

Mrs Bouleur released my uneven locks from its tiny stump of a ponytail. Temporarily I had the same jagged, uneven mess that Fleur had sported ten minutes earlier. I wanted to scream for the barber to leave it alone. However, comparing the tragedy that was covering my head with the sleek style of my friend, hers seemed the lesser of the two evils.

So, having sectioned the top section of my hair, Mrs Bouleur reached for those awful red hairclippers.

‘Juliette!’ a voice called out from behind us. I saw a woman had approached from the bakery counter, peering in our direction. A similar age to Mrs Bouleur, she wore an elegant floral dress, with her blonde hair cut in a similar style to the barber. ‘I wish to purchase my morning baguette.’

The incongruity of the situation did not escape. Fleur and I were losing our lifetime’s identity with Mrs Bouleur transforming us out of all recognition. And here was an inconsequential friend of the barber demanding to buy a stick of bread, a task she clearly considered more important!

‘One moment, Rosalie, please,’ Mrs Bouleur apologised. ‘Can you believe that my lazy children have not risen from their beds to assist? And I must complete these haircuts for the volunteers so they can go out into our town to perform helpful tasks on behalf of the FCOI’.

‘Not a problem, Juliette,’ the woman shrugged. ‘Our town’s charitable initiative is far more important, and time is not pressing on me… so, may I watch?’

‘But of course,’ Mrs Bouleur invited, pulling up a bistro chair to give Rosalie a ringside view of my haircut. If it had not been bizarre enough to find ourselves having our hair cut in an art deco barbershop, becoming the subject of a spectator’s morning entertainment was even weirder.

‘Ah, yes, the uniform haircut,’ Rosalie nodded with a smile as she looked over at Fleur. ‘You look very smart, my dear,’ she called across, but her praise was not enough to pull my friend from her near-catatonic trance.

As Mrs Bouleur reached for the hairclippers once more, Rosalie’s eyes alighted on the drawer where the barber had deposited our ponytails. She reached in, lifted them out, and held them up. ‘Magnificent!’ she declared. ‘They are so heavy. And these came from you two?’

‘Yes,’ I snapped ungraciously.

‘Incredible! You must be grateful to Juliette, and it must be such a relief not to carry this considerable weight around all the time.’

I had not had time to consider her assertion but realised that, in a sense, she was right. But I did not wish to give her the satisfaction. ‘No… not really,’ I muttered.

The motor of the ancient hairclippers revved up, preventing me from hearing further inane comments from Rosalie. However, she beamed as she recognised the sound and settled back in her chair, as if witnessing the hairclippers would be her personal highlight of the performance.

I was not prepared for the metal blade to dig into my sensitive neck, and I understood why Fleur had flinched away from their touch. I tried to remain stoic, but having witnessed what they did to my friend’s hair, I found it difficult. The machine buzzed, a relentless drone that seemed to echo throughout my whole skull.

Despite the noise, the two women were managing to have a conversation, but the incessant whine of the motor masked their words. As soon as the motor stopped, Mrs Bouleur began shaping the same bowl shape as she had on Fleur and gave me the same drastic fringe. When Mrs Bouleur finally put away her comb and scissors, my glorious hair that was once a flowing river had become a shallow, circular bowl that sat high on my head. She had given me a textbook bowl cut, with the edges cut starkly to a uniform length and everything below reduced to a suede-like pelt.

‘Perfect!’ Rosalie declared as Mrs Bouleur completed my haircut. ‘For sure, it is the best haircut for dear ones such as these.’

‘Thank you, very much, Rosalie,’ the barber simpered, dipping her chin to acknowledge the praise of her friend. ‘I agree, for sure. So, my dears… you are complete!’ she declared, unfastening our capes and swishing them away together.

‘You look so different, Celine,’ Fleur uttered tremulously, her first words for a while.

‘We look so different,’ I corrected, experiencing the weird sensation of touching the buzzed area for the first time. Without my comforting long hair, I did not feel complete at all!

Mrs Bouleur lowered the chairs, and, on shaky legs, we stood, facing each other and absorbing the changes in each other’s appearance. I gulped, struggling to know what to say, feeling the sudden weightlessness on the back of my neck and the cool air that whistled across my newly exposed skin. My fingers automatically brushed the smooth nape of my neck, a sensation that was completely foreign.

‘Well, it could be worse,’ Fleur opined, although I was at a loss to know how. ‘You actually look pretty cool.’

‘I do?’ I questioned doubtfully, glancing in the mirror and patting the glossy bowl perched on my head. I was unsure whether “cool” was the right word, but there was no disputing that Mrs Bouleur had cut the style extremely well.

‘Pah!’ the barber huffed dismissively while smiling broadly. ‘You both look absolutely superb!’

‘Yes, for sure,’ Rosalie agreed. ‘Magnificent!’

‘Now, my dear new friends, you must get along to the FCOI office so Mrs Jameson can assign your tasks for the day,’ Mrs Bouleur reminded us. ‘But first I must give you something more.’

‘Thanks, that’s nice, but there’s no need,’ I squeaked, grabbing Fleur’s arm and making for the door, having visions of her shaving the remainder of our hair.

Treats

‘Wait!’ Mrs Bouleur exclaimed authoritatively before we could make our escape.

The barber bustled over to the bakery counter and assembled a white cardboard box. ‘You have been brave girls this morning, so you may each choose a little something from the patisserie.’

Momentarily, haircuts forgotten, we reverted to being kiddies in a particularly tempting sweetshop. With my mouth watering, I immediately pointed to the oozing pain-au-chocolat I had spied earlier. Taking my lead, Fleur licked her lips and pointed to a custard slice.

Chuckling to herself, Mrs Bouleur popped two of each into the box, fastening it by tying it with a neat ribbon in the traditional way before handing it over. ‘For you, my dears.’

‘Wow, thanks, Mrs Bouleur,’ we chorused, before skipping happily like schoolchildren away from the fascinating but extremely peculiar establishment.

Regulations

‘Perfect, Celine,’ Mrs Jameson praised, as she circled me. ‘You too, Fleur. With your smart regulation haircut, you will be a credit to the Fleethaven Community Outreach Initiative. Well, you will be once you wipe off that chocolate from around your mouth, Celine. And, Fleur, is that custard?’

Guiltily we cleaned each other’s face, having supplemented our early breakfast by consuming one of our cakes while making our way back along the promenade. ‘We’re here to help!’ we chorused.

‘I have kept you together today. Your duties will include supporting senior residents staying at the Fleethaven care and respite centre. They are convalescing after an accident or illness,’ Mrs Jameson explained. ‘They will greatly appreciate your help, and I believe you will find it extremely rewarding.’

Respite

Supporting senior citizens was outside my experience and my comfort zone. My grandparents and my parents were all still extremely fit and employed in full-time jobs. It was a comparable situation for Fleur. However, we discovered that we loved helping the full-time staff at the centre, ensuring all the residents had had their breakfast and then settling them for the remainder of the morning.

After a brief coffee break when we polished off the rest of our cakes, the centre’s manager introduced us to a lovely couple. Beatrice & Benjamin Beaumont were both in wheelchairs, both pushing ninety years old, and both very bright and totally engaging. They asked us to take them along to the promenade to take in the sea air, and we were happy to oblige.

‘Stop dawdling, Benjamin! I might have guessed you would be hanging back with the blonde one,’ the wife sighed theatrically, glancing back in my direction.

‘Eh, what’s that?’ Benjamin murmured, cupping his ear, then winking up at me and making it clear he had heard every word spoken by his wife.

‘Celine, you watch that one,’ Beatrice warned, sounding serious but with a twinkle in her eye, ‘otherwise that old bugger will be leading you astray… like he has done with me for the last seventy years,’ she chuckled. ‘Mind you, he can’t even catch me these days, now that he’s stuck in that thing.’

‘Wanna bet!’ Benjamin cried out, holding up his walking stick like a sword. ‘Celine! Charge!’

I looked at Fleur with a determined expression, accelerating Benjamin’s wheelchair along the promenade in her direction.

Fleur took off like the wind, with Beatrice whooping it up. We attracted amused stares from all and sundry as the wheelchairs rushed past, the art deco exterior of Bouleur in the distance acting as our finishing line.

‘What did I tell you, Benjamin? ‘Too slow to even catch me,’ Beatrice laughed, sharing a conspiratorial wink with Fleur.

‘Not fair,’ I puffed. ‘Benjamin and I… we were… not… ready,’ I panted. ‘Best of three?’

Fleur shrugged, then took off like a rocket, giggling along with Beatrice. Whether she had peaked too early on the first run, I was unsure, but I managed to overhaul them with metres to spare. Fleur and I took long and deep breaths, eyeing each other warily now that we were level, as if we were professional athletes going for gold.

‘Fly like the wind!’ Benjamin suddenly cried, and, reacting instinctively, I pushed as hard as I could, leaving behind shouts of “unfair” and “not ready”. As we closed in on Bouleur once again, Fleur and I glanced at each other and matched each other’s pace, and we declared it a dead heat.

‘That’s a shame,’ Benjamin lamented, looking genuinely crestfallen, and I wondered what we had done. I rushed round in front of his wheelchair and knelt, looking at him enquiringly. ‘It is just… well, Beatrice and I have always agreed that the one who is last whenever we compete at anything will buy refreshments. But with a draw…’

‘But, Benjamin, they were pushing us from behind,’ Beatrice observed, ‘so those two were last really.’

I was about to complain about the injustice, but the twinkle in Benjamin’s eye stopped me. ‘I suppose,’ I said, pretending to grumble. ‘Ice creams?’ I asked, looking longingly at the parlour across the road, the perfect remedy after our exertions.

‘Ice cream!’ Beatrice scoffed. ‘We are next to the Bouleur bistro, and it is approaching midday. So, mine is a gin and tonic – a double – and he will have a large red wine.’

We eased their wheelchairs under a table next to the balustrade, and we sat down with them. A pleasant young woman, dressed similarly to Mrs Bouleur, took our orders. A name badge revealed it was Sophie, her daughter.

‘Ah, the Bouleur Belles,’ she murmured enigmatically, casting an eye over our haircuts. She gave an approving nod to acknowledge her mother’s work, but she refrained from commenting further.

As she went back inside, Fleur and I looked at each other, smiling, as we studied Sophie’s faded nape that sat below a bowlcut identical to our own.

I had no idea if alcohol would be an issue for people of their age and, undoubtedly, on medication. However, they seemed unworried, so there seemed little point in raising an issue. On the other hand, Fleur and I, still on duty, sensibly stuck to soft drinks.

‘Cheers,’ we chorused after our drinks had arrived.

‘I needed that,’ Beatrice said, as she downed her drink, a glint in her eye as she saw the waitress bringing a refill. ‘That was exhausting. So, what are we going to this afternoon?’

Fleur and I looked at each other, knowing we had put in all the physical effort, and we burst out laughing. ‘Well, we’re here to help,’ we chorused.

Revelation

On Monday evening, after a busy but enjoyable day, Fleur and I grabbed food and drink from the local convenience store and retired to our caravan.

The day had started strangely when we received our very unexpected and extremely severe bowlcuts from the enigmatic Mrs Bouleur. Then during the morning, we had instigated wheelchair chariot races along the promenade with the delightful octogenarian Beaumont couple. After they had succumbed to tiredness in the afternoon, fuelled by sun and alcohol, we had anticipated an easier time. However, Mrs Jameson assigned us to help collect seashells with children, supervise watercolour painting for seniors, and distribute fresh fruit and bottled water at the FCOI beachside stall.

We revelled in performing each task diligently, but, for me, the day had an undercurrent driven by a low and persistent ache. My scalp tingled where Mrs Bouleur had sheared away my hair. And it was a feeling intensified each time I looked at Fleur’s changed profile and her bare nape, recognising that her revised profile was also my own.

Back at the caravan, we had changed out of our unflattering FCOI jumpsuits. Although they had become something of a second skin and demonstrably practical, we were glad to return to the outfits in which we had started the day. Fleur looked fresh in her light blue dress, while I felt comfortable in my denim miniskirt and white camisole top. However, it did feel strange without my signature long hair draped down my back. And Fleur looked like she had taken on a new identity without her long ponytail.

We sat on the bench outside our caravan, a selection of snacks in front of us and a glass of red wine in our hands. We decided the regular beach party would have to wait until another evening. Supplementing the colourful lights adorning the caravan, a single flickering lantern cast long shadows over the grass. Together, we contemplated our strange day as we settled back and sipped our wine.

Looking straight ahead, I could feel the tremor in my hands as I lifted my other hand over the back of the bench. My fingers hovered over the thin line of skin that now ran along Fleur’s neck. It was a hairline I had seen hundreds of times in the past, but one that a cascade of brown hair could no longer conceal. My throat tightened and I swallowed hard. I cleared my throat a couple of times, intent on speaking, but no words came out. I took another sip of wine.

‘Celine,’ Fleur whispered, her voice barely discernible over the sound of the distant surf, ‘I’ve never seen you like, er… well, like this.’

I forced a smile, stealing a sideways glance, seeing she was attentive but pointedly staring straight ahead also. I felt awkward. ‘What do you mean, Fleur?’

Obliquely, she asked, ‘Is it something to do with our haircuts?’

A knot of something bright and hot coiled in my chest. ‘I saw you lose your hair today,’ I said, the words slipping out, unmoderated. ‘It seemed poignant… significant… even a turning point…’

I watched Fleur sip her wine, still staring pointedly ahead. She gave a barely perceptible nod.

‘Briefly, I thought I would lose you,’ I rampaged on, ‘I mean, as a friend. It is just that we have both always had long hair, and it has always set us apart from others… well, bound us together…’

‘Quite literally… well, on windy days, for sure,’ Fleur murmured, forcing a smile as she tried to diffuse the tension that I was, however unwillingly, generating between us.

‘Then, Fleur… well, earlier, something else happened,’ I said hesitantly, my breath hitching, causing me to pause. ‘Well, my eyes locked on to your nape while Mrs Bouleur clippered it… and, well, I felt… a jolt… of something… er, unexpected.’

My throat went dry, wondering if I had stupidly said too much and jeopardised our friendship. Through our long hair, we had remained connected to each other from an early age. Competition for the longest hair became an amusing central theme, supported by mutual conditioning, styling, and trimming the split ends.

Although we had similar interests in music and art, we also enjoyed separate activities too. I had a string of boyfriends during school and even during our first year at college. However, only a couple lasted more than a month, and there were none that I considered a true relationship. I had always regaled Fleur with my dating antics, and bless her, she had always listened politely… but she had never asked questions.

By contrast, I only ever remembered Fleur having one assignation with a man. He was too old for her, so that had predictably led to nothing. We tried a blind double date that I had misguidedly organised. Given how disastrous that had turned out, I promised her faithfully I would never do it again.

So, for me, the “jolt of something” as I watched – really watched – Fleur while she had her hair cut was as unexpected as it was powerful. But as soon as I recounted how I had felt earlier, I wondered if I should have remained quiet.

‘I felt it too, Celine,’ Fleur murmured, her breath hitching. ‘A strange pull. I have always loved your hair, all these years, but now… seeing you fully revealed by Mrs Bouleur in that chair… seeing you like you are now… your swan-like neck and smooth skin, it… it had awakened something that I can’t even name…’

Awakening

A warmth seeped into my cheeks, and before we could stop ourselves, our hands found each other’s nape. My fingers tingled as they brushed the soft skin on the back of her neck. Fleur’s hands reciprocated by tracing the delicate curve of my own exposed nape.

We moved closer, the lamp’s amber glow catching the faint sparkle in our eyes. Our lips met, a clash of urgency and tenderness, as if each kiss were a confession, each breath a surrender. The world around us fell away. Only the press of Fleur’s mouth against mine, the low rise and fall of her chest, anchored me.

Eventually, we pulled away, our cheeks flushed and our foreheads resting together. Our mutual desires were satisfied for a fleeting moment, but neither of us knew what to do next.

We had crossed a dividing line. That line, we now appreciated, had been tenuous at best. And it was a line that, deep down, we knew we would always breach in time.

Epilogue

Mrs Bouleur cutting off our long hair had marked a tangible transition. We were growing into the women we were aspiring to become. Strong individuals, but two women who accepted that they were head over heels in love with each other.

We knew there was a great deal to discuss and adjustments we would need to make. However, we knew we would have a lifetime together to do just that.

Revelling in that glorious moment, we quickly cleared our belongings from the decking. Then, taking our wine glasses, we grasped each other’s hand. And, for the first time ever, we retired to the same bed to spend the night together.

To be continued

A Note from the Author

With over fifty images, an Illustrated Edition with Original Artwork Throughout is available for free on my personal archive

Celine and Fleur, Part 1 – We Are Here to Help (Illustrated Edition)

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