HairApparent
This story serves as a sequel to Amelia Seeks Equality, Part 3 – Dismissing the Detractors, and one can enjoy it independently without the need to read the original story.
Prologue
Walking through the glass-and-steel lobby of Ashton Enterprises, I felt a familiar, cold satisfaction settle in my chest. My first year of business school had been a masterclass in theory, but as I adjusted the lapel of my charcoal-grey skirt suit, I knew that the real education was about to begin.
I had secured a summer internship in Human Resources, the beating heart of any corporate machine. It was here that influential people pulled the strings, and I intended to be the one holding them as I learned the ropes.
My office was on the twenty-fourth floor, a space of hushed voices and expensive perfumes. My direct supervisor was Genevieve Hughes, the Head of HR. She was in her early forties, clearly a woman of sharp intellect and even sharper aesthetics. Her glossy, black hair vibrated with health and vanity. Worn in an elaborate, coiled updo, it held the promise of great length, and it spoke of time and effort used to exert a certain kind of feminine dominance.
Magnificent as Genevieve’s hair was, I disapproved, as I knew her tresses would be far longer than my pitiful locks that barely touched my shoulders. When worn in a topknot, its size paled into insignificance compared with her updo. Since I had been young, such inequalities had always upset me. Over the years, I had started a quest to level up the playing field.
Most recently, I had teamed up with Jilly, a senior lecturer in the cosmetology department at the college I attended. Together, we had persuaded a considerable number of long-haired students to offer themselves as models to Jilly’s trainee stylists and send them on their way with extremely short haircuts, satisfying my ongoing mission for equality.
It had been an exhilarating and productive time, but there was still much for me to do. Taking a broader view of my future career, I had temporarily adjusted my priorities. Rather than nibbling away at the inequalities, I focused on my college coursework. This, I believed, would let me achieve the best qualifications, obtain the best jobs, and provide me with the most productive springboard for my future.
I decided that I would delay my quest to level up the inequalities regarding hair length… well, unless appropriate opportunities that did not make me look too weird.
First Day
‘Good morning, Amelia,’ Genevieve Hughes said, her voice like velvet, as I entered her office on my first day at Ashton Enterprises.
‘Good morning, Ms Hughes,’ I responded politely.
She stood behind her mahogany desk, her hair in that immaculate bun, her navy skirt suit and crisp white blouse tailored to perfection. She had called me from my desk in the open-plan area where I had already settled and hung my blazer over the back of the chair.
‘Welcome to the team,’ she gushed. ‘I must say, you look, er, very professional… well, for a student.’
She came from behind her desk and examined my outfit more thoroughly, her demeanour making me feel as if I were on parade. I glanced down to check that my short grey skirt was free of creases. I stood up straighter and unconsciously puffed out my chest, which stretched the thin silk of my new white blouse that I wore buttoned neatly to my throat.
‘You know, Amelia, as an intern, you can breathe a little,’ she added, a playful glint in her eyes as her gaze lingered on my breasts. ‘We have a more casual dress policy for the junior staff who are joining us for just a brief period. Linen trousers, if you wish, or even tight jeans… not that there is anything wrong with your legs in that neat short skirt,’ she chuckled.
‘I prefer to dress for the position I intend to hold, Ms Hughes,’ I replied pompously, my voice steady, recognising her flirty intonation.
‘Very commendable,’ she said, dragging her eyes away from my legs to my straining chest, before alighting on my hair.
I had my hair pulled back into the tight, severe topknot that I had adopted during my first year in college. Although it was not a typical student style, it ensured I stood out as someone to take seriously. It also disguised my distressingly short, shoulder-length locks. A functional style and one that signalled I was not at Ashton Enterprises to be an attractive ornament, but I was there to work.
Genevieve stepped closer, the scent of her expensive jasmine perfume trailing after her. She reached out, her fingers hovering near my temple. ‘You have such a lovely face, Amelia. Why make it appear so harsh with such a disciplined style? At your age, you should wear your hair loose. Let it breathe and use it to enhance those magnificent features.’
I felt the heat of her gaze. Recognising that it was not just professional interest but a hungry and appreciative attraction, I did not flinch. By letting her see the calculation in my eyes, I acknowledged her interest, hinting it was mutual.
Long ago, I had learnt that desire is the ultimate leverage, whether in business or pleasure… or both. If Genevieve Hughes wanted to play, I would inform her of my rules when the time was right, and I would show her exactly what the stakes were.
First Week
By the end of my first week, I had mapped the terrain of the office. Ashton Enterprises was a monument to old-world corporate hierarchy, but one that functioned effectively as it had always done. The work they asked me to do was moderately interesting and would show a summer well spent when I returned to college for the second year of my business degree. However, there was a glaring inconsistency that grated on my nerves. It occurred on whatever floor of the building I found myself. It concerned equality.
As I walked through every department, I observed the secretaries and administration staff. They were young women, mostly without the qualifications I was studying intensively for in college, relying on other qualities that had no place in a professional organisation. They flouted their unearned status with manes of long, graduated layers, highlights of honey and caramel, and bouncy waves that occupied more space than their workstations. It was messy and inefficient, and it presented an aesthetic imbalance that needed correction. Equality in the workplace required the removal of superfluous distractions.
I remember passing one girl in the corridor, a junior administrator named Sophie. As she laughed at a joke, she tossed a curtain of blonde curls over her shoulder and nearly slapped me in the face. She, like all the others, used her long hair as a veil, a shield, and a mark of vanity that set them apart. Just like any woman with hair longer than mine, these women used their hair as a symbol of a power that they simply did not possess.
Genevieve Hughes should have set a consistent example with her immaculate updo, but even she would wear her hair loose at times or a flirty ponytail that danced with every movement of her head. It was a tactical choice, I realised. It disarmed the men and made other women envious. By contrast, I simply found her manipulation extremely irritating.
The organisation needed levelling up. It needed a clean slate. And, despite my youth and lowly temporary position, I decided that I should be the instigator of change.
Second Week
Over the weekend I had drafted a detailed proposal that would implement Ashton Enterprises’ social responsibility initiative. It was an obligation to the local community that fell within Genevieve’s remit, and one that I knew she had been unable to progress due to more pressing matters. I did not frame my proposal as a corporate requirement but offered it as an altruistic social vision that I called Headway with Ashton.
On Monday I had printed and bound three copies of my document. Late that evening I walked into Genevieve’s corner office. The sun was setting, casting long, amber shadows across her desk. She was leaning back, her hair loose now, a dark river flowing over the back of her chair. It had been an incredibly busy day, and she looked tired and vulnerable.
‘Genevieve,’ I chirped, dropping her formal title for the first time.
She looked up, her eyes brightening. ‘Amelia, still here? Shouldn’t you have left by now?
‘I have an idea for the corporate social responsibility initiative,’ I said, laying the professionally bound document on her desk. ‘Headway with Ashton.’
‘The CEO will like the name,’ Genevieve sighed, adding a dry chuckle. ‘And you’ve achieved more progress than I have managed in six months.’
‘Yes, I picked up on the fact that the CEO was unhappy with progress, but she should not give you so much else to do,’ I sympathised.
‘That’s how it is in business,’ she shrugged, flicking absently through the pages of the document but, I suspected, absorbing little.
I enlightened her. ‘The initiative centres on sponsored haircutting events for charity. We partner with the local children’s hospital. Family and friends sponsor staff to have their hair cut and restyled, and the money raised goes directly to refurbish the hospital’s operating theatres. There has been a shortfall in their funding, and it is something the hospital desperately needs. Furthermore, we donate any cut hair of sufficient length to an organisation that makes wigs for disadvantaged children. It would be a wonderful initiative, and it is perfect public relations for Ashton Enterprises.’
Genevieve nodded throughout my explanation, continuing to flip through my document. ‘It says here “headshave” rather than “haircut”. Is there –’
‘It can be either,’ I jumped in quickly. ‘But a headshave shows greater commitment; the sacrifice is likely to raise greater sponsorship, and the hair that we can donate will be longer. So, a headshave is a win-win all round,’ I said glibly, relying on Genevieve’s tiredness to ignore the fact that I was stretching the truth. ‘It is also a better fit for the name – Headway with Ashton.’
‘Yes, I see that, Amelia,’ Genevieve agreed. ‘But, er… it is very bold, asking women to shave their heads. A massive ask for any employee. It is a very personal thing.’
‘It’s altruism at its finest and most demonstrable,’ I said, moving around the desk. I stood behind her, my reflection in the window mirroring hers. ‘It shows that the women of Ashton Enterprises are more than just how they appear. It shows we are a unified front supporting the local community.
‘Very laudable,’ she nodded.
‘And naturally management would view those who participate as team players, even potential leaders,’ I enthused. ‘It should certainly reflect well on their annual reviews.’
Genevieve looked at me in the reflection. ‘You’re suggesting we use their career progression as leverage for relieving them of their hair?’
‘I’m suggesting we reward those who show the most commitment to the firm’s values,’ I corrected softly.
From behind her, I placed my hands lightly on her shoulders. Her skin was warm under the silk of her blouse. I leaned down, my lips close to her ear. ‘Think of the impact, Genevieve. A company of women, stripped of the vanity that holds them back. Efficient. Equal. And you, Genevieve… you would be the face of the initiative. The leader who inspired them all.’
She shivered. ‘And you? Would you shave yours?’
I smiled, though she could not see it. ‘My hair is already quite short, and it is the reason I keep it in this silly little topknot. But I would be happy to contribute as the organiser. The architect, if you will, but as a director you will have all the credit.’
Genevieve turned in her chair, looking up at me. The air between us was thick, charged with a power dynamic that had shifted entirely. She was the Head of HR, but I was the one directing the flow.
‘It would be a scandal if the CEO found out that I was so influenced by an intern,’ she whispered.
‘The CEO will only see a successful, high-profile charity event,’ I said. ‘And what happens behind closed doors… well, Genevieve, it stays behind closed doors.’
I allowed my hands to slide down the front of her silk blouse. Her breathing quickened, and she did not object when my fingers found her erect nipples. I leaned in closer, allowing my face to bury itself in her soft back hair.
‘Oh, Amelia…’ she purred contentedly, her cheek resting against mine. ‘It’ has been a terribly long day. Do you fancy coming to my apartment for a drink… and to grab something –
My guess is that she was going to offer “something to eat”.
Interrupting, I said, ‘I thought I already was grabbing something,’ I purred wickedly, playfully tweaking her nipple as I said it.
She giggled. ‘Well, we could always have something to eat later.’
That night, at her penthouse overlooking the city, I realised just how easily I could bring the mighty to heel. As I watched her move to fill our wine glasses, her long black hair trailing behind her like a shadow, I knew she was putty in my hands.
Making Headway
The following morning, a more formal and less naked version of Genevieve Hughes called me into her office. She was sitting at the conference table by the window, facing another woman.
‘Amelia, this is Leonora Ashton, the firm’s CEO,’ she announced. ‘I have been explaining your, er… our vision for the corporate social responsibility initiative.’
She was an older woman with a delightful silver pixie haircut, a sensible woman who had already discarded the burden of long hair.
‘Good morning, Ms Ashton,’ I beamed, stepping forward and shaking her hand. I imagined it was an occasion that few employees enjoyed, let alone mere interns. ‘Yes, it has been extremely rewarding to help Ms Hughes develop the programme… even in only a minor way,’ I lied, downplaying my involvement, to bolster Genevieve’s standing in her boss’s eyes.
The CEO gave me an appraising gaze, nodding to herself, clearly pleased and impressed with what she saw in front of her. I stood even straighter, maintaining my smile.
‘That is good to hear, Amelia. I adore the concept of Headway with Ashton… as well as the name, of course,’ she tittered, and Genevieve joined. ‘As well as being beneficial to the community, it is a brilliant branding exercise for the firm. I have given Ms Hughes my blessing to proceed with the event this summer, and I have asked that you remain involved throughout.
‘Thank you, Ms Ashton,’ I said excitedly.
‘And, between you and Amelia,’ she said, leaning and lowering her voice, an additional benefit will be seeing the more obvious women in the firm have their hair tamed. There are those who wear it far too long and wild for the professional workplace.’
Hardly an additional benefit, I thought. But clearly, she was a woman after my own heart, even if her reasons were different. I noticed Genevieve pat her fulsome updo and look away.
‘Really, Ms Ashton?’ I had not noticed,’ I fibbed, maintaining my innocent expression.
Headway with Ashton
The announcement of Headway with Ashton sent a shock wave through the office. Genevieve delivered the news with a polished, professional smile, standing in the atrium with me hovering just a step behind her. I was her shadow, her silent prompter. When she faltered, a single look from me would steady her.
The reaction from the staff was a mixture of horror and confused obligation. I made it my mission to sign up the employees. I approached them individually, a clipboard in hand and a sympathetic, yet firm, smile on my face.
At the coffee machine I found Sophie, the blonde administrator who had attempted to slap me in the face with her ridiculously long and full hair.
‘Sophie,’ I said, my tone maternal. ‘I noticed you have yet to sign the pledge for Headway with Ashton. The hospital is so excited about the opportunity to provide high-quality blonde wigs for the disadvantaged children.’
Sophie clutched her hair, her knuckles white. ‘But I… I love my hair, Amelia. I have been growing it for six years. Can’t I just donate money?’
‘Of course you can,’ I said, my voice dropping to a confidential whisper. ‘But I was looking at the performance review schedules this morning. Ms Hughes is hoping to identify people to move into the new executive assistant roles. She is really emphasising demonstrable commitment this year. So, it would be a shame if she thought you were not, er… well, not fully invested in the firm’s culture.’
Sophie’s eyes welled with tears, and I simply watched, fascinated by her reaction. It was not about the hair but more about the submission. She sniffed, blowing her nose on a tissue, then held out her hand for the clipboard and pen. Her signature on the pledge sheet was as good as a contract. I handed her a sponsorship form.
‘Pass that around your family and friends and, if it fills, I can provide you with another,’ I explained sweetly. ‘I am sure you know many people who will admire your devotion to the firm and the hospital… and wish to see you get your head shaved.’
Her blubbing resumed. ‘But my boyfriend…’ she mumbled.
I simply nodded, not wishing to engage further now she was committed. There were still a considerable number of women on my list, from the secretaries with their long layers and highlights, through to the junior analysts with their swinging ponytails.
I used the charitable aims as a bludgeon and the performance reviews as a scalpel. As a mistress of persuasion, I weaved a web of social pressure so tight that they could see no way out. To me, equality was no longer concerned with just shorter hair, but given the opportunity presented by the senior management, it was about the absolute uniformity of the scalp. Total erasure of the distraction.
Preparations
With my plan falling neatly into place, I began making detailed preparations for the event itself. We set the date, and we reserved the large atrium in the centre of the building for our use. I had already persuaded the head of maintenance to set up a stage, provide the necessary furniture, and ensure there were sufficient power outlets for the hairclippers. My priority was to secure the services of hairdressers who would volunteer to do the cutting and shaving.
I had briefly considered asking Jilly, the senior lecturer in hairdressing at the college who had been so supportive of my initial foray into equality. However, not wishing to muddy waters in my new role, I decided to look elsewhere.
I tried one high-end salon in town that scoffed at the idea, despite the opportunities to market their charitable involvement. After I told them who I represented, they said a considerable proportion of their clients worked for Ashton Enterprises. Regrettably, I saw their point that it would not be profitable for their business to shave the hair of women who paid extortionate sums for their expensive services!
A couple more salons that I tried were similarly unimpressed by my suggestions. Bereft of ideas, I strolled into a small barbershop tucked away in one of the lanes off the high street. Operated by a forthright older woman, she employed two younger female barbers, all with commendably short hair. All three were keen and agreed to help me out by volunteering their services.
Getting Ahead
The day of the event arrived. Maintenance had transformed the atrium into a temporary salon, with three chairs lined up on a raised stage. The three lady barbers stood ready with their equipment on trolleys next to them and held their clippers in hand.
The entire company had gathered to watch. The air was thick with an electric tension. I stood at the podium, dressed in my black skirt suit, fulfilling my role as the master of ceremonies. While most people were standing, Genevieve and Ms Ashton were in the VIP seats just below me. Off to one side was the “holding pen”, as I thought of it, comprising rows of seats for all the women signed up to take part in the event.
‘Today,’ I announced confidently into the microphone, my voice echoing off the glass walls, ‘we show the world that the women of Ashton Enterprises define themselves with their charitable minds and not their superfluous manes.’
Following my speech, a muted cheer and a round of applause followed from the audience. I gestured grandly to the “holding pen”, and three women nervously rose to their feet.
The first group stepped forward and took their seats, efficiently draped by the barbers using black nylon capes that advertised their shop. I was delighted to see Sophie was among them. She was shaking, her long blonde curls contrasting starkly with the black material covering her.
‘Barbers!’ I commanded. ‘Please proceed.’
I watched as the barbers gathered each woman’s hair into two thick ponytails, securing them with elastic bands in preparation for the cutting. Each barber, smiling broadly, picked up large shears with one hand and held up a ponytail with the other.
I walked over to Sophie’s chair. ‘I’ll do this one,’ I whispered to the barber, who looked at me and then handed me the heavy shears.
I took the heavy blonde ponytail in my hand and, nodding to the other two barbers, we each began sawing through the hair. Even allowing for the large blade, it took half a dozen attempts to saw through the bulky mass, but eventually the weight came away into my hands. I held up the severed hair like a trophy for the crowd to see. I noted Ms Ashton clapping enthusiastically in front of me. Off to one side, a man had buried his face in his hands despairingly, and, amused, I wondered if it was Sophie’s boyfriend.
The three of us chopped off the second ponytail from each of our donors, and we tossed our haul into the baskets lined up for that purpose. I stepped back to the microphone as all three barbers picked up their hairclippers. The mechanical drone of three sets humming to life at once filled the atrium like a beautiful symphony.
Sophie let out a small, choked sob as the clippers touched her nape, a sound echoed by her two coworkers. The metal teeth buried themselves into the hairlines, then the first stripe of white scalp appeared on the back of each woman’s head.
The grinning barbers were ruthless, clearly enjoying themselves. In concert, they enthusiastically widened the paths they had created, snippets of hair raining down like snow. I was mesmerised by what I was watching, but I still remembered to maintain the semblance of a commentary. However, once each head was exhibiting just a bare fuzz, the actions of the barbers spoke for themselves. It was a wonderful scene that was unfolding.
It became clear that I had recruited a professional team, as the barbers were not satisfied with the finish they had achieved with the hairclippers. They each retrieved a smaller foil shaver and evened up the fuzz on each head to produce a smooth and pristine finish, the scalps gleaming in the light of the atrium.
With a flourish, the barbers removed the capes. As the bald women left the stage, I announced the sum that each had raised in sponsorship. As the audience praised them, I noticed Sophie’s boyfriend comforting her.
Feeling a profound sense of satisfaction over what had occurred so far, I glanced meaningfully at those trembling in the “holding pen”. ‘And the next three, please,’ I commanded sweetly.
More Ahead
In a repeat of the previous session, the barbers prepared the group in the same way. Once they had created the ponytails, I stepped forward once again to claim another trophy. The barbers then clippered and shaved them to the bone.
With each new group, I selected one of the seated donors and offered the barber my help. I cut the ponytails of the women I had found most irritating, the ones who had been the proudest of their locks. I was keen to emulate the action of the barbers with their hairclippers and foil shavers, but I thought it may publicly reveal my enthusiasm a little too much.
As the event wore on, the stage became littered with piles of brown, blonde, and red. The baskets were overflowing with the enormous quantities of ponytails we had severed. The women left the chairs looking completely different. Stunned, their hands instinctively reaching up to touch the smooth skin of their scalps as they lost themselves in the audience, receiving praise or comfort.
They all looked uniform and levelled. We had achieved equality.
Finale
With the holding pen empty, I announced that it was time for the finale. A hush fell across the atrium as the audience wondered what remained. I smoothed back the hair on my scalp and adjusted my topknot. I saw a couple of bald women standing below me, licking their lips at the prospect that I was going to submit myself to the clippers.
Both Ms Hughes, my boss, and Ms Ashton, the CEO, clapped as they interpreted my gesture as a demonstration of my team spirit.
‘And now,’ I said, my voice ringing with a cold triumph, ‘to show unity with all our brave volunteers…’ I paused, the applause increasing, the growing excitement tangible. ‘Ashton Enterprises leadership will demonstrate its absolute solidarity with this cause, as I call forward our head of human resources, Ms Genevieve Hughes!’
A hush fell over the room. Genevieve, sitting next to the CEO, went pale. She had not expected this turn of events. We had not even discussed it.
But I had choreographed the finale perfectly, deflecting attention from becoming a victim myself. Leonora Ashton slapped her on the back, appreciating her sacrifice for the cause. The eager and expectant eyes of every newly shaved woman in the room were on Genevieve. If she backed out now, her boss would be exceedingly unimpressed by her lack of commitment, and the staff would lose any respect for her authority. It was an invidious position that she found herself in.
I stepped down off the shelf and took Genevieve’s hand. Her fingers were cold. ‘A sacrifice for the children, Genevieve,’ I whispered, loud enough only for her to hear. ‘And for us.’
‘But I love my hair, Amelia,’ she whimpered as I led her on to the stage, her voice barely discernible. ‘Look, we have collected loads of hair… so, I don’t need to sacrifice mine too.’
‘You will completely incinerate your reputation if you back out now, Genevieve,’ I murmured as she sat in the middle chair. ‘And mine too,’ I said firmly. ‘If you threaten me, I might have to show Ms Ashton a couple of recordings from what we got up to when I came to stay in your penthouse.’
Her head came up and she stared disbelievingly at me. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then clamped it shut. She blinked twice, then turned her head to face forward, her back stiff, with a stoic expression clouding her features.
The three barbers were relaxing at the back of the stage, looking intrigued by what was unfolding. The older one handed me a cape, and I draped it over a trembling Genevieve. She had coiled her long, glossy black hair in an elaborate updo held by silver pins. One by one, I removed the pins, letting the hair tumble down. It fell in a magnificent, dark curtain down the back of the chair with the ends touching the floor, and I was going to destroy it.
I found sufficient bands on one of the trolleys and lovingly brushed Genevieve’s hair, forming a series of ponytails. The lead barber approached with her large and heavy shears and handed them to me with a grin.
‘Take a deep breath, Genevieve,’ I urged quietly as I lifted the first ponytail and positioned the shears. They felt heavy in my hand. I squeezed, the blades grinding through the dense forest of hair. It took effort. It was a struggle. And then the weight came away in my hand. I repeated the exercise with the remaining ponytails.
The reaction from the audience was more intense than anything else heard during the event. I gained the impression that there were a considerable number of women who were pleased to see the director responsible for the event receiving her just desserts.
I gathered all the severed hair into one massive and weighty ponytail and held it high. Leonora Ashton applauded in appreciation.
I tousled Genevieve’s cropped locks with one hand, and then I took the hairclippers from the lead barber with the other. Pushing the metal teeth against the hairline of her forehead, I clicked the switch. The vibration thrummed through my palm, a living thing. Then I paused.
Genevieve gasped, a small, broken sound.
I eased the blade slowly forward. The first stripe of white scalp appeared, contrasting sharply with the black. I worked slowly and methodically, wanting her to feel every second of the air hitting her skin for the first time.
As the last of the black fuzz fell away, I exchanged the hairclippers for a foil shaver. I marvelled at how efficiently it removed any hint of shadow from her scalp. White, smooth, and gleaming, Genevieve’s head looked like a porcelain sculpture.
I leaned down and whispered into her ear. ‘You look much more efficient now, Genevieve. Much more professional.’
I stepped back. Genevieve just sat there, unsmiling, her head perfectly bald. Stripped of her primary weapon, she was no longer the disarming beauty that used her hair to further her career.
The CEO stood up and began to clap. Soon, the entire room joined in. It was a standing ovation for their own collective loss, led by the woman who had orchestrated it.
As I assisted Genevieve to her feet, I took in the sea of shining heads below me and marvelled at the level of equality I had achieved during the event. Unusually, my hair was longer than the greater number of women in the atrium!
Farewell to Summer
The rest of my summer as an intern at Ashton Enterprises was a blur of less exciting activity, but extremely useful for my CV. However, I did notice the office was quieter and more focused than during my first two weeks. There was no more hair flipping and far less vanity in the bathrooms. Furthermore, my involvement with organising the event and my apparent closeness to senior management ensured staff were wary of me. It was a small price for me to pay given that I had been instrumental in levelling up the inequalities in the firm.
The Headway with Ashton event had raised a record-breaking amount of money, and we collected sufficient hair to produce a substantial number of wigs. And the reputation of Ashton Enterprises for corporate social responsibility was at an all-time high.
During my last week, Leonora Ashton, the firm’s CEO, made a point of dropping by my desk, something that she rarely did, even with her permanent employees.
‘Before you leave us, Amelia, I just wanted to say thank you again for all your contributions to the firm in such a short period of time,’ she praised. ‘And when you graduate, please consider contacting me personally,’ she urged, handing me her business card, ‘to see if we can offer you a suitable position in Ashton Enterprises, or with one of my friends in the industry.’
‘Thank you, Ms Ashton,’ I said in surprise and genuine appreciation, fingering the precious card. ‘Yes, I will.’
She leaned into my cubicle. ‘And between you and me, Amelia, it is a pleasant change to see far less big hair around the place,’ she chuckled before walking off. I joined in her laughter, attracting puzzled glances from a couple of the nearby women who still had buzzed heads.
I had the outline of a plan that would rectify the inequalities when the firm recruited and oriented new employees. However, I decided to keep that idea to myself until I had time to flesh out a proposal and then present it at a more opportune time.
Throughout the summer my relationship with Genevieve continued, though the dynamic had shifted permanently. I was no longer the intern seeking her favour. I was the one who visited her penthouse when I desired the satisfaction that she was eager to provide. And I was the one who insisted on holding the foil shaver whenever her head exhibited a dark shadow, as I was keen for her to maintain the stark, polished look.
On my final day, Genevieve handed me my internship report.
‘It’s glowing,’ she said, her hand reaching up to rub the smooth skin of her scalp, a new habit she had picked up. ‘The college will be extremely impressed. You are going to go far, Amelia.’
‘I know,’ I said confidently, slipping the report into my leather briefcase, and stepping out of her life.
Epilogue
The world was full of long-haired women who thought their beauty was their armour. Those working at Ashton Enterprises had discovered that any type of protective shield was a fragile thing.
Previously, I had believed that short hair – hair that was shorter than mine – was the way to go with levelling the inequalities I witnessed. However, having enjoyed watching the brutal process of shaving a head, and observing the emotional impact of the aftermath, the arousing thought of repeating the exercise was an enticing prospect. I wondered if there was an opportunity to organise a Headway event in conjunction with the college.
As I began my second year at business college, I knew there were new clubs to join, new people to meet, and so much more levelling of inequality for me to accomplish.
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 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.
