Nicola Appreciates Her Afternoon Off

Prologue

The sun on that Saturday morning was deceptively bright through the large windows of the Holbourne public library. It was the kind of light that, after a busy morning helping the excitable youngsters, made me eager to leave work as soon as I could and then enjoy my cherished afternoon off.

Saturday Morning

‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!’ a high-pitched giggly voice squeaked its familiar cry, not for the first time that morning.

I turned, smiling down at young Sophie, who was tugging at a tendril of my hair that had fallen over my shoulder. On Saturdays, I did not wear the thick, sensible braid that was part of my weekday uniform. Instead, I let my hair fall free, a heavy, shimmering curtain of chestnut that cascaded past my waist, brushing against the tops of my thighs. To keep it out of my eyes while I worked, I wore a simple black velvet Alice band.

‘Not today, Sophie,’ I whispered indulgently, kneeling so my hair pooled on the carpeted floor like spilt ink. ‘If I let it down any further, the younger kids might trip over it.’

Sophie giggled. ‘You look like a princess,’ she insisted, her eyes wide.

‘I am just a librarian, sweetie,’ I clarified. ‘But thank you.’

‘Mummy says I can grow my hair long like yours when I am older,’ the youngster claimed.

I silently questioned whether her thin shoulder-length locks would ever grow much longer. I could see her hair was prone to splitting at the ends and quite dry, but I did not want to burst her bubble.

‘You will look lovely, Sophie, but remember that it is a great deal of work to look after when it is as long as mine,’ I warned.

‘I’ll remember, Miss Evesham,’ she said gaily, before skipping off to talk to a friend.

Saturday Afternoon

By 1 p.m., the children’s book club had finished, the parents had retrieved all their kids, and I had put the final books back on the shelves. I was delighted that I had been able to introduce the Saturday morning initiative to help the community foster a love of books at an early age, but it was exhausting. Having gathered my things, I set the building alarm and locked the doors, the click of the bolt signalling the start of my weekend. I was looking forward to it.

From Monday to Friday in the library, each day was full and hectic, with rarely any time to pause to grab a sandwich. On bright Saturdays, I enjoyed settling down with a delightful book outside the café in the market square, revelling in the freedom of my loose hair tumbling down my back. I relished eating a delicious vegan salad, accompanied by the weekly indulgence of a small glass of white wine. After a leisurely lunch, I would take a stroll in the park to admire the flowers or walk down by the river to watch the birds. Then I would wander back to my apartment for a leisurely evening with literature and music, accompanied by a light supper. Pure bliss!

As I walked along the High Street, I looked up at the church tower in the distance. Remembering Sophie’s judgement from earlier that I was Rapunzel, I chuckled to myself as I contemplated how far my hair would reach if I let it down from there. Not too far, I concluded, but I made a mental note to set the question for Sophie the following week. I could already imagine her frown of deep concentration as she applied herself to the task.

I was turning the corner to enter the market square, the café in sight, when the world seemed to tilt.

Just leaving an exclusive fashion store on the corner was a ghost from my troubled past. On this bright spring afternoon, with the sun shining and blue skies overhead, she was as sharply dressed and as dull looking as I remembered. It was Miss Fry.

I physically froze, my feet unable to move, and my heart skipped a beat. Miss Fry had been my course lecturer, as well as a personal tutor, at the local further education college three years earlier. For a combination of reasons, I had not done well at school, despite the teachers declaring I was highly intelligent. I had struggled with exams and finished school with no qualifications that were suitable for embarking upon a rewarding career.

My parents were brilliant, somehow managing to secure me a place at the local college and then supporting me throughout the duration of the course. The syllabus for the one-year diploma focused on subjects that interested me, and I was conscious that, if I passed, it would keep me away from the future that beckoned on the supermarket checkout.

Despite the fascinating topics covered on the course, I still struggled with examinations. Without Miss Fry’s relentless, almost cruel, prodding, I would never have gained the qualification to secure a role as an assistant in the town’s library. Amazingly, three years later, I was in charge. Although Miss Fry’s teaching methods had been debatable at times, she had been the one who carved my career out of my own self-doubt. That said, and having thanked her profusely at the time, I had never desired prolonging our relationship after I had left college.

Miss Fry

In my mind I was mapping out a more circuitous route to the café, having spotted Miss Fry for the first time in three years. But she spotted me before I could duck into a nearby shop entrance.

‘Nicola Evesham?’ Her sharp voice was like a ruler snapping against a desk, bringing back troublesome memories.

‘Yes, hello, Miss Fry,’ I confirmed, although I was sure she had no doubt who I was.

She had not changed at all. She wore an immaculate dark tweed skirt suit, the fabric so stiff it looked like armour, along with a starched beige blouse that she had buttoned up to her throat. And then there was her unchanged hair. Silvery grey, cropped into a brutal, masculine cut that left her ears and neck starkly exposed. It was unnecessarily short, a statement of efficiency over elegance.

Her eyes travelled from my face down the length of my body, coming to rest on the chestnut waves that flowed over my shoulders.

‘So, Nicola,’ she sniffed, another unchanging characteristic, ‘you are still wearing that unnecessary… appendage?’ It was not really a question but an accusation.

I was an adult, I told myself, and I no longer had to suffer those cruel and unnecessary barbs that I had in the past. I resolved to snap straight back at her, making the point that as a senior librarian I was now her equal. However, that was not my nature, so I decided to moderate both my attitude and my tone. ‘Yes, Miss Fry. I still like my hair. And the children at the library think I am Rap—’

‘The children!’ she interrupted, stepping closer. I felt the old urge to stand up straighter, to tuck my chin in. ‘You are a professional woman now, Nicola. A librarian, no less. A gatekeeper of knowledge. Not a character from a fairy tale. That hair is an indulgence. It is messy, impractical, and distracting for a public servant.’

I tried not to laugh at her opinionated rant. ‘It is only hair, Miss Fry,’ I sighed. ‘I keep it tied out of the way nearly all the time –’

‘Excuse me, Nicola,’ she said haughtily. ‘It is not tied back, and that is my precise point,’ she emphasised, jabbing an accusatory finger at my innocent hair. ‘Besides, if you had a more appropriate hairstyle, then such a crude mechanism would not be necessary.’

‘It is the weekend, Miss Fry,’ I explained, my voice dripping with condescension, ‘and, truly, I am very happy with it like this.’ I thought of the glass of wine waiting for me at the café I could see like a beacon across the market square. I had already decided that I would be treating myself to a larger one than usual after the unfortunate encounter. ‘Now, Miss Fry, I must –’

Miss Fry’s thin lips pursed. That had never been a good sign, and my voice faded away as I froze once more. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and the old, familiar disappointment that used to stress me out and even make me tearful. Back then, standing in her office, I accepted she only had my best interests at heart. However, at times, I wondered if it was the college’s exam pass rate that was paramount in her mind.

‘My mother is nearly seventy,’ she said abruptly. ‘Retired now, of course, but she was one of the finest hairstylists in the county. Always in demand. She still has her kit, and she keeps her scissors sharp. For a while she has been saying she would like to take on a project. Something to keep her hand in. For the community. You need a hairstyle that reflects your position, Nicola. Something sensible. What you have now needs to be, er… corrected.’

I was no longer her student but the town’s twenty-three-year-old professional and experienced librarian. Giggling to myself, I wondered if I should remind the old busybody. ‘That’s very kind, Miss Fry, but no thank you,’ I said, my voice gaining a bit of steel. ‘Now, I really must be getting along,’ I insisted, thinking of that white wine chilling less than a hundred metres from where I stood.

Miss Fry reached out. It was a fast, bird-like movement. She took a handful of my hair between her fingers, feeling the texture. I flinched, but she did not let go. ‘Four o’clock,’ she said. ‘You will join us for tea at our home. We can have a proper catchup. We still live at The Brambles, just around the corner from the college.’

I did my best to think of her offer as a kind invitation for old time’s sake, but however I juggled her words, she made it sound more like a demand. There was no denying that if, in the past, she had chosen not to invest her time in my education, then I would have ended up working in the supermarket. The weight of the debt suddenly hit me, appreciating she had seen the potential in a girl that everyone else had already written off. In whatever way she had meant her offer of afternoon tea, it was undeniable that I owed her a great deal.

‘Four o’clock,’ I whispered.

‘Excellent, Nicola,’ she said. ‘Do not be late,’ she sniffed. ‘Mother hates waiting for her afternoon tea.’

The Brambles

The Fry residence was a detached Victorian house known as The Brambles at the end of a cul-de-sac. They had it maintained perfectly. The gardener kept the high hedges trimmed into geometric blocks, and, beyond the gate, he cut the grass precisely to a uniform height. The plain borders were sharply edged, and not a weed was visible.

I had foregone my intended lunch in the café and my planned stroll by the river. I needed to allow myself time to prepare for my rendezvous. Although my sense of style, such as it was, exhibited a bohemian aesthetic, I had felt that florals and short floaty skirts might not go down well with Miss Fry. Distressed denim even less so.

After trying on each of my duller outfits, I eventually settled on a smart red dress with small, white polka dots. It was a little too flamboyant, but it was one of the longer ones I possessed. Unfortunately, as I admired myself in the mirror by my front door, I imagined Miss Fry’s conservative tastes would see the hem as still too short and the cleavage too low. I had steered away from my stylish and colourful tights to complete the ensemble, so I simply added my white blazer to finalise my look.

I debated whether to continue wearing my hair loose – after all, it was still the weekend – but I remembered the consternation it had caused at our earlier meeting. Consequently, I decided to secure my hair in its familiar thick braid, pluming fetchingly from my crown.

I arrived at The Brambles at 3.55 p.m., trying to convince myself that the encounter would not be as bad as I dreaded. I would sip a couple of cups of Earl Grey, nibble a cucumber sandwich or two, and endure half an hour of criticism before escaping back home for the rest of my leisurely weekend.

Miss Fry opened the door before I could even ring the bell.

‘Nicola, you are almost late,’ she sniffed, glancing at her watch, despite my being five minutes early.

The anticipated criticism had begun before I had even crossed the threshold.

She gestured grandly with her palm. ‘Enter.’

Her Parlour

Miss Fry guided me into her traditionally furnished parlour, smelling strongly of lavender polish. There, sitting in a high-backed wing chair, was a woman who looked like an older version of Miss Fry herself.

Fry senior, around twenty years older than her daughter, was larger in each dimension and looked even more intimidating. She was wearing a similar tweed skirt suit to Miss Fry but in a slightly darker shade and paired with a cream blouse. Her hair was an even shorter version of her daughter’s severe haircut, while her eyes held an identical predatory sharpness as they locked onto me.

‘So, Elizabeth,’ Mrs Fry said, her voice a gravelly rasp. ‘This is the “Rapunzel” you mentioned,’ she continued, adding a condescending sneer.

‘Yes, Mother,’ her daughter dutifully replied, ‘although she claims it is only the children who use that terminology. Her name is Nicola.’

‘With ridiculous hair like that, she looks like a child herself,’ Mrs Fry laughed, although it came out as a wheezy cackle.

‘Sit, Nicola,’ Miss Fry commanded, gesturing to the chair facing her mother.

The tea service was as thin as eggshells, with the Earl Grey poured into each cup from a matching teapot in ceremonial fashion. Although formal, I suspected this ritual was the pair’s everyday ceremony. As I had feared, they offered me dainty cucumber sandwiches with the crusts removed, and the thinnest of slices of Victoria sponge to follow.

The conversation was cordial, but it felt perfunctory. It was as if Miss Fry had forgotten they had something better to do that afternoon, and they now regretted inviting me. However, they would have considered it socially unacceptable and rude to have left me standing on the doorstep.

They asked about my work at the library. And they congratulated me on my recent promotion, one that Miss Fry would have heard about from serving on the town council. They even politely asked about my parents, who had moved away from the area. When they asked about where I lived and my relationships, I was more cautious, but their interest in those topics was fleeting. They touched on hobbies, and I felt on safer ground discussing my love of literature and my growing interest in veganism and environmental matters.

I was careful as Mrs Fry repeatedly scoffed at newfangled ideas, while her daughter found a way to frame each of my pursuits as an inefficient waste of time. To lighten the dull mood, I made a lame quip about the environment not really being newfangled, having been around for quite a while. But they met my words with blank expressions and not even an indulgent smile. After half an hour, their negativity had sucked the life from the room, and I had become exhausted.

‘So, by joining us today, we have interrupted your quiet weekend alone,’ Miss Fry concluded, sipping her second cup of Earl Grey. I nodded, and she sniffed. ‘Such a waste, Nicola, when you could be selflessly tutoring someone who needs a little extra help, as I did with you, or perhaps volunteering at the charity shop or the food service for the underprivileged.’

I smiled sweetly. ‘I will give it some thought,’ I lied, already comfortable with all the unpaid support I gave to adults and children at the library during the evenings and weekends.

‘Still,’ the mother interjected, ‘one imagines that with all that bountiful hair to wash, condition, and dry, you have no time for doing much else.’

‘It only takes an hour,’ I said softly, tempering my irritation.

Mrs Fry set her teacup down with a definitive clack. ‘An hour too long!’ she stated dogmatically. ‘And what about all the time you spend each day doing and undoing that ridiculous rope hanging off your head? It is an unnecessary and inefficient indulgence for no benefit whatsoever,’ she argued. ‘Time is the only currency we cannot earn back, my dear, and your time is being wasted on pointless vanity.’ She jumped to her feet with surprising agility for her age. ‘Now that we have finished tea, it is time,’ she declared.

Whoopee, time for me to leave, I realised silently, and relief washed over me. I had more than done my duty by enduring fifteen more minutes in their company than I had originally sentenced myself to. So, I put down my teacup, and I also rose to my feet. ‘Well, thank you both for a lovely afternoon –’

‘No, it is time,’ the mother repeated as Miss Fry continued sipping her tea, adopting a silent but scornful expression as she watched me gathering my things. I frowned, failing to understand her drift. ‘It is time for your haircut, my dear.’

My heart hammered against my ribs. ‘Oh, no, really, Mrs Fry. Your daughter explained about your background, and it is a kind suggestion. It is certainly one I will give considerable thought to,’ I lied politely, ‘but I am not ready for a change today,’ or at any time in the future I silently added. ‘Perhaps another time… when we all have more, er, time…’

I moved quickly towards the door. But, from nowhere, Miss Fry’s hand was on my shoulder. It was a heavy, immovable weight.

‘Nicola,’ she said, her voice dropping into that low, instructional tone that used to make me tremble in the classroom. ‘We discussed your hair earlier,’ she sniffed. ‘I invited you here for correction. Mother’s instruction was not a request.’

‘I… I must go,’ I said, panic rising as I noted their blank expressions with no hint of emotion.

They did not argue, and they did not shout; they simply moved.

With one woman on either side of me, hands tucked under my arms, they propelled me towards a concealed door set into the wall in the hallway. I tried to pull back, but their grip was like iron, and I felt the soles of my feet gliding over the polished marble floor.

Maintaining steadfast expressions, they were women who had spent their lives imposing their will on the world.

Their Studio

The door led into what must have once been a garage, but they had converted it into something else entirely. Windowless, clinical white tiles covered all the walls, while the black slabbed floor shone like marble. Ominously, in the centre of the room stood a heavy, hydraulic salon chair, facing away from a large, shrouded mirror.

‘What is this?’ I asked, finding it hard to breathe.

‘Mother’s sanctuary,’ Miss Fry said. ‘We call it “The Studio”. For decades, prestigious schools and other establishments in the area would request Mother’s services. Parents would bring her the, er… difficult cases. Girls who thought their hair was their power needed reminding of their place. Those basking in inefficiency and impracticality, necessitating correction.’

‘Sit!’ Mrs Fry commanded, gesturing to a quite different chair than I had sat in for tea.

‘No!’ I turned to run, but Miss Fry was faster. While her mother slipped out of the room, latching the door behind her, the daughter unceremoniously shoved me towards the chair. My knees bent, and I tumbled back on the seat. Before I could scramble out, she pulled a large silver-coloured gown from a hook.

With a chilling smile, Miss Fry held the heavy-looking garment open in front of me, like a matador. In the panic of levering myself off the seat, my hands disappeared into the dark armholes.

‘No, I don’t need that,’ I blustered, trying to shake off the gown.

‘Oh, you will, my dear,’ Miss Fry countered, momentarily distracting me as I tried to grasp why.

And in those lost few seconds, it dawned on me that the garment was not a standard haircutting cape. As she threw it over me, I realised with a jolt of pure terror that they had sewn off the far ends of the sleeves. Furthermore, a tugging on my wrists suggested a binding mechanism that was tightening my arms against my body.

As Miss Fry hauled, it felt she was winching me back into the chair, pulling me taut against the substantial backrest. A tightening around my legs suggested the customised gown also had an adaptation to firmly hold my legs against the footrest. Rather than the silvery haircutting cape that I believed she had retrieved, it was a thick and heavy vinyl sheath that encased my entire body from my neck down to my ankles.

I felt a tug across my shoulders and heard the abrupt metallic sound of Miss Fry fastening a popper. I heard her exerting herself, and I imagined her with a knee against the back of the chair and pulling the gown firmly backwards. More poppers snapped, and each one increased the intensity of my confinement.

It was a diabolical garment. Looking down, from the outside, one could mistake it for a traditional haircutting cape. However, underneath, they had tailored it to hold a subject immobile and secure. It even had a stiff collar to hold my chin up, and ensure my eyes looked straight ahead.

‘Wait! Stop!’ I thrashed, but Miss Fry cinched the gown tight at my throat, and the weight of the heavy material held my arms pinned to my sides. I was effectively in a straitjacket.

‘Stay still, Nicola,’ Miss Fry said, her voice almost soothing now. ‘It is easier if you do not fight the inevitable. Resistance is useless,’ she quoted, but with no sense of irony or amusement.

I stopped when I heard the door open, then close behind me. I heard the clinking of china cups. It was the sound of Mrs Fry returning with refreshments.

‘Tea, Elizabeth?’ she asked her daughter, reappearing in my peripheral vision. Miss Fry took a cup, while her mother kept one for herself. None for me, I noticed. ‘You certainly look a pretty picture trussed up like that, my dear,’ she remarked, barely able to conceal the smirk on her lips.

‘Yes, Mother, she certainly does. But it is such a shame her parents did not facilitate her correction all those years ago,’ Miss Fry lamented. ‘Still, Nicola, you are here now.’

Acting like a key to a dark corner of my mind, those words unlocked a hidden memory that I thought I had pushed away forever.

Four Years Earlier

It was a couple of weeks after I had started my course at the further education college. I was in my bedroom one evening doing the homework my tutor, Miss Fry, had set me when I heard a loud knock on the door. I idly looked out of the bedroom window, and I was surprised to see that very same tutor standing by the door waiting for it to open. There was someone with her, but, from my vantage point high above, I did not recognise who it was, unable to make out any details in the shadows below.

I was confident I had done nothing wrong. Indeed, I enjoyed studying those interesting subjects that now filled the syllabus. Although Miss Fry was strict with the workload, I did not think I had let her down.

She knocked on the door more loudly and insistently, despite having left my parents no time to get there from the back garden. Eventually, they answered her, and unsurprisingly I heard my name mentioned, but I could not make out the details of the conversation through the window. I crept quietly to the top of the stairs, and while I could not see anyone, I could hear much more clearly.

Miss Fry’s insistent words in her strident voice floated up to me. I imagined both my parents were listening carefully as they alternately tried to inject a calming word. But my tutor was resolute in her judgement.

‘It will be much easier for Nicola at college,’ Miss Fry asserted, although I was unsure what would be easier as I had missed the start of the conversation. ‘More practical, less time wasted, and less vanity, allowing greater focus on her studies.’

‘Nonsense,’ Dad scoffed.

I had no idea that Miss Fry considered me impractical, a time waster, and vain!

‘It’s a matter of discipline, hygiene, and, er… and it will allow her to fit in better with the other students,’ Miss Fry continued, an edge of desperation creeping in. ‘Effective correction is necessary at her age.’

I grew increasingly worried, even sniffing my armpit to check that I had been sufficiently rigorous in the shower to have washed under there!

‘Rubbish,’ Mum sneered. ‘Us mothers – the normal ones – know all about you two,’ she spat. ‘You may be able to convince other parents about your so-called “correction” methods, but you are not – I repeat, not – cutting my daughter’s hair, and that is final!’

‘I will ensure she looks lovely,’ said a firm voice that I did not recognise. However, it possessed a similar authoritative timbre to Miss Fry. ‘I will give her a neat, practical, and clean hairstyle that requires minimal maintenance.’

Feeling confused, I wondered why Miss Fry was at my home, apparently with a travelling hairdresser.

‘I secure her hair in two neat and practical plaits every day,’ Mum sneered, ‘and I can guarantee that Nicola’s hair is always clean –’

‘Ah, yes, the plaits!’ Miss Fry mocked. ‘Flying everywhere when she moves and getting tangled in doors. She will have someone’s eye out soon, and that is no exaggeration.

‘Leave!’ Dad insisted, sounding as angry as I had ever heard him. ‘Now!’

‘I am prepared to work with Nicola to adjust her style to satisfy your petty moaning, but I assure you that my daughter’s hair will not be cut!’ Mum yelled. ‘Now go!’

It went silent downstairs. After a brief period, with no words of farewell, I heard the door forcefully closed. I dashed to my bedroom window, and I saw the back of Miss Fry marching away down the street, along with the unknown woman, but they soon disappeared from my view.

I was worried. Since when had my hair become such a battleground? Throughout my time at school, it had always been down to my waist, or even longer. I liked it like that, and my parents did too. Every morning, Mum would brush my hair diligently and then tie it into two long plaits, and that saw me neatly and tidily through the day. At weekends, Mum was happy for me to be more creative, either wearing it loose, pulling back the front section, or even clamping it into a messy updo.

At college, I had hoped for more freedom with my hair, a place where the dress code was less stringent. Mum and I had an awkward conversation when she had said it would be best if I maintained my plaited look. She did not say why, but I knew she was holding something back that she did not wish to share. However, I was grateful for her continued assistance each morning, so I saw no need to make an issue of it. However, Miss Fry of all people had decided she would make an issue of it!

As I tried to make sense of what I had heard, there was a tap on my bedroom door, and my parents strolled in with solemn faces. Dad leaned by the door, and Mum dived straight in with what she needed to say. ‘Miss Fry is an excellent tutor, Nikki,’ she began nervously, ‘but she has a reputation around town that has arisen from her behaviour at establishments where she has taught in the past. Friends, and their children, have been on the sharp end of her peculiar fixation on orderliness, and that extends to the appearance of her students, specifically their hair.’

Mum drew a deep breath before continuing. ‘There is no need to go into the details, but Miss Fry believes that adopting a shorter haircut can “correct” certain aspects of behaviour. It is ridiculous, of course, but her ability to persuade is legendary, and we have seen far too many examples of girls’ hair having been “Fried”, as her bizarre actions have become known around town. So, strangely, that was Miss Fry at the door just now, and she was saying that your hair was, er… well, put simply, it needed correcting.’

‘Correcting?’ I frowned.

‘Her terminology, Nikki, but don’t worry; your hair is perfectly safe for you to do with as you wish,’ Mum explained. ‘So, no cutting. We know you were not enamoured with keeping the school plaits for college, but knowing Miss Fry’s reputation, we thought it would be for the best. But even that, it seems, is not good enough for her. However, we do want to keep her onside to give you the best opportunity to pass your exams. So, we may need to compromise with the styling to prevent you inadvertently taking someone’s eye out.’

‘How about French braiding?’ I piped up. ‘With your help, we can create a style that keeps my hair flat to my head and looks really cool. And then we can weave the rest into a single, thicker braid down my back that should stay neatly in place.’

‘Perfect,’ Mum and Dad chorused, and I was grateful too.

‘Well, I don’t want to be Fried, do I?’ I quipped, we all laughed, and that was the end of the matter.

As I was eighteen, the prospect of a more sophisticated style for a college than a pair of childish plaits was highly desirable. And sure enough, Mum did a wonderful job the next morning. My hair looked fantastic, and it was under far better control. The next time I saw Miss Fry, I was still feeling apprehensive. She narrowed her eyes as she carefully studied my hair, pursing her lips as if preparing to say something, but she decided against it.

After that, with all the pressures of college, I pushed the incident to the back of my mind, and I never thought of it again…

Back to the Present Day

Well, I had never thought of that incident again until four years later. When, trussed up in a barber’s chair in a soundproof room that looked like an operating theatre, Miss Fry and her mother had packaged me up, ready to be “Fried”!

Their Chair

I watched Mrs Fry put down her cup before she stepped behind me. I could not see her, but I could hear the metallic clatter of large scissors opening and closing, as if assessing them for effectiveness. Her daughter continued to observe me, sipping her tea with a satisfied and anticipatory smile.

Although I had stopped my fruitless struggling, with their modified haircutting cape holding me immobile in the chair, I had continued complaining. But it was to no avail. They ignored me until Miss Fry eventually held a finger to her lips to quieten me, lightly shaking her head to discourage my outbursts.

‘It’s such a shame to blunt my best dress-making scissors on this ridiculous haystack,’ the old woman muttered from behind.

‘Yes, Mother, but given the onerous task before you, then, on this occasion, you have little choice,’ her daughter empathised.

A cold dread suffused my whole body, anticipating what would happen next. I did not have to wait long for confirmation. I sensed Mrs Fry lift my long, thick braid that plumed from my crown, relieving my neck of its comforting and familiar weight. Then I felt her pulling my hair taut against the scalp, as if she had wrapped it around her fist for purchase.

‘N… n… no,’ I trembled, trying not to visualise the sickening scene occurring behind me.

Miss Fry, facing me, did not counter my words. But she took a long sip of her tea, then she gave a curt nod, smiling sweetly, suggesting my complaint was in vain.

I knew I should abandon hope when I heard a decisive crunch behind me. That became a diabolical sawing action, accompanied by uncomfortable tugging at my scalp. I lost count of the number of times the scissors opened and closed. But with Mrs Fry panting with a final grunt of exertion, the tugging ceased and a silence fell.

The older woman stepped in front of me, confirming my worst nightmares. With a beaming smile, she held up my long and thick, severed braid as if it were a magnificent trophy. I was dumbstruck, recalling the years of memories it held, personifying my identity. It was the defining reason for all the children calling me a princess.

‘Excellent, mother,’ her daughter judged, nodding approvingly before taking another sip of tea.

Mrs Fry marched over to a table by the wall, carefully wrote on a small card, and used that to label my former braid. Then she rolled back a sliding door in the wall, presenting me with a terrible sight. Row upon row of braids and ponytails of every colour imaginable hung there, each neatly labelled like mine. She flicked through them, as if searching for a favourite garment, and then she stopped once she found a ponytail that was a similar hue to my own hair. She slipped my braid onto the rail as if she were filing away paperwork and then slid the door shut.

‘Now we are rid of that unnecessary appendage, the real work can begin,’ Mrs Fry declared pleasantly, moving back behind me.

Her daughter put down her teacup and stepped forward, looming over me. I felt her playing with the remnants of my braid. ‘Such a shame, Mother, as she has such a cute little bouncy stump of hair sticking up on her head. I could play with it all day long,’ she giggled.

‘Stop it,’ I begged. ‘Please stop.’ Drawing a breath, I murmured, ‘That cupboard, it… it is…’

‘Yes, it is breathtaking, isn’t it?’ Miss Fry said proudly, ignoring my horrified disbelief. ‘Mother has been working for years, as I mentioned, so she has built up quite a collection, as you can see. We treat it like a photo album, flicking through and reminiscing about our successful and interesting ventures. These days the labels are a necessity, as we do not always remember when we had chopped off each one,’ she added wistfully.

‘Breathtaking?’ I scoffed. ‘No, it is bizarre,’ I countered. ‘How could you –’

‘Oh,’ she frowned, ‘do you really think so? Bizarre? Well, we used to have them stored chronologically, giving a timeline of when Mother cut them. But recently we decided that it might be nicer to file them by colour, resembling the varying hues of a rainbow. I imagine that, as a librarian, you appreciate that sense of order with filing. But I would not say bizarre’.

‘No, I don’t mean that!’ I whined, tired and exasperated. ‘You, cutting them and, er… keeping them… that’s bizarre!’

‘Is it?’ She shrugged as if what they had done and what they were doing was the most normal thing in the world. Her condescending expression was chilling as she opened a drawer, turned, and held up a red ball on a black cord. ‘Now, Nicola, I am not sure I appreciate your critical tone.’

‘Sorry,’ I whimpered, reacting automatically, although I could have kicked myself immediately afterwards.

‘For your information, my dear, “The Studio” is completely soundproof, so no one will hear you being so rude or playing up like a “moaning Milly”. But your whining is tiresome for us if we allow it to continue,’ Miss Fry said, her eyes narrowing. ‘So, unless you want us to silence you with this extremely effective rubber ball bag,’ she said, waggling it in my face, ‘then we would appreciate you holding your tongue. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Miss Fry?’ I confirmed quickly, as the thought of that thing in my mouth was much worse than simply doing as they told me.

Suddenly, a high-pitched motorised whine filled the room. It was the sound of heavy-duty electric hairclippers. As a grinning Mrs Fry leant into my eyeline, I saw they were not the small trimmers that one sometimes sees used in ladies’ salons, but huge red ones used in old-fashioned men’s barbershops.

I squealed.

Their Clippers

‘The back first, I think,’ Mrs Fry said, and her daughter nodded her approval.

I felt the cold vibration of the clipper blades touch the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck.

‘Please,’ I sobbed, trying to pull away. ‘Please don’t.’

‘Hold her head down, Elizabeth, and keep it still,’ the mother ordered, showing no compassion.

Miss Fry stepped forward but did not look angry. By contrast, she appeared satisfied, in the same way as a gardener might when finally getting around to pruning a neglected hedge. She placed her hands firmly on the top of my head, her fingers digging into my scalp, and forced my chin down toward my chest.

‘Keep it there,’ Mrs Fry insisted.

The blade of the hairclippers climbed higher as, firmly pressed against my neck, the teeth ate through the hair. I felt the chilly air hit skin that had never seen daylight before. The blade moved higher, stripping a bare path through my remaining chestnut locks.

‘She has a very messy hairline,’ Mrs Fry observed, her voice clinical over the buzz of the motor. ‘We will need to raise the perimeter a considerable amount to make it look neat and tidy. Snipped high and shaved tight, all the way up the back of the head,’ she explained with relish.

‘Whatever you think is best, Mother,’ Miss Fry replied nonchalantly, draining the last of her tea. ‘Neat and tidy is important, as she needs to look like someone who can be trusted.’

‘Right ear,’ Mrs Fry stated curtly, and her daughter shoved my head over to the left, holding it down. The clippers hovered over my right temple, then she dived in. I felt the hair fall away from around my ear, the insistent vibration rattling my jawbone. I could feel the cold metal of the juddering blade against my skin as she mowed the hair away, leaving nothing behind.

‘Left ear,’ the older woman commanded, so her daughter shoved my head to the right, and her mother repeated the process. I felt the breeze around the half of my head that she had exposed. However, in a way, it was more than just a physical sensation. It was an emotional reaction that reflected the two women systematically stripping away the identity of “Rapunzel”, the “princess”, and the boho girl.

‘Now for the fringe,’ Mrs Fry said.

She set the hairclippers down, and she allowed me to see the dressmaking shears for the first time. They were massive. Miss Fry pulled my head back, forcing me to look up at the fluorescent lights. I felt the blade rest against my forehead, above my eyebrows.

‘A nice, short fringe, Mother,’ the daughter hummed. ‘Let us see those eyes. A window to the soul, isn’t that what they say?’

‘They do, indeed, say that, Elizabeth,’ her mother confirmed, and she adjusted the position of the blade even higher towards my hairline.

I could only watch as long and thick chunks of my hair fell past my eyes to slide down the slick material of the cape to join the mountain of chestnut locks on the floor. She cut it straight across, brutally high, inches above my eyebrows.

‘And now, to create definition,’ Mrs Fry claimed.

She fired up the hair clippers once more, adjusting the blade to the finest setting. I felt the vibrating blades sharply digging into the skin above my ears, carving a high and blunt ledge.

‘I’m sharpening up the perimeter, Elizabeth,’ the old woman said proudly. ‘It produces a nice, severe bowlcut. A very practical and sensible option. Extremely disciplined.’

‘Yes, it suits her,’ Miss Fry said, leaning in to inspect her mother’s work. She reached out and casually flicked a stray hair off my cheek. While she may have intended her gentle touch as a caress, it felt more like a possessive brand of ownership. ‘Now she finally looks like she has finished her education and holds a professional and responsible position in the community.’

The two women worked in a synchronised dance of “correction” that felt like hours had passed. The older woman shaved and snipped, while her daughter functioned as the living vice, holding my head in whatever uncomfortable and humiliating position her mother deemed necessary. They spoke over me as if I were a piece of furniture that they were reupholstering.

Finally, the humming of the clippers ceased. The silence that followed was deafening.

‘All done,’ Mrs Fry announced triumphantly. ‘She is corrected.’

My Reveal

Miss Fry unfastened the collar of the gown, and she unsnapped the poppers that had held me rigid against the back of the chair. She eased the gown off me, releasing the restraints on my limbs as she did so. Then she shook out the gown, a cloud of my own hair swirling around me like snow before she stepped back.

I sat there, slumped in the chair, my arms finally free, but I did not move. I was unable to move. Slowly I reached up, my hand trembling, and I carefully touched my head.

Where there had been a heavy, comforting weight, there was nothing. My fingers met the smooth skin at the back of my neck. I felt the hard, straight edge of the fringe high on my forehead and around my head.

Without warning, Mrs Fry spun the chair around, and I saw her daughter slipping the cover off the large mirror. ‘Ta da!’ she grandly exclaimed, arm in the air, as if she were revealing a brand-new model of car.

The first glance at my reflection was shocking, while the second glance was terrifying. The glossy cap of my hair perched on my crown looked even shorter than I had imagined. My ears looked huge, protruding from the sides of a head that felt too small without its abundant covering of hair.

Mrs Fry held up a hand mirror, and I could see she had completely removed the hair from the back of my head and my temples. Not just clippered or buzzed away, but eradicated, leaving just white skin behind. Yes, it was a bowlcut, but one that was so short and so severe it resembled a style for punishing errant schoolboys a century earlier.

After Mrs Fry had put down the hand mirror, I saw the reflection of the two women in the large mirror, standing attentively on each side of me. With profoundly satisfied expressions and hands clasped behind their backs, they were two identical sentinels of an order they defined and managed.

‘Well, Nicola?’ Miss Fry asked, sounding irritated. ‘Aren’t you going to thank my mother?’

Contemplating whether showing my appreciation was appropriate, I first looked down at the floor, seeing the huge weight of my identity lying on the black slabs.

I thought of the library, and I tried to imagine the corrected and transformed professional individual who would be opening the doors on Monday.

Rapunzel, everyone would soon realise, had vacated the tower, leaving her identity in the wind.

I thought of Sophie and all the other kids trying to comprehend my changed appearance at the next Saturday morning book club.

And given all that, Miss Fry really expected me to thank her mother for what she had done to me.

‘Thank you for my haircut, Mrs Fry,’ I whispered dutifully, but the words felt bitter as they left my lips.

‘You’re very welcome, my dear,’ the mother said, patting my cheek. ‘It was a challenge and a pleasure to work on such a neglected canvas.’

They led me back to the parlour. The tea service was still there, although the pot would have been cold.

‘Shall I make a fresh brew, Nicola? Miss Fry offered, her voice back to its brisk, tutor-like tone.

My Escape

‘No, thank you, Miss Fry. I… I should go,’ I stuttered, shaking my head with my eyes fixed on the door.

‘Yes, of course, my dear,’ Miss Fry said. She walked me through to the hall. ‘You look so much more capable, Nicola, so please remember that. Having the appropriate disciplined hairstyle for any situation, is the first step towards demonstrating authority.’

As I stepped out onto the porch, the afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, distorted shadows across the lawn. The cool evening air hit my shorn neck, and I suppressed a violent shiver.

‘Nicola?’

I turned. Miss Fry and her mother were standing in the doorway, waving gaily as if we had just finished a relaxed afternoon discussing poetry.

‘Return at the same time in two weeks, my dear,’ Mrs Fry called out, her voice chirpy.

‘There will be more delicious cucumber sandwiches,’ her daughter added.

‘And we can raise the perimeter of the bowl further,’ she stated. ‘And it is a bit soft around the edges still, so we will get it where it needs to be with the aid of a dash of shaving foam and a sharp razor next time.’

‘Two weeks,’ Miss Fry echoed, her eyes locking onto mine with a terrifying promise. ‘And don’t be late.’

I did not respond, but turned and walked away, my pace quickening with every step. Reaching the end of the cul-de-sac, I broke into a run. My hand went to the back of my head, feeling the exposed skin and the shaved perimeter where my hair used to be.

The chill did not come from the wind. It came from the realisation that they had not finished with me. In their parlance, they had been the saviours that corrected me, and in two weeks they would repeat the rectification, taking my pitiful hair even shorter, never allowing it to grow long again.

As I ran home, I could have sworn the clippers still hummed in my ears. And the image of a sharp and glinting razor danced in the back of my mind, heralding my future.

Saturday Evening

For the remainder of the weekend following my haircut, I buried myself in books, and I did not go outside. I avoided mirrors around my apartment, but whenever I inadvertently caught my reflection, I wondered who the stranger was peering back at me from under the glossy cap of hair perched on my crown.

Lost in a book, I stretched my hand up countless times, expecting to feel the comforting weight of my hair. Each time it dropped again, disappointed, my worst nightmares confirmed.

Sunday Evening

I had a video chat with my mum on Sunday evening, with my dad leaning into frame every couple of minutes, staring at me in disbelief. Mum looked shocked when the call initially connected, blinking repeatedly as if holding back tears, doubtless remembering the countless occasions when she had brushed and styled the hair that was now gone forever.

‘Oh, Nikki, you’ve changed your hair,’ she said flatly. ‘Very, um, professional… and stylish… and, er, very tidy…’

‘And very short?’ I ventured, willing her to say it looked lovely and it suited me.

But she did not. ‘Yes, that too,’ she confirmed, before launching into an amusing, if inconsequential, monologue about my grandmother. That led on to other trivial family matters. It felt like she was deliberately avoiding mentioning my hair again, but at least she did not say it looked awful.

Monday Morning

On Monday morning, I prepared myself for work. As a private joke, I pretended to braid my phantom hair, and, surprisingly, the futile exercise cheered me up a little. It had been the first time I acknowledged the practicality and the time saved by my neat little crop.

I slipped into my favourite floral top and the floaty skirt that fell just above my knees. I studied myself in a full-length mirror, and I realised my favoured bohemian sense of style clashed with the harsh lines of my new haircut. The overall way I presented myself needed a re-evaluation.

I flicked through my wardrobe, looking for inspiration, and settled on a bland outfit that I usually reserved for management meetings and other formal occasions. The short grey pencil skirt, matching blazer, and crisp white blouse with a bow at the neck looked professional, if a little staid and ostentatious, but it complemented my bowlcut perfectly.

When the first people wandered into the library after opening time on Monday, I felt incredibly apprehensive. Would they stare? Or laugh? Or simply ignore me?

Well, I received sideways glances from people that I recognised, but no negative comments. Although no positive ones either.

My assistant librarian barely noticed, saying that, initially, she thought I had just tied my hair back differently. When I pressed her, she examined me more closely, then made a longer and more considered judgement.

‘Cute,’ she asserted. When I raised an eyebrow, urging her to elaborate, she continued. ‘Neat, and, er… professional,’ she managed economically, before rushing off to help someone that she thought might be struggling with romantic fiction.

Monday Afternoon

Later, on Monday afternoon, I looked up from the desk and, unexpectedly and worryingly, I saw Miss Fry smiling broadly before me. To my knowledge, she had never entered the library during my tenure.

‘You look splendid, my dear,’ she gushed. ‘Neat and respectable. That outfit is much more suitable than all that ridiculous flowery nonsense.’

Although I was slowly coming to terms with my revised appearance, I still held a grudge. I imagined forcibly ejecting her from my library, with a kick up the backside for good measure, and wondered how she would react. However satisfying that might be, I dismissed the notion for lack of professionalism.

‘Thanks, Miss Fry,’ I managed to force out, trying to keep the bitterness from my voice.

‘As we mentioned on Saturday, Mother is looking for a little private community work in her retirement. So, I have had leaflets printed, detailing the services she is keen to provide, either at “The Studio” or at home. I will leave these here,’ she insisted, placing a pile of glossy flyers neatly on the library’s front desk. ‘And, my dear, we look forward to welcoming you back to The Brambles in just under two weeks for your trim. Good day to you, Nicola.’

Fuming, I was unable to catch my breath to bid her farewell with a well-aimed “good riddance”. I stared down at the pile of glossy leaflets that she had placed in front of me. Snatching them up, and with great satisfaction, I tossed them under the desk. That action served to relieve a little of the tension that had increased while Miss Fry had been in my presence.

The Rest of the Week

The rest of the week passed similarly. There were acquaintances who came into the library who remarked upon my haircut and seemed genuinely to like the change.

By Friday, I was barely noticing my short haircut, appreciating its practicality. I was grateful that I had removed the risk of taking an eye out with my braid if I ever stood up too quickly after filling a bottom shelf.

The Following Saturday

By Saturday, I was looking forward to my valued afternoon off, commencing with a delicious lunch in the market square café. However, I would be foregoing my usual stroll afterwards. Firstly, I had a bag of floaty and floral skirts, dresses, and tops to drop off at the charity shop. Then I intended buying a couple more smart skirt suits and blouses to reinforce my more professional and respectable appearance.

On Saturday morning I would enjoy encouraging the children at their book club, while my errands in the afternoon would make for a full and exciting day. I was looking forward to it.

The Book Club

‘Miss Evesham, I hate you!’ screeched a strident high-pitched voice as the children of the Saturday morning book club burst through the doors, with Sophie at their head.

‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’ I enquired patiently as Sophie stormed up to me.

‘Miss Evesham, I hate you!’ she repeated.

I had never seen her like that before. I remember her mother once mentioning that Sophie experienced behavioural issues. Occasionally it happened at school, but more often at home. But, she explained, since attending the book club, she had been significantly better.

‘You are not a princess any more,’ she spat nastily, ‘or Rapunzel … you look just like an old woman with short hair,’ she ranted. ‘Why did you do it?’ she bawled.

I tried to patiently explain about looking more professional, but I was still smarting about her conviction that I now looked like an old woman. Eventually, she wandered off to her friends, but she kept aiming her unhappy dagger-like gaze at me throughout the morning. Usually enjoying her youthful personality, I did my best to keep out of her way throughout the session.

Later, I saw Sophie’s mother, Cassandra Murray, chatting to friends by the door. I beckoned her over to the library’s front desk to inform her what had occurred.

She tottered over to me on ridiculous stiletto heels that constrained her stride. And if that was not enough, her miniscule black leather skirt added to the walking challenge. The sheer material of her red blouse, with its low cleavage, added to the illusion that she would be happier out clubbing than bringing up a troubled young girl like Sophie.

Topping off her scanty ensemble was her tousled waist-length hair. Blonde and highlighted, expertly layered and graduated, to give that carefree and unstyled look that only the best and most expensive hairstylists can fashion.

‘Hi, Miss Evesham,’ she said, surprising me by her formality, and I wondered if she was unconsciously reacting to my more respectable appearance. As she approached, she looked preoccupied, staring above my eyeline. Then I realised she was looking at my hair, knowing that it looked different but unable to recall how it had looked before. I imagined, to a flamboyant woman like Sophie’s mother, that I had always been a bit of a wallflower, all but invisible.

‘Hello, Mrs Murray, thanks for popping over. I am sorry to say that Sophie has been a bit of a handful today. She has been both disruptive and rude,’ I explained. ‘You have mentioned before that she has issues away from here. However, she has always been such a well-behaved child on Saturday mornings. I am sure it will pass, but I just thought you should know.’

‘Oh, yes, thanks, Nikki,’ she said, more subdued, becoming less formal as she became more engaged. ‘I am terribly sorry about that. Unfortunately, she has not significantly improved, and she still has her tantrums from time to time. Her dad and I are wondering what we should do to help her.’

‘I understand, Cassie, I really do,’ I empathised, not knowing what to suggest.

We both went quiet, and a subdued Cassandra tottered off to retrieve her errant daughter.

Epilogue

Suddenly, a thought struck me.

‘Just bear with me, Cassie,’ I called out, causing her to stop and turn around.

I had dived under the desk, rummaging through piles of paperwork, retrieving a leaflet that I handed to her. ‘These people might be able to help Sophie, as they are specialists with this type of situation,’ I explained. ‘And, to demonstrate to Sophie there is nothing to worry about, you may wish to take advantage of their services first,’ I suggested, pointedly raking my eyes up and down her hair.

‘Really, Nikki?’ she said, studying Miss Fry’s leaflet, looking confused.

‘Oh, yes, Cassie,’ I beamed, leaning in, my eyes sparkling as I patted my severe bowlcut hair. ‘I went to see them just the other day,’ I chirped.

Cassandra Murray’s eyes locked onto my hair. She stared for longer than I would normally have felt comfortable, but I enjoyed her appraisal, feeling a sense of pride in my appearance.

‘As I say, perhaps you should pop along to see them first, Cassie, to try them out,’ I urged, exerting the sort of authority that Miss Fry had told me would now be in my grasp. ‘After all, you could do with a little correction yourself.’

Cassandra stiffened, her eyes widened, and she dropped the leaflet on the desk before gathering her own hair protectively in front of her. Then, without pausing or offering a farewell, she dashed across the library, scooped up her daughter and, without looking back, quickly disappeared through the library’s front door.

I straightened the pile of flyers that I had retrieved from under the desk. ‘Oh well,’ I chuckled to myself, ‘I am sure I will be seeing other mothers whose hair needs “correcting” and would benefit from being “Fried”.

The End

A Note from the Author

Further to sharing a selection of my stories here, they are also published on my personal archive

The Hair Apparent Stories

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