It Was Only a Summer Job, Part 1 – Top Style

Prologue

It was only a summer job while I was waiting to go to university. Although it seemed a strange option, it felt a better choice than stacking supermarket shelves or waiting on tables in a café. At eighteen, I had always been the artsy type, dressing myself in colourful clothing and sporting a mane of chestnut hair that tumbled well past my waist. My friends called it my crowning glory. I saw it as my identity that I wore like a shield of confidence, acting as a small rebellion against conformity in the adult world.

Thus began my foray into the realm of Top Style by Eileen, a quaint little old-fashioned hairdressing salon nestled at the end of a sleepy side street. I was the receptionist, tasked with greeting customers, sweeping floors, and ensuring that Eileen and Barbara, the two hairdressers, had plentiful supplies of towels and their beloved cups of tea.

Trial

Walking into the salon on my first day felt disorienting for the free spirit I considered myself to be. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray and the sound of ancient hood-dryers buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. I noticed right away the clientele predominantly consisted of women in their mid-fifties or older, all draped in beige and pastel hues, their hair structured into conservative perms. It felt as if I had stumbled into a time capsule where the year was permanently stuck many decades in the past.

On my first day at Top Style, in the absence of any guidance regarding my appearance, I settled upon a simple working outfit of skinny jeans and colourful tops. Usually preferring to wear my hair loose, I compromised by securing it in a high ponytail that swung freely as I moved. As well as being practical, my attire reflected my youthful exuberance.

Eileen and Barbara, the two stylists, were warm and inviting. They adored my enthusiasm and, more importantly, my ability to interact with clients as they entered the premises, or when they were awaiting their turn with the hairdressers. And when I seated them under a dryer and plied them with magazines and tea. I kept things tidy, swept floors, and made frequent trips to the stock room to replenish products. More notably, the tips rolled in. It appeared that in Top Style by Eileen my youth was a novelty for the regular, mostly wealthy, clientele who enjoyed our conversations and were happy to reward me accordingly.

My trial week flew by and, while the work was hardly demanding, the hours were relatively long, and I was ready for some downtime by the time Saturday afternoon came around.

Eileen and Barbara stood together by the reception desk as I collected my coat, and I pocketed my tips. Eileen presented me with a brown envelope containing my wages. It all felt rather stiff and official. Although I had assumed my trial period was a formality, I was worried that I may have done something to upset them.

‘Georgina,’ Eileen announced grandly, ‘we have been very pleased with your work this week, and we would love for you to join us throughout the summer.’

Rather like my parents, they appeared to struggle to pay a compliment despite their sentiments being sound. Despite the strange environment, relief flooded through me.

‘Thank you, yes please, Miss Eileen,’ I responded, shifting into the more formal mode of address they preferred, my heart thumping with excitement. I was determined to save as much money as possible during the summer for when I started at university. ‘Thank you too, Miss Barbara.’

‘That is wonderful, Georgina! On Monday, we will have your uniform ready for you,’ Eileen smiled.

‘And, Georgina, we will style your hair appropriately to conform with the Top Style aesthetic,’ Barbara added gleefully.

A touch of dread crept into my thoughts on hearing those words. I loved my low-maintenance hair, cascading below my waist even when pulled up into a high ponytail. However, I decided to remain cautiously optimistic. They could not possibly propose anything too drastic. After all, it was only a summer job.

Diversion

Sunday came, and I indulged in retail therapy at the shopping centre. I purchased a new phone, fresh clothes, and more accessories than I really needed. But it was a treat, and I was content in the knowledge that I could pay it off with my wages and tips over the coming months.

Little did I know, Monday would unveil a storm I never saw coming.

Debate

My bravado faltered the minute I arrived early at Top Style by Eileen on that Monday morning. Eileen handed me a uniform that was an affront to my sense of style. It was a flimsy white nylon garment adorned with pink frills that were more fit for a toddler than an eighteen-year-old. It was short, almost scandalous, and the front zip left a little too much of my cleavage bare for comfort.

‘Marvelous, Georgina,’ Eileen said, clapping her hands together with glee.

‘And our clientele will be delighted with your professional Top Style appearance,’ Barbara added, smiling broadly.

I was not sure I understood where they were coming from with their assessment, but if it resulted in more tips, then I was prepared to go with it. ‘Thank you, Miss Eileen, Miss Barbara, it is lovely,’ I simpered, mock curtseying while holding the ridiculously short hem, to demonstrate my grudging support.

‘Now, about that hair,’ Eileen began, inspecting me thoughtfully with her head to one side. Worryingly, Barbara skipped gleefully around behind me, brandishing scissors in her hand. Their strange behaviour sent shockwaves through me. ‘Initially, we could not decide what would be best. Barbara suggested just a straightforward cut, but I am inclined to get it well off your neck and held firmly in place.’

‘Some sort of bun or updo you mean,’ I enquired, trying to engage with their vague suggestions and sound interested.

‘No, no, no, Georgina,’ they both laughed. ‘But, on balance, we did decide against Barbara’s idea of a nice bowlcut.’

That is a huge relief I thought, but I remained silent. However, I was still keen to connect with them, and stay involved. I reminded them of the previous week. ‘My ponytail seems to work well around the salon, Miss Eileen,’ I ventured. ‘It is practical, and it looks nice -’

Eileen scoffed, her eyes glinting mischievously, ‘A ponytail? You are not five years old. We must do something about how you present yourself. And, more importantly, how you represent the Top Style aesthetic.’

‘Well, perhaps I could plait my ponytail to keep it more under control,’ I suggested, a pitiful plea escaping my lips. ‘Miss Barbara?’ I pleaded, desperately seeking an ally.

‘No, we will cut it,’ Eileen stated, accepting the scissors that a giggling Barbara was eagerly proffering. ‘And we will cut it short. We want you to be a walking advertisement for the Top Style experience.’

I could not believe it. I had always had long hair. It was part of my identity. And they assumed I would allow them to simply chop it off? I had other ideas.

‘Well, why not a bun, Miss Eileen? You could show me how to do it, Miss Barbara. Or I could even wear it in a French braid. They are lovely … and stylish,’ I suggested, sounding increasingly desperate, even to my own ears.

They scornfully laughed. ‘Nonsense. Mrs Chambers, our best client, is in her seventies. She is hardly going to look at your French braid and ask for the same,’ Eileen sighed.

‘Oh, and after we have cut it, we will perm it,’ Barbara added excitedly. ‘Perm it in lovely tight curls, so you can promote the precision of our services to our existing clientele and perhaps,’ she added wistfully, ‘to a few new and younger customers.’

‘Come on, Eileen,’ I remonstrated. She glared. ‘Sorry, Miss Eileen. But you cannot be serious!’ I protested defiantly, laughing mirthlessly, my heart racing as my sense of self threatened to unravel along with my hair.

‘It is not a laughing matter, Georgina!’ Eileen stated unequivocally, a firm resolve brewing in her voice. ‘It is what we require otherwise we may have let you go.’

With horror gnawing at my insides, I weighed my options, my mind racing as I pictured my spending spree the day before, and the impending credit card bill. I needed the job. Any job would have done without my reckless spending, but I needed the job in Top Style by Eileen to top up my wages with the generous tips.

‘Well, Georgina?’ Eileen asked pointedly, twirling the scissors around her fingers threateningly.

I felt the pressure building behind my eyes. ‘Fine,’ I snapped resignedly.

‘Excellent, Georgina,’ Eileen quipped. ‘Now sit still, and we will chop off that silly ponytail … and then we can really get started on you.’

Initiation

Without another word and before I could get my thoughts in order, Barbara was enthusiastically, almost painfully, pulling my ponytail taut while giggling away to herself.

Eileen placed her scissors near the base of my high ponytail. In the mirror, I saw each closure of the blades as she endeavoured to saw through my thick hair as quickly as possible.

Her expression suggested it was an arduous task, but her unwavering concentration turned to a broad smile as she eventually severed my ponytail. Barbara, looking stupid, waved the hair around as if was some sort of trophy.

Following an admonishing glare from Eileen, she laid it out, almost reverentially, along the shelf below the mirror. It was something. A small gesture of respect for my hair that held a lifetime of memories.

All that remained on my head, was a ridiculously short stump of hair emanating from my crown. Eileen amused herself for a few seconds by flicking it and watching it spring back and forth like a pendulum. She then unravelled it to reveal a hideously uneven bob that surrounded my face but barely reached my chin.

Eileen instructed me to stand. She then helped into one of the salon’s large floral gowns, rather than the straightforward capes used by more modern establishments. They may have looked cheerful on a 75-year-old, but on me it looked ridiculous.

Barbara led me to the backwash where she vigorously shampooed my hair, before returning me to styling chair. Eileen combed through my hair. She established a ridiculously short length of just a few centimetres on a section on the crown and snipped it off. With a skill that came from a lifetime of experience, she expertly layered all my hair to precisely the same abbreviated length.

With each snip, my future seemed to fade. The realisation hit harder than the scissors cutting through my prized locks. I could sense the gleeful enjoyment of Eileen and Barbara, the excitement of a fresh style for me. But all I felt was loss. Anchored in my chair, I felt powerless while they transformed me.

Barbara approached with a small trolley, the top festooned with perming rollers of many colours. She selected a handful of the tiniest rods and began handing them, one by one, to Eileen. She meticulously wrapped small sections of what remained of my once silky hair around each rod then fastened it securely in place, tugging at my scalp.

Once my whole head had become a uniform carpet of rods, Eileen poured the foul-smelling perming chemical over all my hair and then Barbara forced me under a hood-dryer.

‘We will return when you are cooked,’ Barbara giggled, clamping the dryer on.

Left to cook, seemingly forgotten, I watched the two of them sipping tea as they stole glances in my direction. They laughed regularly although I was unable to hear what they said due to the incessant noise of the dryer. They left me alone with my thoughts that spiralled into a frenzy. This was not just a haircut. It felt like they were stripping away my very essence.

After an interminable time, during which I mercifully dozed off, Barbara wheeled me out to have the perm rods removed, my hair neutralised, and then rinsed clean at the backwash.

When I returned to the styling chair and caught my reflection, I wanted to scream. Despair seized me. While my elegant glossy mane still lay discarded on the shelf below the mirror to mock me, a mass of tight, poodle-like curls covered my head.

‘Young hair takes the curl so well,’ Eileen declared, as she examined my curls with her fingers. As my hair was now so short, it seemed to dry almost immediately. ‘Now we just need to shape the style and give it definition.’

I did not believe they could impose any greater indignities than I had already suffered, but I was wrong. Barbara marched over and plugged in a piece of electrical equipment. The item’s purpose became clear when, to my horror, I saw her hand the large red hairclippers to Eileen. ‘No!’ I whimpered, trembling.

‘No need to be silly, Georgina,’ Eileen urged, brandishing the device, and turning them on. A loud incessant whine filled salon. ‘Head down, please.’

The instruction was superfluous as Barbara stepped forward, tilted my head down and held it firmly in place to expose my neck to Eileen. I heard the tone of the motor change as the clippers bit into the hair at my nape. I felt the vibration of the blade against my skin and saw corkscrew snippets fall past my eyes, bounce in my lap, and gather on the floor.

The procedure continued around each ear, Barbara adjusting the position of my head appropriately to allow Eileen to complete her task. The hairclippers buzzed, and with every swipe I felt my youth vanish.

When Eileen mercifully silenced the incessant whine from the hairclippers, I felt drained. I reluctantly lifted my eyes to the mirror. I saw she had reduced the long strands that had once flowed like a waterfall from my head to a tight cap of bouncy curls perched above my ears. All the glossy condition had gone, and my hair looked dry and brittle. I wanted to weep.

Barbara danced around behind me holding up a mirror for me to see the full extent of the damage that they had wrought on the back and sides of my hair. Unbelievably, Eileen had shaved my hairline down to the skin. Then it became increasingly longer, relatively speaking, as the buzzed hair faded into the curls higher up my neck.

When I was able, I stood on shaky legs and divested myself of the absurd floral haircutting gown. I saw the reflection of an unfamiliar creature. She was wearing the ridiculous white nylon frilly garment with a froth of poodle-like curls perched on her head.

‘You have excelled yourself, Eileen,’ praised Barbara. ‘Georgina certainly now meets the Top Style aesthetic.’

‘Thanks, Barbara, and for all your assistance,’ Eileen preened. ‘Yes, Georgina, you look splendid.’

Emerging from that styling chair, I was a ghost of my former self; exposed, vulnerable, and pathetic. I felt like a stranger to myself, and not the confident girl who had arrived at Top Style by Eileen just a week earlier.

‘Thank you, Miss Eileen, Miss Barbara,’ I muttered, trying to muster some enthusiasm. ‘I will get the salon prepared for your first customers of the day in ten minutes,’ I added gloomily.

‘Our first customers,’ Eileen emphasised. Beaming, she went on. ‘Georgina, you are now one of the Top Style team!’

Aftermath

As I went about my mundane tasks after my transformation at the hands of the hairdressers from hell, I felt grateful that Top Style did not go in for team hugs. I may have inadvertently, or otherwise, hurt someone.

They instructed me to dispose of my own long hair from the shelf under the mirror, which I thought was particularly cruel. I fastened it with a band, lovingly caressed it for one last time, then tucked it away in an empty drawer at the back of the salon.

I did my best to avoid looking at my reflection in a mirror, although it was incredibly difficult in a hairdressing salon when they were on every wall.

The first customer of the day was 75-year-old Mrs Chambers who I had met several times the previous week. She appeared to be a friend of the owners as well as a client, acting like the salon’s matriarch, turning up even when not requiring a hairdressing service.

Mrs Chambers walked around me, thoroughly inspecting my dress and my hair. ‘Much more acceptable, girls,’ she said addressing Eileen and Barbara. ‘I approve, so she may stay.’ Looking back at me, she nodded her approval and pressed a few coins in my palm.

‘Thank you, Mrs Chambers,’ I murmured, unclear what I had done to deserve it.

Whether she believed she had the last word in the salon, or whether my bosses simply humoured her, I was unsure. But her nod of approval felt like an affirmation of who I had become. Her hairstyle was an exact replica of mine, and that felt like an insult, as if she were mocking me.

As I diligently performed my tasks throughout the rest of the day, I battled with the question of whether my transformed appearance now determined my true worth.

I contemplated whether I had given up my identity for a summer job and a few tips.

Through the darkness of that day, the only thought that lightened my mood was that my hair no longer kept getting in my way when I was trying to do things.

Epilogue

I had never envisioned a pre-university summer vacation quite like it turned out. There was a world outside the small haircutting salon, Top Style by Eileen, which buzzed with the vibrant energy of youth. Friends were exploring music festivals, lounging on sun-kissed beaches, or savouring ice cream under the shade of leafy trees.

Meanwhile, I found myself trapped in an alien landscape of perms and pastels. With my short poodle perm, I wore a frilly pink uniform that clung to me like a sarcastic reminder of how ridiculous my situation had become.

However, as the summer rolled on, I adjusted to my transformed appearance and embraced the summer spirit. To my surprise, clients complimented me, some even wanting to try the same hairstyle. I found myself caught between the reality of my appearance, and the person trapped beneath it.

As more customers filtered through the salon, eager to refresh their own signature styles and hearing the affectionate banter that bumbled back and forth, I began to find a rhythm. Barbara had helped me expand my role and taught me the finer points of shampooing and conditioning the clients’ hair. Eileen had explained the art of engaging in small talk to women of any age, whatever their background. It was all about making each customer feel like they were the only person in the world. Most importantly, they emphasised the process and the urgency needed to brew countless cups of tea.

‘Georgina, dear, such a sweet voice,’ Mrs. Chambers complimented me as I refilled her cup. ‘You remind me of myself when I was young; a taste for life and a flair for the dramatic!’

As her words sank in, I chuckled softly. It even planted a seed for the future, causing me to giggle quietly.

I realised that I should accept that the respect and tips I earned were sufficient to obscure any lingering discontent. However commonplace my employment felt, I could still repay my employer’s trust and their clients’ generosity by providing my best possible service with grace and happiness.

The bosses and clients, who had seemed so conservative and detached a week earlier, suddenly became part of a quirky family drama that was allowing me to recast my own story.

To be continued …