HairApparent
The day Adam became my stepfather was the day my hair went from a source of mutual pride for me and my mum, to a symbol of our shared worry and distress.
Before they were married, Adam was always kind, a charming suitor to my mum. He would shower her with gifts and compliments and take us for enjoyable picnics on Sunday afternoons. His gentle smile while observing us was a welcome beacon of hope in our challenging lives since my dad had left Mum two years earlier.
However, after the wedding, the warmth evaporated. The charm became a brittle facade, his smile a strained attempt to mask something dark and insidious. My mum, once spirited and independent, began to shrink, her once vibrant personality dimming under his withering gaze.
From nowhere, of all things, our hair had suddenly become a contentious issue. Mine had always been a source of pride for me and my Mum as she lovingly cared for it. And hers, thick and wavy, cascaded down her back, habitually worn it in a jaunty ponytail that was her signature style. With my hair long enough to sit on, Mum carefully braided it every morning before school. It was a ritual, a bond between us, that we both valued and enjoyed.
However, Adam made no secret of the fact that he found the care we lavished upon our hair ridiculous. ‘What a waste of time,’ he would frequently sneer, his eyes cold and calculating as he surveyed my braid. ‘All that fuss over something that will just get tangled anyway.’ His gaze would drift to Mum’s ponytail, then back to me, a venomous glint in his eyes. ‘Not only a waste of time, but a drain on my pocket with all the shampoo and other stuff that you demand that I buy for you.’ With slight variations, it was the same every morning. A tedious, unrelenting monologue that Mum and I did our best to ignore.
= * = * =
Over time, my mum, under Adam’s growing influence with all matters, began to engage with his monotonous lectures. Although she had protested, initially fiercely, each of her complaints regarding contentious issues soon dwindled into meek whispers. It was as if a part of her, a part of her spirit, was slowly disappearing, and it was terrifying.
Finally, Adam’s relentless pressure regarding our hair wore her down. She agreed to a compromise. She would have her hair chopped off to satisfy his demands and end his unrelenting barrage of disapproval. But she would only do so if he agreed that mine would remain untouched and that he would not criticise it again. It was a small victory for Mum, but it felt like a monumental win in the face of his persistent demands.
‘Excellent. I will take you to my barber first thing tomorrow morning,’ he declared, his eyes sparkling with delight, clearly unwilling to wait and excited to see it done.
‘Mum, did you want me to come with you?’ I asked, offering moral support but dreading the awful act. She rubbed her reddening eyes with the back of her hand and defiantly shook her head. I was relieved.
‘And you, Pippa, will come with us so you can watch your mother lose her ridiculous hair,’ he cackled nastily.
Although I had no choice, I would have far preferred to stay at home and not witness such a horrible sight. However, on balance, I imagined my dejected Mum might appreciate my comforting presence.
= * = * =
Adam’s barbershop was a complete contrast to the bright salon on the high street where my mum and I had our hair trimmed every six months. It was located down a network of dark alleyways that I had never dared enter. We passed boarded up shops, while suspicious characters peeped out from behind the windows of others. The shopfront that we eventually faced, was dark and faded, with “Barbershop” the only decipherable words above the grimy window. Adam pushed open the squeaking door and ushered us inside.
Facing us as we entered was Adam’s barber, a woman called Fiona. If it had not been for her black leather miniskirt, knee-high boots, and revealing lacey top, I might have questioned whether she was a woman. Such a creature was way outside my experience. Her hair sprouted from her crown like a stiff black brush, with the back and sides shaved smooth. With such short hair, unsmiling expression, and standing to attention as she confronted us, it felt like we were under the scrutiny of a military officer.
‘Fiona,’ Adam smiled, nodding towards her by way of greeting. ‘Alright?’
‘Adam,’ she replied in kind, a cold smile doing little to improve her humourless countenance. ‘Alright.’
Adam took Mum’s arm and led her straight to the huge barber’s chair in front of the mirror. He gestured for her to sit, and she did so reluctantly, but uttering no word of complaint. Mum behaved as if it was all pre-ordained and, given there was no instructions for Fiona, then perhaps it all was.
My stepfather me to a worn vinyl-covered bench a short distance away, depositing me on the nearest corner to Mum. ‘You will get the best view from there,’ he goaded.
Although the barbershop appeared clean and tidy, the inside looked as tired and faded as the outside. A black and white tiled floor and dark wooden cupboards and shelves contributed the drabness. Dog-eared magazine on a low table in front of me encompassed subjects such as fishing, cars, and football, confirming that Fiona’s clientele was mostly male.
I wanted to flee from that awful place and might well have done so if it had not been for my poor mum sitting in Fiona’s chair. Her face pale and drawn, her body enveloped by a huge white cape that reached the floor, with just her head and her hair peeking over the top.
‘So, you think you are still a schoolgirl, do you?’ Fiona scoffed, flipping mum’s ponytail back and forth disdainfully like a pendulum, her cold smile returning.
I could see in the mirror that Mum was staring straight ahead, expressionless, and silent.
However, Adam reacted by chuckling. ‘I have been telling her that for ages,’ he sighed.
With the awful pair insulting my mum, I was struggling to hold back my tears. I wanted to stand next to Mum to provide her with a modicum of comfort. However, as I got to my feet, I felt a large hand clamp down on my shoulder, preventing my mission of mercy.
Irritated by Mum’s failure to react to her goading, Fiona unceremoniously ripped out the pretty pink scrunchie holding up her jaunty ponytail. Examining it disdainfully, she then tossed it in a nearby rubbish bin. ‘You will not be needing that anymore,’ she giggled.
Fiona briskly combed through my mum’s mid-back hair. ‘Why?’ Fiona sneered, shaking her head as she flicked Mum’s locks. ‘The futility of long hair,’ she added with a long sigh, emphasising her contempt.
‘I could not agree more, Fiona,’ Adam boomed next to me, casting a leary eye at my braid despite it being off limits.
‘Right,’ Fiona stated with finality, looking like a creature of the shadows, her eyes blazing with a predatory gleam as she gazed at my mum’s hair. ‘Let’s get rid of this mess.’
I desperately wanted to turn away. But I felt compelled to keep watching Fiona’s cruel pantomime, my heart pounding with a sickening dread.
Fiona selected huge red hairclippers from a collection on hanging from hooks by the mirror. They roared into life and, wasting no time, the barber drove the shining blade into Mum’s beautiful auburn locks. Long wavy tendrils cascaded to the floor in a torrent of brown waves. The sad sight of it made me want to scream.
The barber briskly mowed down all the hair on the back and sides of Mum’s head leaving the skin entirely bare. A meagre inch or so of hair remained to cover her crown. Dampening it down and coating it with a gel-like substance, Fiona initially tortured Mum’s hair into a spiky cropped style. Then, retrieving the hairclippers together with a large comb, Fiona carved the uneven strands on top of Mum’s head into a brush-like evenness that closely resembled her own.
‘Lovely,’ Adam boomed next to me, whereas I was thinking the complete opposite.
Fiona took a can of shaving foam and squirted a huge dollop into her hand. She liberally coated the lower half of Mum’s head with the white cream, ensuring she completely covered the area around her ears and neck.
‘Getting there,’ Fiona responded. ‘Just need to get her completely bald where the hair does not grow,’ she added matter-of-factly.
Taking an old-fashioned razor, the barber skilfully scraped away the foam from Mum’s head, leaving absolutely nothing behind. The remaining abbreviated hair that stood erect on her crown, faded down into the pristine whiteness of Mum’s bare skin.
‘She will not be wasting time on her hair now, Adam,’ Fiona called over, chuckling. ‘A sweet little flattop for your sweet little woman.’
‘Perfect, Fiona,’ the despicable Adam purred in admiration as he inspected the barber’s odious work.
Mum just sat motionless, unemotionally gazing at her unfamiliar and bizarre reflection. Fiona whisked away the cape. Mum stood but I could see her legs were shaking as she tottered slowly towards us on the waiting bench. I jumped to my feet, ready to offer support and drag her away from the diabolical place.
As I reached out to help her, Mum suddenly stopped and looked at me pityingly, her face etched with a heavy guilt.
‘Last night, after you went to bed, we talked again about your hair, Pippa,’ she mumbled, her voice barely a whisper. ‘Adam has told me your hair is taking up too much of my time, braiding it and caring for it. And, he says, I am neglecting him.’
‘No … but he agreed …’ I stuttered.
Mum continued, ignoring my interjection.
‘It will be better for you …’ she murmured apologetically, ‘well, for us, in a way … for you to have your hair cut too. Because of the agreement, I needed to be the one to tell you …’
= * = * =
‘What?’ I wailed. ‘You decided this, about my hair, last night, and you did not tell me beforehand!’
Mum, stoney-faced, remained silent throughout my protests. Adam chuckled, a mocking sound, as if he were enjoying the sheer terror that gripped me and the impossible position that he had forced my mum into.
‘So, you are telling me that I have to stay here,’ I questioned. ‘And get my hair cut by her?’ I spat, glaring at Fiona.
‘Yes,’ Mum croaked unconvincingly. ‘Yes, you must …’
‘So, despite the reprieve that you had previously gained for my hair … with him,’ I spat again, glancing in Adam’s direction, ‘you fully intended me to have my hair cut this morning before we left home,’ I wailed. ‘You tricked me, Mother. You deceived me.’
The hideous barber was watching the interchange with an amused expression, while Adam rubbed his hands together with glee.
‘If you say so, Pippa,’ my mum exhaled absently, her spirit broken.
Grabbing my arm, she pulled me along and then pushed me down into Fiona’s chair. ‘Fiona, if you, er …’ Mum attempted, but then broke down, turned away, and scrambled across the shop to sit on the waiting bench next to Adam.
‘It will be my pleasure,’ Fiona called after her, enthusiasm clear in her voice.
My stepfather smirked at my reflection as he put a possessive arm around Mum. ‘You will get an excellent view from here,’ he informed her.
‘Yes, my great pleasure,’ Fiona gloated hungrily, winking at Adam, as she lifted my braid. Examining it disparagingly, she suddenly released my hair and it hit the back of the chair with a resounding thump, testament to its length and thickness.
I had a mind to flee the shop and suffer any repercussions later. I even wondered whether the time was right for me to leave home, given I would soon be old enough to do so. But I was worried about Mum, leaving her alone with the controlling monster that Adam had become.
Fiona shrouded me with the same huge cape that had just enveloped my mum. At that moment, I accepted that the barber had dashed any hopes that I had of escaping, reinforcing her control by pumping up the chair high from the ground.
The barber lifted my braid again and retrieved her scissors. Tapping the blades thoughtfully against her chin, she pondered aloud. ‘I wonder … should I just chop off this silly plait straight away … or should we undo it all so that we can admire, for one last time, the full extent of what will be lost?’
I had no idea if she expected an answer from me or anyone else. But I just wanted it over with, as all chance of running away had gone. ‘Cut off the braid, please,’ I whimpered, nearly choking on my own desperate words. Words that I had never expected to come from my lips.
Fiona failed to react to my words. It was as if I had not even spoken. ‘I know,’ she said gleefully, answering her own question, ‘I will undo it first.’
I groaned on hearing her enthusiastic desire to extend my agony.
The barber put down her scissors and undid the band holding my braid in place. Excitedly, she unravelled my hair that my mum had so lovingly braided for the last time one hour earlier. With little care, Fiona arranged a section of it each side of my face, allowing it flow down and gather in my lap, while the rest cascaded down the back of the chair.
Fiona sighed, shaking her head, suggesting my glorious hair was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen in her life. Retrieving her scissors once again, she drove them into my hair above my right ear and closed the blades with a sickening finality. A waterfall of hair began sliding down the front of the cape, gathering in my lap. It felt like a desecration, as if she were ripping part of me away.
Fiona followed the crude line she had established. She continued around the back of my head. I felt the weight of my hair lighten, and the heard a swishing sound as it hit the floor behind me. Shortly afterwards the barber had completed her circling of me, by moving to my left side. Her scissors completed their inexorable progress and reappeared above my ear on that side. A mountain of hair was sliding down round me, collecting on my shoulders and in my lap. While all that remained on my head was a pitiful uneven bob that left my ears exposed and sticking out from the side of my head.
‘Looking good, Fiona,’ Adam called out, his laughter echoing through the small barbershop. My mum, a ghost of her former self, remained silent.
‘I know,’ the barber snorted. ‘A great improvement already.’
A lifetime of long hair, cruelly and crudely discarded in less than thirty seconds.
= * = * =
For the next ten minutes, I endured more torture than I could ever have imagined. Fiona was unstoppable, fuelled by her perverse pleasure and Adam’s mocking encouragement. She sectioned off half the hair on my crown and secured it in a puny ponytail sprouting from the top of my head, a parody of the long braid I had worn minutes earlier.
Taking her large red hairclippers, Fiona buzzed all the hair around my head that she had not pinned up leaving a dark bristly shadow. Not content with that, she retrieved the can of shaving foam and placed a huge dollop in her palm. She liberally coated all the areas she had just clippered around my ears, along my neck and up the back of my head.
Making a show of sharpening her razor while grinning at my reflection, she eased my head forward and painstakingly scraped away the foam and any remaining bristles. For a short while my skin that I had never exposed to the light of day before, glowed pink as a reaction to the shaving. Then, it slowly calmed down, shining with a dazzling whiteness.
Releasing the pinned hair on my crown, it momentarily covered my half bald head. But Fiona, with comb and scissors, quickly and expertly carved a perfectly straight line around my head. It left my ears exposed and a thick fringe halfway up my forehead.
Fiona took a step backwards, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she examined her work, after removing the cape. ‘A sweet bowlcut,’ she announced simply. ‘For your sweet little girl. Your lady will not be wasting any time looking after her daughter’s neat little hairstyle.’
Severe rather than sweet was my assessment as I made the effort to stand up and walk towards my mum.
My ears sticking out from a bald expanse at the side of my head. An unfamiliar thick fringe covering my forehead. All this, and with my neck shaved completely bald, contributed to me looking ridiculous. I resembled a grotesque parody of myself.
‘Perfect, Fiona,’ Adam claimed enthusiastically as I stood before him. He gestured for me to turn around and he joyfully clapped his hands together. Mum remained silent next to him, staring down at her feet. ‘See, that looks so much better,’ he said, patting my head with a possessive touch.
I tried to glare at him with the full force of my anger, but the ordeal had emotionally and physically drained my will. I felt broken, and part of me realised that was what Adam had intended all along.
‘Now, we will have no more fuss with your hair. You and your mum will be back here every two weeks to see Fiona,’ he stated excitedly, ‘to keep yourself looking just like this.’
I looked at my mum, hoping she would speak. Praying she would tell him to relax his control now he had made his point and allow me to grow my hair once more. But she just stared ahead, her eyes vacant, as if she were no longer there. The light had gone out of her eyes, the vibrant spirit I once knew replaced by a hollow shell.
‘And, Fiona, if they give you any problems on a future visit, then I insist you shave both of them completely bald,’ Adam chuckled.
‘Oh, I do hope they cause me problems,’ Fiona smirked, ‘as that would be my greatest pleasure to create a pair of matching billiard balls.’
= * = * =
Fiona and her barbershop had proved to be a battlefield, the site of a subtle but devastating victory.
Why Adam had chosen our hair to exert greater authority over our lives, I failed to understand. I had assumed our hair was a mere symbol, a casualty of a larger battle, a battle for control of our souls. But part of me wondered if Adam shared the enthusiasm of Fiona, clearly a friend, for cutting long hair short.
However, I knew, with a sickening certainty, that with battlelines drawn, the war he had declared was far from over. And, for the foreseeable future, Mum and I would need to be extremely well-behaved on our fortnightly trip to Fiona, the barber.
