HairApparent
Prologue
The fluorescent strip lighting of Blades Hairdresser for Gentlemen hummed with a cold, unforgiving intensity, casting harsh shadows across the chequerboard linoleum floor. I felt every drop of sweat collecting on the back of my neck as I perched nervously on the edge of the unyielding red vinyl waiting bench.
Across the worn tiles, Mr Potter, the owner, skewered me with an impatient, dark gaze. He sat, ramrod straight, in one of his huge red leather and chrome barber’s chairs that he had turned to face me. He was a man built like an oak cabinet, tall and solid, making his chair look tiny by comparison. His side-parted black hair looked varnished into place above his granite features. Along with his crisp white nylon jacket, buttoned over a shirt and tie, his appearance suggested an uncompromising professionalism.
I had never stepped foot in a place like Blades before. Occasionally I would frequent the bright and trendy unisex salon in the shopping mall to have my thigh-length hair trimmed. There, stylists talked about style and fashion, with colourful images covering the walls.
Blades was monochrome and dull, with even the framed photos on the wall of untrendy haircuts printed in black-and-white. Unlike the lightweight styling chairs of the salon, the huge barber chairs were imposing. Complete with padded red leather arms and gleaming chrome footrests, they stood like sentinels against a wall of large mirrors. Everything here was heavy, permanent, and utterly devoid of trend or character, likening itself to Mr Potter himself.
‘Now then, Charlotte,’ Mr Potter stated, his voice a low gravelly rumble. ‘Tell me why you deserve to work in my establishment.’
Prospects
Swallowing hard, the sudden heat of embarrassment rose up my neck and flooded my cheeks. Just eighteen and fresh out of the suffocating routine of school, I was deeply unprepared for the severity of this moment. I needed to earn cash during the summer to help me through university. Originally, I had secured an internship at the offices of a local accountancy firm. Unfortunately, because of an administrative issue, the offer fell through at the last minute. Desperately, I had scoured local newspapers and the internet to locate a suitable alternative, but frustratingly nothing suitable was available.
When Mum returned home from work that day, I had reached a low ebb, wondering how I could afford the books I needed to read before starting my degree. However, her excitement was tangible as soon as she bustled through the door.
‘I spoke to my manager at work, Charlotte, and he came up with an idea,’ she enthused.
Working at the same place as my Mum for three months was not what I had envisaged for the summer. However, it was a more attractive option than stacking shelves in a supermarket. ‘Go on,’ I urged, warming to her eagerness.
‘A friend of his knows the owner of Blades – the hairdresser in the lane off the high street – and they need someone to help out immediately,’ Mum explained.
‘A hairdresser?’ I questioned, absently fingering my thigh-length hair, wondering if I could get it trimmed for free and even add a funky colour before starting university. I weighed up whether the hairdresser might be a better or worse choice than the supermarket. After a pause, my head shot up as I looked straight at Mum. ‘Hang on, though, isn’t that a men’s barbershop?’
‘Er… well, yes… but that shouldn’t make any difference to them in this day and age… not with equality and all that,’ Mum blustered. ‘Besides, we’ve arranged an interview for you with Mr Potter, the owner, tomorrow morning at 8am.’
‘Mum?’ I whined.
‘They want someone immediately, so you may even be able to start the same day,’ she continued, oblivious to my doubts. ‘And remember, now that your dad has decided to leave us, I don’t earn enough to get you through university without some contribution on your part.’
Mum raised a valid point, so I did not press the issue. ‘I might have to raid your wardrobe, Mum, as I don’t have anything I can wear for a job interview.’
‘That’s fine, Charlotte,’ she said. ‘I’ll set the alarm for 6am.’
So much for a relaxing summer before starting university!
Interview
‘Yes, can I help you?’ the disembodied voice from the other side of the frosted glass door asked gruffly.
‘It’s Charley,’ I called out, surprised to find the door locked. ‘I have an interview with Mr Potter.’
The latch clicked and the door slowly opened. A face peered out. ‘I am Potter. And from the name given to me, I was expecting a young man. And you, you are a girl.’
‘Last time I looked,’ I quipped, casting a palm down the curves of my body, trying to break the ice.
‘I beg your pardon!’ Mr Potter bristled, unamused.
His reaction made me realise that job interviews were not the best places for cracking lame jokes.
‘I am Charlotte, but everyone calls me Charley,’ I explained, ‘well, apart from my mother.’
‘Do they? Do they, indeed?’ he harrumphed. ‘Well, Charlotte, I suppose that now you are here, you better come in.’
And that is how I found myself in the most traditional masculine environment imaginable, sitting on a red vinyl bench and grilled by a middle-aged humourless barber.
‘Now then, Charlotte,’ Mr Potter stated, his voice a low gravelly rumble. ‘Tell me why you deserve to work in my establishment.’
I had expected him to ask me if I could sweep floors and make tea, not to question me about my motivation for suitability for employment. I needed time to think.
‘Young lady,’ he sighed, ‘I say once again,’ clearly irritated by my hesitation. ‘Tell me why you deserve to work here.’
‘Er… I really don’t know, sir,’ I stammered, instantly wishing the ground would swallow me up. It was not as if I were applying for a permanent position. I avoided his stare, suddenly finding the black and white tiles around my feet far more interesting. ‘I mean, I’m keen to learn, and I’m very dependable.’
It did not take a genius to realise that the interview was not going well.
Mr Potter leant forward, resting his powerful forearms on his knees. ‘I expect dependability, young lady. Nothing less, so that quality alone is of no great significance.’
‘Um…’ I felt profoundly self-conscious, not just because of my lack of professional answers but because of my attire. In a panic, I had borrowed one of Mum’s smart dresses. Since I was much taller than she was, the tailored navy fabric barely reached mid-thigh, exposing a worrying amount of pale leg. I tugged instinctively at the hem, covertly trying to pull the fabric down.
‘Keen to learn is an excellent attribute, but I imagine you are not applying to be my apprentice,’ Mr Potter continued, ignoring my fidgeting. ‘I had hoped to recruit someone suitable before the summer, but young men these days are only interested in computers and suchlike,’ he lamented, for the first time showing a very slight crack in his tough demeanour.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, feeling the need to apologise for all the boys I went to school with who now had jobs in IT… and suchlike.
Mr Potter nodded. ‘So, Charlotte, what is your grand plan? Where are you headed after this?’
‘I hope to attend university, sir,’ I managed, clearer this time. ‘Studying economics, business… and suchlike…’
Mr Potter let out a dry, humourless puff of air. ‘University. Right. Well, as a rule, I never employ students. And I never employ women.’
I think my face must have dropped, the chequered tiles once again grabbing my attention as my eyes moistened.
‘But you come highly recommended from someone whose views I respect, so I am prepared to offer you a one-week trial. I will reimburse you with a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work and an appropriate share of the tips from the customers.’
He scribbled a sum on a scrap of paper, then showed it to me. It was an estimate of what I could expect to earn in a day. Mentally, I multiplied that figure by the number of days in the week and the number of weeks until I started university. It was more than enough for what I urgently needed to buy, with enough left over to take the pressure off Mum with the family’s finances.
‘Wow, thanks, Mr Potter,’ I squealed unprofessionally, jumping to my feet, relieved that I had not let my mum down.
For a second, he looked slightly unsettled, as if he were concerned that I was about to give him a hug. For half a second, I thought about it, but I decided it was better that I refrained from doing so during an interview.
‘Obviously, there will be considerable routine activities such as sweeping the floor, making tea, and keeping the place tidy. But as your experience grows, then I hope we can make your employment increasingly more interesting,’ he explained. ‘We open at 8.30am, but I expect you here, dressed smartly, at 8am so you can prepare the shop for the day ahead. Is that understood, Charlotte?’
‘Absolutely, Mr Potter,’ I enthused, even though I was not relishing the constant early starts. ‘When would you like me to begin work?’
‘No time like the present. Are you able to start today?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely, Mr Potter,’ I confirmed, tugging down on the hem of the dress I borrowed from Mum.
His dark eyes travelled slowly down my overly exposed legs and back up to my face. A smirk, barely perceptible, touched his lips as I fidgeted. ‘That attire –’
‘I just borrowed it for the interview… from Mum,’ I hastily explained. ‘Tomorrow, I assume jeans and –’
‘You assume wrong, young lady. Trousers, especially jeans, will not be suitable at all,’ he warned. ‘That attire,’ he pronounced, nodding towards the short dress, ‘will be entirely appropriate for the trial. Maintain that appearance.’
My stomach dropped. The idea of standing for eight hours a day in this bastion for men, serving his all-male clientele while feeling physically on display, was mortifying. But my desperation for the job was stronger than any shame I might feel.
‘One more thing, Charlotte,’ he continued, easing himself slowly from the barber’s chair. His size seemed to double as he stood. ‘As you are aware, this is a gentlemen’s barbershop, and you need to look the part. That…’ he gestured vaguely at my head, ‘that needs immediate attention.’
Preparation
When Mr Potter indicated my hair needed attention, my hand automatically flew to the back of my head, touching the thick waterfall of hair that flowed down my back. I preferred to wear it completely loose, displaying my blonde tresses, which stretched well below my hips. As a concession for the formality of the interview, I had scraped back the top section from my face into a high ponytail that cascaded down over the rest. The style, if anything, made my hair look thicker and longer, but it was also more practical whenever I had stuff to do. I had hoped it would be a suitable style for work, but Mr Potter had made it clear I was being over-optimistic.
‘Well, I’ve just had a trim, Mr Potter,’ I lied, ‘so it does not need cutting… er, thanks,’ I pleaded nervously as I surveyed the equipment for that purpose laid neatly out on the shelves below each mirror. ‘But I can style it so that it is even tidier. I am happy to put it in a ponytail, a braid, or even a bun. Or a French braid keeps my hair under control. What would you prefer, sir?’
Mr Potter’s face hardened. ‘Do you imagine any of my clients request French braids?’ he scoffed. He proudly gestured towards the gallery of hairstyle photos on the wall where all the male models exhibited remarkably little hair. ‘This establishment deals in neatness, precision, and respectability. That mop,’ he gestured again, ‘is simply unprofessional. So, young lady, take a seat, undo your hair, and let me see what I can do.’
His command was absolute. My cheeks burnt as a slow wave of despair crept through me. I moved as if in a trance towards the enormous chair that he had just vacated. It felt enormous and intimidating. I climbed onto the black leather, my borrowed, short dress riding even higher as I settled, staring at my wide-eyed reflection. I reached back mechanically and unfastened the scrunchie that secured my half-ponytail.
As the weight of the scraped-back hair loosened, my hair thundered down around my face, a thick curtain of blonde silk enveloping me in the chair.
‘What are you going to do, sir?’ I timidly ventured.
Transformation
Mr Potter was already circling, a silent predator examining his prey. Suddenly, he snatched a crisp, heavy cotton cape from the counter. It was blindingly white, and he whipped it over me with aggressive speed. The heavy material sealed me in instantly, falling from my neck all the way to my ankles, concealing my borrowed dress and my legs, leaving only my head and my hair visible. He fastened the collar tightly around my neck, completing my entrapment.
Then came a mechanical whirring sound as Mr Potter enthusiastically pumped up the chair. I rose steadily until I was floating high above the floor, my head perfectly positioned for whatever he intended.
‘Right, young lady,’ the barber announced eagerly, peering over my shoulder, his face close to mine as he held my reflection in the mirror. ‘Let’s get this mess sorted.’
‘What are you going to do, sir,’ I repeated, but he ignored me once again.
Instead, he took a broad, dark comb and began dragging it aggressively through my hair, separating the tangled length with brutal purpose. I was familiar with my own tender care of my hair or even the gentle attention of my mum or, occasionally, a stylist. His painful tugging felt unnecessarily cruel, as if he were inexperienced with handling long hair, or he simply disliked it.
Mr Potter discarded the comb and selected the largest of the scissors laid out on the shelf before me. The menacing and gleaming silver tool of destruction looked more suited to general gardening tasks rather than precise hairdressing. ‘I don’t get much call to use these in the shop,’ he explained, clicking the blades together to demonstrate they were still very capable.
He plunged the blades deep into the blonde mass of hair at my nape. I heard a savage crunching as he exercised his scissors in earnest, and I felt a heavy weight of a thick tendril fall away.
My breath hitched as I let out an involuntary squeak at his unexpected and ambitious severing. It magnified into an indecipherable howl of protest as he brushed the tendril out of the way, and I watched a hefty hank of my hair tumble down the front of the pristine white cape. It landed in my lap with a soft, sickening thud, a lifeless, beautiful corpse lying between my knees. My jaw sagged.
‘Excuse me, Mr Potter! That… that is incredibly short!’ I exclaimed, the panic rising into a high-pitched squeal of dismay.
He did not pause. He did not acknowledge my distress. ‘Not by the standards set by my barbershop, young lady,’ he barked, already tugging away on the next section behind me.
He moved with the practised, relentless rhythm of a man who single-mindedly imagined what he wanted and performed what he deemed necessary to achieve it. My hair rained down all around me, thick swathes of blonde locks accumulating rapidly in my lap, piling up inches at a time. I watched, horrified. This was not the trim I had hoped for, followed by instructions on how to style it for practicality. Instead, it was a rapid destruction, as he systematically dismantled my identity.
As he moved from behind me to my right side, he slid the scissors into my hair above my ear. Efficiently severed, it tumbled over my shoulders to join the enormous mound already gathered in my lap. He did the same on the other side. The sheer volume of what was falling away was staggering. The inconsequential lengths remaining on my head were shockingly short.
‘Right, Charlotte, that’s starting to look much more acceptable now,’ Mr Potter claimed, suddenly placing his large hands each side of my head. He tilted my head, shoving my chin sharply forward, forcing me to stare straight down at the growing mound of hair in my lap.
‘Head down,’ he ordered unnecessarily, given he had clamped it firmly in place with one hand. ‘And hold still,’ he added, his voice brooking no argument.
It was then I heard the sound that truly broke the last remnants of my composure. A sudden, sickening click of a switch from behind, followed immediately by a loud electrical hum. By straining my eyes upwards, I was able to see in the mirror. Mr Potter was admiring a large set of red hairclippers that had formerly hung from a hook on the wall by the mirror.
Fear flooded my system. I instinctively jerked upright, a desperate movement born of panic. An avalanche of freshly cut hair tumbled from the cape and showered onto the floor.
‘Please, Mr Potter, no!’ I cried, trying to turn my face toward his reflection. ‘I have never had men’s hairclippers used on me! Please, do not use them, I beg you –’
‘Do not worry, young lady,’ he interrupted. ‘The hairclippers make no distinction on whether they are being used on a man or a woman,’ he scoffed, completely misinterpreting how I felt. ‘They are equally effective whatever the gender of the fortunate recipient.’
He followed my plea with an even more brutal shove so that my chin was nearly touching the cape. He planted his palm flat on the top of my skull, a vice-like grip that ensured I could not move again. Then, the attack of the hairclippers began.
The cold metallic blade hit the nape of my neck with a loud, grinding vibration. They roared and crunched through the remaining hair on the back and sides, stripping it away with merciless efficiency. The sound was deafening, the sensation raw and vibrating deep in my skull. Mr Potter unceremoniously steered my head left, right, up, and down, ensuring his diabolical machine cleared every trace of my hair below a perimeter that had formed. Finishing with the hairclippers, he allowed my head to rise. Using smaller scissors, he meticulously sharpened the blunt line around my head with chilling severity.
I looked into the mirror, heart hammering. Where there had been long, flowing locks, usually in casual disarray, there was now only a stark white landscape of shaved skin rising high above my ears and around the back of my head. My ears, so rarely escaping the confines of my long hair in the past, suddenly stuck out prominently. Perched above the shaved wasteland was a glossy cap of blonde hair, cut short and uniform, resembling a shining helmet. It was stark and horrifyingly neat.
‘Almost there, young lady,’ Mr Potter announced, brushing stray clippings off my shoulders before draping a large, fluffy white towel around my neck.
Unbelievably, he then smeared copious amounts of white lather right up to the perimeter of the bowl-like cap, using a small brush. He brandished an old-fashioned straight razor that I briefly observed in the mirror. Then he nudged the back of my head, and this time, I obediently lowered my head and kept it in place. ‘Good girl. Now, keep completely still, Charlotte,’ he warned.
A severe tingling pulsed through my entire body as the razor did its work. He cleaned up the perimeter, shaving the skin beneath the blunt edges of the bowl to a ghostly white. Unnervingly, the edge of the haircut was a flawless contour that sat high above my natural hairline.
Finally, he brushed the thick cap of hair on the crown, distributing the length evenly around my head until a short, heavy fringe flopped over my forehead, almost touching my eyebrows.
‘There we are,’ he declared, stepping back with a proprietorial air. ‘A neat and proper bowlcut. The ideal style for a studious youngster.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘male or female.’
He did not seem to register the irony of forcing a severe, juvenile cut on a young woman who was about to start at university. He seemed detached and unworried that I had just lost over three feet of hair. I felt completely humiliated and utterly exposed.
The chair hissed, and he slowly lowered me back to the ground. Then he snatched the heavy, hair-laden cape away from me. As he did so, the remains of my severed thigh-length hair rustled against the material and joined the huge pile that encircled the chair.
‘Right, Charlotte,’ Mr Potter said breezily, pointing towards a broom and dustpan leaning against the wall. ‘Grab those. Your first task is sweeping. I want to see you clean up all this mess before the first customer arrives.’
I climbed stiffly out of the chair, my head feeling unnaturally light and cold. My reflection in the mirror was inescapable. A pale, awkward figure in a short, tight dress topped with a stark and unforgiving haircut. I picked up the broom with trembling hands and started to sweep.
I pushed the heavy and tangled mound of my former identity towards the litter bin. Fifteen minutes earlier, it had been an intrinsic part of me. And then it became trash.
‘And once you’ve done that, young lady, you can make us a nice cup of tea,’ he requested.
Epilogue
I swept the floor, tears stinging my eyes, knowing that I had secured the one-week trial. But the cost, my humiliation, and his dark sense of control settled heavily upon me.
But my unexpected future started right there, in a traditional gentlemen’s barbershop, under the authority of Mr Potter, the barber.
My summer of drama had only just begun.
To be continued
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
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