HairApparent
The first part of this story described the background to the ancient tradition of The Hair Gathering in the town of Nutford, and conveyed the experience of the friends of Petra, the narrator, under the control of Miss Shearer during one of her annual visits. This continuation of the story describes Petra’s own experience immediately following the shearing of her friends.
Petra
My time had come. After twenty-one years when my hair grown to nearly reach my ankles, the awful Miss Shearer was about to take it from me for the amusement of the wealthy elite of Nutford, and for the financial benefit of the mayoress and her cronies. My family and the wider Nutford community would gain nothing.
I tried to remain steadfast as I had throughout the shearing of my friends. However, a pulse of dread coursed through me as the stern council officials led me to the heavy oak chair in the centre of the stage; an ancient throne awaiting its next victim. The grip of the attendants tightened as they secured me in place. They mockingly tore away my hairband, the soft velvet slipping from my head, and I felt exposed and vulnerable as the audience looked up expectantly.
The wealthy elite sipped their wine and nibbled away at tasty snacks. As they waited for the officials to prepare me, my temper began to boil over. ‘This is all so wrong,’ I suddenly blurted out, surprising myself as much as everyone else present. A sharp intake of breath arose from the onlookers. ‘Nutford needs to change so that the dignity of all our young women can remain intact in the future.’ I cast a glance to the back of Market Square where a group of apprehensive twenty-year-old women had gathered; the women that would ascend the stage the following year unless something changed in the town. ‘This is a barbaric and anachronistic tradition, and it must be stopped now,’ I demanded.
Mild discontent from the audience met my protests, with jeers and boos assaulting my ears. I received no support from anyone. However, the mayoress did not hide her anger and she made a clear gesture to Miss Shearer that meant nothing to me. Worryingly, The Hair Gatherer clearly knew the precise meaning, her emphatic nod and the broadness of her grin confirming it.
Having started my justifiable rant, I was determined to continue. However, the mayoress, buoyed up by Miss Shearer’s acceptance of her instruction, was keen to move on. ‘Thank you for those thoughts, Petra, but I know the people of Nutford embrace tradition and wish the annual spectacle to continue. I do not believe any of you in audience wish the tradition to stop, do you?’ she chuckled, dramatically raising her hands to rouse a response.
Those on the periphery of Market Square might not agree with the mayoress. Or my friends who Miss Shearer had just shaved completely bald. Or the less privileged families of Nutford including those young women who were destined to find themselves seated in The Gathering Chair in the future.
But the wealthy elite did agree. As the mayoress had hoped, they burst into raucous laughter at the thought of abandoning the amusing and enjoyable spectacle. The elite’s mirth rolled on, fuelled by alcohol, and finally the mayoress had to signal with her palms to quell the noise.
‘Thought not,’ mayoress chortled, causing a further round of merriment. ‘And for your patience while waiting for Petra’s delayed Gathering, Miss Shearer will provide a special treat for you all to mark the end of this year’s proceedings,’ she added mysteriously, smirking in my direction, causing me to shiver.
The mayoress gestured to her officials who had been holding me down in the chair, urging them to finalise their preparations for what was to come.
Tradition
I had so much more I wanted to say but I realised I was speaking to the wrong audience. My speech may have been more effective on any day of my twenty-one years before the one where I found myself firmly strapped into The Gathering Chair for the amusement of the wealthy elite. The smoothness of the wood under my fingers testified to the multitude of women who had sat there before me, over past decades, or even centuries. Once the officials had fully restrained me, I had to accept the inevitable and my thoughts returned to my hair.
I had lavished a great deal of time and extreme care on my abundant locks throughout my young life. However, the two manic officials were crudely scraping all my hair into a high ponytail and demonstrating no care at all. It may have been a consequence of my earlier outburst, but they were causing unnecessary discomfort as they tugged and yanked at my locks. Each of my justified whimpers and grimaces caused a titter of amusement within the audience.
I was relieved when the attendants moved away, but that feeling was short lived as Miss Shearer appeared in my line of vision. She seemed far more intimidating and scarier when she was up close. And her menacing scissors – forged from ancient steel and the instrument of gathering countless ponytails over the years – appeared far larger, more shiny, and considerably sharper, as she heartlessly clicked the blades together in my eye line.
I glanced down at the elegantly dressed women from the wealthy elite, seated comfortably in padded chairs, their long hair cascading from artfully styled updos in a seductive display of beauty and wealth. I found their smiles and exchange of amusing comments abhorrent as the anticipated the witnessing of my imminent humiliation. I turned away in disgust, forcing myself to focus on Miss Shearer.
As Miss Shearer came closer, I prepared myself for that swift, fateful action that I had seen her exercise previously.
‘Shear her,’ the unruly crowd insisted.
‘I will, my friends, but let us take a moment to admire the length and condition of this lovely damsel’s wonderful locks,’ Miss Shearer urged. ‘Indeed, I may even keep this hair for myself, and have it made into a magnificent hairpiece that Petra can enjoy when I return to your wonderful town in the future.’
The crowd went wild. ‘Shear her. Shear her. Shear her!’ they impatiently begged.
The moment the scissors closed around my ponytail felt like time had slowed. This would not just be a haircut, but an eradication of my identity.
The loud audible crunch of the blades echoed in my ears and resonated through my skull. But the increasing raucous applause from the audience soon drowned out the awful noise of the scissors. Again and again, I felt the pressure of the blades closing until, just like that, Miss Shearer had severed all the hair from my scalp, and she triumphantly held it aloft.
Once the cheering of the audience had subsided, Miss Shearer tossed my severed ponytail into the overflowing wicker basket without ceremony.
Panic surged within me as she turned that menacing gaze upon the few locks that remained. She exchanged her scissors for the powerful hairclippers and, with the motorised blades vibrating ruthlessly against my skin, she swiftly eliminated those last few tendrils.
One of her attendants then stepped forward with a bowl and coated my scalp with shaving foam. Deftly wielding her razor, Miss Shearer mercilessly scraped away the fine stubble before using a cloth to rub my head clean. I bit my lip, suppressing the urge to scream. Having seen my friends suffer this same fate, I could imagine how I looked but I was in no hurry to face the reality of my transformed appearance.
The official stepped forward once again, carrying the bottle of oil that my friends informed me helped to soothe the raw bare skin. Despite the anticipated much-needed relief, I recognised that Miss Shearer’s only intention was to showcase her skills by bringing a shine to my scalp in a final act of humiliation.
As the official opened the bottle, she suddenly appeared confused when the mayoress stepped forward and stood at Miss Shearer’s side. She was carrying a similar, but smaller, glass flask. Worryingly, The Hair Gatherer was snapping on a pair of protective gloves then cupping her palm in front of the mayoress. While I was wondering why the procedure was different for me, the mayoress clarified the situation.
Progression
‘Following Petra’s unwarranted and disappointing monologue earlier, Miss Shearer and I agreed we should enact an age-old treatment. It has always been part of the tradition of The Hair Gathering but one that we have rarely employed in recent years.’ I grasped that the agreement had been the wordless communication that had passed between them following my protest. ‘The Balding Serum serves to not only soothe the scalp in the same manner as the oil, but it inhibits hair growth for up to one year. Put simply, it acts like a varnish so that the scalp will remain smooth and exhibit a glorious shine throughout that whole period.’
The crowd looked surprised by this turn of events, but curious and amused, as they watched the mayoress eagerly pour the viscous Balding Serum into Miss Shearer’s gloved palm. The potion was a substance of legend. A mother would sometimes threaten a young girl who had been exceedingly naughty, but no one believed the serum really existed.
While the whole tradition of The Hair Gathering was a cruel and humiliating anachronism that needed abandoning, I struggled to believe that these terrible women were willing to lift it to another level entirely. However, the smirks the mayoress exchanged with Miss Shearer, indicated that they were serious. And the excruciating stinging sensation that I experienced when Miss Shearer vigorously rubbed the obnoxious liquid into my scalp convinced me of their heartlessness. Vapour, or perhaps even smoke, billowed around me as the serum got to work destroying my hair follicles. The accompanying smell that surrounded me was unbearable but inescapable.
Miss Shearer stood back, patiently consulting her watch, before counting down the final few seconds of my ten long minutes of agony. She employed a damp cloth to briskly wipe away the excess serum which provided instant relief from the persistent stinging sensation that was, mercifully, subsiding.
‘And there we have it, citizens of Nutford,’ the mayoress hailed. ‘Petra will have her marvellous glass-like scalp for the next year …’ pausing ominously, ‘and perhaps even longer should she decide to question the tradition of The Hair Gathering once again.’
The crowd cheered even more loudly than before.
‘Thank you, Miss Shearer, for your superb performance today, as always,’ the mayoress praised. Before departing the stage, Miss Shearer bowed to the audience, smirked at me, and then bundled the wicker basket of our glorious hair under her arm. ‘So, my fellow citizens, that brings The Hair Gathering to a conclusion for another year.’
There was a muttered chorus of appreciation but that soon faded as the audience shuffled to their feet.
‘As is our custom, there will now be a reception for all our honoured guests in the function room of the council offices. There you will be able to enjoy a few drinks and nibbles, as well as having the opportunity to inspect the work of Miss Shearer. Thank you all for your support!’
There was a polite ripple of applause, but the wealthy elite – their desire for amusement satisfied for another year – had become far more interested in making their way to the function room and consuming a few more drinks.
Aftermath
The despicable council officials eventually released me from The Gathering Chair then, along with my friends, they escorted us back to the room where we had prepared ourselves earlier. They instructed us to remove our colourful long summer dresses that, with our long hair of various hues, had given each of us a distinctive and unique appearance.
They gave us identical, ridiculously short, plain white dresses to wear. Garments with a low neckline and a hem that barely covered our bottoms. Along with our identical heads like polished glass, they had stripped us of any last vestige of individuality.
The officials led us towards the function room and, before entering, we were each given a tray containing either glasses of wine or selections of tasty titbits. They told us to mingle with the wealthy elite and satisfy their wishes. Food and drink aside, their satisfaction seemed to derive from amusing themselves by rubbing our heads without invitation and exchanging demeaning comments regarding our transformed appearance. Despite all the trials and tribulations that we had already faced that day, it felt like the ultimate humiliation.
During a lull in proceedings, I glanced out of the window towards Market Square. The officials were dismantling the stage and carrying away The Gathering Chair for safe storage for another year. Clippings of our hair rolled across Market Square in the breeze, reflecting the warm light of the setting sun.
On the periphery of all the activity down below hovered a group of young women. All still possessed their long hair, and I recognised them as the nominated subjects for The Hair Gathering in twelve months’ time. Their eyes were wide with horror, hugging each other in fear, as they recalled what they had witnessed, and dreading their own destiny. A year earlier, it had been me and my friends standing together in Market Square contemplating our future that, with sad inevitability, had come to pass.
I felt a surge of protectiveness wash over me. With my ineffective solo protest, I had left it to too late to save my own hair and that of my friends. Our shared fate was monstrous, and it led me to wonder if there was an opportunity to offer a glimmer of hope to the younger women of Nutford by sparking a rebellion to bring an end to the dreadful practice.
I envisioned a day when every woman who had suffered in the past would rise up in rebellion, joined by the younger girls, our voices uniting to chant for change.
I imagined hurling words of defiance at all the women of the wealthy elite that enjoyed witnessing the humiliation of others, then causing panic by forcibly shearing their stylish long locks.
I pictured chopping off the braid of Miss Shearer, secured in The Gathering Chair, then shaving her bald.
I dreamt of snatching the whole bottle of the Balding Serum that the mayoress had used so effectively on me and pouring it over her own head, rendering her bald forever.
In a final act of defiance, I envisaged we would set fire to The Gathering Chair, bringing a fiery end to the reprehensible tradition of The Hair Gathering in Nutford.
Epilogue
As I stared out of the window, the mayoress disturbed my reverie by snapping her fingers to summon me. ‘Petra!’ she slurred.
She exchanged her empty wine flute for a full glass from the tray I was carrying. Her speech indicated that she was already the worse for wear from having drunk too much.
‘Thank you, Petra, for letting us use the Balding Serum this afternoon,’ she giggled, despite knowing I had no choice. Her fingers glided over my smooth scalp, meeting no resistance. ‘Mm, it feels lovely … like glass …like this glass,’ she tittered, raising her drink. ‘Such fun, and it works really well. I do hope you like it?’ she chortled, knocking back the rest of her wine.
I remained silent and blankly returned her drunken gaze, not wishing to rise to her provocation. To fill time, I moved the wine flutes around on my tray to restore its balance.
The mayoress continued to stare and then, after an awkwardly long pause, she started giggling again. ‘Petra,’ she slurred, adopting a weak admonishing tone, supported by a wayward wagging finger, ‘I do hope you weren’t considering launching one of those glasses of wine over my head.’ She hiccupped.
My lips curled into a malicious grin as I envisioned one of the glasses on my tray filled with the Balding Serum. ‘No, Mayoress, not a glass of wine …’
She studied me closely, clearly puzzled by my words … then she hiccupped.
