Mrs Shelton Introduces Amy to the Tradition

Prologue

The buzz in the air today is not just birthday excitement, it is something sharper, more like the hum of anticipation before a storm. Today is my twenty-first birthday, and in this town that means only one thing for a woman with hair like mine, namely Shearing-21.

My hair, which falls in waves past my knees, has been a source of both secret pride and background dread my entire life. Today, that dread will come to the fore.

Celebration

Mum is practically vibrating with glee as she pulls back my bedroom curtains. She was singing “Happy Birthday” as she came in, jolting me from my pleasant dreams to the reality of the dawning day. She keeps bustling around, her usual efficient energy amplified tenfold.

‘Amy, darling, are you sure you have everything ready?’ she urges, as I go through my mental checklist. ‘Best foot forward today, as we’re representing Tradition!’ She beams at me, but her eyes do not quite achieve their usual warmth. They are alight with something else. Was it triumph or just the sheer thrill of turning a well-oiled cog in the machinery of our town.

‘Mum, I’m still not sure …’ The words are barely a whisper, swallowed by the thick air of expectation that has been building for weeks, for years even.

She stops bustling, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before hardening into its usual, reassuring shape. ‘Nonsense, love. This is a celebration! Your Shearing-21! Think of the freedom, Amy, real freedom!’

Freedom. That is the word they use. The townsfolk, the council, Mum. Freedom from shampoo, freedom from conditioner, freedom from the so-called burden of hair. Freedom for what, exactly? More housework? More time to do what? No one ever actually says.

‘But Mum,’ I try again, the plea catching in my throat, ‘couldn’t we just, well, wait? Just for a year? Or two? Maybe until …’ I can barely bring myself to say it, the words feeling foolish and childish even to my own ears. ‘Until I’m married?’

Mum laughs, a loud jarring sound that echoes in our small kitchen. ‘Married? Amy, darling, who would want to marry a woman with hair? It is so unseemly. Messy. A slick, clean head is what men expect and respect. Slick shows you are healthy and efficient, following the Tradition of our town.’

Her words are like icy water, dousing the tiny spark of hope I had managed to kindle. I know her arguments by heart. I have heard them whispered in the marketplace, shouted from the town square, preached from the community hall. It is the way things are, the way they have always been.

Incomers

‘But things are changing, Mum,’ I persist, my voice gaining a little strength. It is true. Incomers. That is what we call them. People moving into our town from elsewhere. Places where, allegedly, women can make their own choices, free from expectations. Increasingly, I have seen them around town, all ages, their hair flowing loose, defiant and challenging. They look different from us. They look “free”, but not in the sense that Mum means.

Mum’s smile vanishes completely now, replaced by a tightening around her mouth, a dangerous glint in her eyes. Her voice drops dangerously low. ‘Changing? Rubbish. This is our town, Amy. Our Tradition. These incomers should respect that,’ she continues, her rant familiar. They should, by law, register at the CHC the moment they arrive! Forced, if necessary, to maintain the town’s way of life.’

Mum has been on the campaign trail lately, but I cannot remember when she was not. Petitions for signing in the market square. Protests held outside the Council offices. Even standing on street corners, accosting incomers, telling them, right to their faces, to conform. She has become almost consumed by the need to preserve Tradition. It is like the fear of change is a living thing, gnawing at her constantly.

‘There is no delaying, Amy. Absolutely not. I have been counting down the days, quite literally, as you well know. Think of all the new things we can buy for the house from all the money we save. New curtains, at last, and maybe even a new rug for the living room! And, most importantly, think of the example our family will be setting, demonstrating to everyone that we uphold Tradition!’

Dad clears his throat nervously from his usual corner seat at the breakfast table, where he has been trying to disappear into his newspaper. ‘Eve, dear,’ he begins hesitantly, ‘even the families that follow the Tradition most ardently, do not always rush their daughters to the CHC on their twenty-first birthday. Maybe wait a few weeks … or even a little longer? Just to, er … soften the impact?’

Mum whirls on him, her eyes blazing. ‘Soften the impact? What is to soften? It is a blessing! Take a good look at your daughter, Harold,’ she cackles, pointing at me with a dramatic flourish, ‘take a final look at our Amy with her knee-length hair. Because come this afternoon, it will be gone. Gone for good!’

Tradition

Mum’s excitement is almost manic now. It is unsettling, this fervour. I look at Dad, hoping for some kind of support, but he just avoids my gaze, retreating further behind his newspaper. He always does.

‘Come on, Amy, time to get ready!’ Mum claps her hands, her good cheer forcefully reinstated. ‘Best short dress, remember! The blue one, nice and short, really shows off your legs. Nothing like the dowdy, below-the-knee rags those incomers wear.’

She pulls out the dress, practically shoving it at me. It is short. Uncomfortably so. But Mum approves and it is what the town expects. It is Tradition. I dress in silence, the cotton feeling thin and inadequate against the weight of my anxiety.

Mum starts brushing my hair, her touch surprisingly gentle. ‘Such beautiful hair, Amy,’ she croons. ‘It would a crime to waste it, but someone deserving will appreciate it soon, darling. The Council sell it, you know. To someone in the city, to make wigs.’

My stomach churns. Am I not deserving of my own hair? My hair, cut off, sold, and recycled for someone else, somewhere else. As if it has no value to me, to who I am. Just a commodity I have carried around for twenty-one years. ‘Mum, why do they need it? Why do they sell it?’

She sighs, like I am being deliberately obtuse. ‘For the town, Amy! For the Council! It is how things work, and how they have always worked. It is Tradition.’

Tradition! That word again. It is a shield, a weapon, an impenetrable wall against any question or any doubt.

Council Hair Centre

We approach the Council Hair Centre, the CHC as the facility is known. A bleak and perpetually grey monolith close to the town centre, looking forbidding on even the sunniest days. Inside, however, it is completely different. The reception area is sterile, brightly lit, filled with the hushed tension of mothers and daughters waiting for their turns. All the daughters have hair. Long, beautiful hair, just like mine. And all the mothers sit smug and proud, holding their daughters’ hands firmly, lest they try to make an escape.

‘Hello, Eve,’ the receptionist says brightly. She is a plump woman of a similar age to my Mum, and they clearly know each other. ‘And Amy too,’ she gushes. ‘Here, for your special day.’ I nod dumbly. ‘How lovely!’ she declares smugly, tapping a few keys on the computer in front of her. ‘Yes, you are expected, so just take a ticket … and, Amy, it will soon be time!’

I suspect the enthusiastic receptionist is trying to make the looming event seem like something exciting for me to look forward to. I struggle to see it that way.

‘Thanks, Martha,’ Mum says. ‘We’ll catch up soon.’

We take a numbered ticket, and Mum chats excitedly, in muted tones, to other mothers about the efficiency of the system and the cleanliness of the facilities. I sit in silence, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

Each time the receptionist calls a number, a mother and daughter rise, the daughter looking pale and anxious, the mother radiating anticipation. They disappear through a white door labelled innocuously with Processing. And when they emerge, it is always the same. Beaming and gleaming. The mothers are beaming, their faces flushed with triumph. And the daughters walk like ghosts, their heads gleaming, tear tracks often still wet on their cheeks.

‘Thirty-seven. Shelton, Amy,’ the receptionist calls, catching Mum’s eye and giving her a “thumbs-up”. ‘Processing!’

Mum practically yanks me to my feet, her hand surprisingly strong on my arm. ‘Our turn, at last, Amy! Let’s go!’

Processing

The Processing room is even more clinical than the reception area. White walls, harsh fluorescent lights, and in the centre of the room, a metal chair. Not just a chair, but a contraption. Straps, levers, adjustments. The apparatus looks frightening as if snatched from the set of a horror film.

A woman in an exceedingly short white dress, her face impassive, unsmiling, gestures silently towards the chair. The badge on her breast pocket simply states “Clinician”. Mum practically pushes me towards the chair, eager for proceedings to be underway. I sit, numb, as the clinician swiftly and efficiently straps me in. My wrists, my ankles, my chest are completely immobile. Then the chair reclines, tilting me back, forcing me to look up at the cold, unwavering lights.

A metallic arm extends from the ceiling, carrying a device at the end that resembles a strange, futuristic Alice band. It is like those I have worn in the past to keep the hair back from my face. But this is not a hairband. Of course not. This is something else entirely. It descends slowly, filling my vision, hovering menacingly above my forehead.

With a low hum, the device activates. It feels cold as it presses firmly against my forehead, a monotonous vibration echoing through my skull. Then it slowly starts to move, rotating backwards over my head, gliding through my hair. Severing it. Painlessly, efficiently, but irrevocably. Strands of my hair, my beautiful, long hair, are collecting by the teeth of the horrific device. As they accumulate, they form a grotesque parody of my former self, a severed wig hanging in the air directly above me.

Mum is chattering away, oblivious to the cold dread pooling in my stomach. ‘Isn’t it amazing, Amy? So clean, so efficient! Your lovely hair, darling, all neatly gathered to someone deserving in the city who will genuinely appreciate it,’ she reminds me gleefully.

I appreciate my hair! Don’t I deserve my own hair? Her words sting, sharp and unexpected, in the sterile air.

Next, a different device swings down from the ceiling. It is a large metal dome on a pulley system. It lowers, and then presses firmly onto my scalp, ratcheting down, feeling heavy, and held there immovably. And then there is the heat. A harsh, searing heat that spreads across my entire head, accompanied by the sickening smell of burning hair. The heat is destroying my hair roots, irrevocably.

With barely a pause, another metallic dome swings into place. This one cooler, with multiple pads briskly massaging my scalp with a pungent, oily liquid. Buffing, polishing, until my scalp feels artificially tight.

I catch a glimpse of my head reflected in the metallic apparatus as it rises. Mocking me, a varnished scalp, gleams unnaturally under the harsh overhead lights. I appear alien, dissuading me from ever wanting to look in a mirror again.

‘There you go, Amy,’ Mum says brightly, as the clinician silently releases the straps that bind me. ‘You will never have to fuss with hair again! Isn’t it just wonderful?’

Wonderful? I touch my scalp hesitantly. Smooth. Hard. Barren. Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. ‘I … I don’t …’ But the words will not come.

‘You are beautiful, Amy,’ Mum insists, her voice cheerful. ‘Absolutely beautiful. Now, come on, let us go for a birthday milkshake to celebrate!’

Darts

We step out of the CHC into the bright afternoon sunlight, and almost immediately we bump into Mrs Dart, a long-time friend of Mum. She is with her daughter, Jane. Jane is only twenty, so her long, brown hair is still loose around her shoulders. She looks normal, not sharing my alien appearance.

‘Eve! Amy! How lovely to see you, and on such a momentous day too!’ Mrs Dart beams at us. ‘Oh, Amy, darling, you look wonderful! Absolutely radiant! Such a magnificent shine!’ She reaches out and touches my head, her touch surprisingly firm, almost possessive. ‘And that lovely short dress, just compliments your appearance perfectly!’

Mum preens, basking in the approval. ‘Thanks, Helen. Yes, the dress looks so perfect. So much better than those awful long dresses the incomers wear. And as for their hair!’ Mum shakes her head vehemently. ‘Honestly, all that loose, messy hair. It is disgusting.’

My mum gestures towards Jane’s hair, and Jane flinches, ducking her head. Mum chuckles, with a predatory gleam in her eyes. ‘Isn’t it Jane’s Shearing-21 soon, Helen?’

Mrs. Dart puffs out her chest with pride. ‘Just seventeen days! We are counting each day down on the calendar, aren’t we, love?’

Jane, oblivious to the mothers talking, simply stares at my bald head, her eyes wide and haunted, filled with pity for me, but also something else … was she feeling fear for herself? Jane’s unrelenting gaze makes me feel strangely uncomfortable. Her appearance reminds me that I used to have hair like hers. Because of her odd behaviour, I feel a measure of satisfaction that she would soon look like me. ‘Seventeen days,’ I repeat quietly, heartlessly, breaking her trance and noting her eyes reddening.

‘Exactly, Amy. We will make a note of that, won’t we,’ Mum declares. ‘We are off for a celebratory milkshake now. I look forward to admiring you in just over two weeks, Jane. Cheerio, Helen.’

Anna

Relieved to have left the Darts behind, I am looking forward to my milkshake. Strawberry today, I think, feeling a little more positive about things.

But then, horror of horrors, we see Anna approaching. Anna, an incomer, one my lecturers from college. Someone bringing new knowledge and skills to our town. A nice lady, kind and intelligent, but rather on the shy side. As an incomer, she always wears long dresses, of course, but hers are down to her calves that barely show her clunky and ugly ankle boots. Terrible. And her hair reaches past her bottom, thick, dark, and beautiful. Although I say beautiful, I am describing it in a way that feels inappropriate now.

Anna abruptly stops as she suddenly recognises me, her eyes widening in shock as they land on my slick head. I should have kept my head down or turned away to avoid any engagement with her. Embarrassment floods me. How must I look to her? Freakish. Alien.

‘Amy? What happened?’ Anna asks, as an incomer still unfamiliar with Tradition.

‘Hello, Anna,’ I reply sheepishly, willing the ground to swallow me up. ‘I … I -’

‘Who do we have here then?’ Mum interjects sharply, all false smiles and exaggerated friendliness.

‘This is Anna … er, from college … um, one of my lecturers,’ I stutter having wanted to avoid introductions. ‘Anna, this is my mother.

‘Anna, how lovely to meet you,’ Mum says with overstated sweetness, looking her up and down, not inviting a handshake. ‘A lecturer, you say. I imagine you have brought all sorts of “new ideas” to our town,’ Mum continued, a touch of menace lacing her words.

‘Hello … er, Mrs Shelton,’ Anna stuttered. ‘Yes … well, I do my best …’

Anna’s smile is strained, her gaze flickering nervously between Mum and me. My proud mum, with her beaming smile, and me, with my newly bald head and short dress. The contrast must be stark.

Mum, ever the opportunist, launches into her usual routine. ‘I imagine you are still familiarising yourself with our little ways, Anna. Such a different place from the city, isn’t it?’

Anna nods hesitantly, bewildered by Mum’s sudden interest.

‘So, a lecturer?’ Anna nods again. ‘Rather older than the students in your charge,’ Mum mused. ‘So, how old are you, Anna, dear?’ she asks, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

Anna blinks, taken aback. ‘Twenty-five, Mrs Shelton,’ she replies nervously.

‘Twenty-five!’ Mum echoes, drawing out the words with a wistful sigh. ‘My, my. Well, as I am sure you know, Anna, if you have taken time to understand a few of the customers of our town,’ she continues, her tone suddenly becoming brisk and official, ‘those coming from outside the town need to have a regular “Identity Check” at the CHC. Just to make sure everything is, um … in order.’

‘Identity Check?’ Anna looks completely lost. She laughs nervously, trying to brush it off. ‘No, Mrs Shelton, I … I do not think I have heard of that.’

‘Oh, really? Well, it is particularly important,’ Mum insists, her smile fixed and hard. ‘A very serious matter. But do not worry, dear, Amy and I will happily escort you to the CHC. We would not want you to fall foul of Tradition, now, would we?’

‘CHC?’ Anna questions blankly, trying to back away unobtrusively, and be on her way. ‘It’s fine, Mrs Shelton …’

Anna, being shy and easily intimidated, is clearly confused and a little scared. However, Mum steps forward and loops her arm through Anna’s in a friendly fashion, but one that would require an embarrassing scene if she tried to pull away.

‘Nonsense, dear,’ Mum says cheerfully with a tight smile. ‘It is no problem at all.’

Identity Check

Mum marches back the way we have just come, staring straight ahead at the forbidding grey building before us. Anna totters by her side, mumbling words I cannot hear, trying desperately to release herself from Mum’s arm. I follow them, a knot of unease tightening in my stomach. Something feels wrong.

Mum leads Anna into the CHC reception, gesturing dramatically towards the receptionist who looks at us questioningly. ‘Hello again, Martha. This lovely lady is twenty-five,’ Mum announces loudly, pointing at Anna, ‘and she needs an “Identity Check”. You know, the one for newcomers to our town …’ She winks at the receptionist, a conspiratorial, knowing wink.

I realise with a jolt that Martha frequently joins Mum on her protests, and they share an anger about incomers. They are friends and understand each other well.

‘Of course, Eve.’ Martha nods knowingly, then taps away ostentatiously on her computer, pretending to search for Anna’s details. But it is all for show. There is no such thing as an “Identity Check”.

Anna looks increasingly puzzled and worried, backing away towards the door. She senses something is wrong. But it is too late. A door behind the reception desk bursts open and two large women in short white dresses charge out, grabbing Anna by the arms, dragging her towards the white door. The door labelled Processing!

Taking Back Control

Mum eagerly follows the captive Anna into the room, skipping with joy. I hover in the doorway, unsure what to do, but curiosity finally gets the better of me and I step inside.

‘What’s happening, Mrs Shelton?’ Anna cries, her voice rising in panic as the two strong women force her into the dreaded metal chair. Their ridiculously short white dresses ride up their thighs as they struggle to pull the straps taut. ‘Stop! This cannot be right!’

The resident clinician looks as though she had not moved her body or her facial muscles since we were last there. From beside her apparatus, she watches the commotion impassively, showing no emotion, as before.

Mum claps her hands gleefully, her eyes shining with malicious pleasure. ‘Oh, but it is right, Anna! If you had not been in such a hurry to attempt leaving the CHC, you would have heard the receptionist say that you have failed your “Identity Check”. So now,’ she beams, her voice dripping with false sweetness, ‘you are going to be processed. According to town’s Tradition!’

With Anna finally strapped down and immobilised, the metal chair is reclined. She is helpless. The clinician remains silent and detached, moving with cold efficiency to prepare her fearsome apparatus.

Anna struggles, her cries distracting, but unheard outside the soundproof room. ‘Stop this! Please!’ Anna whines. ‘I do not understand. Mrs Shelton! Amy!’

But Mum just smirks. ‘Oh, you will understand, Anna. You are going to learn all about Tradition. Starting with this!’ She nods towards the metallic band, as it slowly descends towards Anna’s forehead. ‘This clever little device,’ Mum explains, her voice ringing with triumph, ‘is going to strip off all your hair. Right down to the scalp!’ She emphasises the last words with a smug, almost triumphant grin.

Watching Anna, strapped, terrified, about to undergo the same horrific procedure I just endured, something shifts inside me. It is like watching a reflection of my own fear, my own helplessness. It feels wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong. And yet, I do not stop it. I stand there, frozen, a silent accomplice to my mother’s fanaticism.

A loud hum pervades the room, and the metallic band slowly rotates backwards, taking with it all of Anna’s hair. The arm holding the band now rises, carrying a macabre fabrication that comprises Anna’s former hair, resembling a bountifully long wig. Anna, held firm on the chair, can only look up at it in horror as it drifts away.

‘The Council will sell that for the good of the town,’ Mum explains, ‘and, who knows, one of your friends back in the city, may buy it and find a good home for it.’

‘What? No!’ Anna complains. ‘It can’t be -’

‘Don’t worry, Anna, the best bit is still to come,’ Mum crows, rising up on her toes to examine Anna’s denuded head, bouncing with excitement as she does so.

The horrifying large metal dome swings down, pressing onto Anna’s head. Her eyes widen with incomprehension, as she reacts to the heat that is building up on her skin. The smell of burning hair fills the air again, acrid and disgusting. I feel nauseous.

‘No need to look so worried, Anna. It just burns away all the hair roots, you see,’ Mum chirps, raising her voice above Anna’s incoherent mumbling, ‘so you never have to bother with hair ever again. Such a blessing!’

Anna is completely bald, her beautiful hair gone, stolen, just like mine was. Mum is beside herself with joy, her face flushed with triumph. I am silent, numb, the horror of what we have done settling heavy in my chest.

‘Please, Mrs Shelton,’ Anna whines. ‘Just let me go …’

‘No, no, no, Anna. Not like this,’ Mum counters with a chuckle. ‘Now it is time for a good brisk polish!’

The second skull cap descends. Inside, nozzles squirt the waxy oil onto her bare head and the multiple pads go to work polishing Anna’s scalp to a hard, varnished, artificial gleam.

The noisy motorised equipment falls silent, and a hush descends on the room, broken only by the occasional moan from Anna. The impassive clinician unties her without a word, before returning to her predatory perch on the stool amid her fearsome equipment. She sits, unemotional and detached, simply staring straight ahead as she awaits the next woman for processing.

Anna, although untied, collapses back against the metallic chair, weak, trembling, unable to even stand.

‘Perfect!’ Mum smirks, running her hand over Anna’s smooth, bald scalp. ‘Absolutely perfect. You have now passed your “Identity Check”, Anna!’ she gloats, relishing Anna’s shock and humiliation. ‘Welcome to our town!’

Anna, in shock, just stares vacantly at Mum.

‘Oh, and you really must do something about your dreadful attire,’ Mum presses. ‘Discard that dreadful long sack and wear something shorter and prettier. Something like Amy is wearing.’

Anna remains silent, not even looking at my dress.

‘Now, after our unexpected interruption – delightful though it has been to meet you – I am taking my daughter for her promised birthday milkshake. It is a birthday Tradition,’ Mum calls back over her shoulder, a hard edge to her voice. ‘Tradition is important in this town, Anna, and your kind would do well to remember that!’

Mum took my hand with a beaming smile, leaving Anna sobbing, broken, behind us.

Epilogue

In the café, my strawberry milkshake sooths my raw throat, dry from all that I have witnessed that day.

I look around. Having left Anna, I see that other incomers are dotted around the tables, their stupid dresses dragging on the floor. Laughing and joking, unburdened, their long, loose hair acts a defiant and challenging statement in this town of gleaming scalps.

Then I see other women like me, and like Jane will be soon too. Women who have been through Shearing-21. Neat, tidy, with gleaming heads and wearing sensible short dresses. They look in control and disciplined.

Without warning, something shifts in my mind, like a bolt from the blue. Something I considered dark and insidious pervades my thoughts. I start to understand about freedom. Not the material freedom that Mum talks about, but a different kind of freedom. Freedom from difference, freedom from challenge and freedom to conform.

‘Mum,’ I say, after allowing my dawning comprehension to flourish, take shape in my mind, become cold and sharp. ‘I have an idea.’

Mum looks at me, her eyes still alight with the thrill of her victory over Anna.

‘I’m going to start a vigilante force for the young people in our town,’ I say, my voice gaining strength, conviction. ‘Force-21, perhaps, but the name does not really matter. Me, with the recent Shearing-21 converts, like Jane. We can take your lead, Mum, before the incomers undermine the values of our town and pollute our future. We will patrol the town performing “Identity Checks” and, if they wish to remain here, we will take them to the CHC to teach them all about Tradition.’

Mum beams. A genuine, unrestrained beam of pure pride. She reaches out, stroking my bald head, her touch almost reverent. ‘That’s my girl, Amy,’ she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. ‘That’s my special girl.’

I push my smooth head towards her touch, enjoying our special moment together.

‘Ouch!’ I suddenly exclaim, our peaceful mood broken by a woman stumbling against me, while another one tried to push past her. An incomer, of course. As she steps away, unapologetic, strands of her ridiculously long waterfall of hair have attached themselves to my dress. I take a firm hold of one of her thick tendrils, and she suddenly jerks to a halt, uttering an equally vociferous exclamation to my own.

The incomer turns, her face like thunder. She looks at me and she opens her mouth as if to remonstrate. Then she observes my glistening bald head, Mum’s hand still resting on its shining surface. Her eyes widen, and her mouth slowly closes. She freezes.

I meet her gaze, a smirk playing on my lips. Still holding her long tendril taut, I slowly bring up my other hand and spread out two of my fingers in a “V” shape. Then I swiftly close them around her hair, miming a scissoring action.

The incomer jumps in alarm, then quivers in shock. I smirk and breathe a single word. ‘Soon!’.

For the first time, I feel a sense of power. A sense of belonging. A sense of Tradition. It is a chilling kind of freedom, but in this town, maybe it is the only kind that matters. Maybe, just maybe, Mum was right all along.

The End