Olivia Selflessly Cares for Her Wealthy Aunt Francesca

Prologue

The rumours had been swirling around my mother’s side of the family for months, comprising whispers about Aunt Francesca’s health. Not that we had a great deal of time for Aunt Francesca or her health, but we certainly cared about her wealth.

My mother, Aunt Francesca’s sister, had always made sure I understood the vast chasm between our humble existence and my aunt’s gilded cage. We had never had a great deal ourselves, always hovering just above the poverty line. And I, Olivia, had never managed to hold down a decent job for long after college. My resume was a patchwork of short-lived attempts at various careers, each ending with me feeling more disconnected from the expectations of society than the last. While I continued to embrace and enjoy life in my twenties while living with my mother, becoming a responsible adult was a trait that was developing far more slowly.

Therefore, when I received the news that my cousin Susan, who had faithfully cared for her mother, was spending a year abroad on a secondment with her career-focused husband, I became alert. Suddenly, Aunt Francesca needed someone to care for her. And I formulated a cunning plan.

I offered to care for her, to be her companion in her modest mansion. Telling anyone who would listen, I claimed I was being incredibly generous, a truly selfless niece. I even managed to convince myself, for a fleeting moment, that I harboured no ulterior motives of her remembering me in her will should anything unfortunate happen. But, given her rumoured frailty, the truth hummed just beneath the surface.

Aunt Francesca gracefully accepted my proposition, offering to include free food and lodgings. She even added a modest allowance, or “pocket money” as she quaintly termed it. Compared with my existing struggle, it sounded like heaven, even if it did mean spending a great deal of time with my aunt.

Aunt Francesca

I had never really liked Aunt Francesca. Our infrequent family gatherings were always fraught with her subtle digs and thinly veiled judgements. She had married into money years before, escaping her own humble beginnings to become the self-professed matriarch of our family. Sadly, her husband had died a decade earlier, leaving her a wealthy widow.

She wore her hair in tight, impeccably permed curls, the back and sides always trimmed severely short. It was a style that perfectly complemented her smart skirt suits and starched button-up blouses, often adorned with a modest bow at the neck. Everything about her appearance screamed prim and proper, and that corresponded with her extremely bossy nature, utterly devoid of warmth.

Arrival

She met my arrival at her formidable front door with a look that could curdle milk. She looked me over, from my worn jeans and the T-shirt proclaiming my favourite band to my scuffed leather jacket. Her piercing eyes ran up and down my beautiful long hair with a look that bordered disbelief. And then she sniffed disapprovingly. It was a sound that managed to convey disappointment, disgust, and a general air of “what has the cat dragged in?” all in one nasal exhalation, even before I stepped inside her immaculate hallway. Despite my selfless offer to look after her, the unspoken message that hung in the air declared that I was an embarrassment in her household.

She promptly dispatched me upstairs to unpack my single, overstuffed suitcase in the modest guest room. Then she summoned me to her huge, formal lounge, where I received my induction to the way things ran in her home. She presented me with copious, handwritten notes detailing everything from the schedules of various tradespeople to the intricate protocols of her dreaded “gatherings for ladies” that she hosted.

I had expected to be her companion in the old-fashioned way I had read about in books and seen in films. Someone she could chat with, a person who could read to her, and an individual to stroll with her around her large garden. But the reality turned out to be a full day of looking after her mansion as well as her demanding self. I was to be an unpaid housekeeper, receiving just a small allowance, so the illusion of companionship quickly evaporated.

Gatherings

Her group of friends, I soon learned, revolved around a distinct social hierarchy, and Aunt Francesca was perpetually vying for the top spot. She frequently hosted bridge tournaments, book club discussions, and afternoon teas, largely because her home was one of the grandest in the neighbourhood.

Her friends all looked and dressed remarkably like her, a flock of perfectly coiffed, perpetually judging women. While they liked to pretend that they were all equals, there was a palpable tension, a silent battle for supremacy. Aunt Francesca was desperate to usurp the top spot from her acquaintance, Annabelle Crisp, but she had not yet managed to do so consistently. Mrs Crisp had a particular air of self-satisfied superiority that grated on my nerves as much as, if not more than, Aunt Francesca.

My role during these “gatherings of ladies” was, predictably, never that of a companion. I was a phantom, flitting from kitchen to lounge, constantly at their service, pouring tea, handing out tiny sandwiches, and clearing away any crumbs. Dressed in my smartest clothes, I wore my least-faded jeans or the black trousers that I kept for best. Pairing these with a pretty blouse of subtle colour and style, allowed me to merge with the background.

I had always worn my long hair loose, free of unnecessary constraints. It had always been my pride and joy, my defiant splash of bohemian individuality in a world full of sensible lengths and styles. When I arrived at my aunt’s home, my locks had grown long enough to sit on, a waterfall of chestnut brown waves that went on forever. For practicality, I usually pinned back the front section, allowing the rest to flow freely down my back. Occasionally, depending on my allocated tasks, I resorted to a hairband to keep it entirely out of my face. Anything was better than the braids and buns my aunt kept suggesting, neat styles that Susan, her perfect daughter, had preferred since childhood.

Despite my workload and the need to remember so much, things soon settled down, including the smooth running of the gatherings. Aunt Francesca appeared satisfied with my presence, not that she would have said anything that anyone could misinterpret as gratitude.

But then came the incident.

Incident

During a “gathering of ladies” one afternoon, a particularly stifling tea party, my hair, which I had carefully pinned back, slipped forward. I was leaning over to place a plate of biscuits on the low coffee table, and a long strand, a rebellious tendril, dipped straight into Annabelle Crisp’s teacup. A small splash, a tiny ripple.

‘I am so sorry, Mrs Crisp,’ I murmured, mortified, swiftly fetching her a fresh cup.

But as I mumbled my apology, I caught the glint in the woman’s eye, the subtle upward twitch of her lips. Just before leaning down, I was sure she had moved the cup, just enough to cause the incident. She was smirking, a little curl of triumph on her painted mouth, unseen by my aunt.

‘Oh, Francesca, darling,’ Mrs Crisp simpered, dabbing at her cup with a napkin, ‘the poor girl’s hair is simply too much for this environment. It really needs smartening up a little.’

Aunt Francesca nodded sagely, without a moment’s hesitation, her expression grave. ‘Yes, it is quite unruly. We cannot have any more of these… er… incidents, can we, dear?’

‘Certainly not,’ Annabelle Crisp confirmed, and the nearby acquaintances all nodded their heads in agreement, emphasised by murmurs of approval.

‘It is quite unseemly for these occasions,’ Aunt Francesca went on, attempting to defuse the situation, if only temporarily. ‘I will talk to her about it when—’

I tried to interject. ‘Excuse me! What about my opinion? It was, after all, just an accident,’ I claimed, aiming a disapproving frown at the smirking Mrs Crisp, ‘but I can just pin more of it back and –’

‘How impertinent, young lady!’ Annabelle Crisp snapped, her smile tightening. ‘You were the cause of the problem. So, without any meaningful change, it is likely to recur. Hence, a more considered solution is necessary.’

My aunt eagerly agreed, wishing to placate her friend, and her eyes fixed on me with an unsettling intensity.

I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach, a disturbing wave of powerlessness. I knew I could not argue. Not really. Not if I wanted to stay, not if I wanted to keep that sliver of hope alive about her last will and testament.

‘Yes, Aunt Francesca, I would happily consider a modest trim,’ I conceded, trying to sound reasonable, attempting to carve out a small compromise.

My aunt’s ill health was a constant, unspoken leverage in her arsenal. I reminded myself of the potential reward, the financial freedom that might await me. Changing my appearance, even subtly, was a heavy price to pay. But reluctantly, I deemed it a necessary one.

Town

The day after the incident, Annabelle Crisp drew up on the sweeping drive of Aunt Francesca’s home in her prestigious, expensive silver car, gleaming even brighter, larger, and more powerful than my aunt’s own vehicle. Mrs Crisp was, I noted with a surge of petty resentment, always one step ahead.

While we had been waiting, my aunt had suddenly declared that I absolutely could not go out with her and Mrs Crisp in my comfortable casual clothes, especially my faded jeans. Before I could protest, she had rummaged through a wardrobe of Susan’s forgotten clothes, emerging with a dress. It was a red, polka-dotted monstrosity with capped sleeves, ridiculously short, and slightly too tight. It may have been a party dress from Susan’s youth, but which era it was from was unclear. I felt like a teenager, utterly foolish and exposed.

When Annabelle saw me waiting in the porch, I could see her laughing. ‘You look very cute, my dear,’ she declared, her eyes twinkling with malice.

She parked not at a salon, not at a ladies’ hairdresser, but directly outside a traditional barber’s shop in the small shopping precinct. The straightforward sign above the door simply read Mr Henderson, Barber. My blood ran cold.

‘Right in we go, young lady,’ Aunt Francesca commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument.

I nearly bolted, the sheer thought of a barber touching my long hair sending a shiver of terror down my spine. ‘A barber?’ I questioned, attempting to back away.

‘This is a small town, dear,’ Annabelle explained, noting my reluctance. ‘You either enter here, or we take you to the place where your aunt and I go for our perms. Would you like to look like one of us?’ she chuckled darkly, and I knew she was enjoying my discomfort.

The lesser of two evils, I thought numbly, shuffling into the barbershop, propelled forward by the two women. Inside, there were three black leather barber chairs, large and pristine. And an assortment of menacing haircutting equipment hung from hooks or rested on shelves. Despite the light from the large window, the confined space felt claustrophobic and threatening.

Mr Henderson

Mr Henderson, a tall and thin bespectacled man with a neat beard and slicked-back hair, was the only person inside. He wore a smart white jacket over his collar and tie, scissors and combs peeking out of his top pocket. He keenly observed our arrival, weighing up each of us in turn with a thoughtful expression.

‘Good morning, ladies. How nice to see you both,’ he said deferentially, indicating that he knew my escorts and their power and influence in the social circles around town. No doubt it was why he was comfortable with ignoring my presence. ‘And how may I help you today?’

‘My niece, Olivia, here, is staying with me for a while, and her unruly locks are quite unsuitable,’ Aunt Francesca declared, her voice dripping with almost theatrical concern as she tugged a tendril. She failed to define what made my hair unruly or for what it was unsuitable.

‘Yes… I see…’ Mr Henderson drawled, suggesting he did not see at all. He looked genuinely surprised, his gaze flicking from my long hair to my aunt’s stern face, then back to me.

‘It needs to be cut,’ Mrs Crisp snapped decisively, not disguising her joyful anticipation.

‘It seems such a shame with such magnificent length but also in excellent condition,’ the barber sighed, a soft, weary sound.

‘Nonsense, Mr Henderson,’ my aunt refuted. ‘The condition of her hair is quite irrelevant. After all, she is not a horse,’ the women tittered conspiratorially. ‘My friend is quite correct when she says you need to chop off all the length. Chop, chop, Mr Henderson.’

For a fleeting moment, I thought I might have an ally, but the barber simply shrugged. Then he shook his head with sadness, unwilling to counter the decision of the societal matriarchs. ‘I suppose it is for the best,’ he whispered.

He tapped me comfortingly on the shoulder to make me feel better… but that only made me feel worse. ‘Best for what?’ I pressed.

‘Take a seat, young lady,’ Mr Henderson invited, ignoring my protest, waving vaguely to the line of chairs.

I headed for the one furthest from the door. ‘The one by the window,’ Annabelle ordered, pointing to the one bathed in light. ‘The unusual sight of a woman with long hair in a barbershop might even attract an audience.’ She laughed, a brittle, sharp sound, and I felt a fresh wave of humiliation.

I sat down, the cold leather instantly shocking my bare thighs as Susan’s too-short dress rode up even higher. The barber pumped the chair up to an absurd height, making my legs dangle like a child’s, amplifying my vulnerability. I felt small, exposed, and utterly ridiculous in that bright red polka-dot dress, my face flushed as scarlet as the material.

‘My hair has got a bit too long, and the ends are uneven,’ I began, my voice a thin reed of a sound, trying to maintain a semblance of control over my appearance.

Mr Henderson, raising an eyebrow but remaining silent, draped me with a thick, white cape that felt like a shroud. Then he began to comb my hair, his touch surprisingly gentle.

I tried to lighten the atmosphere by referring to the incident of the hair he was combing falling into Mrs Crisp’s tea. But he remained stony-faced, his eyes reflecting a quiet pity that was almost harder to bear than the women’s cruelty. ‘So, just a trim, please,’ I insisted, my voice firmer now, desperate to set boundaries. ‘No more than six to nine inches. For me, that is a great deal, but with that concession, it would still be long – down to my waist – and we would all be satisfied.’

Aunt Francesca and Annabelle Crisp exchanged a look, then burst into laughter. I thought, for a fleeting, foolish moment, that they were laughing at my joke, a rare moment of levity. But no. Their laughter was cold and mocking, and it quickly became clear they had their own ideas about my hair.

‘She will have a neat and tidy bowlcut,’ Aunt Francesca declared, her voice ringing with finality. ‘Above the ears, short fringe. We want no more incidents during my gatherings.’

My breath hitched. A bowlcut? The words hung in the air, a death sentence for my hair. My stomach churned with a mixture of disbelief and utter horror. I closed my eyes, trying to conjure the image of a blunt, childish fringe, the straight line above my ears. It was a style I associated with children, mostly schoolboys, but never with a grown woman.

‘And shave her neck and around her ears for a precise finish,’ Annabelle Crisp added maliciously, my aunt nodding her approval. ‘To avoid the unsavoury appearance of any more hair in my tea.’ She tittered gleefully, my aunt joining in with a mean-spirited sound.

My heart sank. Was she seriously asking this unremarkable man to shave my neck? The thought alone was enough to make me flinch. I realised this mission was not just about practicality anymore but about control and humiliation. They were not just fixing a perceived problem, but they were putting me in my place. It was as if they had read my mind and discovered my reasons for volunteering my services.

I realised there was no point arguing. Not if I intended to stay in my aunt’s house, still clinging on to the hope of an inheritance. I sat there, meekly, trapped in the elevated chair, awaiting my fate. The gentle weight of my long hair, my one defiant flourish to offset the greyness of the world, suddenly felt like a burden, a target others needed to eradicate.

Mr Henderson, his face etched with a deeper sadness, switched on his huge electric hairclippers.

Hairclippers

Not for me would Mr Henderson grace the ends of my hair with the gentle swish of scissors as they would in a proper hairdressing salon. Instead, the buzzing sound of hairclippers filled the small shop, reminding me that I was at the mercy of a dour men’s barber and not a perky young stylist.

A mechanical drone vibrated through the air and then up into my skull as he drove the blade into the hair at my nape. It was the sound of my carefully curated individuality disappearing, brutally dismantled at the orders of the two cackling women.

Mr Henderson edged the clippers around my head, the cold steel of the clattering blade pressing firmly against my scalp. I could feel him creating the blunt line of the bowl, accompanied by the awful sensation of my hair falling away in thick swathes.

Each pass was an electric shock to my system, a physical severing of the past from my future. My eyes locked on to my reflection in the mirror, but I could barely grasp the emerging shape that was covering my crown. All I saw was the blur of his hands, the steady fall of my thick tresses onto the white cape that covered me, and the growing pile of my former self gathering in my lap.

Content with the cap of hair that he had graciously entrusted to cover the top of my head, he began work on the back and sides. He made swift work of the remaining bristles, the buzzing sound almost deafening as he firmly pressed the hairclippers against my skin.

I felt the sudden, shocking draught of air from the overhead fan against my exposed scalp. Despite the bareness of my skin, he covered the stripped areas with a mentholated shaving foam, the scent sharp and clinical. The final indignity was the straight razor he brandished in the mirror, a silent command to remain still.

I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself. The cold steel scraped against my skin, a delicate, terrifying whisper as he shaved my neck and around my ears down to the bone. It was horrifyingly intimate, a sensation of complete vulnerability. I could feel the subtle rasp of the blade, the cool breeze on the freshly shaven skin. I imagined the pale skin of my neck now starkly exposed. It was a literal stripping away, representing a public cleansing of my former self.

Mr Henderson stepped back, his expression apologetic, almost mournful. Against his better judgement, he seemed to say, he had done what the two women had demanded. He cast a glance in their direction, raising an enquiring eyebrow, appearing to subtly ask for their approval.

Annabelle Crisp, however, was not yet satisfied. ‘That fringe is still far too low, Francesca,’ she insisted, her voice sharp. ‘If she can see where she is going, I may avoid being covered in tea next time I attend one of your gatherings.’ She smirked, a cruel twist of her lips. ‘Do something,’ she pressed, as much to my aunt as the barber.

Mr Henderson, with another heavy sigh and without waiting for her to ask him, duly obliged. The scissors glided in once more. And I watched in the mirror as the already short fringe jumped even higher up my forehead, exposing more of my face. It made my features seem childish and startled, stripped bare, no longer Olivia.

My long, flowing hair, the one unique thing that defined my look, was gone, replaced by this brutal, unforgiving helmet of shame. A tear, hot and stinging, traced a path down my cheek, leaving a cool trail against my flushed skin. I quickly wiped it away, desperate not to give them the satisfaction of seeing my pain.

Assessment

Finally, Aunt Francesca stood up to inspect his work, moving behind me, her reflection looming over my shorn image. She surveyed me critically, then nodded approvingly. ‘That is just the way we all like it. And while you live with me, Olivia, that is the way you will keep it.’

It was a declaration of ownership, a complete assertion of dominance.

My aunt thanked and paid Mr Henderson. She pressed a surprisingly generous tip into his palm. Her reward for his complicity, I supposed, but I gave him a stare that suggested it was blood money for what he put me through. He had the good grace to dip his eyes as he looked away.

As we left the shop and stepped back into the bright daylight, my head felt incredibly cold. The wind, which I had not even noticed before under my cosy natural scarf of hair, now felt like an icy blast on my exposed scalp. It provided a stark and permanent reminder of what I had lost.

‘Your head will feel cold until you get used to it, dear,’ Aunt Francesca said, smiling blandly.

‘And get used to it, you must,’ Annabelle Crisp smirked.

I felt like a stranger looking back at me from every shop window. A pale and defeated child, with a ridiculously short haircut.

Renewal

Two weeks later, just as my haircut was beginning to soften slightly, just as the raw edges were starting to feel a little less alien, Aunt Francesca decided it was time for a trim. ‘Your unruly locks have become quite unsuitable,’ she announced one morning, using similar words as she had in the past when they were down past my waist.

‘It’s fine, Aunt Francesca,’ I remonstrated. ‘I would like to grow it out… even just a little… for a softer look…’

‘Nonsense,’ she countered, unmoved. ‘Softness has no part to play,’ she added, her gaze fixed on me with an almost unnerving pleasure.

I pushed my luck. ‘But –’

‘Oh, I rather enjoy watching you have your hair cut, Olivia,’ she purred, ‘and seeing the neat result afterwards.’

My stomach plummeted as I realised that I should abandon all hope. My haircut was not a standalone punishment but an ongoing ritual from which she gained pleasure and a constant reminder to me of my subjugation.

‘A nice, crisp refresh, please, Mr Henderson,’ my aunt demanded as she delivered me to his chair and then settled down to watch the show. ‘But take the perimeter a little higher and the fringe a little shorter, please.’

Mr Henderson did not exhibit the same concern for me as he had on the first occasion. Doubtless, now my long hair was gone, I was simply one of his regular customers who needed frequent clippering and shaving.

Naturally, I did not enjoy the experience any better the second time around.

‘Perfect, Mr Henderson,’ Aunt Francesca gushed as she paid. ‘I do so like watching you with the razor and the smooth finish you produce. Henceforth, I may bring Olivia to you every week.’

After that second brutal barbering, I did not have the experience of the cold breeze on my shaved skin. She sent me home in a taxi, citing an appointment with her doctor to discuss long-awaited test results from her tests. ‘Don’t you worry, my dear; I am sure it will all be fine.’

I anticipated the results confirming what my side of the family all believed. My flicker of hope, the one that justified this ongoing torment, brightened slightly. When she returned home, my ordeal would be at an end.

Epilogue

That afternoon, I prepared high tea for a “gathering of ladies” and put a little more care into it, given the unfortunate news that my aunt would be announcing.

Two weeks earlier, just after my first haircut, Aunt Francesca had rummaged further in her daughter’s wardrobe to find other garments for me to wear. She had been particularly proud of a ridiculously short, black lace dress with a stark white collar that might have been suitable for a children’s party. If Susan, my cousin, had ever worn it, then it must have been for Halloween, when she was young and in an uncharacteristically frivolous mood.

On me, it looked like the kind of dress that screamed “sexy maid costume” from a discreet catalogue. This, my aunt informed me, was what I was to wear whenever she had a gathering. With my severe haircut, I did not just look like an archetypal waitress or maid but more like a child playing dressing up, a caricature of servitude.

As the guests arrived, their eyes, predictably, swiftly moved from my exposed legs and tight bust to my bare head. ‘So much more suitable,’ one cooed. ‘A delightfully shaven neck,’ another praised, met with a chorus of approval.

As I served the ladies, I regularly felt fingers lightly stroking my nape. ‘So slick and cool,’ one gushed in admiration. ‘Like marble.’

I flinched each time they verified the unsettling smoothness of my skin, feeling like an exhibit in a museum.

The guests’ tampering stopped, and their chatter became muted when my aunt tapped a silver spoon against her teacup. ‘As you will know, my dearest friends, I had been feeling a little unwell, and my doctor had insisted on performing a series of tests. All nonsense I said, putting it down to growing a little older, but he was adamant. So, today I received the results,’ she said gravely, eyes staring down at her tea.

My moment had arrived, and I forced myself to show no emotion.

‘You will all be pleased to know that my test results were all good, ladies. I am in full health!’ she announced, her voice suddenly brimming with a theatrical delight. But one that rang hollow in my ears. ‘The doctor quipped that I was fitter than him, and I should be good for another twenty years at least.’

The tiny teacup I was holding clattered against its saucer. I stifled a groan, a desperate, guttural sound that threatened to escape my throat. My vision blurred. I had sacrificed my long hair, my sense of self, my dignity, and my freedom, all for nothing. Absolutely nothing.

My aunt’s inheritance was a phantom, my escape from my humdrum existence, a mirage. She had ensnared me in ridiculous clothes, sheared me like a sheep, and left me feeling utterly defeated. Annabelle Crisp glanced in my direction, her knowing smirk even more prominent than usual.

The cold on my scalp suddenly chilled me to the bone, a coolness that had penetrated to my very soul.