Keeping Up Appearances in the Upton Manner

Prologue

The scent of lavender polish mocked me, a constant reminder of Mrs Upton’s suffocating presence in my life. Living in her house, waiting for me and Hugo to find our own place after the wedding, was already a trial. Every creak of the floorboards, every clatter from the kitchen, felt like a criticism of my presence.

Hugo had left for work before dawn, leaving me trapped in that oppressive silence. I had retreated to our room, trying to lose myself in a book, but the words swam before my eyes. The house felt like a tomb, and I, the unwilling resident.

Invitation

Several knocks vibrated through the heavy front door, but I paid them no mind. It was always Mrs Upton’s endless parade of friends, their clipped voices, and judgmental glances a constant source of discomfort.

Then, her voice, sharp and imperious, cut through the silence. ‘Would you come on down, my dear?’

My stomach clenched. I was relaxing, long hair loose, wearing my most comfortable, albeit worn, tracksuit bottoms and hoody. My look was a conscious rebellion against Mrs Upton’s relentless obsession with appearances. I knew she disapproved of my casual attire, especially if she had guests. However, my own clothes were still “not back from the laundry”, according to Mrs Upton, a blatant lie that I suspected she was using to impose revisions to my wardrobe to satisfy her preferences.

I sighed, resigned, and rummaged through the wardrobe, a repository of Mrs Upton’s bizarre selection of clothes that she deemed more suitable. I finally settled on a yellow floral sundress, the material too flimsy, the puffed sleeves ridiculously girlish, and the hemline far too short for my liking. However, it was the best I could find, a symbol of my diminishing autonomy. As I looked in the mirror, I saw a woman that was quickly disappearing to make way for the woman her future mother-in-law wanted her to be.

I toyed with the idea of putting my long locks into a ponytail or braid whose neatness might have found favour Mrs Upton. Feeling rebellious, I decided to leave it loose and it amused me to see that the ends flowed past the hem of the ridiculously short dress.

Descent

My heart hammered against my ribs as I descended the stairs. With each step, my loose hair floated in the air behind me and slapped the back of my thighs. In the hall stood a woman who, impossibly, looked like a grimmer version of Mrs Upton. A formidable figure with a smirk plastered on her face and a worn, small black case clutched in her hand. She had removed her coat to reveal a short, white buttoned-up dress that strained across her plump body, giving her a strangely clinical air. Her hair was shockingly short, shaved close to her scalp with little style, resembling a military cut.

Looking through to the lounge, three more women awaited who resembled Mrs Upton. They had similar severe hairstyles, albeit a little more stylish than the plump woman. Expensive designer dresses that were far too short for their age, ostentatious jewellery, and far too much makeup, completed their looks. They turned to me as I entered, their eyes sharp and assessing.

‘You took your time, Anna,’ Mrs Upton snapped, her voice laced with disapproval. ‘There are people waiting!’

‘Well, they are not waiting for me -’ I began, but she cut me off, her smile widening.

‘Yes, they certainly are, my dear! First, you will observe Doris, here,’ she gestured towards the plump woman with the case. ‘She will perform the weekly trim of the hair of me and my friends. Then, Anna,’ she added, a glint of triumph in her eyes, ‘it will be your turn. So, that will be nice, won’t it?’

I tried to convince myself I must have misheard.

‘Looking forward to it,’ one of Mrs Upton’s cronies cackled, her gaze lingering on my long hair. ‘Exciting,’ another added, her voice dripping with malicious glee.

I had always been surprised by Mrs Upton’s consistently short hair, which always looked freshly cut. Now I understood why. She had a weekly appointment with Doris to maintain her severe haircut. What normal person had their hair cut every seven days, I mused.

Unlike her, my hair was thick, dark, and cascaded down to my hips. I had it trimmed every six months … whether it needed or not! It was my pride and joy, a tangible expression of my individuality. If I had heard correctly, the thought of letting Doris anywhere near it was unbearable; a terrifying prospect that filled me with dread.

Shearing

Mrs Upton had positioned one of the heavy oak dining chairs in the middle of the room; and she directed me to a sofa, to sit on my own, facing it. She had placed an occasional table alongside the dining chair. Doris had placed her case upon it, opened it, and revealed a large array of haircutting implements and accessories. She snatched a set of monstrously large red hairclippers from the depths and plugged them in. Then she grabbed a black haircutting cape that she shook open in readiness for her first victim.

Mrs Upton and her three friends perched solemnly in a line on a sofa that was adjacent to my own. Doris beckoned the first woman forward, and she dutifully settled on the oak chair. The barber draped the black cape over her, securing it firmly at her nape and retrieved the hairclippers. Flicking a switch, a raucous noise filled the room, and Doris began shearing all the bristles on the back and sides of the woman’s scalp, manoeuvring her head around as she required.

Once the barber had shaved away the hair, she directed her attention to the relatively longer hair on the woman’s crown. I had noticed subtle differences in each woman’s style, providing them with a measure of individuality. But none had hair more than a few centimetres long. And the first one in the chair had hers reduced to a drastic brush-like appearance with the longest hairs standing erect. Even with the barber having only removed a tiny amount of hair, the woman presented a significantly more uncompromising appearance than she had before.

As Doris buzzed her down, the woman’s piercing eyes bore into me throughout as if was contemplating my fate. As each of her companions took their places in the chair, the pantomime repeated. The barber exposed the skin on the back and sides of their head. The hair on the crown swept back from their forehead, one with short layers and a parting, and the other one without. And they both watched me unwaveringly as the grisly action took place.

When Mrs Upton finally took her place, she underwent an identical transformation. Although Doris similarly skinned the back and sides of her head, she added a little texture to the top giving her a slightly more stylish look. And Mrs Upton also directed her uncompromising stare at me, her lips flitting between a grimace and a smile.

It was an awful exhibition for me to witness. I was unable to get my head around the fact that they willingly succumbed to the barber’s drastic performance week after week. For someone who had always appreciated the beauty of long hair, on myself and others, it was a living nightmare.

If Mrs Upton had forced me to watch in the hope that I would be requesting the same treatment, then she was very much mistaken. As Doris sheared each of them, all I was wondering was how, without giving offense, I could politely establish that there was no way she would be cutting my hair.

Once Doris had removed the cape from Hugo’s mother, she turned to me, her eyes glittering with anticipation. ‘Now it is your turn, my dear,’ Mrs Upton insisted, gesturing to the chair she had just vacated.

Her three friends looked on, their faces a mixture of curiosity and amusement, sipping tea as if they were watching a particularly entertaining play.

Resistance

‘No, thank you, Mrs Upton,’ I said firmly, steeling myself for the inevitable confrontation. I was prepared to explain, to plead, to beg if necessary. But Mrs Upton was not one for negotiation.

‘Sorry, you misunderstand me, my dear,’ Mrs Upton challenged, her voice disconcertingly sweet. ‘You will have a haircut while you are living in my house, especially if you are still intent on marrying my son,’ she sniffed, her voice cold and unwavering. ‘Now sit,’ she insisted, her hand motioning towards the oak chair, her tone not inviting further discussion.

I shook my head angrily, a surge of defiance coursing through me. I was about to bolt, to run upstairs and lock myself in my room until Hugo returned home, when Mrs Upton’s next words stopped me in my tracks.

‘Are you resisting, my dear?’ Mrs Upton asked, her voice dangerously calm. I stared back at her, my silence a challenge. ‘Well, please do not worry, my dear, as Doris knows exactly how to treat challenging people like yourself.’

Panic clawed at my throat. I began to appreciate this was not a simple haircut. It was an act of control, a way to strip me of my identity and mould me into her ideal of a suitable wife for Hugo. Desperate to salvage something, anything, I decided to attempt a compromise. If I reluctantly agreed to a modest trim, then I hoped that would appease her. By doing so, I hoped to avoid any unpleasantness that would disturb the household if I stormed off to my room.

‘Perhaps, er, just a trim of the ends, and -’ I began hesitantly.

‘A compromise?’ Mrs Upton mused, nodding. I thought her acknowledgement signified agreement. However, subsequent events indicated it was an unambiguous signal to the barber.

Doris held up the haircutting cape in front of me, her eyes gleaming with cruel anticipation, distracting me from arguing my position. I assumed the women had agreed to my compromise, otherwise for what reason would Doris have held up the cape? So, without thinking, I instinctively put my arms through slits in the fabric that resembled armholes. The cape’s appearance puzzled me as I did not remember the one used on the other women having armholes. And then I recalled the cape used on them was an uncompromising black in colour, whereas the one she was brandishing in front of me was a dazzling white?

Suddenly, I panicked when my arms did not go all the way through the holes. I realised it was a different cape and, worse still, was acting more like a straitjacket. When she pulled a cord taut behind me, it pulled my arms forcibly, and then held them immobile, pinned against my sides.

Doris then unceremoniously dragged me by the cord and forced me into the oak chair, using other cords on the cape to secure me to the chair, preventing me from moving or escaping.

‘Neatly packaged and so much better,’ Doris judged, chuckling, the sound sending shivers down my spine. All the women joined in with her laughter, a chorus of derision that echoed around the room.

‘Help!’ I shouted, my voice cracking with fear. ‘Please … somebody, help me!’

Sanctuary

‘The neighbours will not hear you, my dear,’ Mrs Upton smirked, her face a mask of cold satisfaction. ‘As the ladies from all the nearby homes are already here. So please stop whining and making that irritating noise.’

I stopped shouting but allowed an ineffective whimper to escape my lips.

‘Now then, Doris has kindly agreed to quickly rid you of the bulk of your ridiculously long hair,’ she announced gleefully, rubbing her hands together. ‘It is below the hem of your lovely dress,’ she scoffed disparagingly.

I moaned, a sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the room.

‘And once that’s completed,’ Mrs Upton concluded, ‘she and I will discuss what to do with the modest amount hair that you will remain.’

Doris retrieved a huge pair of shining scissors from her case and brandished them menacingly. They glinted under the chandelier, transforming into instruments of torture. She gathered my hair into a crude ponytail at my nape and pulled it taut until it hurt. ‘I hope you are ready,’ the barber cackled, her breath hot on my neck.

‘Please … no …’ I implored, tears streaming down my face, my voice barely a whisper. The women laughed, their enjoyment of my torment palpable.

But at that moment, a car screeched to a halt on the gravel drive. It had to be Hugo, back early from work. Everyone froze. A wave of relief washed over me, so strong it almost brought me to my knees.

Hugo

‘Am I too late?’ Hugo asked breathlessly as he burst into the room, his face etched with concern.

‘Thank goodness, Hugo. No, you are not,’ I replied, my relief palpable. ‘That dragon was just about to cut off all my hair.’

Hugo looked at me with a confused expression, then chuckled knowingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Yes, I know, Anna,’ he said condescendingly, his hand patting my cheek. ‘That’s why I rushed back from work early. Mother messaged me.’

‘What? She messaged you? But …’ I tried to clarify, but it was my turn to be confused. The relief I had felt moments before was evaporating, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.

‘Yes, mother said she could not abide your long hair around the house a moment longer,’ Hugo shrugged. ‘And that is quite understandable, of course,’ he chuckled, his gaze drifting towards Mrs Upton, seeking her approval which she acknowledged with a dip of her head.

‘Understandable?’ I whimpered, my voice barely audible.

‘Yes, totally understandable,’ he confirmed, gripping the end of a lock of my hair, and flicking it away disparagingly. ‘Just look at it,’ he remarked. ‘And obviously I did not want to miss this joyous moment. Indeed, I had been anticipating the moment when Doris would do something sensible with your hair, and obviously I wished to relish the occasion, along with these lovely ladies.’

Mrs Upton poured her son a cup of tea, her eyes gleaming with possessive pride, and he settled down with the women, facing me, nodding a greeting to each of them. He rubbed his hands together excitedly, like a child anticipating a thrilling spectacle, and nodded for Doris to continue.

‘Now, hold still,’ Doris smirked, her fingers tightening again around my hair. As I was unable to move, I had no choice other than to do as she ordered.

I heard a sickening, crunching sound emanated from behind me, echoing through my skull, as Doris tugged unrelentingly at my ponytail. Each lunge of the scissors felt like it was taking an age, the barber grunting with the enthusiastic effort to force the blades of the scissors through my thick hair.

Twenty-five years for me to grow it down to my hips, and twenty-five seconds for her to unceremoniously destroy it, I mused, my mind numb with shock.

Ponytail

Hugo and the women passed my huge ponytail between them, examining it with detached curiosity, while I looked on, horrified.

‘Ridiculous,’ Mrs Upton said dismissively, while her friends made similar disparaging remarks about me having had so much hair. ‘Ludicrous,’ one spat, and another hissed, ‘absurd.’

A couple of them joked about something, then smiled. Mrs Upton acknowledged their remarks, shrugged and, unbelievably, tossed my precious hair onto the fire burning in the large fireplace. The flames licked at the dark strands, consuming them in a burst of heat and light.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, silent and uncontrollable, as I watched a part of myself disappear in the flames.

The barber chuckled, looking towards the Uptons for guidance on how they wished her to proceed.

‘Doris, please could you give Anna a bowlcut?’ Hugo piped up, his voice casual, as if he were requesting a dash for milk in his tea.

Haircut

Following Hugo’s request for Doris to give me a bowlcut, all the women nodded approvingly, their eyes gleaming with morbid fascination. ‘She will look neat and tidy, at last,’ he chuckled, ‘and she may even look rather cute.’

At that stage, I was unsure what a bowlcut even was. To my horror, I soon found out. I was in a dream, the kind that you could not wait to wake up from.

‘So, a dragon, am I?’ Doris remarked menacingly, clearly incensed by my derogatory name for her. ‘Something tells me that I am going to really enjoy this,’ she murmured, out of the earshot of all the others in the room, her voice dripping with anticipation.

The barber grabbed the hairclippers and, although I was unable to see what she was doing, it felt like she was levelling up all the remaining length. But it seemed ridiculously short. Like a bob, but considerably shorter. High above my ears. Surely, I hoped, Hugo had not intended her to do that to me?

But I was unable to dwell on that as, then, it got even worse. With great enthusiasm, a smile plastered across her features, she began to mercilessly shave the back and sides of my head. The clippers buzzed against my skull in a torturous, dehumanising rhythm, and I envisaged her revealing my pristine bare skin.

Hugo, Mrs Upton, and her friends watched with avid interest, their faces a mixture of amusement and satisfaction, as if I were a curious spectacle for their enjoyment.

Eventually the awful noise of the hairclippers ceased. ‘Delightful,’ Mrs Upton declared, placing a large mirror on a table in front of me.

I screamed, the sound raw and primal, disbelieving of what I was seeing in the mirror. I was unable to turn away from the reflected horror. The woman in the mirror was unrecognisable, her face framed by a hideous, childlike haircut that accentuated every flaw. I looked like a frightened, cornered animal, stripped of my dignity, and reduced to nothing more than an object of their amusement.

Epilogue

‘Let us leave Emma to familiarise herself with her smart new look,’ Mrs Upton suggested.

‘Excellent idea,’ Hugo agreed. ‘Give her the opportunity to calm down. Such a noise,’ he tutted, his voice dripping with false sympathy,

‘We shall retire to the conservatory and have a nice glass of sherry,’ Mrs Upton announced.

‘Perfect,’ Hugo concurred, patting me condescendingly on the head, as if I were a pet he had just trained. ‘Yes, Emma, that’s a far more suitable look for my future wife.’

I stared at him disbelievingly. Did he still expect me to go through with the marriage after participating in my humiliation? After I witnessed his complicity in this act of utter cruelty?

‘Doris, please can you release her after we’ve enjoyed our sherry,’ Hugo suggested, his tone casual and dismissive, ‘although I am contemplating whether you should cut it considerably shorter, so she looks a little more like Mother.’

‘Of course, Hugo,’ Doris sneered, her eyes sparkling with malicious glee. ‘It would the dragon’s pleasure to cut her down to size.’

‘Oh, Hugo,’ Mrs Upton simpered. ‘What an absolutely super idea, my lovely boy,’ Mrs Upton said, her arm linked through her son’s. ‘And let us hope she does not run off like all your other women did, after we gave them a nice fresh haircut,’ she added without a trace of irony, completely oblivious to the horror of her words.

Doris reopened her suitcase and placed the hairclippers next to the mirror to taunt me. ‘Be seeing you, my dear,’ she murmured, before departing to partake of the sherry, the ominous hairclippers a silent threat hanging in the air.

The End