Pampered & Polished 2 – Orientation by Tamara

Initiated

The previous twenty-four hours had been a whirlwind of emotion. I had just finished my first year of studying Information Technology at college. In an unexpected move, my stepmother, Tamara, who ran the Pampered & Polished beauty salon, had offered me a job as an assistant over the summer. As her stepson, I had been hesitant at first as Tamara and I were not exactly close but something I had witnessed had helped me decide to accept.

My father had divorced my mother to marry Tamara when I was a teenager. I could never understand why. Compared to my confident and stylishly dressed mum, Tamara was an airhead, always wearing short skirts that were far too revealing, and tight blouses that exposed too much of her ample cleavage. Tamara, having just had her thirtieth birthday, was closer to my age than that of my parents but even the lesser age difference did not contribute to us having anything in common.

The previous day I had stopped by the salon as my stepmother had offered to give me a lift home from town after I had enjoyed a long boozy afternoon with my college friends. While waiting for her, something fundamental had shifted within me. Before then, I had always loved women to have long hair – the longer the better – and I liked seeing it remain securely attached to their heads. However, having watched Tamara chop off a woman’s long hair to provide raw material for extensions, it had excited me in a way I could not comprehend. So, I had agreed to take the summer job she had offered, hoping to see a similar incident and trying to rationalise my shifting emotions.

For my first day at work, Tamara had invited me to join her on the short drive from our home to the salon. I had dressed carefully in a concerted effort to look smarter than I would for college, but still wishing to maintain my student identity. Irrespective of the age and preferences of the clientele, I assumed the owner of a stylish beauty salon would expect their staff to present themselves with individual flair.

I slipped into my least worn faded jeans and wore an open-necked cotton shirt, plain grey as a nod to the salon’s colours. Naturally, I drew the line at wearing anything pink, the colour that accented the salon fittings and uniforms. As I would be working in a beauty salon, rather than just running my fingers through my unruly shoulder length hair as I normally did, I gave it a thorough brush so that my surfer-style locks were sufficiently neat as well as stylishly floppy.

Just before we left the house, Tamara carefully looked me up and down, evaluating my appearance. I smiled back, hoping for words of praise and encouragement for my effort.

‘Hmm,’ she murmured with a cool edge of disappointment in her voice.

Then, more worryingly, she smirked, as if she knew something that I did not.

Uniformed

The drive to the salon passed quickly. I dodged the unwanted task of making small talk with my stepmother – now my temporary employer – as she was on the phone for the whole journey.

When we arrived at the salon, Tamara walked straight to the reception counter. ‘Oh, that’s excellent,’ she said brightly, lifting a package that someone had placed there. ‘I messaged one of our colleagues yesterday evening and she has kindly picked up your salon uniform.’

‘Uniform?’ I murmured anxiously, never having been one for any kind of uniform.

‘Yes, William. We normally maintain sufficient stock to accommodate our new assistants at Pampered & Polished. “Junior Pampers”, or even just “Pampers”, as the seasoned stylists will refer to you,’ she giggled, ‘although “Junior” is my preferred terminology. Anyway, you are the first young man we have recruited for quite a while … indeed, I cannot recall the last,’ Tamara added wistfully as she proffered the package. ‘So, young man, please get changed straight away into your “Pampers” uniform,’ she giggled again, ‘and then we can assign your tasks for the day.’

Ignoring her frivolity and the package, I groaned. ‘But I thought this would be fine,’ I grumbled, waving a hand down my body, proudly indicating the garments I had chosen with care from my wardrobe.

‘Oh, did you really, sweet William?’ my stepmother smirked, sarcasm lacing her tone. ‘Change!’ she demanded, leaving no room for further argument while thrusting the package into my hands. ‘And make sure you brush your hair.’

So, I slunk off to the cloakroom, passing young female employees who smiled as they busied themselves with their morning tasks. Having seen that each wore an identical uniform in the salon colours, I anxiously contemplated how the male variant would differ.

Transformed

‘Oh, how delightful you look, sweet William,’ Tamara announced, clutching her hands together against her chest with unbridled glee. ‘You will fit in here just fine.’

When I had opened the package, I was speechless. I could never have anticipated what it would contain. I nearly stepped back out of the cloakroom to remonstrate with my stepmother. But then I remembered what had driven my desire to work in her salon, and what I hoped to witness while I was there.

So, awkwardly, there I stood in front of my stepmother as she critically appraised my appearance. If I had not felt so ridiculous, I might have considered giving her a comical little twirl to show off my outfit from every angle. But I was certainly not in the mood.

The plain waistcoat in the salon shade of grey was not so bad, but it buttoned over a dusky pink shirt. Furthermore, a pale-yellow tie with thin grey stripes hung tightly around the collar of the shirt. Worst of all, instead of my jeans, I wore ridiculous grey shorts that did not even reach my knees. A matching blazer completed the ensemble, and they all coordinated perfectly with the salon colours.

As I had stepped from the cloakroom, I had seen that my outfit bore a marked resemblance to that worn by the young women employees. They wore a buttoned tunic with an open collar rather than a shirt and waistcoat, and a neat little scarf rather than a tie. However, the colours were the same and the overall appearance similar.

‘I can’t wear this, Tamara,’ I squeaked, immediately concerned that someone I knew might see me. I took a degree of comfort from the fact that it was unlikely that anyone from my social circle would consider entering Pampered & Polished. ‘And why shorts? Look, the legs flare out and make it look like I am wearing a bloody skirt!’

‘Yes, they do rather,’ Tamara cruelly sniggered, ‘and please do mind your language when on the salon floor. Now listen up, William,’ she stated abruptly. ‘At short notice, yesterday evening, I asked my assistant manager to assemble a suitable male uniform for you. I emphasised that it should have a passing resemblance to that of the girls so that we maintain our corporate identity. She has done an excellent job and, William, if she had not,’ Tamara added ominously, raising a finger and pausing for effect, ‘you would not be working here today.’

It was just not right. With her choice of garments, there was barely any consideration that I was male. ‘Yes, but -’

Tamara shrugged. ‘Fine, William,’ she said curtly, ‘change back into your scruffy old clothes and I will see you at home this evening. Cheerio.’

Accepted

I dithered, desperately wanting to stay. At least once more, I had to witness the hair harvesting procedure that had astonished and aroused me the day before. Although I felt absurd and I looked ridiculous, albeit a great deal smarter than I had since starting college, I knew I must compromise if I wished to remain.

‘Yes, given the short notice, our assistant manager has done wonderfully to assemble my uniform,’ I surrendered. ‘Please, Tamara, I would like to stay. Very much.’

‘I am so pleased, sweet William,’ my stepmother gushed. ‘And, to avoid any suggestion of bias from the other staff, you will call me Miss Tamara from now on.’

‘Oh …’ I said, feeling not only put out, but also put down. I wonder if she wished me to use her pretentious title outside the salon too. However, I decided there was nothing to gain by voicing my thoughts and so I would simply behave like a good little “Pamper”.

‘And I thought I told you to brush that scruffy mop of yours,’ Tamara complained.

‘I did,’ I replied indignantly.

Tamara chuckled. ‘Really?’

‘Look, Tamara, it’s not scruffy!’ I remonstrated. ‘I have my surfer stye trimmed and styled to look a little casual and unruly. It takes me an age each morning to get it looking this way with the help of various products. I aim to conform to the stereotype of a carefree student,’ I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, ‘just like the rest of my mates at college.’

‘That may be fine at college or even when surfing, but not here, matey!’ Tamara snapped unpleasantly. ‘Scruffy and unruly are not words we wish to hear in Pampered & Polished. So, sit down,’ she added angrily, pointing to the nearest styling chair. ‘Now!’

‘You are not cutting my hair!’ I said, making an emotive stand that came out more like a whimper. Tamara sighed as she lightly pushed me in the chest with one finger until I stumbled back into the chair. Then she began combing my locks. I was terrified. ‘Please, Miss Tamara, no!’

Rearranged

Once again, I came close to telling Tamara that I had had a change of heart about the job. But common sense prevailed when I thought back to how excited I was when watching the dramatic haircutting the previous day. I had to stay.

My stepmother blew out her cheeks. ‘Even though you’re only a casual worker, I expect there’s some ridiculous employment law that says I can’t force you to have a haircut,’ she grumbled, still combing my hair.

I was relieved, as I attempted to struggle back on to my feet.

‘No so fast, William,’ she cautioned, clamping a hand on my shoulder and blocking any opportunity I had to escape.

Tamara reached out for a jar and liberally coated my hair with an oily substance. She combed my wayward locks straight back from my forehead, forcing it flat against my head. It shone like glass by virtue of the greasy product she had applied. The final ignominy came when she secured my hair firmly at the back of my head with a pink scrunchie, exposing my ears to the world for the first time in a long while.

I had never had any desire to wear my hair in a ponytail, despite it being long enough. Even when performing practical tasks, I kept it free for the sake of my identity and tolerated the inconvenience of it slapping around my face. For the same reason, I always favoured seeing women with their hair loose too. However, Tamara made it clear I had to conform to the strict dress code she imposed on staff working in her salon if I wanted to stay.

‘Your bohemian girlfriend might like your casual rustic tresses, but they are far too wild for working here,’ Tamara complained, ignoring my protests.

With my hair slicked flat and ears protruding outwards, I looked a completely different person. But I grudgingly accepted my appearance was more suited to the aesthetics of the working environment.

‘Right, sweet William. Stand up straight for inspection,’ Tamara demanded. I did so, and I forced myself not to salute. ‘I suppose it is an improvement,’ she sighed, ‘so that will have to do … well, for now …’

While I was relieved that my stepmother was finally satisfied, I had failed to heed her ominous concluding words.

Employed

I had spent the whole of my first morning in the salon sweeping the floor, restocking shelves, and preparing drinks for clients and staff. Being the newest “Pamper”, I had to pander to the whims of all my colleagues. That included taking orders from the other juniors, who were mostly younger than me if only by a year or two. Still, without wishing to sound too patronising, the girls were quite nice really, despite the differences in our social standing and our academic accomplishments.

During the period before lunch, with all my mundane tasks under control, I regularly stole glances through the salon window. I searched for women who were candidates to have their hair harvested. I saw ample long-haired ladies pass by who I judged were desperately in need of Tamara’s services. But sadly, none chose to step inside.

Just before lunch, the staff gave me their sandwich orders and I ventured outside to pick them up. Given the horror of my salon uniform, I was relieved that I had worn a long jacket that day that covered up the worst excesses. However, I still cast a careful eye around me to avoid anyone I knew seeing me like that. Feeling self-conscious, I removed the pink scrunchie from my hair too, planning to discuss its necessity with Tamara when I returned with the lunch orders.

While I queued for the sandwiches, I spied a couple of ponytailed office workers ahead of me. I wondered if it would be ethical to ask them if they had ever considered selling their hair. After all, I reasoned, if they only wore it tied up like that the surely it would be better to dispense with it completely. As I waited, I decided it would be a good marketing ploy, and one that might prove effective. However, despite the idea having its merits, I concluded that there might be people who would consider my approach a little on the creepy side.

I ambled back into the salon with a bag full of sandwiches, receiving grateful thanks from those who had ordered. But I received a rude awakening when a harsh admonishment suddenly broke the calm.

Reproached

‘William!’ Tamara barked. She marched up to me, and I sheepishly handed over her coronation chicken sandwich. In retrospect, I realised it would been advisable to have gone to the boss first. She lowered her voice before continuing. ‘Your hair, William.’

‘Oh,’ I grumbled. I had completely forgotten to reinstate my ponytail after my recent venture outside. In the middle of the salon, with everyone watching, she brandished another of those awful pink scrunchies. ‘Sorry, Miss Tamara, but do I need to?’ I whined.

Rather than answering, she humiliated me by combing back my hair, greasing it flat, and reapplying the band in full view of everyone. I heard variations of “Chop it Off” and “Give him a buzz” from the customers, accompanied by their raucous laughter. It was far too embarrassing, and I realised I needed to make a stand against my stepmother, or she would continue to walk all over me.

‘Do I need to?’ I repeated more forcefully, unwisely not considering the consequences.

Once she was satisfied with my appearance, she spun me around to face her. ‘No, William, you do not need to remain neat and tidy. But if you want to keep you job here, then you certainly do,’ she stated primly and plainly.

The excitement of the previous day had begun to fade, chipped away by all the harsh discipline and my never-ending list of mundane tasks. I had allowed my excitement from the previous day to override my common sense. ‘I’m not sure I -’

‘Miss Tamara,’ Emma, one of the juniors, interrupted, sidling up to attract my stepmother’s attention. ‘Jasmine, your 2pm “harvest”, has arrived.’

I glanced over at the reception desk to see a woman of a similar age to myself, looking nervously around her. I vaguely recognised her from college although we did not attend the same lectures. Naturally, it was her hair that I remembered the most. Poker straight and black, falling in a straight line past her waist, and held back from her face with her habitual red velvet hairband. I prayed she would not recognise me, and hoped the disguise of my uniform would help me maintain my anonymity.

‘Thanks, Emma. Now, William, I need to welcome my next client. So, before I do, what were you about to say?’ my stepmother asked pointedly, raising an eyebrow.

‘I was just asking if I may be of assistance with your next client, Miss Tamara?’ I sidestepped.

‘Splendid, sweet William,’ Tamara praised ebulliently, ‘and of course you may.’

Assisted

Tamara went to the reception desk to greet Jasmine, her next client, and I stood to attention by her styling chair in eager readiness.

‘This is William who will be assisting me today,’ my stepmother explained. ‘Please take a seat, Jasmine,’ she directed, ‘and William, please could you prepare Jasmine with a cape to protect her clothes. Then brush her hair if you would not mind,’ she added, winking at me.

I mentally gulped, but I braced myself to give the impression that I knew exactly what I was doing. Jasmine looked extremely anxious, so I beamed a comforting smile. Fortunately for me, she showed no hint of recognition. I draped the cape over her, then got myself in a complete muddle as I tried to drag the fastenings under her copious quantities of hair.

Touching a stranger’s long hair, may have been a dream come true, and it did feel wonderful. But, at that moment, I was flushed with embarrassment and frustrated by my inexperience. Despite that, as I would have predicted, my body was already reacting to the enticing stimulus of her silky locks, a warmth building down below.

‘Would it help if I lifted it up for you?’ Jasmine enquired, reaching backwards.

I was fully aware of my body’s growing reaction to her proximity. However, I promise that, only for the briefest of moments, did I imagine she was talking about lifting anything other than her hair! ‘Yes, please, Jasmine,’ I croaked.

She did so, and it released a delightfully fresh aroma of wildflowers from her recently washed hair. Her sleek ebony hair looked like a silky waterfall in front of my eyes. Despite her giving me a clear passage to her lovely delicate neck, I still fumbled while securing the cape around it as I took inordinate care to avoid touching her skin.

‘I think you’re more nervous than I am,’ she giggled, as I carefully extracted her red velvet hairband, then began brushing through her hair.

I simply smiled when our eyes met in the mirror, accepting that her assertion might be a close-run thing at that moment. However, as soon as Tamara got to work on her tresses then I knew that her anxiety levels would far exceed mine. Brushing her hair was a joy, as the silken strands possessed not one knot or tangle. But, there again, I did not want to stop as the enjoyment I derived from the task was making me feel wonderful.

‘Please don’t wear it out,’ Tamara breathed over my shoulder. ‘We are keen to buy Jasmine’s hair from her, in the excellent condition that it arrived.’

‘Sorry, Miss Tamara.’ I giggled at her quip, appreciating it was a subtle admonishment that signalled I should stop brushing.

‘So, Jasmine, when you made your appointment, we discussed the options available to you. Just to remind you, we can harvest all your hair so that you get the best price for it, and you will leave with a neatly buzzed head that will quickly grow out.’ I tried to imagine Jasmine looking the same as Emily had the previous day. Having conjured up the image, I tried to shake it from my mind, as even the loosely fitting shorts I was wearing were becoming uncomfortable around my crotch.

Jasmine screwed up her eyes in dismay at the mention of a buzzcut, so Tamara quickly moved on. ‘Or we can simply trim the length. We will need to cut at least thirty-five centimetres, leaving as much or as little as you wish. If we take the minimum, then it will still flow down your back. Or we can cut more and leave you with a nice bob that sits above your shoulders. Naturally, the more we cut off in a single piece then the price we can offer you will be higher.’

‘I was thinking, maybe, to shoulder,’ Jasmine murmured, waving her hands vaguely.

‘Yes, we could do that,’ Tamara said, drawing out the syllables, and then sighing. ‘But the extra length gained from taking it up to your chin would attract a considerably higher price.’

Jasmine stared anxiously into the mirror, undoubtedly trying to visualise how she would look with such short hair. She used her fingers to simulate the effect, and she was visibly shaking. Tamara, on the other hand, had her phone in her hand and had brought up a calculator app. She tapped away at the screen then showed Jasmine the result of her calculation.

Accepted

‘Really? That much!’ Jasmine’s eyes widened at the disclosure of the amount Tamara was willing to pay her if she decided upon a short bob, and she smiled broadly. ‘Yes, chin length will be fine.’

After my experience the previous day with Emily, I assumed the first task would be to place Jasmine’s hair into a single thick ponytail. But I was wrong. With nimble fingers and a comb, Tamara began separating out Jasmine’s hair into a series of thinner ponytails. She secured each one level with Jasmine’s chin using a length of plastic that resembled a cable-tie. She was using them in the same manner, ratcheting them tight to ensure they did not slip. Once Tamara had finished, she had created eight ponytails around Jasmine’s head, held in place by a perfectly straight line of cable-ties. I was intrigued.

Tamara reached for her hairclippers on the hook by the mirror, and Jasmine flinched at the sight of the awful device. ‘Don’t worry, Jasmine, I’ll only be using these to trim all your hair to the same length,’ Tamara explained. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ Jasmine murmured cautiously, taking a deep breath that was immediately drowned by the sound of the hairclippers roaring into life.

Tamara drove the clipper blade into the first ponytail, and the long length of hair came swiftly away, like a hot knife going through butter. It was impressive to watch, and I licked my lips in anticipation of seeing the rest of her hair suffer the same fate.

Tamara proffered the hank of hair towards me, and I took it. Another soon followed and, in less than a minute, I was the proud holder of a huge bundle of glossy black ponytails that stretched to a metre in length. I had to actively bring my body under control as I furtively ran my fingers through the silken strands while keeping my smile in check.

The severed ends of Jasmine’s hair fell in a straight line, a testament to Tamara’s skill and experience. Even so, Tamara used a comb like a spirit level to check that Jasmine’s new bob was perfectly level all the way around her head. Any strands that were too long, fell to the blade of the clippers. When Tamara stood back to admire her work, it was possible to see that Jasmine looked entirely different from when she entered. Her lively long hair that moved when she did, now sat limp and lifeless each side of her face.

Reimbursed

Tamara put down her equipment and walked over to the reception desk to fetch something. Regret began to cloud Jasmine’s features as she attempted to tug a tendril of hair past her chin. I wanted to feel sad for her but, as I was still holding the huge weight of her former hair, my only emotion was arousal. When Tamara returned, she counted out the promised and all of Jasmine’s regret ebbed away. ‘Thank you,’ Jasmine beamed.

‘I’ll take that, please, William,’ Tamara ordered.

Reluctantly, hiding my disappointment, I passed Jasmine’s former hair to my stepmother.

‘Thank you, Jasmine,’ Tamara smiled. ‘William will now take care of you and, when you are ready, see you on your way. Oh, and do let all your long-haired friends know of this service that we provide.’

I began unfastening the cape from around Jasmine’s neck. ‘Those ends were easier to find than when you tied it,’ Jasmine chuckled. ‘Before I leave, please could you brush my hair for me, William?’

That caught me by surprise, but I was happy to do so as it allowed me to compare the difference between the short hair with how it had felt before. In simple terms, for someone who had always loved long hair, I discovered that my feelings were confused.

After a short while, I put down the hairbrush. Jasmine jumped to her feet, her bobbed hair bouncing up and down. A complete contrast to the locks that flowed like silk around her when she had entered.

‘I don’t suppose you will be wanting this now,’ I said, holding up her red velvet hairband that I had put to one side.

She looked at me questioningly. ‘Yes, of course, I will, William. Please could you put in place for me?’

I would have challenged the aesthetics and necessity of using a hairband on such short hair. But I knew it was not my place to argue with a customer even if she was a contemporary from college. She stood to attention in front of me, looking up at me expectantly. Although I had never inserted a hairband before, it glided back into place as if I was a seasoned professional. Furthermore, despite my initial misgivings, the accessory looked cute with her short, bobbed hair.

‘You are Sally’s boyfriend, aren’t you?’ Jasmine suddenly piped up. ‘Will, isn’t it?’

I was mortified that she knew Sally. Staring back, I did not know what to say at that moment. I simply nodded.

‘I had no idea she was dating a hairdresser,’ Jasmine remarked in astonishment, lacing her words with a suggestion that it made me unworthy of Sally.

Her reaction reminded me that I had not yet appraised Sally of my summer job in the salon. I was due to meet her that evening when I intended to explain everything, but I was worried that Jasmine would discuss it with Sally before we met.

‘Er, have you seen or heard from Sally lately?’ my trembling voice having a higher pitch than I would have liked.

‘No, and I won’t for a couple of months as I’m volunteering abroad,’ she admitted. ‘It’s why I came here – to get some spending money and have an easier time caring for my hair as I’ll be away from modern conveniences for much of the time.’

‘Good,’ I said, relieved. She looked confused. ‘I mean, it’s good that you’re volunteering.’ I jabbered, trying to disguise my earlier relief. ‘Enjoy. I mean, I hope it is fulfilling and, um … although you cut your hair for practical reasons, you do look really cool.’

‘Goodbye, William, and thank you for everything today,’ she smiled. ‘And I really hope this job works out for you. You are a natural.’

As Jasmine headed to the door, having a quick word with Tamara on the way, I wondered how I should feel about her assessment of my abilities. She must have concluded that I had ditched college, and this was my new career. I struggled to stop myself laughing.

‘Something funny, sweet William?’ Tamara sidled up. I shook my head and stood to attention, trying to maintain a straight face. ‘You did well there, with Jasmine. You are a natural.’

‘That’s what she said,’ I chuckled.

Tamara looked at me, head to one side, raising an eyebrow. As I remained silent, she simply shook her head, looking bemused. ‘Americano, a dash of milk, and one sugar,’ she requested, signalling the conversation had ended.

Reprimanded

The remainder of the afternoon had passed much like the morning with, sadly, no further harvesting sessions. My experience of assisting with Jasmine’s bobbing had removed any further thoughts of handing in my notice. Furthermore, I regularly checked that every strand of my hair remained secure in its regulation ponytail.

I had been mindful that Sally, my girlfriend, was due to meet me at the end of the working day. Even though it was only the first day of the long college vacation, she had already been worrying that we might be drift apart during the summer!

The previous day I had agreed to meet Sally at The Riverside pub at 6 o’clock, but that was before I knew Tamara would offer me the summer job in the salon. So, I had messaged Sally to ask her to meet me outside the salon half an earlier instead and we could walk down to the pub together. I did not say why as, under the circumstances, I decided it would be better to explain, face-to-face, to limit any embarrassment.

When it was approaching the time for the salon to close – with all my chores completed and all the clients having left – I felt it would be prudent to change out of my ridiculous uniform before Sally arrived. I started by removing the absurd pink scrunchie and tousling my hair into its usual wild and casual style. Studying myself in the mirror, I smiled as my protruding ears were, once again, hidden from view.

I jumped when I felt a tap on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, William, but there’s still ten minutes to go before you finish work,’ Tamara rebuked, tapping her watch.

‘Oh, I am sorry, Miss Tamara,’ I apologised, not realising my stepmother had been watching me. ‘It’s just that I -’

‘Don’t worry, I am in full agreement with you,’ she interjected, bundling my hair back into its ponytail, and then examining my appearance critically in the mirror. ‘The ponytail does not work for you,’ she admitted, tapping her chin with her forefinger and studying me pensively, ‘or for Pampered & Polished’.

Despite my initial reservations about having my hair tied back, I had grown to appreciate its neatness and practicality while performing my chores. Nevertheless, I did not want my friends seeing me like that, especially not Sally who was due to arrive imminently. But I wanted to get back in my stepmother’s good books, so I began to explain. ‘No, it’s not that, Miss Tamara -’

‘William, sit!’ Tamara ordered, gesturing unambiguously towards her styling chair. I reluctantly lowered myself into it, unsure what she intended. As soon as I had sat down, my stepmother surprised me by draping a cape over me and fastening it securely around my neck.

‘We do not encourage ponytails and braids amongst our employees, and that includes all the little “Pampers”,’ Tamara emphasised. ‘Such styles simply do not meet the Pampered & Polished aesthetic.’

I needed to remind her I was not a permanent employee. ‘That’s fine, Miss Tamara. But I’m not really -’

‘We require all our staff to have smart and fashionable styles that we can actively promote to our clientele,’ she explained. ‘No, no, no, sweet William, a ponytail will never do.’

Without me realising and to my great consternation, a pair of scissors had miraculously appeared in Tamara’s hand and, menacingly, she was clicking the blades together.

Revised

Within seconds, before I could question her, my stepmother had taken a firm hold on my ponytail and pulled it taut. Smirking, she swept the scissors through the air until they were out of view behind. An ominous crunching sound accompanied her tight hold on my hair. And then the pressure on my scalp abated, and my head suddenly jerked forward.

‘There we are,’ she announced proudly as I stared in the mirror.

Tamara was waggling a bundle of hair above my head, fastened together by a pink scrunchie. Events had moved quickly, and my mind was finally catching up with what she had done.

I was struggling to find the words after what she had just done. A selection of choice words quickly came to mind, but they were neither complementary nor polite. ‘What the f -’

‘Looking better already, sweet William,’ interjected my stepmother, dropping the ponytail in my lap. ‘And please do mind your language on the salon floor.’

Despite what she had done, I found myself growing warm under the cape, and the weight of my hair falling in my lap only fuelled my arousal further. It seemed my hair “thing”, whatever it was, not only affected me when watching others having their hair cut, but it also affected me when I received a haircut myself!

I tried again. ‘What the f -’

‘Language, William!’ she rebuked. ‘Sadly, the poor little thing may be a little too short for me to use for hair extensions,’ Tamara lamented, while ruffling what remained of my hair. ‘So, if you wish, you may keep it as a souvenir of your first day at work.’

I was speechless. She had chopped off my hair without asking, before permitting me keep what I had thought was mine. Unbelievable!

‘Now, William, we usually provide a fashionable variation on the bob for each of our juniors when they commence employment. Naturally, we tailor the style to enhance the appearance of the individual and we do it for free of course. It provides us with an excellent way for our stylists to promote their skills to our clients.’

‘A bob!’ I shrieked, panicking, but frustrated that I was becoming increasingly turned on by Tamara’s behaviour.

‘Do not concern yourself, sweet William. I have something in mind that is a little less girly for you,’ she giggled. ‘You will be pleased to know, I am sure.’

‘Yes, but I, er …’ I stuttered. I wanted to call a halt to the madness and discuss Tamara’s plan, but I noted the clock on the wall, and I realised that Sally would be arriving soon. Reluctantly, I decided that the quickest and smoothest course of action would be for Tamara to finish what she had started. It would allow me more time to compose myself before Sally appeared.

Tamara needed no encouragement as, using scissors and comb, she began to precisely trim the length of my remaining hair. A cloud of short snippets filled the air surrounding me. As she combed, lifted, and trimmed, I judged that she was leaving length through the top, so perhaps I would find the final style acceptable. Furthermore, by meeting my stepmother’s standard for working in her shop, she would permit me to keep my job.

‘Now, just to tidy up the back and sides, William,’ she said sweetly, momentarily suggesting I had a reprieve. However, my relief soon evaporated when Tamara reached out for the hairclippers hanging from a hook by the mirror. ‘Head down,’ she commanded.

I had never had those diabolical things used on me and I contemplated whether I should complain. But I did not make my objections known soon enough as she forced my head down, chin touching my chest, and held it there. I discovered that contrary to her graceful appearance, she was remarkably strong. Although I shuffled and fidgeted in the chair, I soon discovered that I was unable to escape from my stepmother’s clutches.

‘Resistance is futile,’ Tamara chuckled.

I took comfort from her assertion that she was only tidying me up. However, as the hairclippers burst into life, I felt the blade digging into the hair at my nape and I felt much less comfortable. Initially the infernal machine growled, but as it removed more and more of my hair, the noise settled down to a constant hum.

An insistent vibration accompanied the sound of the hairclippers, firstly on my neck and then around my ears. Surprisingly, it was not the unpleasant sensation I had expected. Indeed, along with Tamara’s forceful attention, it was giving me a great deal of pleasure. So much so that, embarrassingly, my body reacted accordingly, the blood rushing to my crotch. Turned on, I gripped the arms of the chair, concerned that if I allowed my hands to wander into my lap then my embarrassment in front of my stepmother might grow.

‘Just a few finishing touches, and then we’re done,’ Tamara remarked, standing back to survey her work. She took the opportunity to brush away snippets of hair from my shoulders and, mortifyingly, from my lap. She giggled when she encountered a firm and unyielding resistance under the cape. ‘Oops! Well, don’t mind me …’

I recall thinking that I would struggle to remain in control if she found any more hair to brush away from the cape. However, at that instant, everything changed.

‘Hello!’ called a familiar voice although, with my head still forced down, I could see nothing. After a pause, the woman continued. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I am looking for my boyfriend, Will. We were due to meet here now. Is he around?’

Interrupted

‘Ah, you must be Sally,’ I heard Tamara say. ‘And right on time too, as I’ve just finished making sweet William even sweeter for you.’

I slowly raised my head and looked over my shoulder. ‘Hi Sally,’ I murmured sheepishly.

‘Will!’ Sally yelled. ‘Your hair! What has she done to you?’

‘As William is going to be working here,’ Tamara answered, ‘I needed to ensure he was presentable, so I’ve simply tidied up his hair.’

‘Tidied?’ Sally enquired sarcastically. ‘You’ve scalped him. I loved his hair,’ Sally lamented, ‘just the way it was.’

‘Hardly scalped,’ Tamara sighed condescendingly. ‘Just styled more smartly. It’s called -’

Sally stamped her foot, exasperated. ‘I don’t care what you call it -’

‘The hairstyle is a variation on the wedge,’ Tamara explained patiently.

‘I don’t care!’ Ignoring Tamara, Sally marched up to me in the chair, still imprisoned under the cape. ‘I warned you about your wicked stepmother, Will. Come on, get up, and let’s go,’ she urged, tugging at the cape’s fastening around my neck. ‘And what was she on about you working here?’

‘Ah, I was going to tell you at the pub,’ I mumbled awkwardly, as Sally swished away the cape, allowing me to clamber to my feet.

Sally’s eyes widened. Indeed, she would have looked comical if the situation had not become so grim. ‘What on earth are you wearing?’

‘It’s his uniform,’ Tamara sniggered, casually leaning against a wall as Sally berated me.

‘I was asking him, not you!’ Sally asserted, more boldly than I had ever heard her complain about anything.

In response, Tamara shrugged indifferently.

‘Sorry, Sally, it’s my uniform,’ I mumbled. ‘Look, let’s go to the pub and I’ll explain everything,’ I urged, looking to my stepmother for permission and she responded with an amused shrug.

‘You think I’m going out with you looking like that?’ Sally barked, a harsh humourless cackle colouring her tone. ‘It looks like you’re wearing a bloody skirt!’

‘They’re shorts!’ I retorted, ‘and obviously I’ll get changed first.’

‘Well, you better be careful,’ Sally went on, looking down my stubborn erection. ‘It appears you enjoyed the ministrations of your stepmother rather a lot,’ she judged, shaking her slowly in disbelief.

‘No, it’s not like that, Sally. I …. I, er …’ I stuttered. ‘Look, you can wait for me outside and -’

‘Oh, can I, Will? Can I, indeed?’ Sally said sarcastically. ‘I am going, and I’ll have a think about whether I intend waiting.’

With that, my girlfriend spun around and headed towards the door.

My anxiety was starting to get the better of me but at least the blood was leaving my crotch area and allowing me to move more naturally. ‘Sorry, Tamara, can I -’

My stepmother raised an eyebrow and looked towards the clock on the wall. I noted that it was still not closing time, and I caught her drift.

‘Sorry, Miss Tamara,’ I corrected, ‘could I leave a little bit earlier this evening to catch Sally before she disappears?’

‘You want to leave early on your first day of work?’ my stepmother smirked. ‘That sounds like a stereotypical request from a work-shy student.’

‘Please …’ I begged.

‘Well, I suppose our timing could have been a little better,’ she chuckled. ‘Off you go, sweet William … and good luck with the lady … I think you are going to need it.’

I did not need her to tell me twice, so I rushed to the door. At that moment I remembered I was still in my ridiculous salon uniform, but I judged that failing to explain the situation to Sally was far worse than anyone seeing me outside the salon in my work attire.

As I pushed open the door and rushed out, I tumbled into a person who had been about to enter. I stood back and apologised. ‘Sorry, Madam. Please come in,’ I invited, waving an arm expansively.

Invited

A tall woman in a white business suit surveyed me. I gawped back. Her tailored blazer had a plunging neckline that revealed her ample cleavage. If she was wearing any sort of blouse under that tight jacket, then I judged it would be an extremely skimpy one. Similarly, I could see she wore an extremely short skirt. It emerged just below the hem of her jacket but ensured remarkably long legs were fully on display.

The woman’s outfit alone would have been sufficient to grab the attention of any man, but what held the greatest attraction for me was the huge mound of blonde hair coiled into a fanciful bun on her crown that looked more than sufficient to unbalance her on her stiletto heels.

‘So, you work here, do you?’ she asked, after we had silently stared at each other for a short while. I nodded, lost for words. ‘Well, my friend Emily told me about this place. She popped in yesterday. You may remember?’ I nodded eagerly. ‘So, I’m Charlotte and I wished to enquire what you could do for me.’

I could think of several witty responses about what I could do for Charlotte. And I knew my mates would have suggested several vulgar alternatives.

Knowing that she had seen Emily’s transformation and still ventured inside, my juices started flowing as I eyed her huge bun. ‘Welcome to Pampered & Polished, Charlotte. Please allow me to introduce you to Miss Tamara, our owner and principal stylist.’

To be continued