Amelia Seeks Equality, Part 5 – The Freshers Initiative

This story serves as a sequel to Amelia Seeks Equality, Part 4 – The Intern’s Summer, and one can enjoy it independently without the need to read the original story.

Prologue

The sheer cacophony of Freshers Fair assaulted my senses the moment I stepped into the college’s vast sports hall. A swirling vortex of youthful exuberance, nervous energy, and the palpable scent of new beginnings. Music blared from overzealous sound systems, and club representatives shouted their pitches. Drifting through the aisles was a sea of students, mostly first-years still wide-eyed with the novelty of university life. Denim, hoodies, floral dresses, and a riot of long, flowing hair dominated the visual landscape.

I, however, was an island of purposeful calm in this chaotic ocean. My business skirt suit, a sharp navy blue, was impeccably pressed, a stark contrast to the casual attire surrounding me. As always, I had pulled my hair into a severe, tight topknot high on my head. It was an architectural triumph that defied gravity but, more importantly, disguised the frustrating limitations of its length. Despite all my efforts, it had never grown past my shoulders, a biological boundary I found profoundly irritating and, frankly, unjust.

However, my stark hairstyle, coupled with my professional attire, served a dual purpose. Not only did my appearance present an image of unshakeable competence. But also, to my profound satisfaction, it commanded an instinctive respect. Heads subtly turned as I passed, a silent acknowledgement of someone distinctly, and perhaps formidably, different.

My first year at college, studying business, had been a resounding success. My grades were excellent, my focus unwavering. And the summer internship at Ashton Enterprises had been, if I do say so myself, nothing short of a triumph. Organising the charity head-shaving event for the local hospital was a masterstroke. It enhanced the firm’s reputation in the local community, and it also gave me unparalleled exposure within the firm.

The positive reports that had winged their way back to the college from Leonora Ashton, their CEO, and Genevieve Hughes, the HR director, were a testament to my capabilities. They spoke of my initiative, my meticulous planning, and my ability to execute a vision.

They spoke of me in glowing terms.

The Freshers Fair

At the start of my first year at college, the Freshers Fair had held little appeal. I had not considered myself a “joiner”, as my focus was primarily on achieving academic excellence and establishing a foundation for my future career. Social clubs seemed, at best, a distraction. But a year had passed, and I had gained a richer understanding of the complex web of influence and opportunity. Networking, I now realised, was not a mere social nicety but a strategic imperative.

Establishing contacts was not just about career progression, although that remained paramount in the short term, but also about my grander ambition. Simmering beneath my composed exterior was my ongoing mission to achieve equality in the length of hair across a wider audience. To achieve that, I needed a network of similarly minded individuals who, even if their motivations differed, could be instruments in my quest.

I navigated the aisles with a firm objective, my gaze sharp, assessing each stall not for its recreational value but for its potential usefulness. The Chess Club, Drama Society, and Debating Union all seemed either trivial or fully aligned with predictable purposes. Then, amidst a flurry of brightly coloured banners and makeshift displays, a bold sign snagged my attention announcing the presence of the BBC.

The BBC

My brow furrowed slightly on seeing the familiar acronym. Was the “British Broadcasting Corporation” really promoting themselves at a small college’s freshers’ fair? Their presence seemed incongruous.

As I drew closer, the puzzling mystery began fading away. What followed was a sudden and exhilarating jolt of familiarity and arousal. Manning the stall were three confident young women, unmistakably final-year students, each exhibiting an edgy and artistic flair. But what truly made them stand out, what caused a stir in the general hubbub around them, was their complete lack of hair. Their scalps, smooth and unblemished, shone under the hall lights, making a bold and defiant statement.

The tallest of the trio, with striking features and an air of natural leadership, was speaking animatedly to a small cluster of curious first-years. I paused, allowing myself to eavesdrop. Introducing herself as Catriona, or Cat as she preferred to be known, she explained that BBC was not an acronym for a media giant but for the Beautifully Bald Club. A nervous tremor, a mix of excitement and anticipation, traced its way down my spine.

Cat went on to explain the story of how the club originated with an infectious enthusiasm. They had spent a gap year doing voluntary work in overseas schools, in a hot and dusty country called Tankenbia. While there they had decided initially to cut their hair, then shave their heads completely. They had done so for practical reasons related to the climate and scarcity of water. And, then she added with a wide, confident smile, they had liked it.

So, upon returning to college, they had decided to maintain the look. Not as any sort of protest or even for practicality, but simply because they enjoyed being bald. Initially they established their “club” as a typically humorous and crazy student organisation. But with a drought taking its hold on Tankenbia, they decided the BBC would use the Freshers Fair to promote sponsored headshaving events, raising money for their ongoing project abroad.

On their stall they hoped to recruit women to “join the club” by having their heads shaved. With people watching that potential drama, they were communicating the plight of the Tankenbians and encouraging cash donations.

I watched as wary first-years edged away, their expressions shifting from curiosity to discomfort at the thought of parting with their own carefully cultivated locks. Eager recruits to the BBC were non-existent, and cash donations were sparse. But to me, the organisation was a revelation. I had discovered that there were other students, right here in college, who were actively promoting headshaving! Even if their reasons were entirely rooted in altruism and personal preference, rather than my own deeply held philosophical conviction about follicular equality, the common ground was undeniable.

With their objectives aligned with my own, there was scope for an alignment of our forces.

Catriona

I moved forward, navigating the swirling chaos assuredly. Catriona’s eyes, bright and intelligent, met mine. She paused her pitch, acknowledging my arrival. My suit, my controlled posture, and my tightly wound topknot all communicated a message of seriousness that demanded attention.

My appearance contrasted significantly with that of Catriona. She was wearing denim dungarees over a white T-shirt. Allegedly fashionable, I subscribed to the view that such overalls were only suitable for a spot of home decorating or, at a push, gardening. However, with her slim figure and pretty features, along with her bald head, she did look striking.

‘Good afternoon, Cat,’ I began, my voice clear and measured, cutting through the background noise. ‘I’m Amelia, and I couldn’t help but be intrigued by your club.’

Cat smiled, a genuine, open expression. ‘Welcome to the Beautifully Bald Club,’ she said, gesturing proudly to her deserted stall. ‘We’re trying to spread the word about our mission in Tankenbia.’

‘Yes, I was listening and loved your passion. Such a noble cause,’ I acknowledged. ‘And a striking aesthetic, I must say.’ My gaze swept over her smooth scalp, noting the perfect curve of her head. It was a powerful look of unburdened simplicity, displaying stark and clean lines.

‘Thank you, Amelia,’ Cat replied, a hint of surprise, even suspicion, in her voice. ‘Not everyone sees it that way.’

‘Perhaps they lack vision,’ I offered, a slight, knowing smile playing on my lips. ‘I, for one, have experience with the transformative impact of a shaved head. In fact, just this past summer, I organised a successful charity headshaving event.’

‘You did?’ Cat’s eyes widened. Her two friends, who had been trying to thrust flyers into unreceptive hands, now turned their full attention to me. Cat leant forward, suddenly animated. ‘For what cause?’

‘For a local hospital,’ I explained, maintaining a careful balance between disclosing what I had done and discretion regarding my ultimate purpose. I was not about to unpack my entire life’s mission to strangers on a stall at the freshers fair. ‘It was part of my internship with Ashton Enterprises. We raised a significant sum, and it certainly enhanced the firm’s community engagement profile.’

I chose not to mention my private satisfaction at seeing employees, including the HR director, take part. All once proud of their luxurious manes, they were all reduced to a uniform, hairless state.

‘Remarkable!’ Cat exclaimed. ‘An experienced organiser of a charity headshaving event! We have struggled to gain any traction. Most people are either too attached to their hair… or they take the easy way out by donating cash.’

‘Mine is always firmly attached,’ I quipped, pretending to try dislodging my topknot to lift Cat’s gloom.

‘That’s a shame,’ she lamented, missing my joke completely. ‘I wish the BBC could use your knowledge,’ she said, her smile faltering slightly. ‘But the thing is, Amelia, our club is exclusive and has strict rules. All members must be bald. It is a core requirement.’

A plan began to take shape in my mind. Although I had not offered to help, Cat clearly assumed I would want to if I could, so I suggested a way to circumvent the rules.

‘I understand your dedication to the aesthetic, Cat. And your commitment to your cause is commendable. But may I suggest that the BBC could benefit from a different kind of member? Even a consultant? One with proven organisational skills, a flair for event management, and a history of running successful charity headshave campaigns… even if their own hair remains.’ I tapped my topknot again. ‘A strategic alliance, you might say.’

Cat considered my suggestion, her brow slightly furrowed in thought. Her friends exchanged glances. ‘It’s certainly not our usual approach,’ she mused, then her gaze sharpened, meeting mine directly. ‘But an organiser would be invaluable. We are just three students with an idea, not a business plan.’

‘Precisely,’ I affirmed. ‘Let me buy you a coffee, Cat… or even something stronger after you finish here this evening. We can discuss how you might benefit from my experience to inject serious momentum into the Beautifully Bald Club and its mission in Tankenbia. Think of it as a consultation. No commitment, beyond an engaging conversation.’

Her initial hesitation dissolved, replaced by a flicker of undeniable interest. ‘That would be wonderful, Amelia. I am free after six.’

‘Excellent, Cat,’ I repeated, a sense of quiet victory blooming within me. ‘Let’s meet at the Students’ Union bar at 7.’

I had woven the first thread of my new wider network.

Consultation

That evening, the dim lighting of the student union bar lent an air of intimacy to our conversation. Catriona, mercifully free of her dungarees, wore an attractive black lace top, a tartan miniskirt, and black opaque tights that beautifully complemented her captivating bald head. I was feeling a little guilty that I had not made the effort to change my outfit.

Cat spoke passionately about Tankenbia and its children, then about the sheer joy and simplicity of her decision to shave her head. I listened attentively, absorbing every detail, identifying her strengths and, more importantly, her vulnerabilities. Her idealism was commendable, but less so was her slightly naive belief in the purity of her cause and lack of strategic foresight. All things I could, and would, mould to our mutual benefit.

I steered the conversation, subtly at first, then more directly, towards the practicalities of running a successful charity event. I shared anecdotes from my Ashton Enterprises experience, highlighting the logistical complexities, the marketing strategies, and the public relations angles. Cat hung on my every word, her initial scepticism giving way to admiration. By the time the pub was winding down, she was practically brimming with ideas, all of which I had expertly planted in her mind.

The suggestion to continue our conversation back in the rooms at her shared house was as natural as it was inevitable. Cat’s eyes had lingered on me, followed by subtle shifts in her posture and a heightened flush on her cheeks. I had charmed her and drawn her in, but not just with my mind. My charisma, I knew, exuded a primal attraction that resonated with my own carefully cultivated sense of power.

Invitation

Spending the night with Catriona was a calculated choice, a further step in solidifying my influence. As she lay beside me, her bald head gleaming softly in the moonlight filtering through the window, I felt a familiar surge of power and a profound sense of superiority. There was an undeniable intimacy in the absence of hair, a raw vulnerability that I found both alluring and empowering. I fondly remembered my recent dalliance with Genevieve Hughes, the HR director of Ashton Enterprises. To enjoy being with a bald woman was to demonstrate a certain kind of authority, tacitly acknowledging my control.

The morning light brought with it a different kind of satisfaction. As Cat stirred, I reached for the foil shaver on her dressing table that she used each day to maintain her smoothness. Her eyes fluttered open and, seeing what I was doing, she bit her lip in anticipation. As she sat up, I knelt behind her, allowing her naked body to lean back against mine.

‘Let me,’ I murmured, my voice low and confident as the electric hum filled the room. Cat, still drowsy with sleep and the afterglow of the night, lapped up the gentle circulation motion I applied to her scalp.

The hum of the shaver was a soothing sound. I guided it with practised ease over her scalp, removing the faint stubble that had begun to emerge overnight. The delicate warmth of her skin beneath my fingertips and the slight tremor in her breath as I worked all contributed to the potent cocktail of control and connection. It was ritualistic, almost sacred. This act of maintenance, of preserving the smooth, clean lines of her baldness, was a subtle assertion of my influence, a physical manifestation of the mental hold I was gaining. She was utterly yielding to my will and trusting of my intentions.

My spare hand cupped her breasts from behind, the fingers exploring her skin. She moaned with pleasure at my touch, and I encouraged her to work her hands between her thighs as I continued my task.

Cat purred contentedly as I finished, rubbing her hand over her now perfectly smooth head. ‘That was simply amazing, Amelia,’ she whispered, her voice husky, as we indulged ourselves with another twenty minutes together before rising.

Her eyes met mine. ‘You really are incredible, Amelia. I feel like I would be happy to do anything for you.’

Her words, while gratifying, were also a clear signal. I had achieved my immediate objective. Cat was thoroughly enamoured, thoroughly impressed. And while the experience of a bald woman’s company and the ritual of the morning shave held a certain appeal, I knew myself well enough to understand that it was simply a means to an end. It would not become a habit with Cat. My mission was paramount, and romantic entanglements, especially those that threatened to dilute my focus or demand sustained emotional investment, were a distraction. Cat was a tool, a stepping stone, albeit one I had enjoyed employing.

Acceptance

Later that morning, as we sipped coffee, Cat was bursting with renewed enthusiasm. ‘Amelia, I have been thinking about what you said. Your skills and experience… well, they are invaluable to the BBC. We need someone like you!’

I nodded my appreciation.

‘So, Amelia, I have decided that you can be an honorary member. You can keep your topknot. After all, its formal and severe appearance is unique around college. Therefore, it will demonstrate the club’s flexibility towards membership, and it will attract attention,’ she added with a wink. ‘But you must help us organise our next charity headshaving event. So, what do you say?’ she asked, leaning forward over the breakfast table.

Music to my ears! An honorary membership that offers me a position of influence without having to compromise my own appearance. ‘It would be my pleasure, Cat,’ I replied, a genuine, if carefully contained, smile gracing my lips.

Renewal

I returned to the Freshers Fair after briefly visiting home to change my skirt suit and my blouse before preparing myself for the day ahead. Cat had gone on ahead, and she had already declared my honorary status to her bewildered but accepting friends. I watched from a short distance as she, radiating a new surge of energy, engaged with a fresh wave of first-year students at the Beautifully Bald Club stall.

Today, however, was different as Cat was not merely pitching the club’s ethos. She was enthusing people with a renewed energy that I credited to my personal involvement. I watched her charming a small group of wide-eyed freshers. She described the beauty of baldness, the liberation it gave, and the solidarity with others before glorifying the ultimate commitment.

One hesitant young woman, her straggly brown hair hanging limply halfway down her back, looked captivated but apprehensive. But Cat, with a firm and gentle hand, encouraged her to sit. The buzz of the electric hairclippers, louder than the fair’s general din, cut through the air. Slowly, inexorably, the brown strands fell, first in handfuls, then in showers, pooling at the girl’s feet. Her friends gasped, but Cat’s reassuring presence, coupled with the girl’s own growing sense of adventurousness, kept her in the chair. Within minutes, her exposed scalp was gleaming brightly. Two more followed, encouraged by Cat’s persuasive rhetoric and the contagious bravery of the first.

I watched, a quiet satisfaction blossoming in my chest. First-year students were beginning their academic life with a bald head, relieved of the burden to compete in the hair length stakes. Very commendable, indeed. It was a clear demonstration of Cat’s newfound conviction, a validation of my influence over her, providing a dry run for our future relationship.

Disturbing my positivity was the unwelcome moan of a familiar voice from behind me. ‘Still enjoying seeing other women get their heads shaved?’ she sneered sarcastically.

Remembrance

I spun around, maintaining my composure to face Jilly, the senior lecturer from the college’s cosmetology department. During the previous academic year, she had helped me trial my ideas for achieving equality related to hair length. The models I recruited for her trainee stylists looked far better after they had lost the burden of their hair long hair. Unfortunately, Jilly was less enthusiastic, and even more so when senior faculty members, parents of students, and the students themselves began to question her decisions.

Jilly and I had an affair, of sorts, but it was primarily to bend her to my will. The knowledge that I had video evidence of her liaison with me, a student, was sufficient to keep her on the true path. Eventually I tired of her moaning, and our relationship ended when I transformed her irritating asymmetric, multi-hued shoulder-length style into something more in keeping with my desire for equality. I shaved her completely bald.

Sadly, Jilly had not maintained her baldness, choosing to grow out her hair, adding purples and reds into the mix. Her style was an inverted bob, cut higher at the back than the front. Disappointingly, that style deliberately flouted the equality I had given her.

‘Hello, Jilly,’ I said, my tone cool and level. ‘Here to rejoin the bald club?’ I smirked, indicating the BBC stall where Cat was now chatting to an extremely attractive bohemian-styled woman with far too long hair. My heart skipped a beat as I imagined Cat using her skills of persuasion to recruit her to our cause.

‘Very funny, ha-ha,’ Jilly replied sarcastically, venom in her tone. ‘No, my girlfriend would not be happy with me doing that.’

‘Your girlfriend,’ I commented lightly, only feeling a little jealous that she moved on so quickly.

She smirked, moving forward and possessively grabbing the hand of the woman with the exceedingly long hair and even longer dress who was chatting to Cat. I must have looked surprised by Jilly’s non-verbal declaration as all three faces turned towards me. My hope of seeing the long-haired woman shaved bald would, it seemed, come to nothing. I felt a disproportionate pang of disappointment.

‘Amelia!’ Cat’s voice rang out. ‘This is Tamara, the head of the sociology faculty. She made the arrangements for me and the girls to volunteer in Tankenbia.’

Tamara let go of Jilly’s hand and shook mine. ‘Please to meet you, Amelia. Catriona has said you will help her raise funds for the charity.’ I nodded. ‘Thank you so much. It is such a worthy cause.’ I nodded in agreement. ‘Do you know my partner, Jilly?’

I looked at Jilly, and she gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, a look of pleading in her eyes. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ I said, staring at her with mock seriousness. ‘Well, perhaps… around the college… just in passing…’

I nodded in vague greeting at Jilly, but I resisted saying more. She looked relieved as she acknowledged my invention with a tight smile.

‘If I don’t see you before, Catriona, then good luck with the event,’ Tamara called out. ‘And thanks again for your help, Amelia.’ Then she turned to Jilly. ‘Come along, darling,’ she urged. ‘There is a stall on the other side of the hall for a simply fascinating society. I know a couple of the students involved. They gather washed-up materials on the beach and repurpose them by making creative ornaments for long hair.’

I sighed at the missed opportunity to assist the head of the sociology faculty unburden herself of her ridiculous hair. But with Jilly’s negative influence and Tamara’s desire to purchase hair slides made from smelly driftwood, that ship had sailed.

As I watched the pair, hand in hand, disappear into the throng, I turned around to see Cat, head to one side, observing me curiously as she followed my gaze.

Organisation

After the excitement of the morning session at the Freshers Fair, my mind was racing. I was focusing on the strategy for the charity headshaving event that Cat had asked me to organise.

Firstly, we needed a name, something catchy and impactful that encapsulated both the altruism and the underlying force of change.

‘Take It All Off for Tankenbia!’ I declared to Cat during our planning session over coffee later that morning. She scribbled it down, her eyes alight.

I insisted that we schedule the event at the end of freshers’ week. It would capitalise on the goodwill that we had fostered at the fair, adding an altruistic flourish to the induction period for the new students. It would seize their attention before they settled too deeply into their academic routines. From my perspective, it would be the perfect time to equalise more freshers, planting the seeds of uniformity among the student body. Although I had not disclosed my motives to Cat, I hoped our event would set a new aesthetic standard for the college.

My organisational skills, honed over the summer, snapped into action. I designed flyers, drafted social media posts, and secured a prominent location on campus to hold the event. I even arranged for a local newspaper reporter to cover the proceedings. During the remainder of the week, a motivated Cat worked tirelessly from the BBC stall. She would grab the attention of any potential participant who drifted by, as well as any other women she bumped into around the fair.

Within days, we had signed up twelve students. Willing freshers, poised on the brink of their university journey, ready to shed the conventional and embrace the boldly bare. The prospect filled me with an almost giddy sense of anticipation.

Take It All Off for Tankenbia

The final day of Freshers Week dawned bright and crisp. Our reserved area of campus parkland buzzed with an air of electric excitement. The ornamental bandstand was our stage, adorned with a banner declaring Take It All Off for Tankenbia, and flanked by colourful balloons. Two wooden stools stood ready, glowing warmly under the autumn sun, and large buckets for cash donations were prominent.

I stood at the microphone, surveying the gathered crowd. My checked skirt suit and my sleek topknot provided a sharp and professional silhouette against the backdrop of cheerful chaos below.

‘Welcome, everyone, to the culmination of Freshers Week! ‘I used a commanding tone that established a perfect balance between gravitas and enthusiasm. ‘Today, we celebrate courage, community, and commitment to a truly worthy cause, namely, the schools of Tankenbia!’

The crowd cheered, a mix of curious onlookers, supportive friends, and the dozen apprehensive participants. Beside me, Cat vibrated with excitement, her bald head shimmering with an autumnal glow.

‘We have twelve incredible students joining us today,’ I continued, gesturing to the line of freshers. Their appearance ranged from beaming smiles to visibly trembling as they awaited their turn. ‘Twelve pioneers who are not only donating to a vital cause but are also making a powerful statement. They are embracing a fresh look and a new beginning. They will demonstrate that true beauty lies not in superficial adornment but in character, in heart, and in the strength of conviction!’

I paused, letting the words resonate. ‘And who better to guide them on this journey than the expert hands of Catriona, the inspiring founder of the Beautifully Bald Club!’

I was happy for Cat to represent the public face of the event, but we had agreed that I would form a double act with her on stage. As the crowd erupted in applause, Cat and I moved to our positions beside the stools.

These twelve students were not just raising money for charity. These “lambs” were becoming agents of change… whether they knew it or not. Each falling strand of hair would be a symbolic victory, a step towards the wider acceptance of the equality that I envisioned.

Initiation

I gestured invitingly to the group of twelve students lined up on a couple of benches off to one side of the stage. The group looked nervously at each before two finally took the plunge, standing up and trudging towards the stage. Both had long hair, worn loose, that tumbled past their waist.

The applause died away, and a silence fell as the two women settled, and they prepared to meet their fate. Cat’s two BBC colleagues fastened a cape around each neck, securing their long hair in a high ponytail.

Beforehand, Cat and I had agreed that our modus operandi would be to remove longer hair in a single ponytail for the dramatic effect. We would then sell these for the benefit of the charity. Shorter hair we would dramatically shear off with the hairclippers, allowing the tendrils to tumble to the floor.

Sat in front of me was a young student with thick and wavy blonde hair that reached her hips when standing, almost touching the floor when seated on the stool. I marvelled at Cat persuading such attractive women to part with their gorgeous hair.

We each took a set of fully charged hairclippers from our colleagues, and we flicked the switch at the same time, the motors buzzing in harmony. I lifted the blonde ponytail before me, while Cat took a firm hold on the black, straight hair in front of her. We both positioned the blades of the clippers at the forehead of each student.

‘Take it all for Tankenbia!’ yelled out a single voice in the audience, breaking the unsettling silence. The whole crowd then chanted, repeatedly, to an insistent rhythm.

Take it all off, Take it all off, 

Take it all off for Tankenbia!

I pulled the blade of my clippers back from the woman’s forehead, only stopping when the metal teeth hit the base of the ponytail. Unsurprisingly, she emitted a distressed little whimper, keeping her eyes downcast.

I saw that Cat was echoing my moves. Once we had tasted blood – or, rather, severed hair – we sheared with increasing speed and greater enthusiasm. Working around the women’s heads, we quickly severed all except the strands still attached at the crown. A couple more well-aimed strokes, and each ponytail came away in its entirety. As we thrust our prizes skywards, the audience rhythmic chants transformed into cheers and applause.

Our two assistants took the severed hair, and Cat and I dispatched the uneven thatch of hair that remained on each head. We then exchanged hairclippers for the foil shaver. I spent a delightful couple of minutes erasing any trace of hair on the student’s head, bringing the scalp to its ultimate, glorious smoothness. Cat did the same, and despite the pair having had contrasting hair colours when they arrived, afterwards they resembled newborn hairless twins.

As our initial pair of volunteers descended the stage, I gave a rousing speech, thanking them for their altruism and bravery. Having transformed the hesitant individuals into confident new versions of themselves, they smiled ruefully, one receiving congratulations and the other comfort from members of the audience.

I gestured once more to the waiting bench, and the next two students nervously rose to begin their slow approach. Their hair barely reached their shoulders, so it was far too short for harvesting and selling. Hence, as soon as the assistants had draped the capes around the shoulders, Cat and I dived in with our hairclippers. The mechanical drone of two powerful motors humming to life chorused from the ornate bandstand like a beautiful symphony.

Both students let out a small, choked sob as the clippers touched their napes. As the metal teeth buried themselves into the hairlines, the first strip of white scalp appeared on the back of each woman’s head. Cat and I, smiling at each other with a common purpose, were ruthless. We enthusiastically widened the paths we had created, snippets of hair raining down like snow. I was mesmerised by the wonderful scene we were creating.

We moved on to using the smaller foil shaver and evened up the fuzz on each head to produce a smooth and pristine finish, the scalps gleaming in the autumnal light.

With a flourish, we removed the capes. As the freshly shaved women left the stage, I reminded the audience of the amount we had already raised for charity and welcomed any further contributions in the way of sponsorship and donations.

Continuation

Cat and I worked in harmony like a well-oiled machine as we processed the remaining volunteers. With the dozen women processed, I calculated that the membership of the Beautifully Bald Club had grown four-fold.

As the event wore on, the bandstand became littered with piles of brown, blonde, and red snippets. The basket for our harvest was overflowing with beautifully long and wondrously thick ponytails of varied hues. Each woman left the chair looking completely different, their hands instinctively reaching up to touch the smooth skin of their scalps as they stepped from the bandstand.

The sponsorship, harvested hair, and donations were fantastic for validating the event and for benefiting the charity. Furthermore, from a personal perspective, I was delighted with the outcome, with the band of shaved women looking uniform. We were setting a college precedent for equality, and I hoped that the new members of the Beautifully Bald Club would go forward as ambassadors and recruit others to the cause.

Culmination

With the volunteer benches disappointingly empty – far too soon for my liking – I announced that we had come to the end of the event. I relayed the estimated amount we had raised for Tankenbia, and cheers and applause rose from the audience.

The praise for our efforts faded away disappointingly quickly. As people shuffled to their left or right, a distinct aisle formed down the middle of the crowd, immediately before me. And marching along that aisle was a supremely confident woman, dressed in a long floral skirt and a flamboyant lace top that gave her a distinctly bohemian look. Her hippie-like look culminated with a lion’s mane of honey-blonde wavy hair that trailed down her back. Having braided small sections, she had held them back from her face with small ornamental barrettes made from seashells.

If my genes had not sentenced me to a lifetime of short hair, this woman personified the look I would have yearned to adopt and exhibit, including her Rapunzel-like hair… and I would have quietly shelved any lingering ideas about equalisation of hair length!

Trailing behind this pre-Raphaelite vision, I was surprised to see Jilly, dressed in her familiar teenage attire that she was fifteen years too old to carry off successfully. Seeing her, I suddenly realised that the bohemian woman gliding up the aisle towards me was her girlfriend, Tamara!

The head of the sociology faculty floated onto the bandstand. I assumed she was there to thank Cat, one of her students, for raising the cash for her Tankenbia charity. Therefore, I was surprised when she spun around and, without a word, settled on the wooden stool in front of me. I looked over at Catriona, who was grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

‘What’s going on, Cat?’ I whispered, puzzled by the strange and unexpected turn of events.

Cat took me to one side. ‘I saw how you looked at Tamara’s hair the other day when she walked off with that partner of hers. Jilly, is it?’ I nodded. ‘I know we haven’t known each other long, but I do realise that hair – or rather the lack of it – means more to you than most normal… er, than most people.’

I felt anxious. Had I been too open with Cat? Did she think my interest in hair was not normal? Did she I was weird? I quelled my rising panic. ‘And…?’ I asked, indicating Tamara, questioning how Cat was linking her realisation to the woman on the stool.

By way of explanation, Cat grabbed the microphone. Giving me a broad smile, she turned to face the audience. ‘Tamara Greaves, the head of sociology, is well known to everyone around campus, not least for her remarkably long hair. For years she has been championing the plight of the people of Tankenbia, and a group of us recently spent our gap year in the country to help them with educating their children.’

Tamara continued sitting silently on the stool, smiling enigmatically as she surveyed the audience. ‘To maximise the income to her beloved charity and show solidarity to our cause, Tamara has bravely volunteered to have her head shaved today. And for you to witness this unique opportunity, she asks that you donate all the cash you can spare for this worthy cause.’

Cat’s two companions lifted and rattled the donation buckets that had slowly filled during the event. A steady stream of people came forward, adding notes and coins to the buckets, even before Cat had finished speaking. ‘So, dig deep, everyone,’ she demanded, while securing a cape around Tamara’s neck, ‘while Amelia, the organiser of today’s event does the honours!’

‘Me?’ I spluttered, genuinely shocked.

Finalisation

I could not find the words to say thank you to either Cat or Tamara for the opportunity they had provided. I was so overwhelmed that I nearly made the mistake of asking the bohemian sociologist whether she was sure she wished me to proceed. Instead, I began removing the seashell barrettes and unravelling her braids.

‘Nice to see you again, Amelia,’ Tamara said, surprisingly calmly.

‘Is it? Er, yes, I suppose it is,’ I said, flustered. ‘Sorry, I mean, it is nice to see you again too.’

This turn of events was worrying. Despite the wonderful opportunity laid out before me, I was feeling a surprising reluctance to shave Tamara’s wonderful hair. I was unsure whether it was because I had discovered a newfound desire to have hair like hers, or simply because she was such a nice and genuine person. Where did this leave me in my quest for equality was the thought that bounced around my mind.

That said, when I observed Jilly standing forlorn at the front of the crowd, staring up with a desperately pleading look, it sharpened my resolve.

‘Please, no,’ she mouthed, shaking her head, although I was unsure whether she was begging Tamara to leave the chair or demanding that I not cut her hair. Neither of us responded to her.

Cat and I brushed Tamara’s hair and created eight ponytails. For most women, only four, sometimes six, were necessary for sharp scissors to slice through each one with minimal resistance. But such was the thickness of Tamara’s stunning hair that we had to increase that number.

‘I want to see a large donation going in those buckets before each one of these ponytails is cut,’ Tamara bravely insisted, as she sat there calmly, with her hair snaking Medusa-like around her face.

Jilly backed away into the crowd, unwilling to watch us shave her girlfriend bald. Two more women rushed past her, topping up the donations. A hush fell across the parkland surrounding the bandstand, broken only by birdsong from the nearby trees.

Cat and I both picked up our heavy-duty shears in one hand and we each lifted a snake-like tendril with the other.

‘Take a deep breath, Tamara,’ I urged quietly, positioning the shears. I squeezed, and the blades ground noisily through the dense forest of hair, the sound echoing around the quiet parkland. After considerable effort, the weight of her tresses came away in my hand. Cat and I triumphantly held up the severed ponytails, and the audience broke the silence with a massive cheer.

Take it all off, Take it all off, 

Take it all off for Tankenbia!

Tamara smiled with a radiant serenity as people fought to fill the buckets with cash donations while Cat and I removed the rest of her long hair.

Cat smiled, gesturing that I should be the one to finish the job. I nodded my appreciation Ruffling Tamara’s cropped locks with one hand, I took the hairclippers from Cat. Pushing the metal teeth against the hairline of Tamara’s forehead, I clicked the switch. She gasped, a small, broken sound, the first indication of any emotion regarding her sacrifice.

I eased the blade slowly forward. The first strip of white scalp appeared, contrasting sharply with her wavy honey-blonde locks. 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 pale 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, Tamara’s head looked as smooth as a pebble on the seashore.

‘Thank you, Tamara,’ I murmured, whisking away the cape.

‘A small sacrifice for the benefit of Tankenbia,’ she beamed, soaking up the adulation of the crowd, who continued adding to the donations.

She had misinterpreted my thanks. I imagined she thought I was congratulating her on surrendering her hair for the cause. However, I was marvelling at the opportunity to shave such a magnificent head of hair. Furthermore, I was pleased to achieve greater equality in the senior academic staff, a journey that had begun months earlier with Jilly.

Epilogue

Take It All Off for Tankenbia had been more than just a charity event. At the start of my second year in college, it had demonstrated that my quest for achieving equality across the campus was bearing fruit.

I was surprised that I had felt so conflicted when offered Tamara’s glorious hair for shaving. Momentarily, I might have felt a smidgen of regret and a brief desire to enjoy having hair like hers. It was a slight worry, but something to lock away in my mind and forget about. Besides, I knew it could never happen, so I resolved to remain steadfast in my mission.

As I looked out at the crowds of students dispersing across the campus, I saw far too many women had disappointingly long hair. However, interspersed among them were the wonderful gleaming bald heads that I had fashioned. Gloriously reflecting the warm autumnal sunlight, those sensible women had provided an enticing counterpoint to the all the unruly hair, giving hope for the future.

Catriona, with her Beautifully Bald Club, had proved to be a wonderful stepping stone on my ongoing mission to achieve equality.

To be continued

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