Erica is Prepared to Serve at “Tea by the Sea”

The Prologue

The Tea by the Sea café glittered in the distance with the promise of summer freedom. No stuffy office internships for me. Sun, sea air, and tips are what I craved during the long college vacation.

As I skipped excitedly along the promenade towards to my destination, I recalled the enjoyable family holidays we spent in Billington Bay when I was younger. Not that we ever ventured inside Tea by the Sea. Every time we passed, my mum would comment on their scandalous prices for a cup of tea while dad would laugh at the ladies in the window tables nibbling tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off. We always ended up in a traditional fish and chip shop with a huge plate of buttered bread (with the crusts still on) allowing my dad to make his customary huge chip butty.

They were happy days, and I had been delighted to see the summer job advertised in the town. On returning to Billington Bay for my interview, I was pleased to see that the charm of the typical seaside town of yesteryear did not appear to have changed.

The next few months by the seaside were looking bright indeed.

The Interview

Mrs Milson, the owner and manager of Tea by the Sea, was an intense woman, quite unlike the tutors and fellow students I had been mixing with around college for the past year.

Her tailored blazer, matching short skirt, and white silk blouse with a neat bow at the neck, looked moulded to her figure. Her elaborate updo had not a hair out of place, and her carefully made-up eyes were sharp, darting around every corner of her establishment, and always assessing.

Despite her intimidating demeanour, she was pleasant enough during the interview. Impressed by my experience of dealing with customers in my part-time role in the campus bookshop, she praised my enthusiasm. The wages were great and the estimated tips even better. Instinctively, I went to hug her when she offered me the job, but a slightly raised eyebrow and a delicate sniff was sufficient to keep me in my place.

Mrs Milson handed me an agreement to review, but I barely glanced at it before signing on the spot in case she changed her mind.

The Uniform

I had dressed neatly for the interview, wearing my best jeans (the only ones without any rips!) and a pretty floral blouse. After considering assorted options with my butt-length hair, I simply pulled it back in a neat ponytail at the nape, assuming that we be fine for serving at tables. I felt professional, yet still me, and I hoped Mrs Milson would consider my smart appearance suitable for performing my new role. Looking ahead, I intended to top up my wardrobe after I received my first week’s pay.

‘And now the Tea by the Sea uniform, Erica,’ Mrs Milson announced proudly.

Her unexpected revelation had caught me off guard, prompting me to me to give her a questioning look.

‘All the details are in the agreement,’ she snapped, tapping the document I had just signed … but had not read!

‘Of course, Mrs Milson,’ I felt obliged to utter.

Mrs Milson stood up and gestured for me to do likewise. Assessing me with her piercing eyes, she marched over to a wardrobe tucked away in one corner of her office. She selected an outfit from a row of similar garments. ‘These will fit you, Erica. Try them on now, in readiness for your first day at work.’

She handed me a very short black skirt that would barely cover my hips, and a crisp, white blouse, nipped in at the waist, which looked a size too small.

With no alternative offered, I removed my own clothes in the middle of her office, feeling very self-conscious. She shuffled papers on her desk, suggesting she was working, but I sensed her piercing eyes were upon me throughout. As I eased myself into the outfit, I was relieved to find that it fitted, but it was certainly snug.

As I was rearranging my collar – spreading it wide for comfort – Mrs Milson’s eyes suddenly grew wide, startling me. It was like she had seen something horrific behind me. She quickly circled her desk and faced me, standing uncomfortably close.

‘Please remember, Erica,’ she stated, fastening all the remaining buttons, ‘you must always button your blouse to the top! Buttoned up all the way to the neck,’ Mrs Milson insisted. ‘For uniformity,’ she added in justification.

After my casual jeans and top, the uniform felt very prim and proper, as if it originated from a bygone era. The ensemble was disturbingly restrictive.

‘The skirt is a bit short, isn’t it?’ I blurted out, tugging down on the hem.

Mrs Milson just smirked. ‘You look delightful, Erica. The refined and wealthy clientele of Tea by the Sea appreciate nature’s assets being on display.’ Her eyes held a cold amusement as she admired my legs. It was a surprising, not to mention jarring, thing to say to a woman in a contemporary workplace environment.

The blouse was tight. Uncomfortably so. ‘This shirt feels a bit constricting,’ I muttered, fiddling with the top button and trying to force a finger between my neck and the collar so I could breathe.

‘Yes, it is snug, but it fits you perfectly,’ Mrs Milson said approvingly, her voice low, as she gently eased my hands away from the collar, so they rested by my sides. I felt like I was on parade, ready for inspection, as her eyes scrutinised me. ‘Mm, especially snug across the bust,’ she commented, a smile playing on her lips.

While proving her last remark, she softly brushed the fabric of the blouse, her palm lingering on my breasts just a beat too long. I experienced a strange heat bloom in my chest, an uncomfortable awareness of my own body. I felt my nipples hardening against the fabric, and I worried that they might even be visible through the thin material.

‘Perfect,’ she announced, standing back and clapping her hands together with glee.

The Grooming

‘Grooming is paramount for those employed at Tea by the Sea,’ Mrs Milson stressed, looking intently at me as if daring me to disagree.

I held my tongue, still feeling that I was on parade as she began circling me like a panther.

‘You will be delighted to learn that I have an arrangement with Shear Perfection, a salon owned by Olivia Samuels, a good friend of mine. It is just a short walk away so just pop over there, dressed as you are, immediately following this interview. They will provide you with a complimentary appointment, so you look nice and smart for your first day at work.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Milson,’ I gushed. Although I was not keen on wearing my staff uniform outside the confines of the café, a free trim would be perfect! The ends of my long hair were getting a bit raggedy. I had intended to get something done before the interview, but not only did I run out of time, but I also ran low on cash.

‘Take this with you to introduce yourself,’ Mrs Milson said, thrusting a business card in my hand on which she had scribbled my name. ‘And once they have finished with you,’ she added, her eyes twinkling, ‘then report straight back here so that I can inspect you.’

Inspect me? The word sent a shiver down my spine.

The Shear Perfection Salon

Shear Perfection was a spacious glass-fronted emporium in a smart arcade of exclusive stores, located just behind the seafront. From the outside, it looked like a sanctuary for wealthy women to indulge in a wide range of expensive beauty treatments in a setting reminiscent of those seen in glossy fashion magazines.

I felt a surge of relief at the opulence, and I felt a little foolish, wondering if I had been overreacting to Mrs Milson’s authoritarian manner.

Inside, the receptionist was all smiles, designer dress, and perfectly coiffed blonde hair. I handed over the card that my new boss had given me. ‘Ah,’ she chirped, ‘Mrs Milson has sent you. Well, I could have guessed that from your attire,’ she sniffed disparagingly. Turning on the charm once more, she continued. ‘Our lovely Ben will be taking care of you in our select private lounge.’

That sounded even better than I expected. It certainly sounded more “select” than the cheap hairdresser near college who I allowed to trim my ends every six months or so. I was always very clear about my requirements and Sally, bless her, was very meticulous about cutting no more than was necessary. Her diligence had allowed my hair to grow healthily to a quite remarkable length, already reaching my hips.

I turned away from the receptionist, feeling out of place in my waitress uniform following her cutting remark. The salon was a hive of activity and, through it all, a good-looking young guy was marching directly towards me with a beaming smile. Fashionably and expensively dressed, Ben looked incredibly cool, with an edgy haircut and immaculate designer stubble. The black leather jeans looked sprayed on, and he managed to make the floral shirt look manly on him.

When he came to a halt in front of me, he glanced at my card that he found on the desk. ‘Hello, Erica, I am Ben, and I will be looking after you today.’

‘Hi Ben,’ I simpered, as we shook hands.

‘Come right this way,’ he said, leading me past a raft of equally attractive colleagues. Each one was attending to a fashionably dressed client at their spacious and well-appointed station. An army of attentive juniors stood by to assist their colleagues.

I was already looking forward to Ben pampering me in such a welcoming atmosphere. My expectations were high for my own private lounge. However, as we left the opulent salon area behind us, I followed him down a sparsely decorated corridor hidden away behind a screen. After a couple more turns, Ben opened a door at the very end of the passage and gestured for me to enter. As I took in my surroundings in confusion, I heard the ominous click of the door latching closed behind me.

The “select private lounge” was not what I expected. No, not at all. It was essentially just a small storeroom. Functional shelving units lined one wall containing boxes of hairdressing supplies, while in the corner was another closed door. Dominating the central space was a clunky, ancient barber’s chair, facing a tarnished mirror that had a crack across one corner. There were no windows, with the only light coming from a fluorescent tube hanging above the chair. The air smelt musty, and there was a strong odour of hairspray mingling with other hairdressing products.

The contrast been this odious room and the main salon was jarring. The only part of the description that was accurate was that it was private. Disconcertingly private.

‘Please take a seat, Erica,’ Ben invited with his beaming smile, as he waved towards the worn chair with a flourish, theatrically brushing the seat with a towel.

I should have turned around then. My instincts were screaming at me to do so, but I ignored them.

The Select Private Lounge

I warily lowered myself onto the cracked leather seat, recoiling at the texture of the chipped paint on the cold metal armrests as I did so.

From a hook by the mirror, Ben took a huge white cape of questionable cleanliness and draped it over me. He secured it tightly around my neck, under the base of my ponytail at my nape, with my hair trailing down the back of the chair. He had fastened the cape so tight, I felt like I could not breathe.

Ben enthusiastically cranked the chair up using an old-fashioned mechanical lever. The seat did not rise smoothly as it would with a modern salon chair but, instead, I jerked upwards with a series of jolting movements. I quickly had to transfer my feet, previously firmly planted on the ground, onto the footrest as he raised me far higher than I felt comfortable. Despite being so far from the ground, the large cape still completely covered me. It left me feeling extremely exposed and distinctly vulnerable.

Worse than all the clumsy preparation was the fact that Ben had gone silent. It was eerie. Whenever I caught his eye, he stretched his lips in a thin smile than hovered between anticipatory and predatory. I decided to break the stalemate while he made himself ready.

‘So,’ I began, peering in the cracked and stained mirror, trying to find the clearest view. I saw that Ben had moved, standing completely still and directly behind me. His beaming smile had returned and, disconcertingly, it was dazzling me in the mirror.

I stumbled over what I was about to say as, without warning, he suddenly spun the chair through ninety degrees, away from the mirror, leaving me gazing at a bare wall.

Catching my breath, I tried again. ‘So,’ I repeated in an upbeat tone, trying to inject a measure of cheer into the dispiriting situation, ‘just a trim, please, Ben … to even out the ends. I was thinking an inch … or even two if you think it really needs it?’

The thought crossed my mind that Sally would never have dared to cut as much as two inches. It was only his awful silence and my desperate need to engage with him, that allowed me to be so magnanimous.

Ben did not even look at me as he busied himself with something. He just mumbled, ‘Mrs Milson knows what’s best.’

‘Well, perhaps not,’ I quipped, still trying to add levity. However, given his behaviour, I was beginning to wonder if I had inadvertently hurt his professional pride by using the word “trim”. ‘I have -’

‘Yes, she does know what’s best,’ he insisted, a worry edge to his tone.

‘I have been thinking,’ I pressed, ‘of having a few layers … giving some lift … perhaps some light graduation around the sides … you know, to frame my face … but definitely not a fringe … I have never had or wanted a fringe …’

Nothing! No reaction at all. It was so unnerving. Earlier, I recalled that I could have easily turned around before entering this dingy storeroom. My instincts had been screaming at me then to do so, and they still were.

One last attempt, I promised myself. ‘You see, Ben, I really like my hair long and -’

A chilling noise suddenly halted my explanation.

The Chilling Noise

Without any warning, I felt the cold steel of scissors against my neck, immediately followed by a single resounding crunch. My head sprung up as I experienced an unfamiliar lightness on my scalp. With a whooshing noise, I watched my beautiful, hip-length hair sail past my face, coil up like a snake in my lap, before tumbling to the floor with a resounding plop.

I gasped, whirling around in the chair. ‘What have you done?’ I squealed, still coming to terms with the fact that my hair was no longer adorning my head but decorating the cracked tiles below the chair on which I sat.

Ben just smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. He retrieved a set of old red hairclippers from a hook by the mirror – worn paint on the edges but still looking purposeful – and he plugged them in. ‘Mrs Milson’s instructions. She wants you to look … well, uniform,’ he tittered, a manic edge to his laughter. ‘It is all in the agreement you would have signed.’

Ah, yes, the agreement. Although I continued to complain, the loud whine of the fearsome hairclippers drowned my words. Pumped up high in the chair, weighed down by a large heavy cape, the chance to escape Ben’s intentions was not straightforward.

As I considered what I should do, he forcefully drove the blade of the clippers through the remaining hair covering my neck. Although I hoped he would pause, he ruthlessly continued the same action around the sides of my head. As I was still facing away from the mirror, I was unable to witness, mercifully, my hair’s final destruction.

‘Stop!’ I screamed, louder than before, but the raucous sound of the hairclippers cloaked even that emphatic entreaty.

So, he did not stop.

The clippers buzzed against my scalp, chewing through my hair. Methodically, brutally. I felt the coolness of the room envelope the back of my head and around my ears. Areas normally warmed by the comforting feel of my hair. Although I grew increasingly worried, I could do nothing to stop his relentless zeal.

It felt like an age before he silenced the hairclippers, but time had lost any meaning as he manipulated my head back and forth, and side to side, while he continued his dastardly task. Then, without warning, he spun the chair around so that I was facing the mirror once more. I focused on its surface, trying to ignore the stains and cracks. And I came close to fainting.

The Grand Unveiling

My eyes were drawn to a smooth cap of hair perched on my crown. The perimeter of that bowl-like shape was well above the tips of my ears. And below that precisely defined edge there was nothing. Ben had shaved the sides of my head completely bare. Down to the bone, leaving only glistening white skin. Trying to turn my head, I suspected he had done the same at the back of my head, resulting in my neck being bald.

Worst of all, he had continued that precise edge he had established on the back and sides of my head, onto my forehead. He had crafted a thick blunt fringe above my eyebrows. With my long hair, a fringe was something I had been steadfastly against all my life. Now, barely all I had on my head, was a fringe.

‘There we go, Erica. Just as Ma- … er, Mrs Milson instructed,’ he said, hastily amending whatever he had been about to say. ‘A lovely bowlcut. The uniform signature style for every waitress at Tea by the Sea.’

Lovely? What was wrong with him? I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror, tears welling in my eyes. Unable to recognise myself, I wanted to look away, but felt drawn to stare, hoping my reflection would somehow change if I waited long enough.

‘Right, off you go,’ Ben ordered, gesturing towards a back door from the storeroom. ‘We would not want our valued salon clientele to see you.’ He spat the word “you” like it was a curse. ‘After all, you are only a waitress.’

I stared at him, opened my mouth, wanting to say something damning. But no words would come. He smirked back at me while brushing my severed hair into a pile in the corner of the room. Finally, as I stumbled towards the door, he fired his parting shot, ‘And make sure you come back every week for a touch up. Mrs Milson will be very unhappy if you don’t.’

I fled through the indicated door and found myself in an alleyway used for salon deliveries. Blinded by tears and shame, I stumbled along and eventually found myself on the seafront. I paused, hands gripping the promenade railings, gazing out across the ocean. The sun beat down on my bare neck, a constant and painful reminder of the hair that I had lost. The sea air, which had seemed so inviting earlier, now whipped around me like a cruel joke.

I slowly walked back to the café. Although I wanted to run, it was necessary for me to keep this job. I desperately needed the money.

I was trapped.

The Final Inspection

Taking a deep breath, I walked through the doors of Tea by the Sea.

I should have taken more notice of my surroundings and the other staff earlier. Waitresses, busy with their work, chanced a glance in my direction with a pitying expression before they quickly turned away. Each woman wore the café uniform of a short black skirt and a crisp white buttoned-up blouse, topped off with a severe bowlcut that was identical to my own. I quivered when I realised that my neck was as bald and bare as all those before me. It was very unsettling.

Mrs Milson looked up from the cash desk just inside the doorway. Her eyes raked over me, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. ‘Excellent, Erica,’ she said, her voice smooth as silk. ‘Oh, Erica, you will fit in just perfectly with us at Tea by the Sea.’

I wanted to berate her, saying how badly Shear Perfection, her friend’s salon, had treated me. At the top of my list of issues, I wanted to single out Ben and lodge a complaint. I wanted to know why she had instructed them to cut my hair short. But it was done now so, instead, I smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you, Mrs Milson.’

‘You are most welcome, Erica. Oh, and did my so- er, Ben mention that you need to go back to him every week for a touch up?’ she smirked, a triumphant, predatory smile. ‘I insist upon that.’

I just nodded, numb. My carefree summer by the sea had turned into a living nightmare. I had become nothing more than a puppet in Mrs Milson’s twisted game, without knowing the rules or her intentions.

‘You will start at 8.30 tomorrow morning,’ Mrs Milson reminded me. ‘Ensure you are in uniform, and lined up for clothes and hair inspection by 8.15 sharp.’

‘Yes, Mrs Milson,’ I sighed.

The Epilogue

‘Thanks, Mum! Another one bites the dust 😊. Erica was such a sweetie.’

I read the message from Ben, my son, and my lips curved into a satisfied smile. My dear, sweet Ben. He was such a talented hairstylist, so devoted to his craft. And, with a little support for his extracurricular desires, kept him fully motivated.

‘She had such wonderful hair, Mum,’ the message continued. ‘It was such fun cutting it all off!’

Yes, Erica’s hair had been lovely. Long, thick, full of youthful vitality. And I am sure it still was, wherever my son, Ben Milson, had concealed it, continuing to satisfy his particular little interest. After all, it would have been such a waste to leave it adorning Erica’s pretty little head.

Relieved of her burden, Erica was much better suited to our Tea by the Sea aesthetic with her nice crisp bowlcut. A clean, uniform look for all my waitresses was both practical and efficient, of course, but also extremely pleasing to my eye. Her long neck, pert breasts, and never-ending legs made me wonder if she might be my little distraction for this summer. There was usually one amongst my team who was keen to find favour with the manager.

That said, the uniformity and the allure was just a bonus. The real reason for the mandatory severe haircut was, as always, my dear Ben. He had always had an interest in hair, verging on an obsession. I still remember the day I had come home early and found him haphazardly chopping off the neighbour’s hair, having convinced her he knew what he was doing. Ben had always had a delightfully persuasive charm.

The important thing for me was that Ben enjoyed himself. He had a fascination with the act of transformation and who was I to deny my son his passion?

Ben had always been a sensitive soul, easily bored. But fortunately, a good friend, the owner of Shear Perfection, was happy to employ him as a trainee stylist while facilitating his special interests. With the arrangement to send my new café recruits to Ben for his special attention, it kept him happy and maintained his interest in hairdressing as a career. And, after all, a happy Ben made for a far more productive salon. And I benefitted from having my staff kept neat and tidy.

‘I’ll bring the video home later,’ he texted, referring the material captured by his hidden camera in the storeroom. ‘We can watch it together during supper.’

My smile widened. Ben knew me so well. He knew how I enjoyed seeing him conduct the transformation process. The initial shock on the women’s face, the dawning realisation of what was unexpectedly occurring, and the complete and utter loss of control. It was all so invigorating although I was anticipating, with particular relish, seeing him work his brand of magic on Erica.

Some might call it cruel. Some might even call it wrong. But I was a mother. And a good mother did everything she could to nurture her child’s undoubted talents … even the more unusual ones.

The End