Layla, the New Neighbour with a Surprising Talent

I was brushing my exceptionally long hair in my bedroom, by the window, as I did for a great deal of time each day to keep the tangles away and maintain its shine. The sun streamed through the glass, illuminating the strands that fell past my waist like a dark waterfall. In this moment, I felt in control, as though each stroke of the brush was an extension of my very identity. But one day during the long summer break from college, a scene unfolded outside that disrupted my ritual.

Our new neighbour was moving in. It was a woman, much younger than my mum, and closer to my own age. She was directing the removal men confidently, her voice carrying a playful edge that intrigued me. Layla had the shortest bobbed hair I had ever seen. Some friends had succumbed to the scissors and had their long hair bobbed, but nothing as severe as hers. Cut severely above her ears, a blunt fringe framed her striking features. A white expanse of shaved skin on her neck and temples shone boldly from under the sleek cap of hair perched on her crown. She exuded an air of bohemian chic that made my heart flutter, despite my strong aversion to short hair.

I had always coveted my long hair. It felt like a shield, a statement, a part of who I was. It gave me a sense of innocence and femininity that I cherished. My mum often urged me to consider something shorter and more practical. She had even made appointments for at salons, and each time I refused to go. Whenever the topic arose, I rolled my eyes, annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. I had no doubt that she would have dragged me along to an appointment if she thought she could get away with it, but she always backed down in the end.

It was hard to believe that someone like Layla could be so beautiful with short hair, yet she wore it with style and confidence, which softened the edges of my hard-wired opinions even if it did not change them.

= * = * =

As I was enjoying the long summer break, I often caught glimpses of Layla in passing over the next few days. She would smile at me, and I would smile back, my heart racing slightly. I noticed how my mum, every so often, would chat with her over the garden fence, just being neighbourly I assumed. However, on one occasion she was in our kitchen having a coffee and their conversation stalled abruptly as I entered. While Mum looked anxious at my interruption, Layla rewarded me with an animated smile, causing me to blush. She studied me closely, her eyes lingering on my hair, but whether in appreciation or jealousy I was unsure.

Layla had little reason to be jealous of me, as she dripped with charisma. She often wore skirts that barely brushed her thighs, and blouses that hugged her figure like a second skin. I admired her from afar, even developing a secret girl crush, which I would never admit to anyone, especially not Mum.

Whenever I heard her car door open or the front door close, I would carefully peek out of my bedroom window to catch a glimpse of her to admire whatever outfit she was wearing. Once she took me by surprise, suddenly looking up and winking. Inevitably, I reddened in embarrassment, and I signified the pretence that I was only there to close the window. She nodded back with knowing, almost provocative, smile causing me to blush even more.

= * = * =

One afternoon, as I absorbed the latest gossip from my friends on my laptop, Mum’s voice floated up the stairs. ‘Allie, can you come down, please?’

Murmuring a half-hearted response, I reluctantly descended. When I reached the kitchen, my mum beamed with excitement. ‘Layla has just invited us to pop around for drinks now that she has unpacked and settled in. Isn’t that nice.’

Nice? My stomach lurched at the thought. I was not ready to face Layla for any length of time, terrified of embarrassing myself. Running back up to my bedroom, I gave Mum the excuse of turning off my computer. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I silently screamed at the frightful sight of my bland hoody and comfortable tracksuit bottoms. I rifled through my wardrobe and slipped into a worn denim miniskirt and a strappy white lace top, the fabric clinging to my curves. After quickly brushing my hair, I styled it half up and half down, keeping a few ringlets artfully curling around my face and several tendrils over one shoulder and curving around my breast.

Would this be too much, I wondered? My anxious thoughts swirled as I glanced in the mirror. Although I knew I could do better given enough time, my updated reflection in the mirror was sufficient to silence my inner scream. However, as it was for drinks then a dress might be more appropriate. Or, as it is informal, I wondered if I should tone down my outfit.

I was in a quandary but, when Mum called me for the third time, I had no choice but to make my way downstairs. She cast a doubtful eye over my appearance and, while her unsubtle sniff indicated that she did not approve of my choice of clothes, for once she let it go without comment.

= * = * =

Layla greeted us at her door with a warm smile that made me blush. ‘You look very pretty, Allie,’ she purred as I brushed past her in the narrow hallway. I felt a warm rush envelop me, like the sunlight pouring through the large kitchen window.

‘Thanks,’ I croaked, my throat suddenly dry. ‘You do too.’

And she did. Striking, rather than pretty, with a black leather miniskirt that she could almost use as a belt, and a red satin blouse clinging to her curves, unbuttoned to reveal her ample cleavage.

Her kitchen and dining room was large and airy, adorned with modern furniture and a vibrant décor. In the centre of the space that might normally contain a dining table and chairs, sat a large revolving chair that looked completely out of place. An office chair, I had initially assumed, although I had the bizarre notion that it might be the kind that you would find in a hairdressing salon. I furrowed my brow at the strange sight, but I did not have time to dwell on it as Layla called across the room.

‘Red or white, Linda?’ Layla asked my mum, holding up a bottle of each. Mum chose red, settling onto a kitchen stool, while I stood hesitantly to the side.

Layla turned to me and gestured with an immaculately manicured finger towards the peculiar chair. ‘Take a seat, Allie,’ her relaxed tone shifting slightly, making her words feel more like an order than an invitation.

It seemed a strange request with Mum comfortably propping herself up against the breakfast bar, glass in hand, and looking over at us expectantly.

‘What?’ I asked, feeling confusion wash over me, but my legs moved of their own accord under Layla’s unrelenting gaze, carrying me to the chair. ‘Why here?’

‘Sorry, Allie, did I forget to say?’ Mum giggled, taking another generous sip of her wine, which did not bode well for me. ‘Layla has offered to give you a haircut to thank us for helping her settle in. Isn’t that nice.’

Nice? I blinked in disbelief. ‘What?’ I managed, looking to Layla, who now had a glint in her eye that sent shivers down my spine. Turning to my mum, I saw a hint of satisfaction in her eyes. ‘I do not need or want a haircut, Mum,’ I stated defiantly, avoiding the eager gaze of Layla that I could see out of the corner of my eye.

Mum remained silent as I glowered at her with pleading eyes.

‘Do you like my hair?’ Layla suddenly piped up, breaking the silence. A smile played on her lips, as Mum looked on with an amused expression.

‘No!’ I said flatly, echoing my usual reaction to short hair.

Layla happy expression flickered between veiled disappointment and barely disguised anger. I hated seeing her like that, especially as I knew that I had caused her mood to change so dramatically. I realised I had sounded incredibly rude about her appearance, perhaps even insulting. ‘Well, yes … on you … I like it,’ I added, furiously backpedalling.

My voice trembled as she leaned closer, and I was acutely aware of the sweet perfume wafting from her. ‘Good, because your mother believes you should have the same style,’ she purred, her tone both playful and commanding, as she ran one of my long tendrils slowly through her fingers, gently stroking my cheek then my breast. My heart was hammering and in my chest.

My throat went dry. I tried to find the right words to refute my mum’s suggestion but, even if I could find them, I doubted I could utter them. I was conscious that Layla had positioned herself so that my mum could not see or her what was happening between us.

‘And, Allie,’ Layla added pointedly, ‘I am inclined to agree with your mother’s wishes.’

‘No … please, no …’ I croaked in protest, but it came out as a barely discernible whimper.

‘Oh, yes, Allie,’ Layla declared joyfully. ‘So, sit still,’ she ordered, in the cold menacing tone that never seemed far from the surface.

A huge pair of scissors suddenly appeared in Layla’s hand, glinting under the kitchen lights. She haphazardly tugged on sections of my hair, snipped them off, and dropped them in my lap. The way she did it came over as more of a performance than a haircut. My world shifted as a cascade of my precious locks were falling all around me, and I froze in shock.

‘Gosh, that is looking so much better already,’ Mum snickered, clearly too far gone in her wine to understand the significance of what was happening. The stripping of my identity.

‘Mum?’ I questioned, having momentarily engaged her attention, but that moment was soon gone.

‘Short hair will be so much better for you,’ Mum declared. ‘Layla says so.’

Layla’s fingers tangled with my hair, pulling it one way, then tugging it the other. I could only blink back tears as the realisation washed over me. I felt powerful hands guiding my head and my hair, finding the warmth of her body near to mine arousing in an alarming, yet confusing, way.

‘There, there, Allie.’ Her voice was soothing yet, at the same time, echoing with dominance. She began chuckling, with an almost maniacal edge to her laughter. ‘That is the worst of it off. I have cut off all your long hair!’

= * = * =

Her words pierced my soul, but I could feel the ends of my hair tickling my neck and my cheeks. So, I knew that some of my hair remained and could form the semblance of a style.

‘Now, Allie, you must keep very still while I use my hairclippers to shape the rest of your hair.’

I experienced a shiver of anticipation and fear converging deep within me. ‘Hairclippers?’ I questioned, almost silently.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said gleefully. ‘Now, head down!’

I had no choice as Layla forced down my head, then her grip tightened, holding it firmly in place.

I was not ready for what came next. The gentle swish of my hairbrush as I ran it through my long locks had been a comforting friend throughout my life. By contrast, the raucous and insistent buzzing of the hairclippers was deafening around my ears. They vibrated through my skull as my remaining hair surrendered to Layla’s demands. Every pass of the clippers in her firm hand and every brush of her firm breast against my body as she moved, brought me closer to an unexpected liberation, my body betraying me with unsolicited arousal.

In an almost trance-like state, I was aware of the tug of the clipper blade against the short bristles, slowly replaced by a completely smooth passage over bare skin. I perceived the ever-changing note of the clippers’ motor reduced to a constant whine after there was no hair left to remove. I sensed Layla’s delicate fingertips exploring the bared skin around my ears and along my neck, until they met no further resistance.

‘Beautiful,’ Layla pronounced, silencing her equipment, releasing her grip on my head, and stepping away to appraise her work.

I lifted my head, searching Layla’s eyes, as she raised her glass to me.

‘At last,’ my mum breathed victoriously, mirroring Layla’s gesture, the falling back into her contented state of intoxication as if nothing profound had taken place.

‘Why?’ I questioned, unable to comprehend why Layla, the woman I had admired from afar, had done this.

‘Because I dislike long hair,’ she answered, smiling enigmatically, ‘and because it is what I wished to do.’

Layla moved behind me and leaned over. I caught my breath as I felt her warm breath on the newly bared skin on my neck, followed by the gentle touch of her fingertips as they worked their way under the short cap of hair perched on my crown. She gently lifted my hand that had eagerly found its way under my skirt while she had been manipulating me. She sniffed my fingers appreciatively, then gentle cupped by breasts before standing up straight.

‘Perhaps I will shave you with razor next time, Allie,’ Layla purred, as my hands found their way down to my lap. ‘It takes much longer but the results are exquisite and very rewarding.’

= * = * =

Despite Layla’s provocative behaviour, the world closed in as I looked down. My long hair, scattered around me like fallen leaves, was a sombre reminder of everything I had just lost. I fought through the tears that pricked at my eyes, overwhelmed by powerful raw emotions, as I grappled with the change in my identity.

Layla stood in front of me, holding up a mirror for me to see the extent of my transformation for the first time. My gaze flickered between my reflection and Layla herself, recognising that I was a pale copy of the woman who had robbed me of my own identity.

Who had I become? For a moment, the line between admiration for Layla’s appearance and acceptance of my new identity blurred, leaving me standing on the precipice of a new reality. As I caught Layla’s gaze, I thought maybe – just maybe – this was the beginning of something exciting and unexpected.