Leilah is Coming Home for Christmas

Regretfully, as things stand, with the lack of respect shown to the contributors and readers of this site by the owner, moderators, and the small minority of individuals who are intent on destroying this site, this will be my last contribution here.

Out of respect to all the readers who, 650,000 times, have read at least one of my 130 stories that I have shared here, I say a huge thank you. Furthermore, I greatly appreciate the many comments I have received – both public and private – and the average of over 100 likes that you have given on each of those stories… and 722 for “All Change At the Grand Hotel” was special! I am genuinely humbled by such incredible feedback, and I thank each and every one of you.

I wrote this seasonal story as a mark of my appreciation to my valued readers together with those authors who have made this site fun, interesting and, dare I say, exciting. Given this story’s subject matter, I had held it back until today to celebrate and show my appreciation to all those fair-minded people. I’m just incredibly disappointed that I have been obliged to utilise the story for a much sadder purpose.

I will continue to share my stories and, even now, I sincerely hope it will be here but, if not, then I wish you well and I hope to meet some of you again in the future…

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The story begins with Leilah reviewing her first few months at university, and later switches to her mother reflecting on having her daughter home for Christmas…

The First Chapter – Leilah’s Review

The autumn of 1985 hummed with an insistent clamour of endless possibility, a subtle tremor that underlined the more ponderous academic routine of university life. I, Leilah, a first-year student, immersed myself in lectures and library research, chasing the future Mum had woven for years into my very existence. Every textbook I opened, every late night fuelled by lukewarm tea, every meticulously crafted essay, felt like my silent promise to her.

Mum had sacrificed so much after my dad had left us when I was just twelve. Although often exhausted, she worked extra shifts at the factory, patched up her clothes, deferred all her dreams, and rarely complained. It was all to ensure that I did not just survive in the future, but that I thrived. So, making her proud had always been the foundation of my youthful existence, keeping me on the chosen path.

Repression

Lurking beneath the determined student façade, under the layers of dutiful expectation, lay a profound and subversive secret. Tucked away at home, in the privacy of my knicker drawer, was a crumpled manila envelope. Inside, were my beloved and dog-eared photographs that I secretly termed my dark materials.

These were not glossy magazine spreads or elegant fashion plates. No, these were raw, almost visceral images clipped from obscure punk magazines and underground music papers. They depicted women with radically shorn, buzzed, or even entirely bald heads. Each image was a defiant statement, a thrilling rebellion against the prevailing norms of femininity.

My hair was a stark, almost absurd contrast. It had always been my signature, my identity, and, I knew, Mum’s greatest pride. It was a dark, heavy, liquid cascade that had, over the years, grown to something truly rare and exceptional. She had always cared for it. Each Sunday, we shared and enjoyed the Sunday-night brushing sessions right up until I left for college. Every morning there were the intricate twin braids of my childhood, then the simple ponytails of my teenage years. She treated my Rapunzel-like tresses as if they were a precious heirloom.

But the world had changed as we moved into a new decade. Around 1980, when I was thirteen, I noticed a seismic shift rolling through women’s hair fashion. Opulent volume and fussy curls gave way to simpler styles, while straight long hair became unfashionable, and even considered dowdy. The magazines and TV music programmes were suddenly full of drastic and unusual haircuts and colours, mirrored by the photos in my secret envelope. Such looks were not common in our provincial town. So, I dreamed that once I left for college, the city would be full of fellow students who were stylish and edgy.

Before that, during my teenage years, I frequently studied my dark materials with relish in the privacy of my bedroom. Shaved sides, asymmetric cuts, and flamboyant colours were all fascinating. But oddly, the pictures that showed completely smooth, bald heads became the most dog-eared as I traced the curve of a bare skull. I craved that liberating change with a burning intensity. I imagined the feeling of lightness, the defiant glint of scalp, and the stark lines that would frame my face with an unspoken confidence. The thought of it was a whisper of freedom, a promise of shedding years of compliance.

However, it was a silent rebellion, a constant, nagging thought against the physical weight of my tresses that brushed my hips as I moved. My hair was a heavy, dark curtain that, as I grew older, felt less like an asset and more like an obligation to my mum’s notion of beauty. So, whenever I thought about cutting my hair, the image of Mum’s face showing quiet disappointment would invariably surface in my mind. I would feel the unspoken hurt in her eyes. Even trimming three or four inches from the ends seemed like a betrayal of Mum’s love. So, I never breathed a word.

Liberation

Although I was sad to leave Mum behind, college offered me independence and the opportunity to forge an identity of my own.

The first few weeks were exhilarating, as I admired other students experimenting with radical cuts and vibrant colour. I found myself drawn to their bold choices, feeling a mix of envy and inspiration stirring within me. It was a chance to redefine my appearance, to step away from the shadows of my past and embrace the freedom that came with self-expression. Having settled into the college academic and social routine, I decided it was my turn to break away from conformity and conservatism. And I tried. Oh, how I tried!

But whenever I tried, my courage consistently failed me.

I had made appointments at the trendy salons other students had recommended. Then I would cancel them at the last minute. Once, before my allotted time, I had walked up and down outside an expensive establishment for over fifteen minutes before finally turning away, my stomach churning with guilt.

I had even lingered inside barbershops that were not only cheaper but also required no appointment. Each time, as I awaited my turn, the fascinating hum of the hairclippers held me captive. But as they were about to call me to the chair, I would bolt with my heart hammering and my long hair swinging behind me like a pendulum of shame and cowardice.

I wished desperately that I had brought the envelope of pictures with me. They were my talisman, the only things that truly articulated the change I craved. With them, I may have given myself the necessary push for radical change and cemented my independence. Without the influence of my dark materials, I got on with college life, my hair intact, simply looking forward to spending time with Mum at Christmas.

Vacation

When the Christmas vacation finally arrived, I was ready for home, ready for Mum’s quiet comfort, her home-cooked meals, and her familiar routines. But those three months of independence had also left me restless. I saw my reflection in the train windows, my academic confidence still cloaked beneath my ridiculously long mane that had now grown to the back of my knees when unbound.

On the first day of the Christmas vacation, I desperately tried to find the courage to broach the subject of my hair. But being mindful of not upsetting Mum during her favourite time of the year, I was unable to find the words.

On the second day of Christmas, I thought of casually saying I was thinking of a bit of a change to my hairstyle for the new year. If she did not react too unfavourably, then I would calmly add that I was considering trimming it to my waist. Or that I could have it cut to the middle of my back. Or even chop it so that it skims the top of my shoulders. Obviously, it was not my ultimate aim, but I hoped it would be sufficient to initiate a conversation. However, every time I tried to articulate my thoughts, the words died in my throat.

On the third day of Christmas, I pushed myself harder. ‘Er, Mum… can I ask you something… it’s about my hair…’ I finally managed over breakfast.

‘Of course, darling,’ Mum beamed, causing my heart to skip a beat. ‘After breakfast, I will be happy to do it for you. And there was me thinking you were beyond all that, given that you are now a student. But rather than a pair of beribboned braids, I think a sleek, high ponytail would be more appropriate for the college girl,’ she quipped lightly. ‘It should look magnificent given how much your hair has grown in the last three months.’

‘Oh… right… thanks, Mum,’ I said politely, my hopes of a meaningful conversation dashed. It was even a regression, of sorts, as I had mostly worn my length locks loose while I was at college!

So, each evening, I had retreated to my bedroom and opened my knicker drawer. I would spread out my secret horde of photos on my bed. I would study them carefully, tracing the smooth contours of a curved skull or a swan-like neck with my finger. Then I would turn to the mirror to brush my lengthy hair, attempting to hold it up and pin it in a way that mimicked the startling shortness I desired. I was still yearning for a radical transformation.

Three months away from home on the road to self-discovery had not helped me broach what should have been the simple subject of my hair. Except, in my mind, it was complicated, and the silence surrounding my secret desire had only grown thicker and more suffocating as time went by.

Expedition

On the fourth day of Christmas, Mum was humming a Christmas carol as she made breakfast. ‘We’re heading into town today, Leilah,’ she announced brightly, stirring a pot of porridge. ‘Christmas shopping, of course, but first I have an activity planned especially for you.’ A tiny, knowing twinkle danced in her eye. She had piqued my curiosity, but she gave no other clue.

Mum’s surprises were always sweet and well thought out, but I knew from experience that she would divulge nothing until she was ready. So, I dressed in my usual college uniform, one not usually seen in our provincial town in December. I slipped on my favourite short floral dress, warm opaque tights, and my trusty worn denim jacket. Defiantly, I wore my hair loose, and I felt ready for my day out with Mum.

We piled into her ancient Ford Fiesta, the engine wheezing a familiar protest. She parked in the usual place near the brightly lit department stores. However, instead of heading towards them, she marched in the opposite direction, and I followed along behind, quizzing her on our destination. Annoyingly, she continued to hum the Christmas carol as she led us down a quiet, obscure lane peppered with artisan shops. We passed enticing places selling beautiful artwork, fascinating antiques, and scrummy confectionary. Stores that would normally tempt us to browse, but Mum marched onwards and I grew increasingly puzzled.

Suddenly she stopped. We were outside an antiquated structure with a striped pole slowly revolving outside, denoting a traditional, old-fashioned barbershop. From the exterior and through the steamed-up window, it looked intimidatingly masculine. It was nothing like the pastel-hued women’s salons where I had occasionally had a trim.

‘Mum?’ I queried, genuine confusion lacing my voice as I confirmed my fears by looking up at the sign stating it was The Lanes Barbershop.

Without giving any reason, she opened the heavy wooden door and ushered me inside.

Explanation

The interior was loud, filled with the mechanical buzzing of electric hair clippers, murmurs of fragmented conversation, and the rustle of newspapers. Two barbers worked with practised efficiency. The handful of men waiting and the two barbers immediately fell silent as we entered. I felt immediately conspicuous, as if we had entered a private club that we had no right to enter. My short floral dress and my ridiculously long hair that brushed the back of my knees made me a bizarre spectacle in this steadfastly male environment of extremely short haircuts.

Mum settled on a cracked, red vinyl bench reserved for waiting customers. I sat down next to her. And as I did so, the murmur of conversation slowly resumed.

‘Why are we here, Mum?’ I whispered self-consciously.

Mum smiled broadly. ‘I am treating you to a Christmas haircut, darling,’ she explained, her gaze level. ‘I know we are on a tight budget, but you need a trim before you go back to college. If not, you will be tripping over your hair by Easter,’ she said, with a degree of accuracy. ‘But my hairdresser, Mrs Davies, at Topknot, although inexpensive, has no appointments available until the new year,’ she continued. ‘I learnt this establishment offers extremely good value when compared with those fancy high street salons.’

My heart sank, my mind not wishing to entertain thoughts of a barbershop offering a cheap trim of a woman’s long hair. I simply accepted that it would be a straightforward procedure that they were unlikely to perform badly. However, despite my mum’s best intentions, my immediate reaction was to experience a wave of bitter frustration. One so intense that it almost choked me.

If Mum had said beforehand where we were going, then she would have given me the perfect opportunity to reveal my secret desires. Similarly, one could argue that, in the past, I should have found the courage with Mum to articulate the depth of my longing. Then we would both be in a much better place. Specifically, we would be in a place that was not a barbershop!

But sitting beside Mum on that red vinyl bench, she had locked me in with her innocent wish to give me a treat before the start of the new year. And having failed to share my secret desire, I felt my familiar paralysis setting in.

I absently watched the two barbers snip and clip their way through the queue of waiting customers, occasionally exchanging a word or two but mostly silent.

Mr Thomas, his name printed above the mirror, was tall and powerfully built. His coal-black hair, greased back from a precise side parting, was extremely short, and he had an intimidating and looming air about him.

By contrast, Mr Albert was shorter, plumper, and much older. He was bald on top, and he had a ring of short hair lower down that I felt would look better if he wore it more closely cropped. However, that softness contributed to him seeming like a much more affable fellow. I likened him to a friendly grandfather, and it was to him that I felt I could entrust my hair.

I occasionally turned my gaze to the men and boys the barbers were clipping. Although the short back and sides haircuts possessed little in the way of modern styling, I grew envious of the clippers defining the shape of their heads and shaving the nape cleanly.

‘One day,’ I murmured wistfully. ‘One day –’

Mum looked at me quizzically, then we both jumped as a loud voice called out.

‘Next!’ barked Mr Thomas. Sadly, Mr Albert was not the next barber available.

Gesticulation

‘Next!’ repeated Mr Thomas impatiently as Mum and I clambered to our feet. He gestured towards the huge leather and chrome chair. ‘Sit!’

His gaze flickered between each of us, clearly unsure who was there for his services. I looked at Mum, my heart hammering a frantic beat against my ribs. She steered me into the chair by my shoulders, acting with determination as if she as fearful that the barber might select her instead.

I looked up at Mum, feeling a nervous tremor, as Mr Thomas shook out the creases from a heavy white haircutting cape. ‘What kind of cut am I getting, Mum?’ I asked, as much to break the awkward silence, given that I already knew it would be just a trim.

‘It will be a change,’ Mum said enigmatically, her gaze unwavering. It was not the words I had expected. A trim was not really a change; it was just a bit shorter.

She patted me on the shoulder and turned her gaze to the barber, her posture straightening, her voice firm and utterly devoid of hesitation. ‘I would like you to give Leilah a complete head shave, please, Mr Thomas,’ she politely requested, in the same level tone she would use to order a cup of coffee.

The sound of the clippers stopped abruptly in the hands of the other barber. The two men each raised an eyebrow, exchanging a slightly baffled look. The remaining customers stared at me, firstly taking in my whole body and then settling on my hair. At that moment it was trailing down the back of the chair and touching the floor.

‘Wait! What, Mum?’ My eyes popped open, although an exhilarating tidal wave of pure and thrilling joy instantly drowned out my confusion. ‘A headshave?’ I clarified, my voice an octave higher. I was unsure whether my panic stemmed from concern that Mum meant the barber to shave me or worry she might only have been joking.

Mr Thomas was leaning heavily back on his counter with the cape still draped over his forearm. ‘Yes, and it is about time too! That ridiculous mop deserves to go,’ he chuckled, his mocking laughter shared by his colleague.

Mum gave the barber a cool admonishing stare, then turned back to me. ‘It is what you want, darling. It is what you need. And yes,’ she added softly, her green eyes locking onto mine, ‘it is what I would like for you. A fresh start for the new year.’

I felt a reckless giddiness bubbling up inside me. Mum’s instruction had been genuine, her intention clear. She patted me on the shoulder again and stepped away to give the barber room to work.

Mr Thomas snapped open the thick cape and fastened it securely around my neck. Unlike the floaty floral gowns in salons, the cape had a rugged and scratchy quality that served as a stark reminder that I was in a barbershop. Its heavy weight trapped my arms against the chair. He crudely rearranged my bountiful hair so that the bulk of it cascaded down the back of the chair, touching the floor. He pulled two large swatches forward, framing each side of my face, the ends coiling in my lap. It suddenly looked much longer and fuller than I remembered.

He chuckled when I gave a small cry of alarm. Without warning, he jerkily pumped up the chair to a comfortable working height. It went so high that I felt exposed and vulnerable, as if there was no longer any chance of escape.

Mr Thomas brandished huge shears between his fingers that would be unsuitable for precision cutting. I imagined he reserved them for the rare occasions he faced such huge quantities of hair as mine. The shears looked like garden implements against my delicate stature. ‘Are you sure you want this all cut off, miss?’ he clarified gruffly.

‘She is completely sure,’ Mum asserted, her words trembling with anticipation. ‘And I am completely sure.’

I glanced at Mum in the mirror. She gave me a comforting smile, which I returned in kind. I adjusted my gaze to face the barber and gave him an almost imperceptible nod of acceptance.

Mr Thomas wasted no time.

Separation

The barber drove his shears into my thick hair above my left ear. He closed the blades decisively, and a thick tendril separated, exposing the side of my head, sliding into my lap. Without hesitation, he selected another hank of my hair and dispatched that with equal efficiency. He was removing the accumulated physical weight of years of growing my hair in a series of shocking and swift movements.

With an almost manic intensity, Mr Thomas worked the shears around my head. It felt like time had slowed down as, wide-eyed, I could only watch his progress. Despite the devastation, I reminded myself that the clatter of the steel blades represented a symphony of my liberation.

Mum watched next to me in the mirror, her expression an intense mix of emotions. There was a clear and unsurprising sense of loss for the hair that she had loved and cared for. But there was an unmistakable glimmer of excitement for finally giving her daughter the fresh start she had needed for so long.

With the final lunge of the shears, the barber had severed all my long hair, a weighty proportion of it piled up high in my lap. He flicked the cape, and, like a silky waterfall, it all tumbled to the floor. ‘There, that’s rid of the worst of it,’ Mr Thomas slowly chuckled.

‘True,’ I whispered, out of Mum’s earshot. His expression suggested he did not know what to make of my comment, not realising he was doing me the great favour I had craved for so long.

I saw Mum repeat her admonishing stare, but Mr Thomas appeared oblivious to outside distraction now that he was well on his way to completing his mission.

Submission

Then came the loud, relentless hairclippers. Their mechanical whine vibrated through my skull, a powerful, buzzing sensation against my scalp. I closed my eyes for a moment, savouring the feeling as he reduced the last vestiges of my hair to an even stubble. My ears, long hidden under a mountain of hair, suddenly felt exposed, cooling in the breeze of the ventilation fan.

Mr Thomas silenced the hairclippers and produced a gleaming straight razor, the glint of the steel confirming its stark purpose. ‘A razor?’ I queried breathlessly, my eyes widening. I had no idea he would diligently continue his work after he had employed the hairclippers so thoroughly.

The barber nodded. ‘It gets you the closest possible finish, miss,’ he smirked. ‘You’ll leave here as smooth as an egg.’

Hearing him say “as smooth as an egg” sent an illicit, shocking thrill through my whole body.

He lathered my skull vigorously, the cool foam spreading over my exposed scalp. The faint menthol scent of shaving cream filled my nostrils. The scrape of the blade against my skin was a sensation unlike any I had ever known. In a profound sense, it was the delicate removal of the last barrier to my long-cherished desires. I held still, captivated, watching in the mirror as the razor completed its work. With my head smoothed and polished to the bone, it gleamed under the bright lights of the shop.

Staring at my reflection, I turned my head from side to side. I studied the clear and striking lines of my skull, the gentle curve of my ears, and the sharp and defined bone structure enhancing my features.

After he lowered the chair and removed the cape, I tentatively reached up, touching my scalp, feeling the incredible, cool smoothness, struggling to contain my ecstatic grin.

And in my eyes, I already saw a new confidence, raw and unapologetic. I was buzzing with satisfaction, a feeling that radiated from my slick scalp all the way to my toes.

I thanked Mr Thomas effusively, shaking his hand. My gratitude unsettled him slightly. It was as if he had hoped his actions would be pleasing my mum but doing me a disservice.

Mum paid, the cost undoubtedly far less than any salon would charge, including Mrs Davies at Topknot. ‘Come on, darling,’ Mum said, finally touching my newly bare scalp, running her hand gently over the smooth curve. ‘Time for a coffee and a croissant. And I must say, you look absolutely marvellous.’

Admission

‘I saw the envelope, darling,’ Mum admitted, once we had settled in a lovely coffee shop, a steaming mug of hot chocolate cradled between my hands.

‘The envelope…’ I stuttered, my breath hitching.

Her words were soft, but they resonated with an immense understanding. ‘The house was quiet after you left for college, so I caught up on all the chores. That included clearing out all the laundry and returning clean knickers to your drawer. I was not snooping, darling. But that is when your envelope dropped to the floor. And then I saw your collection of pictures.’

A rush of heat flooded my cheeks. Although Mum’s tone was gentle, not accusatory, I did not know how to fill the silence. ‘Oh…’

‘It took me a while to get my head around something that you must have kept hidden for so long. You must have had those faded and dog-eared pictures for years and, seeing how worn they were, studied them passionately. Even now, I am not sure I fully understand what they mean to you, darling. But I had time to reflect, and I realised that my selfish love for your long hair was holding you back from doing something you really wanted to do. For yourself,’ she added wistfully.

‘Mum, I—’

She placed a finger on my lips, looking deeply into my eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Leilah. I accepted your fascination. I understood that you felt you could not cut off the hair that I loved. So, I chose not to mention my discovery, but I decided to act instead. You were not expecting my permission, but you did need me to give you a little push.’

Mum moved her fingers to cradle the smooth, cool surface of my scalp. A soft smile played on her lips. ‘Look, darling, it suits you, darling. It feels marvellous, and it is completely you.’

The shopping trip that followed was stimulating and enjoyable. I got stares around our provincial town, of course I did. A bald girl in a floral minidress and tights in 1985 was a rare sight indeed. But I felt supremely confident and excited, and it was a bonus that Mum now shared my deep, dark secret.

Reaction

The time came to meet up with friends from my school days, the majority of whom had not gone away to college and were employed in uninspiring jobs around town. Amelia, my best friend from those times, simply gasped, eyes wide. ‘Leilah? Whatever happened to you?’

My heart pounded a nervous rhythm against my ribs, but my voice remained steady. ‘It’s just a student thing,’ I lied nonchalantly, not wishing to disclose Mum’s dramatic involvement. ‘A bit of a fashion statement. We are all experimenting at college.’

Then Emily elbowed Amelia conspiratorially and laughed. ‘Leilah, the highly polished billiard ball! It is so shiny!’

I dutifully grinned, although it was more an amused reaction to their matching shoulder-length perms, a frizz of tight curls that may have been fashionable for a short while at the start of the decade. ‘When we got our first pay packets, we went straight along to Mrs Davies at Topknot and got the perms we had always promised ourselves,’ Amelia added glibly, patting the frizzy mass that may have indicated that she had plugged herself into an electrical socket.

‘Do you think they used car polish to get that glossy finish?” Emily quipped, peering closer as if to check her makeup in the reflective surface.

Although the biting remarks slowed over the subsequent days, they had stung. I had adjusted to how I looked, and I felt pleased and confident with my appearance. However, their insensitive words magnified my insecurities, and my self-consciousness returned to the fore. Although it was precisely the change I had secretly wanted, their comments dampened my euphoria. They made me acutely aware of the unconventional nature of my choice.

But as we approached Christmas Day itself, everyone had accepted the change, and my smooth head came to define me. I grew comfortable, running my hand over my smooth dome without thinking. The teasing stopped, and my baldness simply became my new identifying feature, replacing the ridiculously long hair that had defined me for so long.

Appreciation

‘Thank you for making it happen,’ I whispered to Mum just before Christmas, hugging her tightly. ‘But why did you think it was time?’

‘That’s simple, darling,’ Mum replied, straight-faced. ‘After so many years, I was terribly fed up with brushing and braiding your hair, and I could not face doing it one more time.’

‘That is not very funny!’ I countered primly, hoping she was not being serious.

She smiled, radiating a quiet pride. ‘Just joking, darling. I knew you were ready for it. Sometimes, the most daunting experiences are the ones that help us truly grow into ourselves. I have always known that you were braver than you thought you were.’

Running a hand over my perfectly slick scalp, feeling its cool, firm curve, I nodded. The physical change had been immense, a dramatic severance from my old identity. But the internal transformation, the quiet, unwavering confidence that came from embracing radical self-truth, was the beautiful and defining souvenir of that Christmas.

In the autumn I had left for college planning to make Mum proud through grades. I had returned for the vacation knowing I had made her proud by finally becoming myself.

The Second Chapter – A Mother’s Reflection

I was pleased, truly pleased, that Leilah, my eighteen-year-old daughter, had embraced her change so well. Just before Christmas, after her first months at college, she radiated a new kind of energy, a quiet hum of self-assurance that I had never seen in her before. There was a lightness in her step, a directness in her gaze that had replaced the subtle, almost imperceptible tension she had carried for years.

Leilah had made me realise that I had been holding onto an image of her, my little princess, that she had long outgrown. Yes, I felt a pang of something akin to remorse at the loss of her flowing hair, the cascade of dark silk that had been a hallmark of her beauty, providing a visual testament to my meticulous care. But that feeling was immediately outweighed by the sheer joy of witnessing her confidence bloom, like an unexpected flower in the depths of winter.

We had planned one final foray into town before Christmas, a practical necessity to buy fresh vegetables and other last-minute trimmings. Over breakfast, with the enticing aroma of buttered toast and brewing tea filling the kitchen, I tentatively posed a question to my darling daughter. It was something that had been bubbling up in the back of my mind following recent events. It was silly, and I felt a little foolish as the words left my lips. ‘Darling, do you think,’ I began, trying to sound casual, ‘some of those shorter styles… in the photos, from your hidden envelope… are they too young for a woman of, er, my age?’

Those pictures had absorbed me even before Leilah had returned from college. Not so much the shorn heads, but the neat and precise styles. In particular, the short geometric bobs drew me in. They were reminiscent of the adventurous styles from my youth during the swinging sixties, not that I had ever tried such a daring look. To my eye, they looked sharp and modern, as if hair fashions had gone a full circle while I had been bringing up my daughter.

‘Those short styles? The ones from my envelope?’ she echoed, her voice tinged with disdain while trying to maintain a straight face. ‘On you?’

Nodding eagerly, I tried to ignore her mockery that I could see was bubbling just below the surface. ‘I mean, rather than all, er… this,’ I said, gesturing vaguely to my hair, which hung below my shoulders in a layered, utterly unremarkable way. It was, I knew, dreary, boring, and inoffensive and had been that way for years. But it was safe, and at least I could tie it back when I was working and doing household chores.

Leilah looked at me, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. She nodded sagely. ‘Yes, you are quite right, Mum. Those styles are far too young for you.’

My heart sank a little, as I blushed with embarrassment. I understood. ‘Yes, darling. I know… it was silly of me,’ I confirmed, waving a hand to figuratively dismiss the ridiculous notion from our collective minds.

My darling daughter was correct, of course. Those edgy cuts were for the youth, for the rebels, for the ones who did not mind turning heads. But even at forty-two years old, I would not have been averse to turning heads. But my longish, safe layers provided a comfortable invisibility cloak that was unlikely to turn the head of a short-sighted pensioner.

‘Besides, darling,’ I said, not quite ready to let the idea go entirely, ‘Mrs Davies at Topknot,’ the woman who had been my regular stylist for more than a decade, ‘has no experience with eighties fashions,’ I added, forcing a humourless little chuckle.

‘True enough, and she struggles with the sixties and seventies too,’ Leilah quipped.

‘Yes, but at least she is cheap,’ I accurately summarised, forcing a smile. ‘Now, darling, let’s hit the town, and do not forget a warm hat for that lovely bare head of yours.’

Provision

‘I am going to get my head freshly shaved for Christmas,’ Leilah blurted out as we surveyed a greengrocer’s market stall, pulling off her unflattering beanie. Unsurprisingly, she attracted odd glances from the festive crowds around us as they surveyed her gleaming, hairless dome.

I paused, weighing up a bag of Brussels sprouts clutched in my hand. Her unexpected yearning seemed unnecessary to me, as her head exhibited barely a shadow of stubble. Her last shave was still fresh and perfectly smooth.

‘Are you sure that is necessary, darling?’ I questioned doubtfully. ‘I have already bought you a razor and shaving foam as a Christmas present. If you wish to stay bald when you return to college, then I thought I could help you practise during the holidays.’

‘Thanks, Mum. That is so cool, but—’

‘Very different from the ribbons and hairbands I packed into your Christmas stocking in the past,’ I joked wistfully. I hoped she would change her mind so we could get on with the shopping and end what had become a bizarre conversation. But my darling daughter still looked determined. ‘And I had even planned to look for some hairclippers in the New Year sales, before you go back to college, so you can maintain it yourself.’

‘Thanks, Mum. But I want to look my best for Christmas Day. You know, for the photos,’ she insisted, with an uncharacteristic stubbornness that was both new and endearing.

‘Fine,’ I sighed, ‘but we better ensure the light from the camera’s flashgun does not bounce off that reflective head of yours.

My poor joke released the tension that was threatening to build between us. So, arm in arm, we made our way past the artisan shops, along the obscure passageways, finally to, once again, stand outside The Lanes Barbershop.

Restoration

‘The usual, please, Mr Thomas,’ Leilah quipped, as if she had been visiting the barber for years, while she stepped confidently into his chair.

Although still acting a little gruff, his demeanour seemed better than our last visit. I wondered if he had mellowed because Christmas was approaching. More likely, I imagined, it was because she recognised his customer from last time and he was delighted to have relieved her of her mountain of ridiculous hair.

‘Nice to see you again, miss,’ he said pleasantly, draping the cape over her and pumping up the chair. ‘And at least I won’t have to spend two hours sweeping up all your hair, like I did after your last visit.’

In the past, such a remark from an adult would have upset Leilah, however exaggerated the words might have been. ‘True, but this time make sure that blade of yours has the sharpest of edges and your hands are steady, so I don’t suffer razor burn for two hours afterwards,’ she quipped, giving as good as she got with her newfound confidence.

Mr Thomas had the good grace to reward Leilah with a genuine chuckle as he began to clipper the barely visible bristles. He quickly followed this by lathering her head, diligently sharpening his razor in full view of her, before removing all traces of foam and any errant bristles. After wiping her head clean, he massaged her skin using a fragrant oil. The action made Leilah’s skull gleam and her lips smile. I made a mental note to buy a bottle to add to her Christmas stocking. Once again, my daughter’s head was shining like a billiard ball as she stepped down from the chair.

Then, something peculiar happened. Leilah and Mr Thomas started chatting, although too quietly for me to hear their words above the noise of his colleague’s hairclippers. Then my daughter showed the barber a couple of photos torn from magazines. He nodded sagely, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought before they both stared in my direction. Turning back to face each other, they both nodded, exchanging a knowing look.

I could not imagine what those two mismatched people had found to chat about. Had I bought the wrong kind of razor, requiring Leilah to seek advice? I searched my mind for other reasons as I gathered my bags, preparing for a final foray through the festive stores.

‘Mum!’ Leilah’s voice cut through my thoughts, bright and clear. ‘It’s your turn!’

Invitation

All eyes in the shop turned towards me. My legs suddenly felt like jelly. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, my voice thin, a frisson of unease running down my spine. Leilah just smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes, and beckoned me to join her standing next to Mr Thomas.

I got up on shaky legs, navigating the short distance to the formidable leather chair.

I looked at Leilah, my heart hammering a frantic beat against my ribs. She steered me into the chair by my shoulders, as I had with her. ‘Look, darling, I’m not sure…’

‘I am completely sure,’ she stated firmly, without hesitation or doubt.

I looked up at Leilah, feeling a nervous tremor, as Mr Thomas shook out the creases from a heavy white haircutting cape. ‘What kind of cut am I getting?’ I asked timidly, just as Leilah had during her last visit. ‘Just a trim, I suppose?’

I heard a scoff from the barber as she draped the cape over me and secured it around my neck, leaving me unaccountably nervous. He pumped up the chair, lifting me uncomfortably high, making me feel oddly vulnerable and exposed.

‘It will be a change, Mum,’ Leilah said enigmatically, her gaze unwavering. It was not the words I had expected. A trim was not really a change; it was just a bit shorter.

She patted me on the shoulder and turned her gaze to the barber, her face alight with an almost conspiratorial glee. ‘I would like you to give my mum a bowlcut, please, Mr Thomas,’ she requested firmly, her eyes twinkling, employing the same level tone she would use to order a mug of hot chocolate.

‘Wait! What?’ I queried, my eyes wide with disbelief, my heart leaping into my throat. The image of boys’ haircuts from the grammar school in decades past flashed into my mind. ‘A bowlcut?’ I questioned earnestly, my voice an octave higher.

Mr Thomas was leaning heavily back on his counter, clearly amused by the conversation between mother and daughter. ‘The modern short-bobbed haircut you asked your lass about this morning, madam, is what a barber traditionally calls a bowlcut. Same cutting techniques and the same finished style,’ he explained. ‘So, it is what you are getting, like it or not,’ he joked, a genuine chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Leilah laughed, a lovely bright and unrestrained sound. Then the penny dropped. Her mocking act over breakfast about me being too old for a youthful haircut was just a distraction. She had already planned how she would get me in the chair with military precision. Showing the photos to Mr Thomas, and their conspiratorial nods and glances, were all part of the setup.

‘It is what you want, Mum. It is what you need. And yes,’ Leilah added softly, her twinkling eyes locking onto mine, ‘it is what I would like for you. A fresh start for the new year.’

She had echoed my exact words back to me. It was a beautiful, infuriating piece of theatrical mimicry. I felt a reckless giddiness bubbling up inside me. Leilah’s plan and her instructions had been genuine, her intention clear. She patted me on the shoulder again and stepped away to give the barber room to work.

Mr Thomas, once again, brandished his huge shears that looked more like garden implements. ‘Are you sure you want this all cut off, madam?’ he clarified, giving me one last chance to object. My mouth felt dry.

‘She is completely sure,’ my daughter asserted, her voice bubbling with excitement. ‘And I am completely sure.’

I glanced at Leilah in the mirror. She gave me a comforting smile, which I returned in kind. I adjusted my gaze to face the barber and gave him an almost imperceptible nod of acceptance.

Mr Thomas wasted no time.

Transformation

The barber went around my head quickly and efficiently, shearing off all the hair level with the top of my ears, sculpting a blunt perimeter shape. Swathes of my familiar brown layers fell to the floor. There was a surprising lightness as the bulk came away, a sense of immediate and decisive change.

His huge hairclippers were next. Loud and relentless, they buzzed around my ears, along my neck, and up the back of my head, leaving the crown untouched. The sensation was foreign, a ticklish vibration against my skin, sending shivers down my spine. In the mirror, I saw Leilah watching beside me, her eyes shining with excitement, thoroughly enjoying the reversal of roles.

Another pause. Then, the barber produced his gleaming straight razor, just as he had for Leilah. ‘The razor?’ I queried breathlessly, wondering why my hairstyle required its use.

The barber nodded. ‘It gets you the closest possible finish, madam,’ he smirked. ‘The back and sides of your head will be as smooth as a baby’s bottom.’

I shivered at the thought as he lathered the skin below the rim of the sculpted bowl shape, the cool foam a shock to my exposed neck and temples. The scrape of the blade was precise, eliminating the bristles, neatening the line, and making the haircut incredibly sharp and clean. Pristine white skin, smooth as bone, was all that remained.

Inspection

As Mr Thomas wiped away the last remnants of the foam, let down the chair, and removed the cape, I let out a breathless sigh. The sound was less resignation and more, to my surprise, a buzz of satisfaction. My reflection stared back, unfamiliar but vibrant. Once softened by limp layers, the severest of sharp angles now framed my face, exposing my high cheekbones, delicate ears, and bright eyes, with the stark glossy cap covering my crown. The image in the mirror suggested the barber had reversed the passage of time.

‘You look ten years younger,’ Mr Thomas matched my thoughts, murmuring approvingly in a rare display of sincerity.

‘I agree,’ my darling daughter added lovingly.

Tentatively reaching up, touching my nape, feeling the incredible smoothness, I was unable to contain my ecstatic grin. And in my eyes, I saw an increased confidence that came from rolling back the years, raw and unapologetic.

I thanked Mr Thomas effusively, shaking his hand. As Leilah paid the barber, I glanced movement out of the corner of my eye. A couple of the men in the waiting area were studying me with undisguised interest and intent. It appeared that even at my age, I could still turn men’s heads.

‘Come on, Mum,’ my darling daughter said, running her hand along my smooth nape. ‘Time for a coffee and a croissant before one of those guys asks you out on a date.’

‘Spoilsport!’ I pouted before chuckling aloud.

The Next Chapter

Leilah, my amazing daughter, looped an arm through mine as we stepped out of The Lanes Barbershop into the crisp winter air, the scent of Christmas wafting from every corner.

As two women with radically new hairstyles, we walked with a silent understanding passing between us. Our shared glances spoke of fresh starts, of courage found, and of the unexpected ways that, together, we can grow into our true selves.