A Tangled Legacy as Ingrid Unravels Her Identity

Prologue

My hair had always been there. A constant, flowing presence cascading down my back, past my waist, a heavy, auburn curtain that defined me, or so it felt. Ingrid Jones, the woman with the remarkably long hair, a fact as immutable as the sun rising. It was not a choice, not really. It was a condition of my existence, a legacy.

Mum loved to tell the story of the only time I had frequented a hairdresser. I could not remember when it was or even the details of the visit, but the legend persisted. I may have suppressed the memory because of the emotions it had stirred up at the time. Or I may have considered the event held far less importance than my mum, and I had simply forgotten all about it.

Whatever, Mum had always said that event was the turning point for her to wield her scissors, painstakingly trimming the ends of my hair every six months from that time onwards. Although the style never changed, she did a respectable job, and my hair always looked healthy. However, by only cutting the minimum necessary on each occasion, her cautiousness ensured that my hair grew ever longer.

Challenging My Legacy

As I moved through college, away from home, my hair became more of a practical challenge than a statement. Without any help from others with its styling, simple braids and low ponytails were my default. Designed to keep the voluminous mass under control, I shunned any nod towards fashion.

But even these practical styles had their limitations. I was acutely self-conscious of my ears, more so as I grew older. They were slightly larger than average and stuck out a little too prominently. Not so large that they would attract unkind nicknames, but the thought of exposing them in public sent a shiver of anxiety down my spine. So, any style had to be loose enough to allow artful disguise, never pulled too taut.

However, that was the public me. The private Ingrid had always been a creature of obsession, of wanting things “just so”. For example, seeing books not lined up alphabetically on a shelf, or out of size order, was abhorrent to me. I had a compulsion to immediately correct the terrible situation, or I would experience disproportionate stress. I could have laid myself bare to analysis and labelling – Mum had even suggested it – but I had never seen the point of a label for my disorder … provided I had the freedom to reorder unruly books!

Ironically, in relation to my hair, the term “just so” meant styling it completely differently in the privacy of my own room. I needed it to be as sleek as possible, scraped back with a tautness that bordered on pain. After harshly brush it straight back with lashings of glossy firm hold gel, I would fasten it so tightly that it felt like my scalp might protest. I found a strange, almost masochistic satisfaction in the disciplined severity.

It was a peculiar contradiction; the public avoidance of tight styles to ensure my ears were never on show, and the private craving for extreme neatness. Although I had constructed methods of coping with my long hair, it became less a beloved feature and more a deeply ingrained habit, a heavy, beautiful burden.

Breaking the Habit

By the time I was twenty-three, the weight of that habit began to feel suffocating. A tiny, rebellious thought, barely a whisper at first, began to surface. I considered cutting my hair provided I could still disguise my ears. Having it fashionably styled with layers, even a fringe, but keeping much of the length, held a strong attraction. But the idea was seismic, the concept terrifying.

Furthermore, in the back of mind, was what my mum had alluded to in my previous visit to a hairdressing salon. I was concerned that if I walked inside, I would make a complete an utter spectacle of myself without even having anything done to my hair.

On top of that was the fear of how I would react inside a salon, whose interior I had never seen, if I found the surroundings uncomfortable and not “just so”.

However, the yearning for change, gnawed at me. Yet, the fear of making a hasty decision, of regretting such a monumental shift, was even stronger.

So, I developed a peculiar coping mechanism. It might seem odd to others, but for me, it was a logical progression of my obsessive nature. I began slipping into hairdressers and barbers. Initially, not to get my hair cut. My initial excuse, even to myself, was to scout the terrain, to see if I felt comfortable with the premises, with the stylists. Could I envision myself in that chair, entrusting my sacred length to them? But that soon became just a flimsy pretext. The secret truth that became all-encompassing, was that I was profoundly, unexpectedly, aroused by watching haircuts.

There was something about the rhythmic snip of scissors, the hum of clippers, the transformation unfolding, that ignited a strange, forbidden thrill within me. Barbershops were the easiest to enter, even if I would never contemplate having my hair cut in such a place. They did not require appointments, so I could just wander in, sit in the waiting area like any customer, safe in my anonymity. If anyone asked, I would mumble something about waiting for someone, then disappear moments later, never to return.

Each visit to a premises was a tick on a mental list, an obsessive cataloguing of local establishments. I knew every shop, every nuance of the atmosphere. But then, I heard of one I had not yet explored that had barely a presence in local business directories. A hidden away barbershop in the next town over, tucked away in an alley of old stone buildings simply called The Lanes Barbershop.

Entering The Lanes

The day I finally ventured there, I tried to strike a balance between control and casualness. I wore a short summer dress, a floral print with thin shoulder straps and a low neckline, a concession to the heat. I had meticulously arranged my hair into a youthful, messy updo. It offered control, kept the bulk of my hair out of the way and off my neck. But I had artfully and painstakingly pulled down tendrils, strategically arranged to frame my face and conceal my ears. All was good, or it would have been if the obsessive part of me, the part that craved neatness, could completely ignore the irritation caused by those wayward tendrils that felt so messy and imperfect. However, overall, I thought I scrubbed up well.

The exterior of The Lanes Barbershop was what truly captivated me. It was so traditional, so utterly classic, with its striped pole and polished brass. It drew me in, made me desire a better view, without, of course, committing to anything, not even a trim. One of my usual excuses formed on my tongue and, if spoken to, I would lamely enquire about the cost of a haircut. After all, what could go wrong?

My hand trembled ever so slightly as I reached for the door handle. A quick, almost imperceptible breath, and I pushed it open, stepping from the bright sunshine into the cooler, dimmer interior.

The sight in front of me was astonishing. I had anticipated a gruff old barber like those that inhabited all the barbershops around my familiar hunting grounds. Instead, a tall, nicely dressed woman stood with her back to me, expertly clipping the head of a young man, chatting away amiably. It completely threw me.

I slunk towards the waiting area, my usual refuge, trying to appear nonchalant as I took in the surroundings – the polished wood, the vintage tools, the framed photos of harsh men’s haircuts, and the faint scent of shaving foam. My gaze kept returning to her, to the way the scissors moved, swift and precise. I hoped I would have sufficient time to soak it all in, to let the familiar rush of clandestine arousal settle upon me. But no such luck. Annoyingly, she turned around and addressed me almost immediately.

Her outfit was provocative, yet she wore it with an undeniable air of command. She wore a form-fitting leather skirt with a slit up the back, knee-high boots, and a black lacy top with a plunging neckline that hinted at womanly curves beneath. Her focus, her posture, her every movement exuded a quiet, almost intimidating authority.

‘Hello, young lady,’ she purred, her voice a low, throaty rumble that sent a nervous tremor through me. ‘Can I help you?’

My carefully rehearsed lie felt suddenly inadequate, childish. ‘Hello … er, I just wanted to ask how much a haircut would be?’ I stammered, my voice sounding thin and reedy, even to my own ears.

‘For you?’ she asked, her eyebrow arching slightly. A hint of a smile played on her lips, a knowing glint in her eyes.

‘Yes, for me … Ingrid… yes, a woman,’ I clarified dumbly, cringing internally at my own awkwardness.

She put down her tools, her movements fluid and deliberate, and marched directly towards me. My heart gave a little skip. ‘Stand up,’ she ordered, her voice firm, leaving no room for argument. I instinctively obeyed, my legs feeling strangely weak. Before I could even register what was happening, her hand, surprisingly strong, reached up and deftly unfastened the large decorative hair clip holding my updo in place.

My hair, released from its confines, cascaded around me in a thick, unruly torrent, tumbling past my waist, a heavy, overwhelming presence. It swamped me, a living waterfall of auburn. I heard snickers, then outright laughter from the man in the chair and another waiting customer beside me. Humiliation, hot and prickly, flushed my face.

She took pity on me and casually lifted my hair away from my face, so it all flowed behind me. Her fingers brushed my ears, and the sensation was electric. Lingering longer than strictly necessary, I assumed she could not believe their size, and that only added to my humiliation.

‘Well, Ingrid,’ she quipped, her gaze sweeping over my vast expanse of hair, ‘If I charged you by the inch, it would cost you a small fortune.’ The laughter in the shop intensified, and my cheeks burned. I wanted to disappear.

Then, to my surprise, she named a price. It was laughably fair value compared to any of the salons I had researched. ‘Take a seat,’ she said, her tone softening slightly, ‘I won’t be much longer.’

Panic seized me again. This was going too fast. This was not part of the plan. ‘Oh, I don’t want a haircut today,’ I blurted out, my voice high-pitched and desperate. ‘It’s just I saw your shop and thought I would ask you how much it would be.’

She folded her arms across her chest, her expression now devoid of any amusement. ‘Fine,’ she said, her voice like steel, as she crossed her arms over her chest. ‘But you could have read the price list displayed in the window. However, do bear in mind, that price is for a short haircut.’ The way she emphasised “short”, it was a threat, a promise of ultimate devastation.

‘Oh, no, I’ll only want a trim,’ I explained, trying to backpedal, to reassert control over this runaway conversation.

Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned in slightly, an intense light in their depths. ‘If you pay the same price as a man, then you get the same haircut as a man,’ she emphasised, each word a crisp, non-negotiable decree. ‘There is a plethora of styles to choose from. A short back and sides, or a flattop, or even a bowlcut,’ she suggested, uncrossing her arms and waving vaguely to the framed photos on the wall, ‘or something else entirely. You choose, but I promise you that it will be short.’ She stressed that final word with a chilling finality.

The way she spoke, so utterly confident in her pronouncement, left no doubt. There was no negotiation, no hint of compromise. If I ever returned to her, my thick, butt-length auburn hair would simply cease to exist. It would be history. The thought sent a jolt of fear, mingling with that strange, forbidden thrum of arousal, through my body.

‘Thank you,’ I managed to squeak, turning on my heel and almost running out of the shop. My hair, still loose and wayward, slapped against my bottom as I fled.

‘Time waster,’ I heard her snap disparagingly, and the men in the shop burst into laughter once more.

I paused, bristling with indignation. What right did she have to call me a time waster?

I considered turning around, storming back in the shop, and boldly confronting her. She needed to show more respect to her customers. But, once I had calmed down, and then accepted she was in the right, I moodily sloped off into town to lose myself in the shops, before catching my train back home.

Wandering Around Town

I spent the next couple of hours aimlessly wandering around the unfamiliar town, trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart, the humiliation, and the strange, unsettling thrill warring within me. I ordered a coffee I did not drink and a sandwich I did not want. Although I tried to find solace perusing the shops, I found the earlier experience too upsetting and so unsettling.

Later, on my way back to the railway station, I found myself passing The Lanes Barbershop again. Fortunately, it was early evening, and I anticipated she would have closed for the day, avoiding any potential awkwardness. However, as I got closer, I saw the door was still open, a beacon in the fading light. I paused, lurking in the shadows, and sneakily peered inside.

I pushed my hair back, away from my face, so that I could see clearly. My locks were still loose, a wild, tangled mess, a constant reminder of my recent humiliation. Strangely, the shop appeared empty. Leaning forward, I squinted but detected no movement. I mentally shrugged, relieved that I could pass the shop without embarrassment.

‘Back so soon, Ingrid?’ a voice called out from behind me, making me jump half out of my skin. My heart hammered against my ribs. Sitting on a low stone wall, just out of my line of sight, was the grinning barber, a cigarette smouldering between her fingers.

‘Oh, no,’ I stammered, my voice still slightly breathless. ‘I was not thinking of a haircut today, really. I was just … well, passing by.’

She took a long drag from her cigarette, her eyes fixed on me, unwavering. ‘If you’re thinking about it, you must be ready,’ she countered, her logic utterly unassailable in its bullish simplicity. ‘It needs taking care of today. You will be fine once you are in the chair.’ She took my hesitation for simple nervousness, not the complex swirl of fear and burgeoning desire that truly possessed me.

At this point, I could have just walked away. My legs were perfectly capable. I could have made an excuse, any excuse, and melted back into the gathering dusk. But, inexplicably, I did not. It was as if my body had made the decision before my mind could even process it. A strange, magnetic pull, a perverse curiosity, held me rooted to the spot.

The statuesque barber stood up, stubbed out her cigarette, and gestured towards the shop, ushering me ahead of her despite my objections. I found myself walking past the rows of gleaming tools, towards the enormous, intimidating barber chair.

‘Sit down, Ingrid,’ she instructed, her voice a soft imperative.

Rather than lowering myself into it, I found myself climbing onto the vast leather and chrome chair, feeling impossibly tiny, swallowed by its presence. The cold leather on my bare legs made me wish, for a fleeting moment, that I had worn jeans, anything to provide a barrier.

Without warning, a crisp white cape billowed in front of and settled over my body. She pulled it taut, securing it around my neck. A jolt, sharp and electric, went through me as her fingers brushed against my breasts as she smoothed the material, lingering an instant longer than necessary. My nipples hardened instantly, a traitorous response that shocked even me.

‘Sit up straight,’ she instructed, her voice calm, as if nothing untoward had happened. I straightened, my back rigid. She began to comb my hair, lifting the heavy mass with the comb, her touch firm yet oddly gentle. ‘When did you last have a proper haircut, Ingrid?’ she asked, criticism lacing her words.

‘I … I have always had long hair,’ I confessed, my voice barely a whisper.

She shook her head, a slow, disapproving motion. ‘Well, Ellie is going to do something about that today,’ she declared, her voice resonating with an unshakeable conviction. ‘Isn’t she, Ingrid?’

‘Yes,’ I squeaked, the word escaping automatically, a bizarre, submissive approval I had not consciously intended to give.

Succumbing to Fate

So, I had discovered her name was Ellie. However, that did not seem so important anymore as she picked up her scissors, glinting brightly under the shop lights. She lifted a section of hair from my crown with her comb, holding it taut. The air crackled with a silent anticipation. Then, with a determined snip, alarmingly close to my scalp, a large, thick chunk of my hair – a part of me – separated and fell to the floor, a soft, auburn heap.

With a jarring inevitability, a second snip followed almost immediately, equally decisive. My heart lurched. The short haircut, once a terrifying possibility, had become a stark, irrevocable reality. Panic flared, a cold wave washing over me. We had not discussed styling options, and I had not chosen any specific hairstyle! But it felt too late. Ellie had exerted control, and I had, inexplicably, relinquished it. And through the panic, beneath it, the tingle of arousal, a forbidden thrill, intensified, spreading through my veins.

She worked methodically, dismantling the years of growth. Snip after snip, the heavy strands fell away, pooling around the chair, a mournful carpet of auburn. I watched, both mesmerised and horrified, as she steadily and confidently pared away my identity, my safety blanket.

Eventually, she had reduced my heavy long locks to a short, layered crop, still thick, but with the ends now skimming my neck. It felt incredibly light, almost foreign.

‘Now tell me, Ingrid,’ she said, combing through the forlorn remnants of my hair, her voice cutting through my daze, ‘have you ever had hairclippers used on you?’

‘No,’ I replied, my voice a nervous whisper. The very thought sent another tremor of both fear and raw excitement through me.

‘Ah,’ she giggled, a mysterious, knowing sound. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,’ she said, patting my shoulder, her fingers brushing my breast again, a deliberate, prolonged touch this time.

My breath hitched. Then, I felt her warm hand cup the back of my head, guiding it firmly down. My heart was truly racing now, a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. My chin touched my straining breasts, a strange, intimate sensation.

The red hairclippers hummed to life, a low, menacing buzz. Ellie ran the cold metal blade up the back of my head, a shocking sensation of vibration and warmth, almost reaching the crown. Hair, short as it already was, seemed to vanish instantly.

‘Now, you must stay very still,’ she ordered, her voice low and utterly authoritative.

‘I will,’ I squeaked, my voice barely there.

Then, she tilted my head sharply to the left. The clippers moved to the right side of my head, buzzing mercilessly. She unceremoniously folded down my right ear, bending it forward to ensure she could get at every single strand of hair. Then the same for my left side, the same folding, the same raw exposure as she left my ears marooned in a sea of bare skin.

Readjusting her position to work on my crown, the buzzing continued. She ran the hairclippers repeatedly over a large plastic comb that she used to lift my remaining hair. Tufts peeking above the teeth of the comb disappeared under the relentless action of the hairclippers. With meticulous precision, she reduced the short layers to a stark, even pelt. Every single strand of hair stood erect, creating a perfectly level, bristly surface. Overall, the haircut was shockingly short, doubtless qualifying me to join the military.

Then came the finishing touch. Ellie applied a creamy foam to the back and sides of my head, slowly massaging it into my skin with firm fingers. My body reacted predictability to her touch, Then, taking a razor, she meticulously scraped away the lather, along with any remaining stubble.

She faced me in the mirror, a knowing look, as she poured a small quantity of liquid into her palm, rubbed them together, and slapped her hands against the bare skin on my neck. For ten seconds the aftershave stung like crazy, before settling down under the warmth of her caress.

Viewing the Devastation

Ellie picked up a hand mirror, holding it so I could see the devastation on the back of my head. ‘You now have a smart and severe flattop, Ingrid,’ she grinned, her eyes glinting with a triumphant satisfaction. As she moved the mirror around, her fingers stroked my bare nape, sending shivers trailing down my spine.

I stared. The back and sides of my head were simply pristine white skin, pale and vulnerable. The top resembled a stiff brush, an impossibly uniform, bristly expanse. My prominent ears stood out starkly against bare skin surrounding them. Not huge, but undeniably noticeable. Ellie, unquestionably, had brought about a drastic and harsh transformation of my appearance.

However, there was something about it. Something extremely severe, obsessively clean, utterly uncompromising. Something that pulled at a hidden nerve in my being. As with the taut ponytails I had worn in private in the past, the drastic haircut matched my compulsive requirement for things being “just so” to an obsessive degree. How had Ellie known this was what I need, I wondered.

‘Yes, Ellie. I see that I do have a flattop,’ I agreed, my voice hitching at my admission. ‘It looks extremely smart, and it is certainly severe,’ I murmured, my voice filled with a strange wonder. ‘Thank you,’ I added, my breath coming fast and ragged. I felt increasingly warm, a flush spreading over my skin.

‘My pleasure, Ingrid,’ she chuckled, lightly brushing away a non-existent hair on my neck, perilously adding to the warmth suffusing my body.

Enjoying a Moment

‘Now, Ingrid, I am just going to pop outside for a cigarette,’ she winked, a knowing glint in her eyes, as if she could read the pulsating arousal that had taken over my body. ‘You won’t be disturbed, so I suggest you just sit here until I return … and, well, do whatever you desire to pass the time … enjoyably!’

And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the vast chair, covered by the cape and surrounded by the shorn remnants of my past. My thrumming body gave me no choice but to pass the time enjoyably.

As soon as I heard the click of the door, signifying Ellie’s departure, my fingers, hidden by the sweeping white cape, dived under the hem of my dress. Biting my lip to quieten myself, I satisfied myself enthusiastically. The raw, exposed sensation of my newly shorn scalp against the cool air, mingled with the ghost of Ellie’s touch on my skin, ignited a momentous fiery release.

‘In future, Ingrid,’ Ellie chided, her voice firm but with a hint of amusement, when she returned, ‘I expect you back here every three weeks.’ It was not a suggestion. It was an expectation, a new life rule for me, and one that I must obey.

‘Yes, Ellie,’ I acquiesced, the words slipping out automatically, acknowledging and accepting, without question, my new strict routine at The Lanes Barbershop.

‘Good girl,’ Ellie smiled, her eyelashes fluttering provocatively, leaving me with the tantalising expectation of there being even more to come.

Epilogue

My friends, of course, were aghast. They could not understand why I had all my hair chopped off, or why I kept going back to that “harsh and uncaring” barbershop. I simply told them I did not have a choice.

And my reasoning was not a lie. How could it be?

Not if I secretly enjoyed the obsessive compulsion of having my hair cut ridiculously short.

Not if I felt compelled to allow a very bossy barberette to exert a precise blend of humiliation and control over me.

And not if I wished to stimulate an arousal that resonated deep within me.

With the convergence of all these elements, I had no choice at all. I was simply following a newly revealed path, a fresh habit that was now, finally, truly my own.

The End