Hairlines 1 – Jasmine Meets Mrs Potts, the Village Hairdresser

Prologue

I frequently saw Mrs Potts standing outside her salon, chatting to anyone who passed by. I often wondered how she found the time to do any hairdressing while maintaining what seemed to be a never-ending social calendar around our friendly village.

Mrs Potts was a lovely, jovial lady, and she reminded me of my sadly departed dear old Nanna. Living with just my dad, as Mum had divorced him and moved away, I had grown to picture Mrs Potts as an older female influence in my life. Not that I truly knew her.

Mrs Potts specialised in the type of hair styles that older women in the village tended to favour. A regular perm, the occasional trim, and a weekly shampoo and set. It was probably why my Nanna used to visit her. And perhaps, with fewer older women remaining in the village as the years rolled by, it was why Mrs Potts had so much time on her hands.

My friends and I avoided Hairlines, the only salon in the village. We preferred to either let our hair grow long and keep it trimmed ourselves or visit one of the more fashionable salons in nearby town.

My hair reached down to my bottom, longer than anyone I knew, and it had always been remarkably thick. I saw it as a canvas to express my unique identity. I loved crafting braids and ponytails, twisting them into intricate designs whenever the mood struck. But without Mum around to guide me – and with Dad too preoccupied with work – it often grew overly long and out of shape. It left me feeling proud of its length but frustrated by the uneven ends that caused frequent annoying tangles. However, even that irritation was insufficient to drive me to visit Mrs Potts.

Respite

In my last year at college the tutors had allowed us a couple of weeks for revision before we took our final exams. Although I had diligently produced a study timetable, the first morning was gloriously sunny and warm. So, a few of my friends and I decided to meet up in the village for a coffee in the market square before burying our heads in our books for the rest of the day.

For the first time that year, I wore my favourite white summer dress. The puffed sleeves and lacey material gave it style, while the height of the hem gave many opportunities for my legs to become tanned following their winter hibernation. I scraped my chestnut hair into a high ponytail to keep cool in the sun … and to look cool to everyone that saw it.

As I took a final look in the mirror before slipping out the door, I noted the uneven and wispy ends of my ponytail. The ends were level with the hem of my short dress, but they did not display the solid blunt line that I loved. A trim felt like a promising idea, but I doubted that I would be able to find time to visit the nearby town before the exams.

Daydream

It was mid-morning and pleasantly warm. I had fallen into a daydream as I strolled through our village towards the market square. The sun kissed my skin, my ponytail swished from side-to-side, and the scent of blooming flowers filled the air. I felt carefree, and I looked forward to meeting my friends.

‘Morning, young lady!’ piped up a voice that pulled me back from my reverie.

I blinked and looked up to see Mrs Potts, her bright eyes sparkling beneath the sun. ‘It’s Jasmine, isn’t it?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Hello, Mrs Potts,’ I responded politely, trying not to show my annoyance at her waylaying me. ‘Yes, I am Jasmine. You used to do Nanna’s hair.’

‘Yes, I did … and I miss her … as I’m sure you do too,’ Mrs Potts murmured reflectively, before suddenly perking up. ‘My, how you have grown, Jasmine! And your hair too! That ponytail must be long enough to sit on?’

‘Yes, Mrs Potts,’ I smiled patiently, struggling to think of a courteous way to excuse myself. I resisted the temptation look at the time on my phone or check for messages from my friends. To do so would have been bad-mannered, but it was frustrating to have my journey interrupted by this unexpected encounter.

‘When I was young, every young girl wanted to grow their hair long, including me,’ she chuckled, her laughter filled with a childlike joy. ‘But once I became a hairstylist, everything changed! With punk styles becoming the trend, every girl wanted to chop off their locks into trendy cuts and have their hair coloured with every shade under the sun.’

I glanced at her, intrigued but confused. I was too young to have any idea of the trends she was referring to. Furthermore, it was difficult for me to imagine Mrs Potts as a trendsetter, even in her youth, with her short and neat, permed hairstyle. ‘Oh, that sounds interesting,’ I lied. ‘Well, Mrs Potts, it has been nice talking to you -’

I had been hoping my less than subtle hint would work, but Mrs Potts was not ready to let me go just yet. ‘I imagine you could do with a nice trim, Jasmine, looking at those raggedy ends,’ she noted correctly. ‘Perhaps something shorter,’ she continued worryingly, a pleading look in her eyes, ‘or maybe even a perm.’

A wave of horror washed over me. A perm? That was something I had only seen on the older women that emerged from Hairlines, forever associated with the odours that permeated from its door. At almost eighteen, I shuddered at the thought. ‘That’s so kind of you, Mrs Potts, but -’

‘It’s warm out here so why not come inside, Jasmine?’ Her hopeful gaze was magnetic. ‘I can offer some suggestions about what we can do with all that hair. I can even find us a nice cool drink. What do you think? Hmm?’

For a moment, I hesitated. I did like Mrs Potts, especially as she brought back memories of Nanna. And I did need a trim. But, with talk of perms and short styles, I thought it would be unwise to entrust my precious locks to her. Furthermore, my friends were waiting for me across the other side of the market square. However, the warmth in her tone felt comforting, and there was something about her interest that made me want to linger.

‘Okay,’ I said finally, the word spilling out, almost against my will. Mrs Potts beamed at me, her eyes crinkling into a smile.

‘Welcome to Hairlines, Jasmine,’ she announced with obvious pride, beckoning for me to follow her inside.

Hairlines

Inside, the salon looked more contemporary than I expected. Or, rather, less old-fashioned than I had envisaged for an establishment catering for the older women in the village. Bold colours, sharp lines, and glinting steel gave a modern feel. But the slightly faded appearance, suggested it had once been modern in another era and needed sprucing up.

‘Please sit and relax, Jasmine,’ Mrs Potts invited, gesturing to one of the large chrome and black leather chairs that she spun around to face me. ‘I will get you a nice glass of orange juice.’

Nervously, I perched on the edge of the seat, as she fetched the beverages. I expected a brief discussion surrounding her suggestions for my hair, rather than finding time to make myself comfortable and enjoy a drink. No sooner had I sat, then she placed two glasses on the nearby shelf, turned me around to face a large mirror, and enveloped me in a huge white cape. I grew anxious as silence fell while she carefully examined my hair.

‘My goodness, Jasmine, the ends of your ponytail reach the floor. I cannot remember the last time I had someone in my chair with such long hair.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Potts,’ I said. Expressing my appreciation of her words did not seem to quite fit with her assessment of my hair, but I could not think of what else to say in reply.

‘I would love to cut it all off,’ she stated, causing me splutter on my juice which she seemed oblivious to. ‘I would then give you a nice wedge style … or perhaps an inverted bob … or maybe even a nice sleek bowlcut,’ she said pensively. ‘Fashionable styles, back in the day … but sadly no longer,’ she added wistfully.

Whether fashionable or not, most of her words were a foreign language to me and passed me by. But her eager proposal to cut all my hair off had made me extremely anxious. Despite my wish to humour the lovely Mrs Potts, I had begun to realise that entering Hairlines had been a foolhardy idea. I was about to excuse myself, once again, when Mrs Potts thrust an old photo album under my nose.

Reminiscence

‘That’s me,’ Mrs Potts said pointing to a beautiful young woman with extremely short, bobbed hair smiling enigmatically from the photo album. ‘And that … and that. What do you think?’

Despite my strong aversion to short hair – especially that short – I could see she had cut the styles well and they suited the models. One girl had platinum blonde locks, and her hair looked like a crewcut, but with the top sticking up like a brush. ‘Wow,’ I said involuntarily, caught out by its almost masculine severity.

‘Flattop,’ Mrs Potts explained, but making no sense to me. ‘What do think?’

‘Very good.’ I was unsure what I was supposed to think or say. ‘Attractive model. You did these?’ I asked.

She looked at me coyly, and tittered.

Her reaction caused me to look more closely at each of the photos. And then at her. It was the same model in each one. Mrs Potts! ‘No, it is you!’ I shrieked, and she nodded, beaming with delight. ‘Wow!’

Mrs Potts features and her hair may have softened over the years giving her a pleasant mature appearance but, when she was younger, she had looked stunning.

I flicked through more pages. I saw other models and many different hairstyles of various lengths. ‘They are some I cut and coloured myself, preserved for posterity to demonstrate my past haircutting skills,’ she clarified, with a note of regret in her voice. ‘Which is your favourite, Jasmine?’ she asked.

I pointed immediately to one that had caught my eye. It was severe for a woman. It most closely resembled the haircut that a lot of the guys around the village were getting to look cool. They referred to them as “fades” with the hair longer through the top and shaved on the back and sides. ‘Ah, yes, the wedge. It suited me, didn’t it?’

I had to remind myself that it was Mrs Potts with that edgy haircut, but it did suit her. ‘Yes, definitely,’ I agreed.

‘It would suit you too,’ she stated plainly. ‘Perfect face shape and bone structure, and nice strong hair to hold the style through the top.’

I felt breathless. Words failed me. Obviously, I could not contemplate such a change of style, especially something like that, from another era. However, the style looked anything but old-fashioned, especially when modelled by Mrs Potts in her youth. It looked fresh, vibrant, and exciting! Rather than stale, dull and boring that accurately summed up the long straight hair I had worn forever.

‘So, Jasmine, what do you think? Hmm?’ Mrs Potts asked, sounding excited.

I pretended to think about her proposal, while accepting it was a ridiculous idea.

While I pretended to think, Mrs Potts swept away brushes and rollers cluttering the shelf before me; items that she would employ on her older clientele. She tugged open a drawer below the shelf. Retrieving combs, clips, and scissors, she purposefully laid them out before me. She then took out a large set of hairclippers, plugged them in, and put them alongside.

‘Hmm?’ Mrs Potts repeated, holding my gaze in the mirror.

‘Yes, please,’ I murmured shocking myself. Where had that come from. She looked at me quizzically, as if for confirmation. ‘Could you give me a wedge haircut, Mrs Potts … like the one you used to have?’

Mrs Potts beamed with delight. ‘It will be my pleasure, Jasmine.’

Performance

Mrs Potts took a large pair of scissors from the shelf under the mirror. She lifted my ponytail. Then she pulled it taut with a surprising strength that made my eyes water.

With scissors poised, she caught my worried gaze in the mirror, and put her head to one side questioningly. ‘Jasmine, are you sure you want all of this hair cut off?’

Admittedly, viewing that scene would have been unimaginable earlier that day. And hearing her strongly emotive words, I did have second thoughts. But just for a moment, as I knew I had to be decisive. ‘Yes,’ I snapped defiantly.

Without a further word, the shining blades of the scissors closed on the base of my ponytail. The thickness of my hair caused my ponytail to put up a brave fight. With a look of intense concentration, biting her tongue, Mrs Potts chopped through my hair repeatedly it all came away in her hand. She tied a band around the end, held my ponytail up for me to admire, and then laid it down reverentially on the shelf under the mirror.

With deft fingers, she undid the remaining short stump of hair that spring ridiculously from the top of my head. She then carefully sectioned off a panel on my crown, representing approximately half of my hair. She refastened that section into another ludicrously short ponytail pluming from my crown.

Mrs Potts combed through all the loose hair on the back and sides of my head. My hair resembled an uneven and unflattering bob that rarely reached my chin, causing me to anxiously question my decision. However, I soon realised the life of my unbecoming bob was destined to be extremely short. Mrs Potts had retrieved the hairclippers from the shelf and she was studying my unruly hair with great intensity.

‘So, that’s the worst done, Jasmine,’ Mr Potts said excitedly, ‘and now the hairclippers.’

Worst? The thought of hairclippers reducing the length of my hair even more sounded equally horrendous! ‘Ah,’ I muttered, trying to inject as much enthusiasm as I could into my response, but failing miserably.

Using the comb to lift the hair covering one ear, she sliced it off using the hairclippers. Having got back in the groove, she repeatedly lifted and sliced off all the hair on the back and sides of my head, gradually reducing it all to a fine pelt.

The buzz of the clippers grew louder as they grazed the nape of my neck, and I fought the instinct to duck away. ‘What if I hate it?’ I blurted out, the words spilling from my mouth before I could stop them.

‘Oh, you won’t,’ Mrs Potts insisted, an unwavering confidence evident in her tone. ‘Change is scary, but sometimes it is exactly what we need. Besides,’ she continued, her hands skilfully working the clippers, ‘this will be a fantastic way to honour your Nanna’s memory. She loved styles that turned heads, especially in her younger days when she visited me in the city.’

A tremor ran through me. It was not just from Mrs Potts clippering away my hair but from the realisation that she was right. Nanna had never been one for the ordinary. She often recounted stories of how she stood out in a crowd, whether with her bright floral dresses or her daring hairstyles. In a strange way, this haircut did feel like a tribute to her fierce spirit.

Using a finer comb with the clippers, Mrs Potts painstakingly checked and rechecked the clippered areas. Fading the length as she got closer to the hairline, I saw she had shaved it right down to the skin around my ears and along my nape. Where my had once been long and full, it was now completely bare.

As the buzzing of the hairclippers continued, I felt a surge of anxiety. One moment, my long hair had been an extension of my childhood, woven with memories of my Nanna and playful afternoons spent in front of the mirror experimenting with braids. In the next moment, Mrs Potts was unemotionally taking all of that away.

The sensation of the clippers gliding through my freshly buzzed hair was oddly exhilarating. Strands floated gracefully to the floor like autumn leaves, vibrant against the worn linoleum tiles of the salon. I gazed in the mirror, watching the transformation unfold.

Mrs Potts hummed a gentle tune, clearly relishing in her artistry. In that moment, I became aware of the contrast between her old-fashioned demeanour and the raw energy swirling around us. The world outside the salon seemed to fade. I was able to forget about the looming exams and the anticipated judgment of my peers.

‘See how fabulous you look already?’ Mrs Potts exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. ‘This will be like shedding a skin, Jasmine. Your true self – your bold self – is about to shine through.’

I met her gaze in the mirror. In place of the conservative, some might say childish, ponytail, I was sporting a hairstyle that was not unlike a Mohican. A short ponytail plumed on my crown, and Mrs Potts had shaved the back and sides of my head down to the bone at the hairline. I agreed with Mrs Potts. I did look bold, but I was unsure whether I truly comfortable.

However, I had not realised until that moment how much I yearned for change. I was stepping into adulthood, leaving behind a past that, while comforting, felt increasingly stifling. ‘Thank you, Mrs Potts,’ I managed, trying to find the right words amid the chaos of emotions.

The stylist beamed as she undid the makeshift ponytail on my crown, spritzed it with water, and combed it straight back from my forehead. With the fine comb, she separated a small section of hair on my crown and lifted it straight up. Momentarily I felt relieved that some of my hair was still moderately long. However, she sliced through the section with her scissors, leaving just a few centimetres behind. Taking that abbreviated lock as a guide, she began nimbly graduating and layering all my hair along the top of my head. The finer points of the technique were a mystery to me, but I deduced that she was creating a distinct and obvious step. A wedge, separating the layered hair through the crown and the back and sides that she had buzzed earlier. The intended hairstyle was taking shape.

With each movement of her hands, Mrs Potts spoke of her younger days, when hair was an important part of identity. It was time when people dared to challenge society’s stuffiness by frequently changing the lengths, styles, and colours of their hair. I listened, enraptured by her irresistible charm and passion.

I questioned why Mrs Potts had given up her successful career in a leading city establishment. It must have been a huge step to then work in an unfashionable salon in the village where she had been born. She was reticent concerning the details, but she summarised by saying that her mother was struggling to run The Village Hairdresser on her own.

Mrs Potts had refurbished her mother’s salon, renaming it Hairlines, and hoped some of her city clientele would follow. They did not. She had hoped to attract younger customers from the village than her mother had managed, but she did not. Instead, she had taken over a traditional salon, offering traditional services, and catering to traditional older clients. Despite making the move for all the right reasons concerning her mother, it seemed an abrupt and sad change for her. Even after so many years, Mrs Potts still exhibited the skills and techniques from that era, as I was witnessing myself.

‘Now to work a styling product through your hair to hold the style,’ Mr Potts explained, as she added the finishing touches. ‘And a short blast from the blow-dyer will keep your style sharp, so you’ll be ready to face the world.’

With equipment silenced and cape removed, Mrs Potts standing behind with a hand mirror. Finally, I was able to take in the full extent of my transformation. It was peculiar to see the strange reflection staring back at me in the mirror. It was a girl transformed into someone unrecognisable, yet strangely familiar.

The angular haircut swept back from my face, through the crown, curving gracefully above my ears, to finish in a distinct ledge high up the back of my head. The style accentuated my features in ways I had never noticed before. The angles and lines of my face seemed sharper, more pronounced, and the shock of the change was exciting, if a little terrifying.

I instinctively touched the sharp layers through the top, half-expecting to feel the heavy tangles of my old self. Instead, I found a new lightness of touch, enhanced by the exhilarating sensation of the shaved back and sides.

‘Wow, I love it!’ I blurted out, hardly able to contain my joy. This was me, yet it felt like a new beginning.

Aftershock

Mrs Potts beamed on hearing my heartfelt reaction to her incredible work, gleefully clapping her hands together. ‘I knew you had it in you! Remember, Jasmine, hair is not just hair; it is an expression of who you are and who you want to be.’

‘I can see that now,’ I happily confirmed, unable to stop examining my new appearance. ‘You really are a miracle worker, Mrs Potts.’

‘Perhaps, Jasmine … back in the day … when I had more opportunities,’ she murmured wistfully, her beaming smile faltering momentarily. ‘As for you, don’t be afraid to experiment,’ she said gently, patting my shoulder.

‘Thank you, Mrs Potts. I really needed this.’ I could feel a lightness in my soul I had not experienced in a long time. It was not just about my hair. It was also about the connection and the warmth of sharing moments with someone who understood, recalling my memories of Nanna.

‘Please drop by, Jasmine, whenever you wish. Whether for a trim, or another radical restyle, or even just a chat. I’ve plenty more stories to tell,’ she chuckled, and I found myself laughing too.

‘I will, for sure,’ I said affectionately, with emotion pricking my eyes. ‘And remembering what you were saying about having more opportunities in the past, Mrs Potts,’ I continued sternly, ‘you should create new and enjoyable opportunities for yourself in the future.’

She gave a little chuckle. ‘I’m too old to -’

‘Never!’ I refuted, quickly placing a finger on her lips to silence her. ‘Don’t be afraid to experiment, Mrs Potts,’ echoing her advice to me earlier. ‘Besides, you have a lovely new mannequin to model your daring haircuts,’ I giggled, giving a twirl around Hairlines, and provocatively running my fingers through my attractive new hairstyle.

By silent agreement, we acknowledged that no more words were necessary between us that day. We shared a lovely long hug, I pecked Mrs Potts on each cheek, then quickly departed before emotion overtook me again.

Epilogue

As I stepped out of the salon, my head held higher and the warm breeze caressing my bare neck, I realised that Mrs Potts had not only cut my hair but had also opened a door to a friendship I had never expected. And in that moment, I felt not only the thrill of change but the warmth of connection.

But now, the tricky bit, I thought to myself. With some trepidation, I entered the market square and strutted confidently to the table outside the café where my friends had gathered.

‘Jasmine!’ Three shrill voices chorused. ‘Jasmine, is that really you?’