In the Heat of the Day

prologue

The oppressive heat and humidity were the least of my worries, though the sweat trickling down my spine was a constant, irritating reminder. Spring had abruptly morphed into high summer, a cruel joke of nature designed, it seemed, to amplify the chaos of my life.

My husband, David, was halfway across the world, dutifully slogging through a ridiculously long contract abroad, leaving me, Amanda, to wrestle with the domestic beast single-handedly. My corporate job demanded relentless attention, the house was a perpetual battleground against mountains of laundry, and then there were our teenagers, James and Melanie. Just thinking about it all made my temples throb.

It was James, my perpetually dishevelled son, who finally tipped the scales. His hair, a thick, unruly mop of brown that usually grazed his shoulders, had become a hot, itchy burden.

‘Mum, it’s like a blanket on my head!’ he had whined for the fifth time that morning.

David usually took our son for his haircut when he had his hair trimmed at a salon in the city. Although James was easily old enough to find a place locally and get himself sorted out, he was unwilling to display any initiative. So, with David away and James’s insistence turning into genuine desperation, I had no choice but to take on the task.

mark

Friday afternoon, after a particularly draining week, found the three of us traipsing through the sweltering town centre. Melanie, my daughter, was with us, glued to her phone as usual, but tagging along because we were meeting my mother for an evening meal in a local restaurant. I remembered from when I had been in the area previously that a small barbershop had recently opened, tucked away in a nearby arcade.

My heart hammered with an absurd nervousness as we approached the barber shop. Despite my undisputed reputation for being assertive, a woman who commanded respect in the boardroom, I was inexplicably anxious. I knew absolutely nothing about these male bastions. Were women even allowed inside? Would a shop full of men judge me for encroaching on their sacred turf? Would a gruff, grizzled old man, a stereotype born from an old movie scene, grumble at my presence?

Instead, when we stepped into the blessedly air-conditioned space, Mark greeted me. Neither gruff nor grizzled, he could not have been more than thirty, with an easy smile and eyes that crinkled at the corners. Mark’s dark hair was impeccably styled, a testament to his profession. And his forearms, visible beneath the short sleeves of his crisp white shirt, were strong and exhibited a healthy tan. He was, in a word, handsome. My carefully constructed mental image of the gruff old barber shattered instantly, replaced by a disconcerting flutter in my stomach.

We took seats on a padded bench against the wall. James grabbed a magazine from a low table but then fidgeted beside me, while Melanie withdrew into the digital world of her phone. I pulled out my Kindle, intending to lose myself in a gripping thriller, but the words swam meaninglessly before my eyes. My gaze kept drifting, against my will, towards Mark.

The barber moved with a confident and fluid grace, the hairclippers a humming extension of his hand as he worked on the man currently in the chair. His concentration was absolute, a fascinating blend of artistry and precision. Every time he glanced up, his eyes meeting mine, my cheeks flushed, and I would awkwardly drop my gaze back to my unread novel. It was embarrassing, this adolescent reaction, yet a small, undeniable part of me was pleased that someone noticed me as more than a wife and mother.

Melanie, usually oblivious to anything beyond her screen, was not immune to Mark’s charms either. From beneath her long eyelashes, I caught her sneaking glances in his direction despite him being more than ten years older. But then, I was around ten years older than Mark, so how could I sit in judgement about the age difference?

My daughter had piled her hip-length hair, a cascade of rich brown with subtle auburn highlights, high on her head. Her artfully messy updo represented fashion rather than being an acknowledgement of the hot weather. She had arranged loose tendrils to frame her face, and, as was her habit, she twirled a lock of hair around her finger as she scrolled through her phone. The air in the shop, thick with the scent of aftershave and hair tonic, seemed to crackle with an unspoken energy.

‘Next?’ Mark called, his voice warm and inviting, pulling me from my reverie.

His previous customer was on the way out, and Mark asked him to turn the sign on the door to “Closed” as he would be shutting for the day after he had dealt with my son.

James looked around, and seeing no one else waiting, he jumped up. Mark gestured him into the sleek leather chair, throwing a crisp white cape over him.

discussing

‘I’m Mark,’ he announced brightly, ‘and you are?’

‘I’m fine… Oh, sorry, I mean, I’m James,’ he sniggered, as if unsure, nervous in the unfamiliar surroundings.

As the barber combed through James’s thick, wavy hair, it became clear just how long it truly was. It flopped around his shoulders, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning, and looked as if it had not seen a pair of scissors in months. Mark ran his fingers through it, assessing the mop.

‘Quite the insulation you’ve got going on up here, mate,’ he commented with a grin.

‘I suppose,’ was James’s surly reply, unappreciative of a stranger mocking him.

But Mark quickly engaged him, chatting easily about school, sports, and the oppressive heat. James, often aloof, relaxed under Mark’s relaxed charm. I had not heard all they discussed, so Mark took me by surprise when he suddenly called me over.

‘James and I were just talking,’ he began, leaning in slightly, his clean, masculine aroma filling my senses. His eyes, a captivating hazel, held mine. ‘With this heat, I suggested a significant chop. Maybe even buzzed. James has a great head shape, so it would really suit him.’

I laughed, a nervous, slightly breathless sound. ‘Oh no, I do not think so! I do not want my son looking like a convict!’

Mark chuckled, a low, pleasant sound. ‘Not a convict at all. It is very fashionable in his age group right now. And practical too. He would be so much cooler, and it would be incredibly easy to care for. Imagine no more heavy hair sticking to his neck.’ He ran his hand over James’s head, demonstrating the point.

‘Yes, I see,’ I nodded wisely, unnecessarily adding, ‘and I am Amanda, by the way.’

‘Well, Amanda-by-the-way,’ he said, and I giggled, ‘James has excellent bone structure for the look. It would highlight his handsome features.’

Mark made it sound so enticing, so utterly sensible. Standing so close to him, feeling the warmth of his presence, enveloped by his persuasive tone, I felt a strange sense of anything being possible.

James, still looking hesitant, glanced at me, his eyes wide. My heart softened, but Mark’s confident gaze held mine. ‘What do you think, Amanda?’ he prompted gently.

‘Alright,’ I said, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. ‘Go for it, Mark. Shave him,’ I instructed, feeling unaccountably exhilarated as I said it.

buzzing

Mark did not waste a second. He flipped a switch, and the hairclippers hummed to life. He started at the back of James’s head, just above the nape of his neck. The first pass was swift and confident, carving a clean path through the thick brown hair. I watched, mesmerised, as locks that had been part of my son for years simply dropped away, fluttering to the pristine white cape like autumn leaves. He worked his way up, the clipper blades running smoothly over James’s scalp. The sideburns were gone in a flash, followed by the hair above his ears.

My initial thought was that he was just doing a short buzzcut, using a number two or three guard. But Mark was not stopping. He switched to an even shorter guard, then continued. The humming sound intensified, becoming a soft rasp as it met less resistance with the hair and touched James’s scalp. In what felt like mere seconds, he had not just buzzed James’s head but rendered him almost bald. A pelt-like covering remained on his crown, while Mark had skilfully faded the back and sides, leaving the skin shaved completely at the hairline.

I gasped, a small sound of horror and fascination. My son looked like a stranger, but more mature. His ears, which I had not seen clearly in years, suddenly seemed prominent. His eyes looked larger, more expressive. It was a complete transformation. Despite the initial shock, I found myself utterly entranced. It had happened so quickly, the entire process executed with such skill and speed, a testament to Mark’s mastery. I enjoyed watching him work, his focused intensity and the subtle flex of his arm muscles. And, yes, I even enjoyed the occasional glimpse of his pert bottom as he moved around the chair. I found myself regretting that my son’s haircut was over so soon.

James sat dumbfounded as Mark released him from the chair. He reached up, his fingers tentatively rubbing the unfamiliar surface of his scalp, a mystified grin slowly spreading across his face. He looked like a newborn fawn, all wide-eyed wonder.

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ Mark asked, his voice gentle.

James just nodded at first, still rubbing his head. ‘Yeah, cool, Mark… like suede on top and weirdly smooth on the back. Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome, mate,’ the barber said, before turning his attention to me, that easy smile back in place. ‘I cut girls’ hair too, you know?’

offering

‘Pardon?’ I shrieked, my hand instinctively shooting up protectively to my mid-back layered and highlighted locks.

On such a warm day, I would normally have worn it in my customary neat bun as I would for work. However, as I was meeting my mum, and she always made the effort to look more elegant than me – and usually succeeded – I had left it loose to beat her in the youth stakes. For the same reason, I was wearing my new expensive skirt suit, purchased for work, but suitably accessorised for casualwear, in a vain attempt to outdo Mum.

In retrospect, I was pleased that I had worn my best outfit and styled my hair in the most flattering way, as, childishly I suppose, I was delighted that Mark would see me looking my best. But now he had expressed a desire to cover my suit with a grubby cape and chop all my hair off!

‘No, Amanda,’ he chuckled, while I pretended that my rapid attempt to safeguard my hair was to brush away a stray strand. ‘I did not mean you, although you could easily be mistaken for a girl, of course,’ he added, shamelessly assessing me.

Wow, was he flirting with me?

His gaze flicked towards Melanie, whose phone was still holding her attention, but I could sense her ears pricking up. ‘I meant, would you like me to give Melanie a trim?’

Melanie certainly needed one. Her hip-length hair, for all its beauty, was a weighty burden in this heat, and I had noticed that she had split ends that were, undoubtedly, exacerbated by the heat. But Melanie seemed too embarrassed to say anything, and, given the flush appearing on her cheeks, the signs were that she had developed a crush on Mark. I knew the feeling!

‘Well, you are off to college soon, Melanie, so a trim might be a good idea,’ I suggested tentatively, knowing how defensive she could become when I offered suggestions about her appearance.

‘What?’ she asked nonchalantly, looking up from her phone, pretending she had not been listening intently. ‘Oh, well… Yes, perhaps, just a trim,’ she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper.

My daughter had surprised me. I was expecting at least one belittling “Oh, Mum!” so the easy acceptance made me realise that, in that moment, she believed her crush was real.

‘Excellent,’ Mark said, his smile widening, as he ushered Melanie into his chair, gently guiding her. ‘Relax and get comfortable, Mel.’

melanie

Mark fastened the crisp white cape around her neck, and the incongruity of seeing my ultra-feminine daughter sitting in a barber’s chair amused me. I noticed Melanie tense slightly, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes, as she recognised her strange and unexpected predicament.

Mark released her messy updo, and the full glory of her hair tumbled down her back, a thick, luxurious curtain of brown, reaching well past her hips when she was standing and touching the floor while in that chair. It truly was an astonishing sight, a testament to years of care and attention from both of us.

Mark ran his fingers through it, lifting sections, letting them fall. ‘Wow,’ he whistled softly. ‘That is far longer than I had imagined. It must be incredibly heavy, especially in this heat. And hot too, I imagine?’

Melanie nodded shyly, tugging at a loose tendril. ‘Yes, er, Mark… it really is,’ she responded hesitantly.

‘Does it ever get in the way?’ he asked, his voice low and sympathetic. ‘When you’re eating or trying to sleep?’

She nodded again. ‘All the time!’ she asserted, her voice enthused by demonstrating interest in her welfare. ‘It catches in absolutely everything,’ she lamented, still picking at the ends, unable to hold eye contact.

Mark continued with his questions, each one subtly guiding her towards his intended outcome. He was not pushy. He just presented the logical, practical downsides of such long hair in a remarkably clever way that Melanie found herself agreeing with every point. I could see where the conversation was going, and I should have intervened, but I knew my daughter would not have thanked me.

Melanie continued murmuring her assent to his observations about the weight, the heat, and the practical difficulties. When he finally suggested, ‘Perhaps something a little shorter would make you feel much cooler and lighter?’

She agreed shakily. ‘Yes… well, maybe…’

He caught my eye, a silent communication passing between us. ‘Amanda, could you come over here for a moment?’

I rose, my legs feeling a little wobbly, and moved to stand beside Melanie’s chair. Mark recounted their conversation, his voice calm and reassuring. ‘Melanie agrees that a more substantial change would be beneficial in this weather. I was thinking of a stylish bob, adapted for your age and lovely bone structure.’

I have a lovely bone structure too, Mark, I wanted to say.

‘A bob?’ Melanie frowned. ‘They’re like really short, aren’t they?’

‘They don’t have to be,’ Mark shrugged with a casual air. ‘It is all about customising the hairstyle – just for you – to bring out your lovely features, especially those gorgeous eyes.’

Melanie blushed.

Mark, I have amazing eyes too.

‘Amazing eyes, just like your mum’s,’ he added with a wink aimed squarely at me.

He is flirting!

I blushed too, and for ten seconds you could have heard a pin drop as time stood still.

‘As I say’, Mark went on, summarising, ‘a bob would be a great deal cooler, incredibly stylish, and really accentuate your pretty face.’

I looked down at my watch, conscious that we were due to meet Mum soon. ‘Would it take long, Mark?’

‘A little longer than James’s buzz, of course, Amanda,’ he said. ‘But no more than half an hour.’

Spending more time watching Mark’s focused movements, and yes, admiring that pert bottom of his, sounded perfectly appealing to me. My rational mind briefly surfaced to remind me that Melanie had initially only agreed to a trim, but the rebellious streak that had emerged with James’s haircut was still exciting me.

My daughter, usually so fiercely protective of her hair, seemed too entranced by Mark to offer a complaint. Her eyes, though still a little shy, were now devouring his reflection in the mirror, betraying her crush.

‘A bob sounds lovely,’ I said, surprising myself yet again with my relaxed agreement. ‘Go for it, Mark.’

He smiled, a genuinely charming smile that made my heart do a little flip. ‘Excellent.’

bobbing

Mark’s hands were deft, moving with a practiced confidence. He divided Melanie’s long hair into sections, combing them meticulously. Then, without any hesitation, he gathered the entire heavy mass of her hair into a single ponytail, pulling it tight at her nape.

My stomach lurched as I predicted what might happen next.

And I was correct as, with a sharp and decisive snip of his barber’s shears, he severed my daughter’s long hair. The thick ponytail, a testament to years of care and attention, fell away. Melanie gasped, a sharp intake of breath, and I let out a similar, involuntary sound of shock. My daughter’s former hip-length hair was now barely touching her neck. It was a clean, brutal line, shocking in its severity.

For a moment, Melanie sat frozen, staring at Mark’s reflection as he proudly held up her former ponytail like a trophy. He shrugged as he glanced at it as if it were nothing and then tossed it in the rubbish bin under the shelf directly in front of my daughter.

But Mark had barely started. After he had discarded Melanie’s ponytail, he picked up the same electric hairclippers he had used on my son. My horror deepened as the use of clippers on a girl’s hair felt entirely inappropriate, a violation of my perception of what female hair represented. My daughter’s horrified expression indicated that she felt the same.

He glanced briefly at both of us and chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, girls, these are just for shaping.’

It did not work, as I was still worried, but the incessant noise prevented my mind from focusing on what he was doing. Mark began shaping the back and sides of what remained of Melanie’s hair. He worked meticulously, shaping and refining, the short hair lifting with each pass. He used the clippers to create a clean, defined line around her right ear and up into the nape, although he appeared to have left the other side longer. It was sweeping down from a point on the back of Melanie’s head, covering her left and finishing in a sharp line below her chin. That said, he buzzed her hair incredibly short around her right, revealing the delicate curve of her shaved neck.

When Mark finally stepped back, revealing Melanie’s reflection fully in the mirror, she stared. And I stared alongside her, aghast. Her beautiful, flowing hair was gone. In its place was a dramatic asymmetric bob. From one side her hair appeared to be a severe bowlcut, the edges precise and geometric, the top perfectly smooth. But it blended perfectly with the longer side that swept down in a long bob below her chin.

The overall effect was shockingly tidy, almost boyish, completely transforming her face. He had replaced Melanie’s usual softness with an angular sharpness, highlighting the delicate line of her jaw and the surprising width of her cheekbones. She looked like a different person.

Mark, however, exuded absolute confidence. He admired his work, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. ‘There,’ he announced, his voice beaming with pride. ‘Perfect. I imagine you love your new hair, Melanie. It really suits your features.’

Melanie gazed at her reflection as her mind caught up with the reality of what she could see, seeming to struggle for words. The drastic transformation was undeniable. But Mark’s conviction, his unwavering belief in his creation, seemed to sway her. She offered a shy, hesitant smile. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, but her eyes, meeting mine in the mirror, looked less sure, a faint bewilderment in their depths.

‘Perfect for the heat and edgy for college so you get noticed,’ Mark reiterated, running a hand over the smooth, short expanse of her hair. ‘And pop back whenever you like, and I’ll keep that nape in trim for you.’

‘Er, thanks…’ Melanie managed, her shy smile finally feeling a little more genuine. The lightness must have been a relief, even if the cut was extreme.

I stood there, a strange mix of disbelief and a surging, exhilarating recklessness. My hair, a carefully layered and highlighted mid-back cascade that cost a small fortune to maintain, suddenly felt heavy and hot. I ran my fingers through it, feeling the familiar texture and the expensive softness. My gaze, lingering for a moment on Melanie’s transformed head, then rose to meet Mark’s. It was a long, meaningful look, pregnant with unasked questions and unspoken desires.

‘Oh, and remember,’ Mark went on, ‘I have late-night opening until 8pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays.’

Melanie was still playing with her hair. As she compared the longer sweeping length with the buzzed side, her smile appeared more genuine by the second as she energetically snapped an endless number of selfies. She had ignored Mark’s last comment, and as my gaze went from daughter to him, I suddenly realised that with his last remark, he had been looking directly at me.

I felt awkward as I approached his reception desk to pay for the haircuts, but, feeling his gaze still on me, I was determined not to blush again in his presence. He rang up the absurdly small amount for the two accounts that would have barely covered the cost of my two-monthly trim, let alone the extortionate amount for my highlights. I added a sizable and justifiable tip.

‘Come on you two,’ I urged. ‘We must not keep Nanna waiting.’

James moved over to the door, and Melanie finally dragged herself away from the mirror. Then, in a day of surprises, she trotted up to Mark and wrapped her arms around him in a quick and awkward hug. ‘Thanks very much, Mark.’ Even the normally sanguine barber looked startled.

‘Cheers, Mark,’ James called from the doorway, rubbing his head with a silly grin.

‘No hug for me, mate?’ Mark quipped with an easy smile, and James could not get out of the door quick enough, with a giggling Melanie following.

reflecting

We walked the short distance to the restaurant to meet my mum. Melanie admired her reflection in every shop window we passed, turning her head from side to side, and she was still snapping selfies. James kept questioning me as to how he should explain his bald head to his friends. So, I simply reminded him of all the reasons the barber had said it would be a cool idea. As for me, my mind kept drifting to the enticing view of Mark’s pert bottom wiggling around in front of me.

However, deep down, I was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. A part of me was horrified that I had allowed a stranger to drastically shear my children, transformed beyond recognition. I, the responsible mother, had given permission for these radical changes, driven by a handsome barber’s persuasive charm and my own inexplicable attraction. Yet, another, more rebellious part of me was buzzing with excitement. There was something undeniably freeing in the speed and decisiveness of Mark’s work, the sheer audacity of it.

Playing in a loop in my mind was the memory of his hands moving with such confident precision, the way his posterior moved around, and the manner with which his eyes had held mine.

evening

When we entered the restaurant, I saw Mum peering at us over a menu, a glass of white wine in her hand. Her reaction was predictably dramatic.

‘Amanda! What have you done to my grandchildren?!’ she exclaimed, her eyes wide with shock as she took in James’s bald head and Melanie’s severe asymmetric bob. ‘They look completely different!’

James and Melanie, however, seemed to revel in the attention, confidently explaining the virtues of their new, cooler styles. Even Melanie, initially hesitant, appreciated her Nanna’s shocked reaction, presumably because it validated her bold decision.

My mother lightly touched the contrasting sides of my daughter’s hair. ‘I remember when I had something similar… when I was much younger, of course,’ she said wistfully. ‘It was a trendy look in the eighties, especially with musicians, and I was always following fashion.’

‘Oh!’ The look of horror on my daughter’s face was a picture.

Melanie’s earlier enthusiasm regarding her fresh modern look took a sudden dip, as she absorbed the knowledge that she now looked like her grandmother! Or, at least, how her grandmother once looked. I did not remember my mum ever resembling an eighties pop singer, so it must have been before I was born.

‘Don’t worry, dear,’ Mum said, patting her granddaughter’s cheek comfortingly. ‘All the best styles always return one day, and it suits you perfectly.’ Melanie immediately cheered up.

As the children buried their heads in the menu, Mum sipped her wine and studied me as I also pretended to see what the restaurant had to offer.

‘Which salon did you take them to, Amanda?’ she asked. ‘It looks like excellent work by the stylist.’

‘Um… it was around the corner, er… a barber, actually,’ I admitted hesitantly.

‘A barber!’ Mum snapped, using a well-practised tone. It was one she had always reserved for questioning my doubtful decisions, borrowed from Oscar Wilde’s Lady Bracknell when discussing “handbags”.

I quickly explained about James complaining about his hair and David, my husband, not being able to take him for his haircut at his usual salon. She cast her scrutinising gaze over the children once more and nodded wisely. ‘She is certainly a skilled barber.’

‘It was a man barber,’ James remarked without looking up as he tried to decide between a pizza and a burger.

‘A man?’ Mum queried. ‘And what was his name?’

‘Er… I do not remember…’ I stuttered, willing myself not to blush, and failing dismally.

‘Mark,’ Melanie traitorously piped up as she debated whether she wanted fries.

‘So, it was Mark,’ Mum smirked, undoubtedly feeling the warmth from my flushed cheeks.

‘Yes, er… something like that,’ I said vaguely, burying my eyes in the menu, feeling Mum’s gaze burning the top of my head.

She had been the one I confided in whenever I had found someone new in my teenage years. And she was the one I went to, who comforted me whenever a breakup followed. She knew my body language too well.

After a brief pause, I felt her hand resting gently on the back of mine. ‘Be careful, Amanda,’ she advised economically.

I still pretended I was debating which salad I should choose.

thinking

Over the next few days, I found myself thinking about Mark and about haircuts, far more than was healthy.

James was thriving. He loved the ease of his bald head, the way he kept cool on the sports field, and that he could just quickly towel it dry after a shower.

Melanie, too, seemed to embrace her fresh style. She found creative ways to accessorise it, using earrings to highlight her bared ear while the hair on the other side swept tantalisingly forward. My daughter quickly grew to appreciate the joy of not having to battle with a cumbersome mass of hair every morning. She even seemed to walk with a new lightness, a subtle confidence that had not been there before. Her friends, after the initial surprise, declared her “edgy” and “so cool”.

But it was not just my children’s transformations that haunted me. It was the sneaky way that Mark had sneaked into my thoughts. I could not shake off the lingering scent of his aftershave, the chuckle that tumbled so easily from his lips, and the memory of his focused gaze.

My own mid-back hair, usually a source of pride and identity, suddenly felt like a burden. It felt heavier than it once was, generating a cloying heat against my neck, a constant reminder of the summer heat. The expensive layers and highlights, once a symbol of my polished professionalism, now seemed dull, cliched, and even boring.

Alone on my enormous bed each evening, I ran my fingers through my heavy tresses, feeling the suffocating weight. Then, I imagined the cool caress of Mark’s hairclippers pressed against my scalp with him standing close by. As I sensed his phantom aftershave, laid back on the pillow, one of my hands inevitably crept downwards, exploring between my thighs.

However, the thought of me getting a drastic haircut was utterly absurd. I was Amanda, the meticulous, in-control mother, boardroom executive, and wife of a man who seemed increasingly reluctant to return home from abroad. My hair was an extension of my identity, a carefully curated part of my image. Yet, refusing to leave me was the image of Mark with his strong and capable hands, so effortlessly taking charge. There was something undeniably alluring about the idea of surrendering control, just for a moment, to someone else’s vision.

Mark had told me that he was open late on Tuesday evenings. If I had read him correctly, he was making a point of telling me. I confirmed on his website that he closed at 8pm. An idea, wild and impulsive, began to take root.

planning

At work on Monday I rang Mum, pretending I had a late conference call with an overseas client on Tuesday evening. I explained it would disrupt the usual evening routine with me and the kids, so I asked if they could stay overnight with her. She was happy for them to come to her, and they were equally happy to spend time with their Nanna.

However, Mum knew I rarely allowed work to come before my time with the children, so she immediately knew I was hiding something.

‘So, he is a foreigner, is he, darling daughter?’ Mum questioned, seeing right through me.

‘What? No!’ I refuted. ‘Er, well, yes he is…’ I lied, stuttering.

‘Just be careful, Amanda,’ she cautioned before we said our farewells.

preparing

I was working from home on Tuesday. As soon as James and Melanie had left the house with their overnight bags, I began debating whether I should continue with my plan.

Wandering into my daughter’s bedroom, I flicked through her wardrobe. Taking out her prettiest summer dress, I held it against me, looking in a full-length mirror. It suited me, even if it were not something I would usually wear. I knew it would fit me, as we were the same size and we frequently swapped blouses and T-shirts. But I was taller, so I could see that it would look noticeably short on me.

Experimentally, I slipped on the flimsy garment, and my assumption regarding its length was correct. Furthermore, my more ample bust emphasised the cleavage, and the thin material displayed an outline of my nipples. It left me wondering if the thin shoulder straps were sufficient to hold the rest of the dress in place. I knew it was far too youthful and revealing… but that may have been the very reason I left it on.

I washed and conditioned my hair using my most expensive products. It smelt divine. I dried it, then I took time with a hot brush to inject waves and volume, bringing out my highlights. Wearing it loose, halfway down my back, it looked as though I had just stepped out of my expensive salon.

Later, I carefully did my makeup and chose accessories to enhance my attributes. My heart pounded a restless rhythm against my ribs as I made a final appraisal in the mirror by the door. Ignoring Mum’s warning to be careful, clamouring for attention at the back of my mind, I tossed on my black leather jacket, picked up my keys, and headed out to my car.

consulting

The sun had just begun to set, casting long shadows as I parked my car a block from Mark’s barbershop. The street was quieter now with the shops in the arcade mostly closed for the day. A soft glow emanated from the barber shop’s windows. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the frantic butterflies in my stomach. What I was planning was insane. I was a grown woman, a mother, about to do something utterly frivolous, even disastrous, all for the fleeting thrill of an attractive man’s attention.

Pushing open the door, a faint chime announced my arrival. The shop was empty except for Mark. He was tidying up, wiping down chairs, the scent of disinfectant mixing with the familiar aroma of hair tonic. He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise, then quickly settling into that easy, charming smile.

‘Amanda!’ he exclaimed, genuinely pleased, running his eyes appreciatively over my outfit. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Everything okay with the kids’ hair?’

‘Yes, perfectly fine,’ I said, my voice a little higher than usual. I walked towards the barber chair, the one Melanie had sat in, and ran my hand over the smooth leather. ‘They really love their new cuts, especially in this heat.’

‘That’s great,’ he said, his eyes crinkling with pleasure.

‘And this heat… well, it is just relentless, isn’t it?’ I laughed nervously, my gaze meeting his. Smirking, he nodded in agreement. ‘Unlike the kids, my hair …’ I gestured vaguely. ‘It is just so heavy. And so hot,’ I moaned dramatically, running the back of my hand lightly over my forehead.

He tilted his head, his gaze assessing. ‘It is beautiful hair, Amanda. Long and luxurious. But I know what you mean. Would you like a little of the length or more layers to lighten the weight?’

I hesitated, then took another deep breath. This was it. ‘Mark,’ I began, my voice gaining a surprising new strength. ‘I… I was wondering. You had such an unclouded vision for James and Melanie. You knew exactly what would suit them, what would be best for this weather. I was wondering… if you had free rein… what would you do with my hair?’

His eyes lit up, a spark of excitement entering them as he looked at me. He really looked at me, not just as a client but as a canvas. Walking around me slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes scanned my face, my bone structure, and the way my hair framed my features. He lifted sections of my hair, letting them fall, his fingers brushing against my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

‘Amanda,’ he said eventually, his voice soft, almost conspiratorial. ‘You have incredible features. A strong jawline, amazing cheekbones, and those eyes… well, they are invisible behind all of this.’ He gestured to my lengthy hair, trying to keep a disparaging tone from his voice. ‘It is beautiful, yes, but it is hiding you. You are a woman of power and confidence, and your hair should reflect that.’

My heart hammered. This was it. ‘What do you see, Mark?’ I whispered, a thrilling sense of surrender washing over me.

He paused, then straightened up, his gaze intense. ‘I see something bold that would command attention and reflect your strength, while also being incredibly chic and comfortable in this heat.’ He took a step closer, his eyes captivating mine. ‘I see it cropped short, tapered at the nape to show that swan-like neck.’

‘But not too… not too short?’ I asked, a note of panic entering my voice, although I had agreed to nothing.

‘Oh, yes, for sure… something architectural and against convention, a style that really sets you apart as your own woman,’ he enthused, his excitement intoxicating. ‘A pixie fade, perhaps, but whatever I did would be tailored precisely for you.’

My jaw dropped. The thought of what he was saying was so utterly shocking, and it was so completely alien to everything I considered feminine. It was madness.

But then, I looked at his face. His conviction was absolute, his eyes burning with an artist’s vision. And something in me, that reckless, rebellious part that had emerged with James’s bald head and Melanie’s bobbed hair, urged me on. I wanted to feel that liberation, that shock of the new, that freedom from the weight. And, I admit, I wanted to see what he could create, what his vision of me would look like.

‘A pixie fade?’ I echoed, weighing up the words, even if I was unsure what they meant. ‘You really think so?’

‘Absolutely,’ he affirmed, his voice resonating with confidence. ‘It would be daring, yes. But unbelievably stylish. And you, Amanda, could absolutely pull it off. It would highlight your incredible features like nothing else. And imagine… no more heavy hair. Just cool, clean lines.’

The crisp lines and the sheer audacity of what he was suggesting would be a complete erasure of my old self, followed by a rebirth. And for a reason I did not fully understand, standing there with Mark’s hazel eyes fixed on mine, it felt profoundly right.

‘Okay,’ I breathed, the word a delicious surrender as I slipped off my leather jacket. ‘Do it, Mark. Give me your vision.’

A triumphant smile broke across his face. ‘Excellent choice, Amanda. You will not regret it.’ He gestured to the chair, flipping the “Closed” sign on the door with his other hand. ‘Have a seat.’

transforming

I sank into the cold leather, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through me. He draped the cape around me, fastening it snugly at my collarbone. My long hair, trapped beneath the fabric, felt suddenly foreign, a relic of a past self. Mark picked up a spray bottle and misted my hair, then began to comb through it, section by section. The weight of it was substantial, a thick curtain hanging down my back.

‘This will be quite the transformation,’ he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate. Then he picked up the hairclippers, fitting a large claw-like guard, something he had not done for James or Melanie. I was relieved that he would not be cutting any of my hair as short as theirs. ‘So, we will start by getting rid of the worst of it.’

After his complementary words about my hair five minutes earlier, I was upset by his revised assessment. But I let it pass as the now familiar hum of the motor, the sound that had accompanied James and Melanie’s radical cuts, filled the quiet shop. My heart lurched.

He started at my nape, just like with Melanie. The clippers, equipped with a guard, ran smoothly up my neck, carving a clean, short line. I felt the cool air hit my bared skin, a sensation that was both shocking and incredibly refreshing. Locks of my expensive, highlighted hair, rich with chemical processes and years of care, fluttered down onto the cape. He worked quickly and efficiently, the clippers buzzing their relentless song.

Up past my ears and along my temples, he worked the guarded blade. The attachment, I realised, ensured that the hair on the sides of my head was not as short as it had been for Melanie and James. But it was still shockingly short, with the brush-like hair no more than one inch in length.

Nevertheless, what then concerned me was that he did not stop at the back and sides, but he then eased the hairclippers towards my crown. Continuing with the same focused intensity, he had reduced all my remaining hair to the same uniform length.

‘There, Amanda, with the bulk gone, we can see what we’re working with,’ he explained.

‘Not much by the looks of it,’ I lamented. ‘I look like a hedgehog.’

He stepped, tapping the clippers against his chin. ‘Yes, you do a bit,’ he grinned.

He removed the attachment from the hairclippers, then he picked up a large comb. ‘This is where my artistry really comes to the fore,’ he asserted, before combing through the hair over my left ear and then slicing off all the excess that protruded above the teeth. He repeated the exercise all around my head, reducing the back and sides to a fine pelt. It reduced the hedgehog-like roundness, but it looked scarily short.

Then Mark turned his attention to the slightly longer hair remaining on my crown. Holding the comb horizontally, he sliced off above the teeth with a decisive and clattering pass of the bare clipper blade. He worked from front to back, then side to side, levelling the erect tufts to precisely the same height, as if he were trimming an ornamental hedge.

Each pass of the clippers felt like a severing of ties to my previously constrained self. The sound was surprisingly loud in the quiet shop, a constant presence that vibrated through my skull.

Once satisfied with the top, he returned to the back and sides, using a much thinner comb with the hairclippers. He blended the edges of the crown hair into the shorter pelt that he had left on the back and sides. Then, freehand, he blended the fine covering around my temples down to precisely nothing at the hairline. I felt he had done precisely the same at the back of my head, taking it down to invisibility at the nape.

My eyes stared at my rapidly changing reflection, watching his relentless progress. My long hair had disappeared, replaced by a stark, almost sculptural form. The sides of my head were now almost bald, a pale canvas against my flushed skin, leading up to a sharply defined, perfectly flat brush-like platform of hair on top.

Mark worked with intense concentration, his brow furrowed, his hands moving with incredible precision. He shaped, he trimmed, he refined, his eyes constantly checking angles in the mirror to create the utterly flat surface. The fine hairs, a mixture of blonde colour and darker roots, fell like confetti onto the cape, each strand a testament to the disappearing me that now bore no evidence of the expensive highlights.

It felt incredibly strange. The coolness on my exposed scalp was a revelation, and the weight was gone. When he finally turned off the clippers, he removed the cape, and he stepped back. As he held up a hand mirror, I saw the style was brutal and uncompromising, and feeling deep within me was utterly exhilarating.

assessing

‘Architectural and structured, as I promised,’ Mark asserted. A pixie-like softness would not enhance your features in the way I had envisioned. Fading the back and sides has brought out the immaculate structure of your skull, while the uncompromising sharpness of the crown gives you commanding authority. You are a woman made to flaunt a flattop.’

I studied my reflection, and a gasp escaped my lips. ‘A flattop?’ I breathed, my mind only just catching up with the idea that Mark had given me the ultimate masculine haircut. A soldier’s haircut!

However, my face, stripped bare of its framing hair, seemed sharper, more defined. My eyes, which had always seemed tired lately, now shone with a startling clarity. The flattop was severe and uncompromising. It was perfectly horizontal across the crown with the sides faded down to baldness. It was radical, it was shocking, and it was unique, but it made me look and feel surprisingly feminine.

Mark smiled at my reflection, a genuine, proud smile. ‘There,’ he said, his voice soft with satisfaction. ‘My vision. What do you think, Amanda?’

I reached up, my fingers tentatively touching the completely bare skin on my temples, then running over the smooth, incredibly short stubble on the sides, finally resting on the perfectly flat, brush-like surface of the top. It was so firm, so unlike anything I had ever felt on my own head. It was cool, light, and utterly defiant.

‘It’s incredible,’ I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. A wave of exhilaration, of pure, unadulterated freedom, washed over me. I felt like I could take on the world. This was not only a haircut but also a reinvention and a revelation. The “new me” threw caution to the wind and pushed Mum’s warnings to the back of my mind. I lowered my gaze and my voice. ‘And, Mark, you are incredible.’

His gaze, warm and appreciative, met mine in the mirror. The air in the shop, already charged, suddenly thickened with unspoken tension. The last echoes of the clippers faded, leaving a profound silence. He stood close behind me, his hands resting lightly on the back of the chair, his reflection behind mine.

I turned in the chair, my eyes locking with his. The transformation had been so complete, so personal, that it felt like a shared secret, an intimate experience. A slow, confident smile spread across my face, a reflection of the audacious woman I now saw in the mirror.

‘Mark,’ I said, my voice low and husky. I reached out, my fingers finding his forearm, strong and warm beneath my touch. ‘That was amazing. But it is your turn now in the chair now.’

paying

Mark’s eyebrows rose in surprise, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, quickly replaced by curiosity. ‘My turn?’ he asked, a slight smile playing on his lips.

I did not answer directly. Instead, I stood up, the unexpected lightness of my head making me feel strangely powerful. I walked around the chair, my gaze never leaving his. He stood there, unmoving, watching me, his eyes dark and intrigued.

I reached for his hand, my fingers intertwining with his. With a gentle but firm tug, I pulled him towards the barber chair. He resisted for only a moment, a questioning look in his eyes, but then he allowed me to lead him. I guided him to the chair, the very one I had just been sitting in. Then, with a playful push, I urged him down.

He settled into the leather, a startled, amused expression on his face. ‘Amanda, what are you doing?’ he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice.

I did not speak. Instead, I straddled his legs, confident and unhesitating. I reached down to his crotch, feeling his firmness in response to my presence. I carefully unzipped his jeans, the short bristles of my flattop brushing against his cheek as I leaned in.

My hands moved to his shoulders. He instinctively reached up, his hands resting on my hips, guiding me. I settled myself onto his lap, the soft leather of the chair a cushion beneath me. The closeness was immediate, electric. I could feel the warmth of his body and the firm line of his thighs beneath mine.

My hands linked behind his neck, my newly bared scalp tingling with a delicious sensation against his hair. His eyes, now wide with a mixture of surprise and desire, met mine. The unspoken question hung in the air, but the answer was clear in the undeniable current that flowed between us.

epilogue

In this thrilling and intimate moment, the older woman had unexpectedly become the mistress, and the younger artist, surrounded by the tools of his trade, was ready to surrender.

The End

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

 Also freely included on my archive are many additional stories, not published here or elsewhere

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