HairApparent
An Illustrated Edition of this story with Original Artwork Throughout is available for free on my personal archive
Anna Seeks Adventure on Unknown Shores (Illustrated Edition)
Prologue
For eleven months of the year, I was Ms Anna Danielle Ventura, independent corporate consultant. I played the game in high-stakes boardrooms in capital cities across the globe, orchestrating high-value mergers and restructuring conglomerates. I worked with a relentless, punishing drive, and I enjoyed the sheer adrenaline of it.
And even more, I loved the dividends that came from the extortionate fees I commanded, including the penthouse apartment, the designer wardrobe, and the effortless luxury in all things.
But, above all that, I adored the freedom it brought me. It was the fuel that powered the twelfth month of the year. That twelfth month belonged entirely to A.D. Ventura.
While my peers traded corporate stress for air-conditioned tour coaches, luxury ocean liners, and five-star resorts trailing behind a guide with a striped umbrella, I craved the opposite. When I step away, I exchange spreadsheets for the raw, beating heart of the earth. I seek the dust of unpaved roads on my boots, the chatter of unfamiliar tongues in my ears, and the genuine texture of lives lived differently than my own.
Experiencing great adventures and forging great memories was my currency. From the freezing, snow-swept passes of indigenous mountain communities to the muddy, meandering banks of equatorial rainforest rivers. I did not want comfort, but instead, I demanded authenticity as I unearthed the beating heart of distant cultures.
For my latest expedition, my compass pointed toward a developing nation cradled between towering mountain ranges and dense river basins. It was a country where ancient traditions still commanded absolute reverence.
With a freedom of spirit, I arrived in the sprawling capital city with nothing more than a weathered canvas rucksack and a glaring absence of an itinerary.
The Confusion of the City
Avoiding the glossy international hotels clustered around the financial district, I checked into a modest, unassuming guesthouse tucked deep within a labyrinth of residential alleyways.
The heat and humidity of the capital struck me like a physical blow the moment I stepped outside. In deliberate deference to the local populace, I had curated a modest travelling wardrobe designed to blend in, despite the high-end pedigree of the garments. I wore a cream-coloured cotton, calf-length skirt edged in delicate lace, paired with a pristine white silk camisole. Over that, I threw a loose, lightweight white linen shirt, casually knotted at the waist. It was a studied, effortless look that whispered “casual wanderer”, although the combined cost of the ensemble could easily represent an average family’s annual income in this city. I piled my waist-length auburn hair high onto the crown of my head in a careless, sprawling updo, artfully teasing tendrils down to frame my face.
Leaving my rucksack behind, I plunged into the vibrant chaos of the bustling street markets. The sensory overload was magnificent. The air throbbed with a cacophony of local voices, honking scooters, and sizzling street food. I marvelled at everything, letting the rhythmic noise wash over me.
The Warmth of the People
The friendly local population mirrored those I had encountered in similar developing regions. Earnest, hard-working people were scratching out a living, while desperately attempting to shield their ancestral ways from the encroaching tide of the modern world. Yet, the fingerprints of globalisation were unmistakable. Even here, neon signs advertising fast-food chains and cheap knockoff designer labels lurked in unexpected corners, though I thankfully found myself miles away from those scars.
As I wandered, I noticed a striking cultural nuance that set this city apart from anywhere else I had travelled. It was the women who possessed a breathtaking, pale coffee sheen to their skin. The younger generation frequently embraced global fashions, including swinging ponytails and layered lengths of their midnight-black hair. However, a distinct class of older women adhered strictly to a traditional aesthetic I had glimpsed only in anthropological tomes rather than travel literature.
Most arresting of all were their heads. Although naturally gifted with thick, raven hair, these women were completely bald. The smooth, polished skin of their scalps caught the sunlight, matching the flawless coffee hue of their faces and arms. Furthermore, they adorned themselves with striking metal jewellery that gleamed with a golden hue. Most notable were the rigid necklaces that rose from their collarbones like gleaming metal towers, lending them an elegant posture.
The older women’s attire echoed the modest ensemble I had curated for myself. They paired colourful calf-length skirts with modest blouses. Along with their clean and graceful countenance, their attire gave these women a regal and unapologetic bearing that commanded instant respect.
The Hunger of My Heart
A sudden and fierce thirst gripped me as I soaked in the vibrant atmosphere. Spotting a modest establishment whose signage suggested it was a local café, I collapsed into a plastic chair at a table spilling out onto the sidewalk. I squinted at a colourful board bolted to the wall listing the selection of items available but written in an indecipherable script. Not for the first time, with no understanding of the local language, I wished for the comforting crutch of picture menus found in the fast-food joints back home.
On distant shores, I managed to avoid the tourist trap of speaking increasingly loudly to make myself understood, preferring to rely on an abundance of smiles and amusing gestures. It usually did the trick. I peered into the gloom of the café, hoping to attract someone’s attention.
‘Need any help, Miss?’ A startling melodic voice drifted down from behind me. ‘It can be quite a puzzle if you don’t know the local dialect,’ the voice said.
I turned sharply and found myself staring up at the most breathtaking personification of the traditional women I had been admiring all morning. Her striking beauty stunned me, eyes clear and sharp. To my amazement, she spoke English with effortless fluency.
‘Yes… er, please, Madam… er, Miss,’ I stammered, feeling uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
‘You may call me Mya,’ she said, her voice like wind chimes, as she pulled out the chair opposite mine without asking and sat down. She pinned me with a gaze so intense and dark it was like looking into a starry night sky. ‘Mya means emerald, just like your eyes.’
‘Yes… my eyes… er, I am A.D.’ I blurted out on autopilot before catching myself. ‘Er, that is… I mean, my name is Anna.’
‘Anna,’ she repeated, weighing my words carefully as if I were subject to more than a visual examination. Then she nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, Anna,’ Mya chuckled, a light, musical sound that danced in the humid air. ‘You will try our local tea,’ she declared, leaving no room for argument.
Without waiting for my reply, Mya rattled off a string of rapid-fire syllables into the dim, cavernous recess of the café.
After a short pause when Mya quizzed me gently on my life, a wizened old woman emerged from the shadows. She was entirely bald, her scalp gleaming under the harsh indoor lights, and her neck encased in the same towering metal collar I had observed on the streets. She placed a heavy metal tray onto our table: a rudimentary teapot, a pair of cups without handles, a clay pot filled with jagged green leaves, and a plate of glazed pastries.
Instantly, the internalised voice of every seasoned traveller whispered warnings in the back of my mind. Never eat or drink unsealed provisions in unknown places. But the dark, reassuring warmth of Mya’s presence effortlessly swept those cautions away.
Mya silently set to work with the tea apparatus, moving with the practiced precision of a chemist running an experiment. Within moments, she slid a small, steaming cup of fragrant liquid across the plastic table toward me.
‘Drink!’ she commanded, her tone playful yet absolute.
We sat in a companionable, comfortable silence as I sipped the brew. The tea was nothing short of miraculous. It exhibited an earthy but sweet taste on the palate, proving deeply restorative and banishing my fatigue in a single stroke.
Over the course of the next hour, Mya and I talked in greater depth. The conversation flowed effortlessly, fuelled by a mutual interest.
‘You’re not a typical tourist, Anna,’ Mya observed, setting her cup down. ‘You look at our people not with curiosity, but with respect.’
‘I want to understand,’ I admitted. ‘I am a consultant by trade, analysing systems and changing how things work. But here, I just want to experience and learn.’
Mya smiled, a knowing gleam in her eye. ‘Then you are looking in the right place. I am an independent tour guide, devoted entirely to preserving and sharing our ancient customs. If you wish, I can take you away from the capital, deep into the remote villages where the modern world has never touched.’
The proposition was irresistible. Within minutes, our itinerary was set. Mya would be my private guide, taking me far beyond the tourist-choked perimeter of the capital and deep into the ancestral towns and villages where the true soul of the country still breathed.
We would leave at dawn.
The Embrace of My Body
The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when I stepped out of the guesthouse lobby, my heavy rucksack slung over one shoulder. Mya was waiting for me, looking radiant in the morning light.
‘Before we leave the city limits,’ Mya announced cheerfully, gesturing toward a narrow, winding alleyway flanked by crumbling brick shopfronts, ‘we must observe a mandatory local protocol.’
I raised an eyebrow, adjusting the strap of my bag. ‘Protocol?’
‘Yes. One of our oldest rituals requires that all women – visitors and locals alike – must wrap their necks in traditional metal rings like mine to enjoy safe passage in the country’s interior.’ Mya touched the gleaming towers of metal encircling her throat with a fond, reverent gesture. ‘It is the only way the outlying communities will completely accept you. Without this adornment, they will bar you from local markets, public facilities, theatres, museums, and sacred cultural sites.’
I blinked, processing her words. The idea sounded bizarrely excessive, but immersing myself in the culture was precisely why I travelled. I did not come to the ends of the earth to impose my modern sensibilities on ancient customs; I came to adopt them, no matter how eccentric. Besides, I was with Mya, and I trusted her implicitly.
‘Well,’ I laughed, a bit nervously, ‘if that’s what it takes to see the real country, lead the way.’
Mya beamed, taking my hand and leading me down the shadowy alleyway. We stopped in front of an ancient, unassuming artisan workshop with a fading wooden sign hung crookedly over the lintel. Inside, the air was cool, smelling faintly of old oil, polished metal, and antiquity.
An elderly woman sat behind a low wooden counter. Like Mya, she was completely bald, her smooth scalp catching the slivers of morning light piercing through the dusty windows. A massive, gleaming necklace of stacked metal rings rose proudly from her collarbone, pressing her chin into a permanently elevated angle.
The artisan offered me a low wooden stool to sit on. I hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing back at Mya. My guide offered a reassuring, encouraging nod, her dark eyes shining with warmth.
‘It’s quite simple, Anna,’ Mya murmured. ‘Think of it as the ultimate cultural souvenir, that you will wear it proudly.’
A sense of whimsical amusement washed over me as I contemplated which of my corporate peers could claim they wore a traditional metal collar. It was utterly absurd, and I loved it. Surrendering myself to the process, I took a seat on the stool.
The elderly artisan approached me, carrying a heavy coil of bright, polished metal wire. I sat back, expecting her to drape it loosely around my neck like a heavy statement necklace. Instead, she began the meticulous process of wrapping the continuous metal cord tightly around my throat, ring by ring, coil by coil, each one slightly smaller than the one before.
At first, it felt merely heavy. I felt a mild, localised tightness where the metal bit into the soft skin just beneath my jaw and above my collarbone. But that initial sensation vanished as she seamlessly threaded the next into place, distributing the pressure.
As the stack of rings crept upward, bridging the gap between my chest and my chin, I felt the first real flicker of constriction.
‘I think… that is quite enough,’ I said, my voice sounding slightly muffled, vibrating strangely against the metal pressing into my larynx.
Mya offered a soft, placating smile. She leaned over, whispered something in the local dialect to the artisan, and patted my shoulder. ‘Just one more, Anna. For tradition’s sake.’
I nodded stiffly, trusting her judgement. The artisan added another tight coil.
My chin tilted upwards, the restricted range of motion making it difficult to look straight ahead without tilting my entire torso. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck.
‘Mya, really?’ I insisted, my voice tightening further as the metal rings climbed higher, now pressing firmly against the underside of my jawline. ‘I can take no more. This is genuinely enough.’
Mya shook her head gently, her expression softening into an impenetrable mask of absolute cultural authority. ‘No, Anna. Culturally, it is vital for you to take all that are possible, not merely what you consider comfortable. The spirits of our ancestors demand completeness.’
Before I could protest, the artisan deftly added another ring, and then, with relentless efficiency, one final coil.
My head now held in a fixed, slightly upturned gaze. My chin rested heavily upon the top of the golden tower. I struggled to move my jaw, let alone turn my head to the side. A wave of claustrophobia flickered in my chest, quickly beaten back by the sheer surrealism of the moment. A pillar of solid brass and gold entrapped me.
The artisan muttered something in her gravelly local tongue, and she stepped back, wiping her hands using a cloth, suggesting she had finished.
‘Remain completely still,’ Mya warned, ‘and allow her to complete her work.’
I felt a series of strange, localised vibrations against my skin. The artisan was working meticulously on the final adjustments, sealing the seams of the metal rings.
‘She is ensuring no stray hairs can get caught in the gaps,’ Mya explained.
I heard a faint, metallic hissing sound close to my ear, and then it all went quiet.
‘All finished,’ Mya announced, clapping her hands together softly. ‘Come, look in the mirror.’
With laboured movement, I stood up from the stool, my balance slightly thrown off by the heavy, rigid column supporting my head. I shuffled over to the full-length mirror mounted on the back wall of the shop. I stared at my reflection, blinking in astonishment.
Standing beside me was Mya. And staring back at me from the glass was a woman who looked, from the neck up, entirely identical to her. My auburn updo tumbled down from my crown in the same messy fashion, framing my face, but beneath it, our necks were indistinguishable, encased in towering columns of golden rings.
I reached up with trembling fingers, pressing my hand against the cold, smooth metal. The craft was astonishingly seamless. There were no visible clasps, no obvious hinges, just a solid and unified structure of pure metal. I felt profoundly altered.
Mya slipped her arm around my waist, gazing proudly into the mirror beside me. A serene, beatific smile spread across her face. She leaned over and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss against my cheek.
‘Now you are like me,’ she whispered softly, her dark eyes locking onto mine in the glass.
A strange numbness crept through the edges of my mind, momentarily clouding my thoughts. In that instant, I did not grasp the weight of her words. I simply smiled back, intoxicated by the adventure, the culture, and the woman beside me.
The Sanctuary of the Mountains
As Mya had promised, the golden coils opened every door. In the remote mountain communities, the people greeted me not as an intrusive tourist but as a sister of their tradition. The villagers welcomed us into their homes, sharing meals of spiced rice, roasted roots, and fermented mountain wines.
We spent our days hiking through mist-shrouded valleys, Mya teaching me the folklore of the land, the names of medicinal plants, and the history of her people. And when the sun dipped below the jagged peaks, plunging the villages into cool mountain darkness, our bond deepened. In the intimate quiet of our sleeping quarters, wrapped in heavy wool blankets, we shared the same bed, finding a fierce and passionate solace in each other’s arms.
As we travelled further into the highlands, the traditions took an even greater hold over me. Far from feeling restricted, I found myself lapping it up, shedding my inhibitions layer by layer.
One crisp morning, Mya took me by the hand, guiding me toward a large, open-air ceremonial hut situated at the edge of the village. The veranda commanded a breathtaking, panoramic view of the towering mountain range behind it.
A young local woman sat upon a central wooden stool, looking out. Her straight, black hair was exceptionally long, the ends pooling and touching the wooden floorboards. Flanking her on either side were two elder women. They each bore the familiar bald scalp, golden neck-rings, and traditional attire. In their hands, they held glinting straight razors.
Silently we observed the unfolding traditional ceremony. With rhythmic, synchronised movements, the women began systematically slicing tendrils from the young woman’s head. Reverently, they laid the dark locks out neatly on a nearby wooden table like harvested silk. I watched, spellbound, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Mya.
After twenty minutes of meticulous work, not a single bristle remained on the young woman’s head. Her scalp gleamed smooth and bare under the harsh mountain sun. One of the elders poured a viscous oil from a clay jug onto her palm, massaging it thoroughly and deeply into the newly exposed skin. Then, both women took soft cloths, vigorously buffing the young woman’s scalp until it shone like polished bronze.
The young woman gracefully rose to her feet. Her expression remained strictly neutral, though her eyes betrayed a churning mix of emotions. Her gaze fell on her severed hair resting on the table. Gathering it up, she moved to the edge of the veranda, held her tresses high, and allowed the mountain breeze to carry it away into the valley below.
Mya turned her dark, mesmerising eyes toward me. ‘Now, it’s your turn, Anna,’ she said softly, her hand resting firmly and encouragingly on my back.
The Revealing of My Noble Soul
On hearing Mya’s pronouncement, I let out a startled, nervous laugh, stepping back half a pace. ‘What? No!’ I exclaimed, assuming she was playing a joke on me.
But Mya’s expression did not flicker. ‘If you wish to stay in this village, or visit the more remote sacred havens on our itinerary, then you must forego your hair. You must become like the rest of us… just as the young woman has, and just as we all did when we came of age.’
Panic fluttered briefly in my chest as my commercial brain kicked in. I thought of my professional life back home, imagining how well a bald independent consultant would go down in boardroom meetings, even after it eventually grew back through a crewcut phase. A.D. was as identifiable by her long auburn locks as she was by her business acumen.
‘Yes, I understand… but -’ I stuttered.
‘And if you wish to continue pleasing me, Anna,’ Mya whispered, leaning in close, her voice a seductive anchor that immediately short-circuited my objections as she gently guided me forward by the arm.
Oh well, I thought to myself, rationalising away the lingering dread. My hair will have grown out enough by the time I get home to have it trimmed into a stylish crop. I want to see more of this hidden country, experience its soul… and, of course, to please Mya.
Decisively, I walked over and sat down upon the wooden stool. As I waited, I marvelled once more at the majestic view of the mountains encircling the veranda. Mya stepped behind me, her fingers deftly undoing my messy auburn updo. She ran a wide-toothed comb through my long hair, untangling the strands with slow, rhythmic strokes.
The two elder women approached without a word. They mirrored the task they had performed just moments before. The cold edge of their sharp razors scraped gently across my scalp, relieving me of the heavy auburn locks I had expensively maintained for a lifetime. As the hair came away in long tendrils, the cool mountain air gently caressed my newly exposed skin.
With my shaving completed, they applied the fragrant, viscous oil to my scalp. The substance generated a pleasant cooling sensation, instantly soothing my skin as the women’s fingers thoroughly massaged my scalp. Finally, they took soft linen cloths and buffed my bare head until the material glided over the surface without friction.
As they stepped back, Mya came forward with a small mirror. My scalp gleamed with a brilliant, polished shine that matched her own. Challenging every belief I previously held on judging my own beauty, I looked stunning.
Mya stepped forward, cupping my newly bald head in her warm hands, her thumbs tracing the smooth curve of my skull.
‘Now you are like me, Amara,’ she whispered proudly, strangely mispronouncing my name. I looked at her questioningly. ‘The name means noble,’ she explained.
I lifted my chin and felt the sun warming the metal rings around my neck and the gleaming skin covering my crown, and I felt deserving of the name.
Mya placed half of my severed tresses in my hand, and, together, we held it high over the edge of the veranda. And with a sense of freedom and none of regret, I watched the strands float away on the mountain breeze.
I turned to face Mya. Gazing into each other’s eyes, we gently kissed, and I felt grounded in the wonderful environment and with my beautiful companion.
The Heaven of the Highlands
Weeks slipped by in a blur of mountain mist, cultural immersion, and deep affection.
But time, inexorably, summoned me back to reality. My return flight loomed on the horizon, so, with a heavy heart, we retraced our steps, descending from the glorious highlands and returning to the city where Mya and I had first met.
The Recognition of My Reality
Back in the capital, I booked one final night for the two of us in the modest hotel where my journey had begun. For travelling, I had changed from my comfortable local attire into close-fitting designer jeans and a tailored red silk shirt. Sitting on the edge of the bed, contemplating my reflection in the mirror, the reality of my pending return to the modern world had begun to set in.
I turned to Mya, who was unpacking our rucksacks.
‘Mya,’ I began, trying to keep my voice casual. ‘How do I get out of these neck-rings before my flight?’ I asked, imagining the security personnel having a field day as I attempted to board the plane with metal local artefacts on my person.
She looked up. ‘Amara, I—’
‘Also,’ I mused, ‘I am a bit surprised that my hair has not started growing at all on this journey. Is that due to the high altitude or the mountain climate?’
Mya stopped what she was doing, and she slowly turned. A serene, enigmatic smile played on her lips as she walked over to me. She reached out, her fingers gently caressing my smooth, polished scalp.
‘You wished to be like me, Amara,’ she said softly. ‘Your head is now permanently hairless. The oil massaged into your scalp by the village elders is extracted from a rare and sacred mountain flower. Like me and all my traditional compatriots, you will never experience the terrible inconvenience of having hair ever again and thus remain forever serene and beautiful.’
My breath hitched. I pushed her hand away, standing up too fast. ‘What? Stop being ridiculous!’ I blustered, a spike of genuine panic finally piercing my romanticised haze. ‘I will see a specialist when I return home!’ I snapped hopefully.
She shook her head slowly, maintaining her enigmatic smile. ‘Amara, I—’
‘But right now, get me out of these neck rings!’ I ordered.
Mya’s smile did not waver. ‘That is not possible, Amara. Remember, the artisan fused the seams, not for satisfying casual tourist amusement but for the devoted encirclement of your neck forever.’
My panic grew, my tone becoming indignant. ‘Er, excuse me…?’
‘Your neck has stretched to accommodate the forged alloy rings,’ Mya explained, her voice confident and steady. ‘If you were ever to find a way to cut through the tough metal to remove the rings without damaging your skin, then your stretched neck vertebrae and weakened muscles would be unable to support the weight of your head.’
The blood drained from my face. The room seemed to tilt on its axis.
‘You’re lying,’ I choked out, brushing past her with a desperate shove.
I bolted out of the hotel room, rampaged down the dusty lanes of the city, and headed straight for the ancient artisan’s workshop where my transformation had begun. Mya followed close behind, her footsteps unhurried, echoing softly in the narrow alleyways.
I burst into the shop, panting, and marched right up to the elderly woman. I grabbed the old woman’s arm, gesturing frantically towards the golden rings crushing my collarbone, demanding she fetch her tools and cut them off.
The artisan shrugged dismissively, shaking her head slowly in an infuriatingly calm gesture. Then she retrieved two brand-new, gleaming golden rings from her workbench. Holding them up, she smiled and pointed towards the low wooden stool in the middle of the room.
I waved my hands in exasperation, spinning around and looking back toward the entrance of the workshop. Mya stood there in the shadows, waiting patiently, her arms folded casually across her chest.
Epilogue
‘Amara,’ Mya called out, her voice frustratingly calm. ‘Since the initial fitting, your body has naturally adjusted. The artisan elder is informing you that there is now room for more rings to stretch your neck further, just like mine, and attain the true swan-like appearance of an elegant and noble woman.’
She stepped forward into the shafts of golden sunlight piercing the workshop roof, her eyes locking onto mine with an unyielding, beautiful devotion.
‘So, Amara, sit down, and allow the artisan to continue her work,’ she instructed, her tone uncompromising. ‘Then we will discuss our future together.’
I looked from the artisan’s smiling face to the two new rings glinting in the light, and finally into Mya’s mesmerising eyes. The panic in my chest slowly dissolved, replaced by a strange, sweeping realisation. There was no going back. The corporate boardrooms, the spreadsheets, and the life I had left behind a month ago were as distant as another planet.
Slowly, deliberately, I let out a long breath, walked over to the wooden stool, and sat down.
A Note from the Author
Further to sharing a selection of my stories here, they are also published on my personal archive
The Hair Apparent Stories
Also freely shared on my archive are many additional stories, not published here or elsewhere, where you are welcome to contribute your thoughts, with no login or registration required
