Amelia Seeks Equality, Part 2 – Engaging the Influencers

This story serves as a sequel to Amelia Seeks Equality, Part 1 – The Early Years, and one may enjoy it independently without the need to read the original story.

Prologue

I was continuing to enjoy my course at college, investigating all aspects of business theory and practice. We were not just cramming to pass boring exams, but we were studying subjects that related to the real world. We had already explored strategic management, social media marketing, product supply chains, and human resources; I found it all enthralling.

However, I did not spend all my time studying, as I still had a personal mission to pursue. I still saw far too many women with hair longer than mine, despite my initial success with Eve, my former flatmate. Furthermore, I had gained a willing, if initially unknowing, accomplice in my quest.

Jilly was a senior tutor in the cosmetology department, where she specialised in teaching all aspects of hairstyling. The tutors on my business course and fellow students had noticed that I spent a great deal of time with her. Furthermore, they were also aware that I voluntarily attended her training seminars in addition to my scheduled ones. It must have appeared an odd choice, but my presence was easy to justify to anyone who questioned it. I simply suggested cosmetology is a thriving business sector that I may consider for my first-year project.

In truth, I was researching a vastly different kind of mission. I wished to continue addressing the injustice that the world had forced up on me, namely hair that would not even grow to my shoulders. I was determined to level the playing field and achieve greater equality with all those women who selfishly and carelessly flaunted their long hair in my face.

Jilly was as edgy and sharp as I was smooth and relaxed. I favoured classic styling in my appearance, while she preferred to challenge perceptions. Her outrageously short miniskirts, edgy haircuts, and ever-changing hair colours provided examples. Her locks were violet when we first met, but she had since metamorphosed into a tiger with bright orange and black streaks. Albeit she resembled a lop-sided tiger, as she had buzzed one side of her head down to the skin while the other was past her shoulders.

To Jilly, hair was a canvas. But to me, it was a redundant weight, a social shackle that I intended to break for all the poor women forced to preserve and promote the inequality.

I had first seen her when she was pinning up a poster on the college noticeboard calling for hairdressing models. I then endured her lamenting the lack of suitable interest from potential candidates around the campus, learning that it would be detrimental to the progress of her trainee stylists.

Glancing at my hair, Jilly rudely dismissed my unstylish, barely shoulder-length locks as a vain attempt to grow it longer. The truth was that my genetic makeup prevented me from achieving hair beyond that length. Despite her rudeness, I accepted her erroneous judgement on this occasion for my own benefit. Our fortuitous meeting allowed me to impress an influential person who, subsequently, could contribute to my mission to seek equality. When she asked if I knew anyone interested in a free makeover, I dived straight in.

‘Absolutely, Jilly, I have friends who would love an exceptionally short and exceedingly stylish haircut, just like yours,’ I gushed flatteringly.

‘Wow, persuade students like that to come along and I will be forever in your debt, Amelia,’ she beamed.

‘No need for that, Jilly. All that I am interested in is equality,’ I smirked, resulting in her rewarding me with a sidelong glance, suggesting she thought I might be a bit weird. Oh well, I was familiar with that misconception.

Recruitment

The cafeteria was my hunting ground. Between lectures, it was where the rivers of hair cascading down backs, the ponytails swinging from the crown, and the neatly tied braids rested. It was an ideal place where the poor owners could relieve themselves from the unenviable task of hauling around so much obscene and unnecessary weight.

To these women studying a diversity of subjects, I was not simply a fellow student. With a little subtle refashioning, I presented myself as an authority figure in the making. I had discarded the typical student uniform of hoodies and distressed denim. Instead, I moved through the crowded tables wearing a short black-and-white checked skirt, a matching tailored blazer, and a crisp white blouse. Not too formal, but attire that marked me out as someone people should take seriously.

My apology for a hairstyle was no longer visible. I had learnt to pull every strand into a tight, punishingly neat topknot, glazed with high-shine gel until my head looked like a sculpturesque orb of polished onyx. It disguised the length perfectly, suggesting I may have already transitioned into the equalised, shortened state that I preached for others.

The art of persuasion I saw as a business transaction. I would sidle up to a table where a girl sat with overabundant tresses, alerted by a struggle such as keeping hair out of her soup using her fingers.

‘The weight must be exhausting,’ I would whisper, settling across from her with the smooth challenge of an experienced leader in commerce. ‘You have such a striking bone structure, but all that redundant material buries it completely. You are, not to make too fine a point, eclipsed by your own dead cells.’

I made my opening gambit sound unattractive without making it sound like a personal attack on their appearance, and I positioned my words perfectly to grab their attention. They would sit up straighter and, peering through their mass of unruly hair, concentrate on what I had to say.

On my tablet, I would flick through curated galleries, displaying images of fashionable models, actresses, and singers. Beautiful women, but with little hair seen on their heads to distract from their natural beauty. I spoke of the opportunities for empowerment as influential students on campus, shedding the boring convention bequeathed to them by past generations.

Following my opening, I smoothly segued into “Model Night” at the college’s cosmetology department, which, for no cost at all, could gift them a radical transformation worth hundreds of pounds. I was not only persuading them to receive a haircut, but I was also selling them a revolutionary place on the student stage.

Lambs

For the first expedition, I secured five “lambs”, as I privately referred to them. Like me, they were all first-years, eager to make their mark around the college and stand out. Most importantly, they were open to change. Among them was Sarah, whose hair reached her hips, and Mia, who possessed a thick, chestnut mane that acted like a curtain for her shy face.

When I marched them into the college training salon that evening, Jilly looked stunned.

‘Five?’ she whispered, her eyes widening as she surveyed the sheer volume of hair entering her domain. ‘Amelia, this is… well, they all have such long locks. My students were expecting to perform trims and layers on shorter hair.’

‘When we met, Jilly, you emphasised transformation,’ I reminded her, my voice dropping to a low, commanding hum. ‘Do not disappoint them. They have come here for you to free them from their shackles and really stand out from the crowd.’

Without waiting on Jilly’s apprehension, I guided my “lambs” to the line of styling chairs that faced a mirrored wall, and I distributed one to each of the trainee stylists who were attentively awaiting their subject matter. Like Jilly, they appeared surprised by the magnitude of the task I had presented to them.

I leaned against the side wall, mounting my phone discreetly on a tripod under the guise of recording proceedings in support of my business project. In truth, I needed to capture every snip, every buzz, and every tear as a record of accomplishment for my personal mission.

Jilly stepped forward and reminded her students of the briefing she had given them before my arrival. Earlier in the day, I had told Jilly what to include in that briefing and, naturally, I expected her students to follow my instructions to the letter.

As five trainee stylists snapped five capes tightly around the necks of my “lambs”, I felt a familiar, dark warmth spread through my chest. It was the sensation that I had most recently experienced when I had unburdened my ungrateful flatmate, Eve, of her abundant locks and given her hair shorter than mine. As I had become aroused when performing Eve’s haircut, that delicious bonus gave additional impetus to furthering my mission.

The dawning of those sensations arose in my formative years. Then, I had discovered that every other girl could grow their hair as long as they wished and then flaunt it in my face whenever they chose. My new young friend, Helen, had come close to being the subject of my first attempt at equality, but Mother had interrupted me. In the end, it was my dolls that took the brunt of my passion. My younger self had cooled my enthusiasm, partly to delay until I had the mandate to effect change and partly to minimise the judgement of others that I was weird.

But with Jilly’s support, I had the necessary authority, and I watched as the trainee stylists began their delightful task. I grew excited as Jilly moved between the chairs, guiding their hands.

Sarah’s hip-length tresses were the first to go, hacked off at the nape by the most confident-looking student. The heavy hair hit the floor with a satisfying thud. As soon as all eyes were looking elsewhere, I darted forward, grabbed the thick ponytail, and concealed it in my bag. Research, I tittered to myself, quickly tempering my laughter to prevent anyone thinking I was weird.

Awkwardly, Sarah was trying to turn in the chair to see how her abbreviated hair now looked. I wanted to tell her that there was no urgency, as it would soon be even shorter. Then, as I contemplated that delicious thought, I felt a pleasant warmth flooding my core.

Authoritatively, the student stylist adjusted Sarah’s shoulders to force her to look straight ahead once more. But then, irritatingly, she began delicately snipping at just the very ends of the considerable volume of hair that remained on Sarah’s head. Jilly leant in, nodding proudly. Yes, a graduated long bob. Not a difficult style to do, but a difficult style to do well. And you are doing very well.’

What? A graduated long bob! Why? This was not what Jilly and I had agreed upon.

The tutor moved on to Mia, the trainee discussing with Jilly what she should do with Mia’s bountiful chestnut curtain. ‘Graduated layers around her face to open it up and leave it longer in the back,’ Jilly encouraged, and the student stylist nodded her understanding as she took a comb and scissors.

‘Layers…?’ I spat, under my breath, and Jilly rewarded my unprofessional outburst with an admonishing stare. It was a look that incontrovertibly laid her claim to it being her model night. But it was mine! I risked a light chuckle at her misconception, one that resulted in a confused and nervous sidelong glance from Jilly.

As the night progressed, I felt a growing sense of dissatisfaction. Jilly was playing it safe. She was giving my “lambs” fashionable shorter styles, including polite bobs that skimmed the shoulders, pixie cuts with wispy fringes, and tapered necks that had more than a hint of a mullet about them.

Jilly had instructed her charges with delicate scissor-over-comb shortening rather than decisive use of hairclippers, and texturising layers for volume rather than shearing to reduce length. The upshot was that the models were still far too pretty, and they were, unarguably, not drastically transformed. Put simply, they all had too much hair. And, far from achieving equality with shorter hair, the trainee stylists had unfortunately enhanced their appearance.

‘It’s not enough,’ I muttered to myself as I angrily flicked off my camera, disappointed by the mutual preening of my “lambs” as they each compared their fashionable haircuts when they rose from their chairs. Even so, I knew their relaxed demeanour disguised their relief that their transformation was less than expected.

With the hairclippers within my grasp, I had a strong temptation to tell them all to sit back down, and I would shave off all their fancy styles. However, I had a suspicion that, for whatever reason, they might think that by me saying that, that I was a bit weird. So, I refrained.

Assessment

At the end of the evening, after the models had left and they had swept the floor of its glorious, but insufficient, waste material, I walked Jilly to her car.

‘Thank you, Amelia, you did well,’ she said, looking tired but impressed. ‘You chose well with the models, and, despite my reservations about making such momentous changes, they all looked fabulous afterwards. And it has really helped my student stylists’ confidence and helped them towards earning their diplomas.’

Firstly, I had wanted to tell her that I had no interest in her students’ career prospects. Then I would have loved to lay it on the line about everything she had done wrong. But that would have served no purpose, spoiling our relationship and wasting all the time I had invested getting to that point. But still, it was necessary to say something. ‘They look the same as when they arrived, Jilly. Just with less hair,’ I said flatly. ‘We have not achieved anything yet. Certainly not any sense of equality.’

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, my bitter scolding catching her off guard. ‘Well, I was going to suggest we go for a drink to celebrate, perhaps even supper – my treat – but if that is what you believe then you –’

‘Thanks, Jilly, supper would be lovely,’ I said, linking my arm through hers, taking back the initiative. She beamed at my apparent compliance. ‘And over the meal we can discuss the future of our department.’

‘My department,’ she stated, looking confused. I smiled and nodded, happy for her to maintain that illusion. But then she looked at me with that increasingly familiar sidelong glance, suggesting she thought I might be a bit weird. Oh well, I could manage Jilly.

Passion

Over a bottle of delicious and strong red wine at a nearby bistro, I began the second phase of my mission. Jilly was lonely, driven by her career and her “edgy” aesthetic that often alienated the more conservative staff. I played up to the part of the devoted protege, the only one who truly “got” her. By ensuring I continually topped up her wine glass, while I barely touched mine, she soon mellowed and forgot our earlier disagreement.

I complimented her fashion sense and remarked on her hairstyle, tracing the line of the buzzed scalp on her asymmetric cut with my finger. She quivered at my touch.

‘You’re the only one in the department with courage, Jilly,’ I purred. ‘But you are holding back. You are afraid to show these girls what true equality looks like.’

The wine flowed, and the boundaries blurred. By midnight, we were back at her flat. The night was a masterclass in manipulated passion, as I was not there for love or even lust but solely to cement our partnership. As I lay in her bed, watching the moonlight hit her multi-coloured, half-shaved head, I knew she was mine.

The next morning, the tone shifted. Over coffee, Jilly seemed nervous, undoubtedly realising the professional risk of sleeping with a student, albeit one from another department not under her tutelage.

‘Amelia, about last night… we must be careful. If anyone in the faculty found out –’

‘The faculty won’t find out from me,’ I said, putting down my breakfast mug with gentle authority. I leant in, my topknot rigid, my makeup harsh, my eyes cold. ‘Unless, of course, I feel like you are not taking our quest seriously.’ Jilly blinked. ‘A story like this… well, a senior lecturer cavorting with a student who is receiving “special credits” for her first-year project? It would not look good for your tenure, would it?’

Jilly’s face went pale. She saw the trap, the velvet-lined cage I had built for her. ‘Right, what do you want?’ she snapped, but the resignation in her words sounded more like a ballon deflating.

‘I will bring you five more models next Tuesday evening,’ I stated, smiling sweetly. ‘And this time, we do not do soft and fashionable. What we do is functional and transformative. I want to see five sets of hairclippers smoking, Jilly. When the “lambs” leave, I want to see them all looking equal.’

‘Equal, Amelia? What does that even mean?’ she asked, distraught. Then she sighed deeply, waving away any necessity for me to clarify. ‘Oh, whatever…’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I will instruct my students on exactly what I need them to do.’

‘Exactly what I need them to do,’ I smirked, ‘in the cause of equality.’

Influencers

Primarily for the benefit of the student stylists and to avoid any doubts cast by Jilly, we themed the second model night. Unambiguously titled “Masculine Styles for Feminine Influencers”, with the byline “Short Styles Look Good on Women Too”.

To make up for my disappointment at the previous model night, I had curated a specific group of “lambs” this time. I had chosen students who were influential around campus in one way or another.

Each influencer had long hair and confidently believed it offered them a way to stand out from the crowd. They were ones who flaunted it, played with it, and used it. Once I had hooked them on the idea that they could raise their ascending profile even higher, I spent days grooming them. My main thrust was convincing them that androgyny was the ultimate way of standing out in any formal or informal setting, and they would still be true to themselves.

When I steered my latest flock of “lambs” into the training salon, the atmosphere was different. The trainee stylists looked attentive but nervous, each standing next to an array of hairclippers and guards as well as their other equipment.

I considered sweeping along the long shelf below the mirror and confiscating all the guards, forcing them to use bare-bladed hairclippers. But if I did, there was a slight chance the owners of ten pairs of eyes might think I was weird. The eleventh pair in the room – those belonging to Jilly – already believed I was weird, but I did not care. Jilly just stood stony-faced off to one side as the nervous “lambs” settled in their allocated chairs.

The first student ready for the chop was a cheeky blonde named Chloe. She had hair like spun silk reaching past her waist, and she had not stopped giggling since she arrived. But that suddenly stopped, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. She gasped loudly as, without any preamble, the confident trainee stylist swiped her unguarded hairclippers up the back of Chloe’s head. A furrow of white skin glowed in their wake.

The sound was melodic to my ears. I leant in, standing as close to the chair as I could, my phone recording and my heart thudding in my ears. I watched the golden hair fall like wheat before a scythe.

‘Wait!’ Chloe cried, her eyes filling with tears as she felt chilly air hit her scalp. ‘That is too short! Stop!’

‘Equality, Chloe,’ I whispered, stepping into her line of sight as the trainee carved another furrow up the back of her head. ‘Don’t be a slave to your vanity. It looks strong. And it looks influential. But now, it looks, er…’ I giggled. ‘It looks too late to change your mind.’

Although not visible to Chloe, the entire back of her head was completely bare. The student stylist moved to the side and carved around one ear and then the other. Chloe’s eyes grew even wider, as did the apparent dimensions of her prominent ears that the clippers revealed.

‘Cute,’ I chuckled, playfully tugging at the lobe of her left saucer, but she failed to react, her disbelieving mind having buried itself elsewhere.

Jilly moved in, checking the height at which her student was holding a comb above Chloe’s head. Then we observed the bare blade of the hairclippers efficiently removing all the redundant length sticking up above the flat of the comb. Showing surprising skill for a student in training, Chloe sported a flattop haircut so severe that it would have put a drill sergeant to shame.

‘As you can all see, Chloe now has a perfect example of a masculine haircut looking good on a woman.’ I gestured towards her, announcing my conclusion to the whole room. I was vaguely aware, but completely unworried, that I had usurped Jilly’s teaching role. ‘Now, in the name of equality, the rest of you –’

My announcement was sufficient for my remaining “lambs” to steal nervous glances in the mirror at the bounteous hair still attached to their heads. Their eyes drifted to those next to them, followed by uneasy glances at Chloe, the stunning soldier.

‘The rest of you,’ Jilly quickly intervened, determined to take back control, ‘will receive different styles, all corresponding to this evening’s theme.’ Her reinforcement not only followed the script I had agreed with her, but it also cleverly veiled the fact that each of their styles would be equally severe. ‘So, students, please follow the instructions I briefed you on earlier.’

I did not know which way to turn, as, with so much happening, I felt like a kid in a sweet shop. I attempted to film the decisive and stimulating steps of each haircut. With all the excitement, I still remembered to retrieve two cut ponytails from the floor to add to my growing collection. Although I considered my actions reckless, no one was paying me any attention as all eyes were elsewhere.

Each trainee had focused their vision on the increasingly bare head before them. All the “lambs” were looking down as the trainees continued their delightful and industrious work. Finally, Jilly’s eyes were staring at the bottom of a coffee mug, wishing it contained something much stronger and alcoholic.

By the end of the evening, the transformation was total. Five girls stood in front of the mirrors, staring at strangers. Chloe stared at her flattop, the top levelled off with terrifying precision. Another had a classic crewcut, evenly clippered to a number three with the back and sides faded to the skin.

The most classically pretty influencer had arrived with thick honey blonde locks and now sported a delightfully severe bowlcut. It was so drastic that it looked like a shiny helmet perched on her crown, while along her neck and around her ears the skin was completely smooth.

I walked up and down the line of “lambs” as if they were recruits on parade. I nodded wisely as I thoroughly inspected each one. My mischievous mind was urging me to be critical, stating that a haircut was not short enough and needed redoing. But I thought that, by doing so, my flock might consider me a little bit weird.

Epilogue

The transformations of the “lambs” had stunned them all. Staring in the mirrors, their hands hovered over prickly stubble and shaved skin where their most identifying feature had once resided. They were all, by varying degrees, confused, unhappy, or both. But Chloe with her lovely flattop remained the most upset, and Jilly was doing her best to comfort her amid threatened complaints to the college.

The trainee stylists huddled together along one wall, quietly murmuring, looking pleased at their undoubted success at accomplishing their haircuts, but appearing disconcerted by their clients’ extreme reactions.

And as for me, I felt a surge of pure, unadulterated pride. The model night was an undisputed triumph. It had established a blueprint for continuing my righteous and necessary mission.

The undisputed evidence was the levelling-up of the “lambs”. They were no longer pretty girls trapped by the expectations that their long tresses traditionally bestowed. Transformed, the equalised women could now spread my word and be much more influential in a far more distinctive way.

To be continued

A Note from the Author

Further to sharing my stories here, on the Hair Story Network, they are also collected on my personal archive, along with additional exclusive and early release material, at The Hair Apparent Stories, where, naturally, I have no wish to patr(e)onise my valued readers by demanding payment, so my stories may be freely viewed without the need for registration or login.

Traditionally, I have always relied on my own imagination and that of my readers to visualise my stories. On my own site I have included an image to serve as a “book cover” for each story, providing a pictorial introduction to the characters and scenes portrayed in the text that follows.