An Accidental Brush for Sara at The Jagged Edge

A standalone story, narrated by Sara, starting with her unchanging views on her long hair and leading to an unexpected and stimulating encounter at “Jasmine’s Jagged Edge” barbershop.

A companion story A Deliberate Brush with Jasmine, the Barber incorporating Jasmine’s perception of the same encounter, is published separately… although the recollection by each woman somewhat differs!

Burdened

My name is Sara, and for twenty-three years, I lived under a curtain of restraint. In college, that curtain was physical, comprising my poker-straight waist-length hair, centre-parted, creating a dull brown shield. My wardrobe mirrored this neutrality with faded floral dresses and skirts, softened by a perpetually worn denim jacket.

When I began my career at the prestigious accountancy firm, the impact of the transition on my appearance was minimal. While the floral outfits remained, I exchanged the denim jacket for a smart, conservative blazer. However, I accepted this was merely a concession to professionalism and not a commitment to it.

Each day I watched my colleagues around the office. The senior managers sailed by in their tailored suits, their hair crisp and controlled. While the secretaries in their more casual but fashionable outfits possessed an effortless chic, enhanced by artfully layered hairstyles, elegant waves, and provocative fringes.

I envied them all, and I desperately wanted to join that world of decisive style, but the transition felt like a dangerous step into the unknown. I continued to wear my long hair loose, flowing down my back. At a review meeting, my manager accepted my right to keep it long, but she suggested I style it in a more professional manner. However, a ponytail made me look and feel like an awkward schoolgirl, while a tight bun added decades to my appearance. If I attempted the youthful and messy updos of the secretaries, with tendrils curling provocatively, my hair simply looked as though I had been out in a storm, battling my way through gale-force winds.

My hair was not just heavy on my head, but its unchanging appearance weighed down my mind. Whenever I looked in the mirror, it represented a physical manifestation of my timidity. I was desperate for layers, for waves, for a fringe, or for anything to break the monotony. But the barrier in my mind was too thick for me to break through.

Catalyst

The office climate was steady but unexciting. Only the constant click of keyboards and clinking of coffee cups punctuated the occasional bored discussion concerning spreadsheets. The arrival of a client for a meeting tended to be a highlight, breaking the mediocrity of an average day.

One Tuesday morning, the welcome interruption came from Ethan, a pleasant chap who was financial director for an engineering company located nearby. Although older than me, he always had a twinkle in his eye when we chatted, hinting at something more. However, I always found his geeky clothes and his unkempt, floppy hair distracted from his likeable personality, as well as making him look even older.

I had just set up the presentation in the conference room, and Ethan called out a welcome from the door. As I turned around, the world tilted. Ethan had transformed himself. He had replaced the leather jacket and open-necked shirt with a smart suit, a crisp white shirt, and a colourful tie. Furthermore, his head was a marvel of geometric engineering. The floppy mass of hair was gone, replaced by a meticulously sculpted masterpiece. His hair was shockingly short on the back and sides, fading sharply into a level brush of erect bristles emerging from his crown. He projected a stark military air, professional in a way that screamed discipline. He looked years younger and impossibly confident.

‘Wow, Ethan,’ I blurted out, the words escaping before I could filter them, ‘You look amazing. A lovely suit, and that haircut is… well, it is striking.’

My male colleagues around the office preferred boring over-the-collar and side-parted hairstyles that said nothing about them. Ethan’s proper haircut stood out, making an unambiguous statement about how he saw himself.

He grinned, genuinely pleased, tilting his head slightly, allowing me to fully appreciate the sharp lines above his ears. ‘I was ready for a change anyway, but I needed to smarten up following my latest promotion.’

‘It’s so short,’ I commented, unable to stop myself from stating the obvious.

‘Is it?’ he chuckled, effecting a startled look, although I imagine he knew that already. It was a crass remark to make. ‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

Having enjoyed my longest casual conversation with Ethan then, typically for me, I did not know what else to say to keep things going. So, I just stared dumbly, but fortunately he filled the silence. ‘It’s called a flattop.’

‘Ah… is it?’ I managed. And then, pushed by a ridiculous need to continue our chat, I revealed my long-held, but never voiced, desire. ‘Actually, I have been considering a change myself.’ As soon as I said it, I wondered why I thought he needed to know that.

Ethan raised an eyebrow, giving me a strange, querying look. He was seeing the Sara of floral dresses and the heavy, unchanging curtain of hair, wondering why such a creature of habit might contemplate any sort of variation. As I stood there, staring at the severe structure of his new haircut, mesmerised by its precision, I fell silent again.

Once more, he filled the void. ‘If you are serious, Sara, you should go to see Jasmine. A friend recommended her, saying she is very experienced and can do all sorts of styles.’

‘Sounds good,’ I acknowledged, vaguely wondering if she might offer me a realistic option for change. ‘She certainly cut your hair well.’

‘Jasmine,’ he scribbled on the back of a business card before handing it to me. ‘Her place is just around the corner, down a lane off the high street.’

‘Jasmine’s Jagged Edge barbershop,’ I recited. ‘A barber? For men?’ I squeaked, sounding as hysterical as I felt, despite trying to stifle my reaction.

‘Yes, but she cuts women’s hair too, my friend said,’ he assured me offhandedly, as if he was not sure. ‘She is gorgeous, not that that will be of interest to you, but a bit intimidating. So, you would need to be clear on what you want. The remarkable thing is that you do not need an appointment. You just go in, sit down, and wait your turn.’

He had me hooked when he said she was local and she does women’s hair, but he lost me, to an extent, when he said she was intimidating! However, when he added that appointments are unnecessary, it was music to my ears. I struggled to ring up and make an appointment, as the nerves got me. And I had got cold feet so many times, cancelling or just not turning up when that fear hit. Consequently, I was sure every salon in town would have banned me.

‘No appointments necessary,’ I murmured, studying Ethan’s business card. He rewarded me with a very curious look before settling down to prepare for the meeting.

Jasmine

After the meeting had finished and Ethan had left, I returned to my cubicle. I signed in to my computer, but I struggled to get any work done. My mind kept drifting back to our earlier conversation.

At lunchtime, I headed to the sandwich shop as usual. With the sun shining, I was determined to enjoy a little time in the local park before returning to the office. However, I found myself hesitating outside, hungrier patrons pushing past me as I dithered in the doorway. Unsure how it had happened, I found myself continuing along the high street. Clutching the card that Ethan had given me, I looked for the lane that he had written down.

I walked, the decision hardening in my mind. This was it. The fear was still a living thing in my chest, a fluttering bird desperate to escape, but the yearning for change was finally stronger. I was finally doing it, I congratulated myself, as I rounded the corner and entered the lane.

Jasmine’s Jagged Edge was right at the end of the secluded passageway, in shadow even in the middle of the day. As I looked upon the establishment, it was not the airy, minimalist space of a modern salon. It had a dark, foreboding look, even from the outside, with a single large window cluttered with curling posters for events long past.

It took a great deal of effort to push the frosted door, momentarily wishing the sign hanging from a hook had said Closed. But my decision had strengthened on the journey, so I stepped inside.

And there she was. As intimidating as Ethan had suggested, Jasmine looked up from the man she was barbering and locked her gaze on me. I was immediately mesmerised by her hair, which appeared a contradiction for someone working in a barbershop. It was a magnificent, theatrical mass of long, dark curls that defied gravity, bouncing on her shoulders and rampaging down her back, exuding a rampant life of its own.

‘Er… can I… get my hair trimmed here, please?’ I asked, more timidly than I had intended.

She appraised me with piercing eyes, her silence unsettling me.

‘I work just around the corner… for the firm of accountants…’ I babbled, filling the awkward void, desperately hoping it was the right thing to say. ‘You were recommended…’

By way of reply, she jerked her head towards a motley collection of plastic chairs, two of which held a pair of even more motley-looking males. I sat on the least worn of the seats, picked up a dog-eared magazine, and felt my anxiety multiplying with every second. Neither man acknowledged me, although I felt their downcast eyes assessing the legs emerging from under my dress, with an occasional upward glance to evaluate my breasts.

A clock on the wall barely seemed to move. I tried to focus on the once-glossy car magazine, but the relative rates of acceleration of ten-year-old family hatchbacks failed to hold my interest. My attention kept snapping back to the sound of steel against hair, as Jasmine expertly manipulated scissors and hairclippers over her customers.

After what felt like an inordinate amount of time, although it was barely half an hour, Jasmine’s chair was finally empty. She stood by it, not looking at me, but I wondered if she expected me to simply step forward without asking. I realised I should have paid more attention to what the old chaps had done at the changeovers.

‘Next!’ she called, her voice flat and impersonal, making me jump.

I rose, my legs shaking, and walked toward the imposing black leather chair. Even as the worn leather creaked beneath me, even as Jasmine loomed with the ominous white nylon cape, I considered fleeing.

Preparing

When Jasmine tightly fastened the cape around my neck, the snap of the clasp was loud in the sudden silence. I felt instantly trapped, vulnerable and exposed, unsure about what was to come.

‘So, just a trim?’ Jasmine asked abruptly, already reaching for the spray bottle. Sighing as her eyes fixed on the immense length of my hair, it was clear I had not had a proper haircut or restyle in years. ‘Looks like you just need the straggly ends cleaned up.’

“Straggly”, I mused, thinking that was decidedly rude of her, but I let it pass. ‘Actually,’ I managed, my voice thin. I forced myself to turn toward her, meeting her dark, assessing gaze. ‘I was thinking of something different. Layers… or even a fringe… or something shorter?’

She simply nodded, her expression unreadable, waiting for me to elaborate and give precise instructions. She filled in time by arranging all my hair down the back of the chair as if planning to fashion a ponytail.

In that silence, panic seized me. I could not articulate what I wanted, as I hoped she would make firmer suggestions based on my vague ideas. As her eyes narrowed in exasperation, I fell back to safer ground, flattering her with the reason I was there.

‘You did such a good job on Ethan,’ I gushed, hoping my adulation of her skills would prompt her to take charge, to suggest something stylish that would look good on me.

Jasmine merely nodded again. A slow, knowing movement. ‘Oh, right, I did not realise you knew Ethan,’ she moaned quietly, as if it was a dark secret I had been deliberately keeping from her.

She purposefully grabbed a lever on the chair and jerkily pumped up the chair into position, adding to my feeling of vulnerability, so far from the ground.

Expecting further discussion, she caught me by surprise when she reached forward to a rack by the mirror and selected the largest of the hairclippers.

‘Let’s get started,’ she said bluntly, my mind swimming in confusion over her intentions. Then she applied gentle but persistent pressure to the back of my head. ‘Head down!’

Eradicating

I was trying to reconcile the sight of the hairclippers with my modest proposal for layers or a fringe. Surely such devices belonged solely to the domain of men. They had certainly never touched my hair before. I reasoned that, being a barbershop, they may have different techniques for achieving the same stylish effects as a salon. But an explanation would have been welcome.

‘He looks really good, by the way,’ I piped up, trying to prompt a conversation with Jasmine. ‘Ethan. The cut you gave him. It looks so striking, so professional.’

Jasmine looked puzzled by what I had said, as if it was unrelated, but she did not respond. Furthermore, she was not asking for permission or elaborating on her intentions. She was already focusing on the task she had set herself, her movements economical and terrifyingly swift. Before I could frame a word of protest, the clippers came alive. The sound was not the gentle whir as I would have expected, but a hungry, insistent roar.

With my head in its bowed position, I felt a firm tug on the length of my hair. The roar of the clippers changed to a vicious snarl. It persisted for a brief time before the sound settled back to the loud roaring, coincidentally when the tugging on my hair lessened.

My posture, leaning forward, presented me with an unpleasant view of a litter bin, fortunately empty, under the shelf below the mirror. I felt a rush of air past my left ear, and the bin miraculously filled, although, from my position, it was not obvious what it was that filled it.

‘That’s rid of the worst of it at the back,’ Jasmine chuckled, as the mechanical snarling resumed. ‘It’s always so satisfying.’

‘Worst of what? I asked, puzzled, but the sound must have drowned my voice.

The hairclippers now seemed to vibrate directly through the bones of my skull, as I felt them at the back of my head. It was not near the ends of my hair, or even halfway up. It was cold, hard metal digging agonisingly closely against the nape of my neck.

Then I suspected what might have occurred, but I prayed that I was wrong. ‘Worst of what?’ I pressed, raising my voice. Jasmine merely chuckled.

= = =

A rain of thick brown snippets began to tumble onto my shoulders, slide down the white cape, and bounce in my lap. They looked like coiled springs, as twisted as my tense nerves. With a shocking reality, I realised that Jasmine had filled the bin at my feet with my lifetime of growth. The hair that defined my identity. And with equal calmness, the remaining strands falling to the floor were a sudden, brutal severing of my lifeline.

It was all happening too quickly, and I failed to comprehend why Jasmine was doing it. Why she felt she could do it. Why she was behaving so casually.

‘It doesn’t look like the weather is getting any better, does it?’ she opined, but I was uninterested in discussing the poor weather forecast that was playing out on the radio in the background. I wanted to say something, but I could not find the words.

‘Last night’s episode was crazy, wasn’t it?’ she chuckled, but I did not wish to engage with her about a forgettable reality TV show they were discussing enthusiastically over the air.

She briefly paused her actions following my failure to react to her conversational gambits. Briefly, she held my gaze in the mirror through narrowed eyes. She then shrugged, letting out a long sigh, before continuing to shear the back of my head.

She behaved as if shearing off a metre of a woman’s identity was the most mundane task in the world. Her casualness, approaching contempt in the way she looked at me, only amplified the terror I was feeling.

My concern heightened when I felt the overhead fan creating a cool breeze that encircled my neck. My shockingly bare neck, I surmised. It felt like an appropriate moment to clarify what she was doing. However, just as I attempted to raise my head and open my mouth, she forcefully directed my head over to the side. First one way, and then the other. The buzzing intensified near my ears, the cold metal tracing the curve of my temples, removing all the hair that had once covered the sides of my head.

When she stepped back to assess her work, I looked into the mirror. The change was catastrophic. My hair no longer framed my face. She had reduced the back and sides of my skull to a dark stubble, revealing the sharp lines of my head shape. It was too late to seek clarification. The point of no return had long since passed.

= = =

Highlighting the irreversible path she had forged with her clippers, Jasmine’s lips curved into an unexpected and unsettling smile. ‘It’s a crying shame more women don’t go for a flattop when they have such perfect bone structure and head shape as you.’

‘You’re giving me, er… a flattop?’ I questioned, the word tasting both clinical and terrifying, conjuring up a vision of Ethan’s harsh look.

Jasmine looked at me, a brief flicker of confusion crossing her face. ‘Yes. That is what we call Ethan’s style. Did you not know that?’

‘Yes. I just… yes…’ I squeaked hesitantly, avoiding eye contact with Jasmine in the mirror, trying to hide my horror at our miscommunication.

Realisation had slowly dawned. I had failed to give her clear and concise direction as to the style I wanted. I had compounded that by flattering her when mentioning Ethan’s hair. And she had added two and two and made five, assuming I wanted the same style as she had given Ethan. A man’s haircut. A flattop!

To admit the misunderstanding would be to imply that she had made a mistake, and I genuinely feared her response. As I prepared to say something to moderate what would happen next, Jasmine applied a thick, slick grease to the hair she had left on top of my head. She forced it upward into a stiff, erect mohawk shape, a smile curling her lips once more.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ she urged. ‘I won’t send you out looking like a punk… unless you want me to, of course?’

I managed to shake my head, failing to disturb any of the erect spikes, unaccountably pleased I had not undone her work in progress during the unravelling disaster.

Levelling

Without acknowledging me, Jasmine picked up a large plastic comb and retrieved her hairclippers. Holding the comb horizontal, like a spirit level, she positioned it through my hair, across the very top of my head.

‘Now, it is important that you do not move during this next stage,’ Jasmine demanded, holding my gaze. I blinked to signal my acceptance.

The clippers roared back to life, repeatedly running straight over the comb as she kept adjusting its position. The metal blade clattered loudly against the plastic, with each pass shearing off the final remnants of my long hair. I sat immobile, witnessing her destroy my old identity with laser-like accuracy.

A remarkably level surface began to emerge on the crown. She was meticulously engineering my flattop with scientific precision.

‘Yes!’ Jasmine breathed. ‘Perfect hair for executing this style. Well done.’

I assumed she had not been congratulating me on growing my hair long, simply to facilitate her task at that precise moment. More likely, she was praising herself for completing a job well done.

Smoothing

Satisfied with the completion of the earlier stage, Jasmine switched tactics. She smeared cool shaving cream onto the bristled back and sides of my head. The atmosphere shifted again, from mechanical precision to agonising intimacy.

Jasmine brandished a sharp-looking, highly polished straight razor. ‘Again, do not move!’ she warned.

I could feel her breath on the now-bare skin of my neck as she tilted my head forward. The razor scraped the skin smooth, a rasping sound initially, followed by a silent, featherlight gliding motion over the skin as she eradicated the bristles. Her action was intimate, arousing even, in the strange and fearful way of total submission.

Finishing

My mind in turmoil, Jasmine suddenly dragged me back to reality by whisking away the cape and lowering the chair. She held up a hand mirror to enable her to view what remained from all angles. There was little to see. My neck and the back of my head were baby-smooth, fading into faint stubble near the crown. My ears, surrounded by bare skin, hairless to the bone, displayed prominently at the sides of my skull.

On top of my head sat an immaculate brush, a dense covering of between one and two centimetres, each hair standing perfectly erect. The back and sides were baby-smooth, hairless to the bone.

My nerves were on edge as I struggled to understand how I had allowed this disaster to happen. I had entered Jasmine’s domain expecting a modest restyle, but I had undergone a terrifyingly severe reinvention.

Departing

‘Thank you, Jasmine,’ I managed, holding myself together as I paid her. It was remarkably inexpensive when compared with salon prices. When I told her to keep the change, I realised I had tipped her excessively, offered nervously in my haste to get away. ‘It’s… it’s… different…’

‘It suits you,’ she stated simply, wiping her razor clean, her own long curls bouncing effortlessly as she moved as if to mock my transformed appearance. ‘Now, I want to see you again in two weeks. Or sooner, if the top becomes unruly or you would like the back and sides freshened up with a shave.’

My eyes widened in horror at the proposed frequency, realising it was a command rather than an invitation. Unwilling to commit to such a ridiculous instruction, I simply gave her a curt nod, fleeing the dark, claustrophobic shop while attempting to maintain my dignity.

As soon as I walked along the shadowed alleyway, I could feel the chilly air moving over my newly exposed and sensitive nape. People were staring at the unique sight. The contrast evoked by a flattop haircut on a young woman in a tailored white blazer and a short summer floral dress was drastic. Short hair was not unusual on women. But shaved to the bone on the back and sides, with a perfectly level, brush-like crown, was a radical statement.

Working

I came close to not returning to work that afternoon. Burying myself under the duvet at home felt like a preferable option, but that would only have prolonged the inevitable confrontation with my colleagues.

So, instead, I walked into the office, head held high, though my stomach was churning. But tucked away in their cubicles, everyone had buried themselves behind their screens, so I passed unnoticed. Paradoxically, despite my fears, I was upset by their indifference.

I marched over to the one person I knew would be looking for the slightest excuse for a distraction. My secretary was, as always, immaculately made up. She was wearing a bright red skirt suit and had those flowing blonde waves that curled at her waist. She was the epitome of soft femininity.

I stood directly in front of her desk. ‘Well?’ I croaked.

She looked up, and her eyes went wide, absorbing the stark sculpture where my dull hair used to be.

‘Wow!’ she breathed.

That single reaction was the crack in the ice. Heads peeped over the walls of cubicles, and eyes widened. Soon, my colleagues had surrounded me.

The reactions were polarised, exactly as I anticipated, but far less damaging than my fear had predicted. The women – the managers with their shorter styles and the secretaries with their sophisticated layers and updos – were fascinated. They fingered my smooth nape, intrigued, even bouncing their palms lightly on the short, erect brush on my crown.

The men, however, acted awkwardly as they hovered on the periphery of the commotion before darting off. I heard unflattering grumbles about it being “unfeminine” and remarks that were even worse.

Ethan, when he next came into the office, was momentarily speechless. Although he complimented me on the change, its severity dampened any show of enthusiasm for seeing a mirror image of his own style on a woman. He had recommended his barber, assuming I simply wanted a modest improvement to my own style, rather than completely adopting his.

It may have been an accidental flattop, born of timid flattery and a dangerous misunderstanding, but the result was striking. As the days passed, I realised something had fundamentally changed inside me, and something harder and more confident had taken its place.

Revealing

The profound harshness of my flattop demanded a matching severity in my posture and presentation. My old floral dresses looked ridiculous against the sharp angles of my exposed skull. So, the old, timid Sara had to go. I began wearing sharply tailored suits in bold colours, often with pencil skirts far shorter than good taste might dictate.

The most shocking realisation was the speed of my own acceptance. Not only did I fail to lament the cosy familiarity of my long hair, but I embraced the almost unnatural comfort of my brutal fresh look. My hair required no maintenance after my visit to Jasmine’s Jagged Edge. It remained immaculate, always standing to attention, defying the wind and weather, providing a constant, unwavering statement of control.

Jasmine had suggested I return to her every two weeks. But after just one week I detected a slight softness to my erect brush. And an unpleasant rasping sound accompanied a fingernail passing over my recently smooth nape. Furthermore, I craved the feeling of sharp metal against my scalp, followed by the subsequent rush of chilly air caressing my skin.

‘One week early,’ Jasmine observed when I strutted into her shop wearing my daring new plum skirt suit.

‘The sides needed definition,’ I confidently explained, my index finger tracing the soft, dark down that had sprung up at the edge of my shaved nape. ‘It was getting unruly.’

Jasmine smiled, clearly delighted by my explanation. She proceeded to re-establish the sharpness of my flattop while I regaled her with tales of startling my colleagues with my astonishing transformation.

‘Short hair is wasted on men, isn’t it?’ I mused philosophically. ‘They take it for granted. For us, it is a revelation.’

Jasmine agreed with my observation as she finished shaving my nape. ‘You look excellent, Sara,’ she told me.

‘Thanks, Jasmine,’ I said warmly, ‘and next time I hope to bring along a friend of mine, as I have told her she is in desperate need of, er… correction.’

The barber smiled in gratitude, clearly as pleased as I was at the prospect of experiencing another brutal transformation.

I paid Jasmine, tipped her generously, and scheduled my next appointment for the same time the following week. At that moment, I knew I would be returning every week for the foreseeable future.

I could never return to my soft and messy former existence. Every seven days I would submit to the ritual of redefinition, ensuring that the beautiful sculpture Jasmine had fashioned would remain perfect and uncompromising.

Epilogue

‘I wish I was as brave as you, Sara,’ Emily, a quiet and unassuming colleague, commented each time I returned to the office, freshly sculpted.

Unassuming Emily was ten years older than me. She should have been my senior, but the management continually overlooked her for promotion. However, she seemed content with her place in the organisation. Despite the age difference, we seemed quite similar when I first started work, and we got on well. But since my transformation, she had become a tad irritating, especially with her repeated mantra about my hair. Eventually, I decided that she needed revitalising.

‘I can be brave enough for both of us, Emily,’ I stated assuredly, as I examined her long blonde braid that habitually trailed over one shoulder, past her waist. ‘I will be taking you to see Jasmine, my barber.’

‘Oh no, I couldn’t,’ she responded, clutching her braid possessively.

‘You can, and you will,’ I asserted, narrowing my eyes as I stared at her.

‘Er… okay… thanks,’ she whimpered, her gratitude tempered by fear.

‘With the decision made, you must not wait a whole week,’ I asserted, lifting her braid. ‘I will take you tomorrow.’

‘Er… okay… thanks,’ she murmured, looking petrified.

My own fear was gone, replaced by a chilling, rigid belief, symbolised by the strong lines of the flattop. It would continue to represent the ultimate and unwavering expression of my confidence and professionalism.

The End of “An Accidental Brush for Sara at The Jagged Edge”

 

Please note: A Deliberate Brush with Jasmine, the Barber recounts the same story from Jasmine’s perspective.