Beware Miss Shearer, the Hair Gatherer, Part 1 – Laura

In the first part of this story Petra describes the background to the ancient tradition of The Hair Gathering in the town of Nutford, and then she conveys the experience of her friends, starting with Laura, under the authority of Miss Shearer, The Hair Gatherer, during one of her annual visits to the town.

Prologue

It was early summer in Nutford, and an oppressive heat blanketed the town like a heavy shawl. As I stood at the window brushing my knee-length hair, I stared down at the cobblestones of Market Square and took in all the activity that was taking place with purpose. The stage was set. The heavy and worn wooden chair occupied its traditional place in the centre. I could not help but feel a tightness in my chest as the familiar chilling scene took shape.

But this year it was different. Today was the day. This annual arrival of Miss Evelyn Shearer, known throughout the nation as The Hair Gatherer, had finally crept up on me with a grim inevitability.

For years, I had watched in horror as older friends and relatives, one by one, had succumbed to the indignity of The Hair Gathering. Finally, it was my turn, and I was to be the last of the women that year to surrender to the absurd practice, by simple virtue of my hair being the longest. Turning twenty-one had always filled me with trepidation, with each birthday merely marking a countdown towards the inevitable. That moment when I would lose my long, lustrous hair in a twisted ritual that had never stopped finding favour with the town’s wealthy ruling elite.

The tradition of The Hair Gathering was as old as Nutford itself. It began as a genuine charitable act, where women would voluntarily donate their hair. They did so in the sure and certain knowledge that the proceeds from the hair’s sale for wig making would not only benefit their own families, but also contribute fairly to the prosperity of the whole town.

Yet, as the most impoverished families of Nutford had learned all too well, history has a way of twisting the meaning of its own events. What was once an act of altruism had developed into a macabre show for the wealthy, an exercise of power masked as a tradition. The practice lined only the pockets of the mayoress and her cronies, with none of the proceeds contributing to the greater good of the citizens of Nutford.

The mayoress had assembled twelve of us in a council meeting room overlooking Market Square. She had instructed us to prepare ourselves for the town’s festivities. So, we had all changed into colourful long dresses she had provided for the occasion, and we helped each other ensure our long hair looked its best. I turned away from the window and allowed my friend, Carla, to adjust the black velvet band we all wore to keep our loose hair away from our faces.

The door of the meeting room suddenly swung open, interrupting our final preparations. Two sturdy women – council officials answering to the mayoress – marched in, smiling maliciously. ‘It’s time!’ one of them barked, ushering us hurriedly through the door.

The Mayoress

Mayoress Leonora Adams was the orchestrator of this travesty. Although she presented the confident air of being a leader, the unspoken word known to everyone in Nutford was that she was merely a puppet of the wealthy elite. She was destined to indulge their whims and, if she chose to go against their wishes, they would remove her from the lofty post she held. The elite could easily replace her with someone more amenable to performing their wishes.

As the officials paraded us across Market Square and onto the stage, the mayoress embraced her role with a vicious glee as she triumphantly welcomed the crowd, her voice dripping with sugary malice.

‘Welcome, people of Nutford, to the valued tradition of The Hair Gathering. And please show your appreciation for this year’s delightful participants,’ she encouraged. Her eyes shone while roaming over us, her cohorts herding us like livestock into a cordoned off area at the side of the stage.

There was a ripple of polite applause from the audience below.

‘And just think how lovely these young women will look without the hair that they will be so generously donating today!’

The ripple of clapping peaked to a crescendo, accompanied by whoops of delight and cheers of encouragement.

I shivered as my friends and I stood together, our colourful array of dresses contrasting sharply with the black-clad officials who maintained a close guard on the only escape from our fenced enclosure. My heart raced, as the weight of the impending ceremony fell heavily upon me, and on all of us.

As the mayoress droned on, describing the events that would unfold on the stage, the audience became restless. Rambling on, her words forced us to confront the reality of our forthcoming experience. As I looked around, each of my friends wore the same mixture of horror and resignation as we felt the cold grip of fate come ever closer.

Finally, it was time.

Miss Shearer

‘So, without further ado,’ the mayoress announced, ‘please give a traditional Nutford welcome to our town’s great friend and benefactor, Miss Shearer, The Hair Gatherer!’

The applause ramped up as Miss Shearer glided onto the stage. After the long and dreary monologue from the mayoress, calls for her to “get on with it” punctuated her arrival with grim inevitability.

The crowd’s murmurs quietened as Miss Shearer – tall and menacing in her striking black and purple dress and leather boots – took centre stage and grandly surveyed the audience below her. Her bounteous dark locks gleamed in the sunlight, braided elaborately in a stylish updo, in a manner that mocked the fate that was soon to befall our own hair.

As she turned her head to survey us, the cheers of the wealthy elite rose like thunder. She toyed with the hair of a couple of my friends. ‘How sweet they all look with their lovely long tresses …’ she smirked, pausing for effect, ‘… well, for now!’

The noise from the crowd increased as the wealthy elite in their expensive designer attire looked up at the stage expectantly. Their contempt for me and my friends from the less privileged families of Nutford was unmistakable. We were simply curiosities to be toyed with.

The casual attitude of the wealthy generated a deep-seated rage within me. However, the mayoress had forbidden us to articulate our feelings on stage as, to do so, would have dire consequences for each of us and our families. However, the fury boiled up within me like a dormant volcano, waiting to erupt. I looked towards my friends and noted their eyes were wide with fear, but I could not reveal the panic within me. As the oldest, I had to remain strong for all of us.

Miss Shearer strutted behind the large wooden chair, picked up a huge pair of scissors, and flexed her arms in a powerful show of authority. Demonstrating her intentions by dramatically clicking the blades together, she indicated to the mayoress that she was ready to begin.

‘One by one, Miss Shearer will relieve the group of young women of their burdens,’ the mayoress proclaimed. ‘So, Carla, please step forward!’

Carla

My best friend, Carla, did all she could to disobey the instructions of the mayoress. She had told us to maintain our dignity, with head held high, as we stepped forward, but that was easier said than done in the face of so much adversity. Carla, understandably scared of being first, pressed her way back into the crowd of us corralled in the area by the side of the stage. However, despite her reluctance and sorrow, none of us were in any hurry to step forward in her place.

The two dour council officials who had been guarding us stepped forward. Each took an arm and dragged Carla, her feet barely touching the ground, towards The Gathering Chair. Tossing her into it, they trussed her securely in position, plucked the velvet hairband from her head, then crudely swept up her bountiful locks on top of her head and bound her hair tightly into a massive ponytail.

The simmering sense of anticipation around the audience bubbled over as Miss Shearer stepped forward with a malicious grin plastered on her face. Without ceremony, she thrust the huge blades of her scissors around the base of Carla’s ponytail. Pausing dramatically, she cast a maniacal grin over the audience.

The crowd went wild. ‘Shear her, shear her, shear her!’ urged the metronomic delirious voices of the wealthy elite. A far cry from their usual refined manner, but this was their time. The time they could let their hair down, although not in such a literal sense as my poor friend Carla.

I wanted to look away from my friend’s growing distress. But, in the manner of being in the proximity of a disaster and unable to help, I found my eyes locked on to her torment with morbid fascination.

Despite all the commotion, the crunching sound of the huge scissors in Miss Shearer’s powerful hands rose above it. In less than ten seconds of sawing through Carla’s locks, her ponytail came away in Miss Shearer’s hands. Triumphantly, she thrust the long locks high in the air at arm’s length, and the audience met her gesture with roars of approval.

In contrast to the wealthy elite, I felt as sad as Carla looked. Replacing her former glorious tresses, was a messy thatch of hair that barely covered her crown … but even that was not destined to remain for long.

Having received her adulation, Miss Shearer unceremoniously tossed the severed ponytail into a large wicker basket at the back of the stage before retrieving a set of large, red hairclippers. A loud roaring sound filled the air as she drove the shining blade into what remained of my friend’s hair. Back and forth, and from side to side, the blade skimmed over her head until only a dark fuzzy shadow remained. But even that did not remain for long.

One of the obnoxious council officials stepped forward with a bowl and slathered copious quantities of white foam over Carla’s head, diligently spreading it with a stiff brush until she had completely covered her scalp. Stepping back, Miss Shearer, nodded her approval and produced a sharp looking razor. She quickly, but skilfully, scraped away the foam, taking with it the last vestiges of Carla’s hair, then briskly rubbed her bare scalp with a cloth.

In a final act of humiliation, Miss Shearer held out a palm and the official poured in a quantity of oil from a small bottle. Briskly rubbing her hands together, she thoroughly massaged the lotion into Carla’s scalp until her head was smooth and gleaming. It appeared as if Carla she had never had a hair growing on her head.

The officials unshackled Carla from the wooden chair and instructed her to stand. Guided to turn around and model her bald head, the crowd shouted their approval and clamoured for more.

The officials returned a tearful Carla to the enclosure. We did our best to comfort her and avoid staring at her stark baldness. However, we all glimpsed it with a morbid fascination, knowing a gleaming scalp would soon be our destiny.

Whipping up the crowd’s enthusiasm, the mayoress looked over to the enclosure and studied us as if carefully choosing the best from of a herd of livestock. Finally, her gaze settled, and she smiled broadly.  ‘Laura, please come forward.’

Laura

Following the instruction from the mayoress, Laura slowly made her way over to the large oak chair. Of our group, she was the woman I knew least. Until recently, Laura’s family had been one of Nutford’s wealthy elite. In past years she would have sat with her mother in the audience to enjoy the humiliation of less privileged women. However, the family’s business had hit challenging times, her father was bankrupt, and the mayoress had removed the entire family from the closed circle of the town’s wealthy elite.

It had later come to light that Laura, the family’s oldest daughter, had just reached the age of twenty-one. The mayoress was only too pleased to add her name to the year group that I was part of, despite her parent’s protests. She had warned the two younger sisters to expect the same fate in due course.

I had always known that my appointment with The Hair Gatherer was my destiny. So, it was difficult not to feel sorry for Laura and her sisters. They had suddenly, and unexpectedly, had the same fate thrust upon them in later years through no fault of their own. I allowed myself a fleeting moment of compassion, but it soon evaporated when I recalled that she and her family had shown no pity in the past when they had appreciated The Hair Gathering as spectators.

As the officials firmly secured Laura in The Gathering Chair they made no allowance for her family’s past high standing in the town. If anything, the unpleasant women were even rougher and less caring than they had been with Carla. However, it was noticeable that the audience were more subdued. For someone whose family once socialised within the wealthy elite, their joy at her humiliation was less intense.

Laura did well to maintain her dignity in the unexpected situation she found herself. But, with the same ruthless efficiency as Miss Shearer had demonstrated with Carla, she promptly severed Laura’s hair. Tossing her ponytail into the wicker basket, she then shaved Laura’s head, before polishing her scalp until it gleamed in the sunlight.

My similarly aged friends followed Laura into The Gathering Chair, exhibiting varying degrees of self-control in the face of so much derision and adversity. But the result was always the same. After more than an hour, eleven bald women surrounded me in the fenced enclosure at the side of the stage.

The mayoress looked over for the final time, singling me out with no chance of any ambiguity. ‘And last, but certainly not least, allow me to present this year’s woman with the longest hair. Petra, please step forward!’

To Be Continued

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