HairApparent
Author’s Note: The first part of a prequel to “The Promising Job Interview … With An Unexpected Twist”. Human Resources specialist Emma Pierce is employed in her first senior corporate role. The unexpected activities that subsequently take place may explain Emma’s twisted behaviour related to women’s hair later in her career.
Prologue
I had enjoyed my solitude, dressed casually and with my hair worn long as I preferred, I had felt safe working amongst the multitude of servers in the basement of Silvermans. From time to time, secretaries had popped down to visit on an errand for their bosses. All dressed similarly in what I considered the corporate style, and only their hair would set them apart. Naturally, I had preferred to keenly observe those who dared to wear their hair long and loose, an unusual sight in the professional environment of buns and braids.
At the risk of the secretaries thinking I was too forward, I always stopped short of complementing them on their long hair. However, my analytical mind had found it necessary to score each girl on the length and appearance of their hair, and to maintain a record for future reference. I had seen nothing unusual in doing so, although I accepted there might be some people who might think my actions strange. Not having such people around to judge me was one of the reasons I embraced my solitude.
Everything had changed when that woman from human resources appeared. Initially, I scored her as a “nine plus”. She had worn her exceedingly long blonde hair loose, and she had only failed to make a “perfect ten” by virtue of the rather childish red velvet hairband that invariably held her thick locks away from her pretty face.
However, after that woman had launched her awful vendetta against me, my entire world turned upside down. Unbelievably, long hair became an affront to my senses. Her long hair, specifically, together with that ridiculous hairband, unquestionably needed to go.
It was a mandatory consequence of her terrible actions, which had flipped a switch in my mind, even if there were some people who might consider my intentions strange and my response an overreaction.
Therefore, I had needed to set aside my preference for solitude until I had resolved the outstanding matter of that woman’s hair. She only had herself to blame. She had infiltrated my sanctuary, and she had turned my beliefs upside down.
That woman, Emma Pierce, the pretty blonde from Human Resources, had sown the wind, and her remarkably long and immaculate tresses would reap the whirlwind.
Infiltration
‘Sam, I know you are down here,’ the woman’s voice had called out for the third time, sounding increasingly irritated. ‘Please show yourself. I need to have a word, and it is especially important.’
As I had dodged between the banks of servers, my movement clouded by the constant hum of the electronics, I felt safe. Those from the floors above rarely entered my haven. They were confident that I was doing all they asked to maximise profitability. And they knew I was keeping the organisation safe from external threats. I did not appreciate anyone disturbing me in my personal retreat, especially without warning.
‘Ah, Sam, there you are,’ the woman tittered, as I had edged backwards and inadvertently bumped into her. She moved like a panther with piercing eyes to match, drilling into my soul.
‘Oh, hello … I, er, did not see you there,’ I had stuttered ineffectively.
She had looked me up and down and rewarded me with an admonishing sniff, if such a thing was possible. ‘I am Emma Pierce, the newly appointed Human Resources Director. And I need to have a word with you,’ she had stated ominously. ‘It is about your appearance.’
Ultimatum
Sometimes I wished I had not taken the excellent job at Silvermans, the major financial institution in the city. In many ways it had been an ideal choice for me. A behind-the-scenes computer specialist role, far away from any other people. I could immerse myself in my coding, buried in algorithms and data, hidden away in the basement of the towering corporate structure.
Behind my back, other staff often described me as a geek. I did not mind, as it was true. My uniform consisted of jeans and hoodies, and my long hair fell luxuriously over my shoulders, a symbol of my unique identity within the organisation. I had no intention of cutting my hair or dressing in anything as formal as a suit to match all those earnest clones scurrying about upstairs.
Everyone at all levels in the organisation had always been pleased with the timeliness and accuracy of my work. Admittedly, they chose to convey their thanks electronically rather than by visiting me in person. And for that, I had always been extremely grateful.
Yes, everything was running smoothly until Emma Pierce, the new HR director, arrived like a storm invading a calm sea. She personified corporate conformity, armed with company rules that cut through the autonomy I had cherished.
On the day Miss Pierce located me amongst the servers in the basement, she wore a sharply tailored black blazer and short skirt over a crimson satin blouse. Whenever I had glimpsed her previously, she had worn a similar uniform, although the colours and patterns would vary.
Emma wore her gleaming blonde hair loose. Long and thick, she had the ends trimmed to perfection, finishing some considerable way below her waist. From time to time, I idly wondered whether the increasing length of her hair would ever meet the ascending hem of her short skirts. That aside, I was pleasantly surprised to see long locks worn loose around the office. It was unusual for women with long hair in Silvermans not to secure it in a bun or ponytail to maintain the accepted professional standard. For that, I mentally scored her a “nine plus” on each occasion I saw her.
Emma’s only compromise to practicality was wearing a red velvet hairband that kept her flowing locks back from her face. Sadly, that dissuaded me from awarding her the “perfect ten” but, wisely as it turned out, I held back from informing her of my reasoning. Personally, I thought her loose blonde locks coupled with the hairband portrayed her as an “Alice in Wonderland” figure. Whether by design or accident, her childish depiction corresponded with her relative youth.
Despite how Emma looked, I had heard it said that she was anything but child-like when dealing with staff issues. I was grateful that, before that day, I had fortunately avoided any confrontation with her. Consequently, I became extremely worried when Emma Pierce had stormed down to my basement and into my life with a few fatal words. “I need to have a word with you. It is about your appearance.”
With a request that felt like a threat, Emma Pierce insisted, ‘Sam, you are to comply with company policy in future. You will wear a suit, shirt, and tie, and you will have your hair cut short and neat.’
I laughed dismissively. ‘I do not own a suit, and I have never been to a barber,’ I blustered. ‘And as I never stray from down here in the basement, I see no reason why the policy should apply to me.’
Emma Pierce merely waved away my objections, like swatting a fly, without finding the need to add words of her own. ‘If you do not comply, Sam, you might lose your job,’ she stated with finality, adding a smile that held no warmth.
Laughing it off at first, I assumed that I could remain under her radar. The support of all the senior people in the organisation that I had helped in the past was something I believed I could rely on. I was confident they would prefer me to simply let me get on with my work, leaving me untroubled by her petty demands. However, I soon learnt that her influence reached high into the organisation, touching everyone at every level, even those down in the basement.
Suited
A few days after Emma Pierce, the new HR Director, had presented me with her ultimatum, I found myself caught off guard as I rushed through the plush reception area of the building. Before I could edge away to the stairs leading down to the basement, she barred my way.
‘Sam, I am so pleased to have caught you this morning,’ Emma smiled, the expression a mix of triumph and condescension. ‘I have arranged a couple of appointments for you.’
Although I attempted to bluster, citing the urgency of a server upgrade, she simply nodded. Before I understood what she had in mind, she had linked arms and led me forcefully from reception and back onto the high street.
Despite my objections, she was resolute, and I soon found myself inside the men’s clothing department of a tacky chain store. With the help of a sales assistant, I soon found myself kitted out in a cheap black suit made from some horrid synthetic fibre. A white nylon shirt with a collar that was too tight, and a nondescript dark striped tie completed my corporate uniform.
‘Very smart,’ Emma smirked, in her designer suit that would have cost more than ten times as much as my cheap outfit. I felt like a mannequin, a blank slate, dressed against my will. With that task completed, I expected us to return to the office. So, I was surprised when she tugged me by the arm in the opposite direction.
Emma dragged me through a maze of backstreets, my enquiries regarding our destination left unanswered. Without warning, she brought us to an abrupt halt. We were standing outside an unassuming establishment with a sign above the window that identified it as Amelia’s Clippers.
Amelia
Emma dragged me inside Amelia’s Clippers. The surroundings were clean but basic, with the kind of sterile ambiance one might expect from a medical facility. However, I noticed little of that when my eyes fell on the woman inside, who I correctly guessed was Amelia, the owner of the clippers.
Put simply, Amelia was stunning. In her pristine short white tunic, zipped up the front, she looked every bit the professional. Her poker-straight black bob turned neatly under, just above her shoulders. Admittedly, her hair was a little short for my taste. It was far shorter than my own. But its condition and style rescued it from the oblivion of a “seven or less” score. From a centre-parting, without a fringe, her hair framed a face accentuated by keen grey eyes that sparkled with a hint of mischief.
I felt myself getting hot under my newly acquired tight collar, unseen beneath the shadow of my long hair. And, in one of the many mirrors around the premises, I noted that I was blushing profusely, even before anyone had spoken.
‘Hi,’ Amelia said breezily, welcoming me with a dazzling smile, while I continued to finger my tight collar awkwardly, hoping to cool myself down. ‘Sharp suit,’ she taunted, helping me off with my suit jacket, making me feel even more uncomfortable. Take a seat,’ she invited brightly, waving a hand expansively, ‘if you dare,’ she giggled mischievously under her breath.
Whether I dared or not, I felt compelled to immediately do as she had instructed.
Emma Pierce appeared amused by the interaction, clearly revelling in the geek’s embarrassment in the company of such an attractive woman.
‘So, handsome,’ Amelia purred, presumably referring to me, as she ran her fingers provocatively through my ample locks, ‘what will we be doing with you today, and your pretty boy locks?’
I knew one thing she was already doing to me. Fondling my hair as she was, my body was reacting to the proximity and touch of the attractive woman. And my increasingly tight trousers were not helping me to control my personal situation one little bit!
I was tongue-tied, and that allowed Emma Pierce to take charge. ‘Number 3 for Sam, please,’ she instructed gleefully, while Amelia covered me with a large white cape that mercifully hid my increasing tension down below. I hoped the barber had not noticed. And I had to assume it had been unintentional when her hand passed lightly over my lap, and lingered, when she smoothed out the cape. Accidental or otherwise, it did not help me control my increasingly tricky situation. No, not at all!
‘Number 3!’ Amelia exclaimed excitedly. ‘Now you’re talking!’
Numbers
I did not have a clue what Emma’s coded instruction of “Number 3” had meant. My analytical mind judged that there must be a chart with numbers and, alongside each number there would be a description of the associated style. So, if the requested hairstyle were only the third on the list, I judged that it would not constitute too much of a change for me. However, without the table or spreadsheet to hand, I was unable to decipher her instruction. However, I soon found out what it meant.
A loud whine increased in volume from one side. Amelia’s hand, brandishing an electrical device with a metallic sheen, unexpectedly obscured my vision. Amelia’s clippers had burst into life. I felt the glinting blade touch my forehead and then glide back through my hair. In the mirror, to my horror, I saw a wide parting created down the centre of my head. The initial pass sent a bundle of my long locks cascading onto the floor.
As Amelia repositioned the clippers for a second pass, I instinctively shied away.
‘No need to be afraid of me, pretty boy,’ she pouted, before capping the back of my head with her spare hand, making further movement impossible. I was not afraid of her, as she had surmised, but I was certainly afraid of how my body was reacting, in public, to her firm touch!
Amelia continued her inexorable pace with the horrific machine. For an instant, my crown was bare, with long tendrils trailing down at the sides, making me appear like a balding old man who was down on his luck. Fortunately, that moment did not last as Amelia stripped off the long hair covering my ears just as easily as the top. And similarly, I soon felt all my hair disappear from around the back of my head.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Emma Pierce, arms crossed, leaning back against the counter to one side of me. A gleeful smirk was spreading across her face, clearly relishing every stroke of the clippers as they changed my appearance irrevocably.
After removing all my long hair, Amelia took a critical look at my fuzzy head. She shook her own head, not yet satisfied, her long bob swishing as she did so. ‘I just need to finish you off, Sam,’ she said.
I did not dwell on the unintended double meaning of her words. To do so, may have had brought my tricky situation under the cape to a head.
I watched as Amelia removed a plastic attachment from her clippers, and then, with the aid of a comb, she buzzed my hairline down to the skin. Amelia nodded to herself contentedly, clearly having achieved what she set out to do. The severe haircut would signify to the world that I had been to an enthusiastic barber. If that was not enough, the white tideline on the back and sides, where she had shaved me, proved it beyond doubt.
Trying to keep my mind off what was occurring, I occupied myself by estimating the length of my hair and trying to correlate it with the “number 3” that the women had conspired to reference earlier. If “3” meant roughly the one centimetre of hair that remained on my head, then the length must have equated to a “200” before Amelia shaved off my seventy-centimetre locks. I shivered at the thought of how much more like a convict I would look like with a “number 1”. However, my deductions were based on an earlier, possibly invalid, assumption and it was a joyful moment when Amelia’s lovely voice broke through my pointless, but usefully distracting, analysis.
‘There you go, Sam, you’re all done,’ Amelia declared, giving my head an enticing rub as she did so. ‘No more the pretty boy … but now a very handsome one.’
My attempt at distracting my mind had worked to an extent, but her words rekindled what I had been feeling about her. I wondered if she were being polite in the way she would be to any customer. Or whether she was simply teasing me. Or, unlikely as it seemed, she thought I really was handsome.
As to being doing “all done”, there was a significant part of my body that remained unfulfilled. However, when I recollected my thoughts about Amelia alone, later that day, I was confident that failure would be readily satisfied.
“Perfect, Sam,” Emma Pierce declared as she circled me, disturbing my pleasant thoughts of Amelia. ‘Your appearance now satisfies my requirements, and those of the company.’
Reversal
I stood up on shaking legs after Amelia had removed the cape. Strands of my former locks floated down on their final journey to the floor. Looking around the chair, I could see a huge pile of dark hair surrounding it. I felt like I was leaving behind a large part of myself in a very public way. Every millimetre of hair held a memory as it grew, I recalled. And the longer the hair had grown, the more memories it held.
I had been attached to my own long hair, in both senses of the word. And I had always preferred women to have long hair. Fortunately, the few women I had dated over the years – sadly just for a short while in each case – had always conformed to my prime requirement. Long hair was simply a matter of natural selection … well, that is how I saw it … throughout my life … up to that point.
From the moment I stepped out of Amelia’s chair, the way my mind worked had flipped.
Visually, Amelia had reset my hair, but my hair would create new memories in the future. Pleasant thoughts of the delectable Amelia were at the forefront of my consciousness. Amelia had become inexorably linked with the emotionally charged activity of chopping off all my hair.
However, for an IT geek such as myself, it was as if Emma Pierce had caused my mind to reboot.
The flicking of that switch generated another powerful obsession in my mind. It originated from that awful vision of that woman smirking, finding obvious enjoyment and satisfaction watching my shearing. Emma’s pleasure clearly transcended a basic desire for me to comply with company policy. I was unsure if she saw my discomfort as a personal triumph. Or whether she simply wished to force all men in Silvermans to have their hair cut short. Whatever her reason, it did not matter to me, as the ultimate consequence of her actions would be precisely the same.
That woman, Emma Pierce, had forced me to have my long hair buzzed off. Therefore, it was understandable that I had become obsessed with her receiving precisely the same treatment.
Epilogue
There was a price to pay for my preoccupation with the destruction of Emma’s tresses. That cost was the unfortunate loss of my rampant desire to observe, admire, and enjoy long hair on women. A cruel person might say I had been “cured”, although I did not see it that way. However, the sight of a woman’s nicely cut bob or a neatly cropped hairstyle had become exciting.
Reluctantly, I archived my spreadsheet containing the scores I had allocated to women’s long hair over many years. Then I created a new scoring chart. I had already begun populating the new one with a few “eight or more” short hairstyles around the office. Naturally, Amelia was rising quickly through the ranks even if my new standards classified her hair as relatively long.
Increasingly, as I walked around town, I turned my head away from the unattractive sight of women with long hair. I felt they should all have it cut short. And I would happily guide them to a suitable establishment … such Amelia’s Clippers.
Some might say my thoughts regarding short hair were unhealthy. However, I reasoned that my opinion was no less valid that it had been for my previous passion for long hair. Whatever, this fascination was not something I had control over. It was simply necessary for me to accept it, and then fully embrace the consequences.
Henceforth, each time I saw Emma Pierce, I imagined her “Alice in Wonderland” persona trembling in Amelia’s barber’s chair as the barber plucked the red velvet hairband her head and casting it aside. I visualised Amelia’s clippers approaching her hairline, hungry to strip away her long blonde hair. Picturing her buzzed like me, or even completely bald, became an obsession.
My opinion not only seemed entirely reasonable, but also completely justified. I realised that some people might believe my thoughts were rather strange or even an overreaction. To me, those people’s perceptions were irrelevant. My only interest was how I would influence events to achieve this necessary and desirable outcome.
To be continued
