HairApparent
A sequel to Prim & Proper I – Fiona Goes to College written for standalone enjoyment without having necessarily read the original story. After flamboyant college lecturer Ellie Fox finally acknowledged her rejection by her attractive young student, Fiona Vinson, she decided she was ready for a fresh challenge. She leaves academia behind her and moves to a commercial job in the city …
I had found it hard when Fiona Vinson had rejected me after all the attention that I had lavished on her in her first couple of months at the college. There had been other students who had been more accommodating in the ten years or so I had been lecturing there. At least one or two a year. But she had stood out as being different. Uniquely prim and proper when compared with her contemporaries, but that only contributed to her attraction in my eyes.
There had undoubtedly been a spark between us – a massive lightning bolt in my case – but she had shunned all my advances. I had tried to help her develop as a woman. But when I had suggested that she grow her hair longer than her prim little bob, she had it cut even shorter. And when I had encouraged her to dress less formally – look a little less proper – she had rebelled by wearing her blouses buttoned all the way up to her neck.
For me, it had been the last straw when she had appeared with her neatly bobbed hair annihilated. Replaced by an unflattering pudding bowl style, she had looked like a punished child as she had truly dug in her heels. My heart had sunk, a strange mix of unfamiliar defeat and an uncommon pang of concern.
After those few months at the start of her college journey, I had made myself back off. The age difference and the professional boundaries had loomed larger than ever. I had known that I could not push her further without crossing a line I was not ready to cross, or that I was too afraid to do so. The unspoken tension between us in lectures and tutorials had become a silent understanding.
My fascination, my infatuation with her, had persisted during the following two years, a quiet hum beneath the surface of my professional demeanour. But I had acted cold and detached, focusing on appraising her work and not on her.
As I yearned for her, it proved a confusing period in my life. I had half-hoped she would realise the error of her ways and say something to break the silence, but she never did. She had just blanked me, her eyes meeting mine briefly, then darting away, every time leaving me to wonder if I had imagined that original spark between us.
= = =
When Fiona Vinson had graduated, knowing any last flicker of hope had gone, the college had suddenly felt a less vibrant environment. I knew then that I needed a complete break. So, I had resigned, and, rather than continue teaching, I had accepted a job in the city. AstralPursuits, an IT startup, had wanted a creative individual to develop the artwork for their advanced computer games. Given my academic background, I knew it would be challenging to work in a pulsating commercial environment. But it was one that would take my mind off distractions from my past.
= = =
So, five years earlier, I had rented a flat in the city and moved all my bits and pieces that I needed. After giving myself a couple of days to settle in and find my bearings around the city, I was preparing myself to begin work at AstralPursuits the following day.
My long, flowing hair had been a signature look around college, a part of my identity as the flamboyant head of the art and design faculty. But it had also been the very thing I had tried to use to entice Fiona, to inspire her. And it had failed to do so.
So, as a symbolic gesture, a ritual of letting go, I decided that one of the very first things I needed to do upon arriving in the city was to have my hair cut. Nothing too drastic, I mused, but a fresh style and a new beginning.
Naturally, I did not want to. My long hair was a comfort, an extension of my artistic self. I stood in front of the mirror that day, before starting my new job. As I ran my fingers through the silky strands, a wave of nervousness washed over me. But it felt necessary, and self-doubts would not sway my resolve.
= = =
As I strolled through the city, I looked for a salon where I would feel comfortable. For years I had had my long hair trimmed by dear old Mrs Jacobs at Prim & Proper in the town where I had grown up and, later, lectured at the college. Despite her age, she had always performed a superb job at keeping my ends trimmed, allowing my hair to grow thick, healthy, and long. It was daunting to contemplate going somewhere else, especially when considering a change of style.
There was a plethora of trendy salons along the streets that led away from the main shopping area of the city. However, with each one, my mind generated a reason for it being unsuitable. Too fancy, too expensive, too targeted at younger people. But it might also be, I speculated, my resolve wavering, allowing doubts to creep in, wondering if the symbolic gesture of letting go of my past was still necessary.
As I drifted into the more artisan lanes and alleyways away from the high street, the realisation struck me that none of them would supply what I needed. I wanted to make a bold gesture, leaving my past behind, drawing a line in the sand, and embracing a fresh start. For that I had to do things differently. A scary thought took hold as I noticed the fancy salons had given way to more utilitarian establishments, even men’s barbershops. Each one looked more basic, more run down than the one before. A plan formed of how I could send a final defiant message to Fiona Vinson… even if she never received it.
Tired shopfronts, a couple boarded up, lined the narrow passageway that I found myself in. But, towards the end, a light shone. Quite literally. An illuminated, slowly rotating pole, coloured red, blue, and white. The significance was clear. My heart thumped in my chest as I approached. Flaking paintwork framed a steamed-up window festooned with faded posters. A time-weathered sign above the window suggested it was likely to be The Lanes Barbershop, despite there being letters missing from the words.
It looked like a dump, and, although I knew it was crazy, I felt a deep-seated compulsion to enter. My destiny. So, I pushed open the door and then stupidly jumped, startled, when a loud buzzer sounded to signal my arrival.
The state of the interior confirmed my initial impression from the outside. The floor comprised scuffed and split chequered linoleum. It supported an abstract art installation of snippets of hair of different hues and textures. A strong smell of soap and aftershave pervaded the air. Framed photos hung from the walls, and one or two were level. Yes, I confirmed to myself, it was a dump!
Three male barbers were cutting the hair of men in their chairs. Each looked up briefly as I entered, but they failed to acknowledge me. They appeared unsurprised by the presence of an attractive long-haired woman wearing a short dress entering their premises. Before I had gone inside, I panicked, wondering if women were welcome in a barbershop. However, their reaction suggested I had been worrying unnecessarily.
Large mirrors, tarnished in the corners, adorned the walls in front of each chair. They reflected the blank, disinterested gaze of the seated and caped customers whose hair the barbers were cutting.
Looking over to one side, an assortment of men and boys slouched on a wooden bench and a mismatched selection of rickety-looking chairs. With the chairs all taken, I perched on the hard bench and considered how best I could escape the premises quickly while minimising my embarrassment!
I expected the waiting males to show a modicum of interest in me as a sole woman. But, after snatching surreptitious glances, they turned away, acting bored. Although I considered myself attractive, even if I was approaching forty years old, I wondered if I was simply not young enough to maintain their interest. Equally, it may have been the gloomy atmosphere that pervaded the establishment, with everyone looking as if they wished they were somewhere else, including the barbers.
Perversely, I embraced the unpretentiousness of where I had ended up. As the sole woman present, I felt utterly out of place amongst those waiting their turn. With each second that passed, my stomach churned with anticipation and a strange, almost giddy fear.
= = =
Time passed slowly. I flicked through a dog-eared car magazine, keeping my head down, trying not to catch anyone’s eye. Although there was little chatter, the excruciating noise from three sets of powerful hairclippers was more than enough to stifle any conversation. I stole a glance upwards occasionally to determine when it might be time for my consultation and which of the barbers I would like to go with.
The tall, thin, middle-aged guy with a thin moustache looked like the best option. I did not like the look of the frail-looking short guy with a beard at the end, and especially not the elderly plump chap with thick-lensed spectacles.
‘Next!’ A voice barked ten minutes later, my head jerking upwards at the sharp retort.
= = =
‘Yes, you, love,’ the bespectacled plump chap sighed, signalling I was unable to choose who to consult in this establishment. I stood up and shuffled forward. Rudely, he tapped his foot as if bored waiting, so I quickened my pace and slipped into his huge leather and chrome chair.
My short dress rode up on my thighs as I sat, the worn leather cold against my skin. Gathering my hair loosely over one shoulder, I tossed it behind me, allowing it to flow down the back of the chair. I decided on one of the opening gambits for my consultation that I had been silently practising while waiting.
Opening my mouth to express my wishes, my words stalled when a large white cloth billowed in front of me. The barber attempted to fasten the cape at my neck, but my long hair thwarted his endeavours. While he grumbled behind me, I lifted my hair away from my neck, and he finally secured the cape, far too tightly for my liking. Then I allowed my hair to fall behind the chair once more.
The old barber grunted. ‘So, what’s it to be, love?’
‘Take it all off,’ I said, my voice a little shaky, a little breathless.
As part of the consultation, I waited for his questions to clarify the finished style I was envisaging. Whether I wanted it to remain longer than my shoulders or trimmed to a bob or, daringly, cut into a sort of pixie style. I knew Mrs Jacobs back home would have tut-tutted at my statement and tried to talk me out of it.
But this was the city. Here, it seemed, anything went. ‘Sure,’ he said without showing any emotion. With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, he removed the guard from his hairclippers. ‘All?’ he asked, wishing to clarify my hastily expressed request, while also marking the end of my consultation.
My breath hitched. ‘Er… yes,’ I squeaked, unable to think of what else to say, although “but” was on the tip of my tongue.
However, without a further word, he swooped in, placing the cold metal blade of the raucous hairclippers at the hairline above my forehead. A harsh, vibrating hum echoed through my skull. Not pausing his motion, he thrust the blade back through my thick hair and peeled away my locks like a hot knife through butter.
My eyes were wide in the mirror, watching the honey-blonde hair fall away in thick clumps, exposing my scalp. In the mirror, I saw the gasps from the other waiting customers, their faces a mix of shock and morbid curiosity. Everything blurred as he swiftly removed all my long hair in a series of long sweeping drives over the top of my head. Then he began moving my head around to gain access to errant strands on my neck and around my ears until he was satisfied that he had cleared it all.
Putting down the large hairclippers, he replaced them with a much smaller device that resembled a man’s electric shaver. I quickly realised that is exactly what it was when he ran it back and forth over my scalp, meticulously removing every final trace of hair. The sound, the sensation, and the sudden cool air on my scalp were a shock to my system.
Silencing the foil shaver, the barber massaged an oily liquid into my scalp, causing it to shine like a billiard ball under the lights.
He whisked away the cape, gesturing for me to stand. ‘Down to the wood,’ the barber to the left commented approvingly as he studied the plump chap’s work. ‘Very smooth, Charles, nice work,’ he added as if congratulating him on creating a striking piece of art.
Despite the barber indicating that I should rise, my feet felt like two lumps of lead as I tried to make sense of the alien reflection staring back at me in the mirror.
‘Unless you want a wax and polish, love, there’s not much else I can do for you,’ he explained, chuckling mirthlessly, waving his hand more urgently for me to be on my way.
I had no idea if a “wax and polish” was a real thing or not. However, I recognised his need for me to vacate his chair and my need to be gone. I quickly paid the surprisingly small sum he demanded for removing so much of my hair. While I insisted that he keep the change, I felt for sure I must dramatically overtipped him in my rush to leave.
I almost tripped as I attempted to move to the door. Looking down, I saw a veritable mountain of my former hair had tangled around my feet and nearly sent me flying. The desire for a souvenir beckoned, and the glossy tresses at my feet were calling for me to kneel. But the desire to escape overrode anything else. My head felt impossibly light as I hurried to the door. I fumbled with the catch. A murmur of laughter rippled behind me as I tumbled outside into the alleyway.
I caught glimpses of myself in shop windows as I marched back to the heart of the city. I was bald. Completely hairless. Shining bright. I ran my fingers over my impossibly smooth dome, feeling the unfamiliar landscape of my denuded scalp. My long hair was gone, even if far more extensively and dramatically than I had planned.
I had successfully made the necessary gesture and eradicated Fiona Vinson, symbolically, at least… although I felt sad that she would never know what I had done for her!
= = =
I dressed for my first day of work in a newly purchased suit. A tailored jacket and an above-the-knee skirt in a deep purple shade. I saw it as a nod to fashionable city wear, a slight departure from standard corporate attire. But it was vastly different from my floral bohemian ensembles that had seen me through years of lecturing at college. My outfit may have looked as austere as my bare, shining head, but my overall appearance was entirely suitable for working in a young and dynamic IT company.
‘Good morning, Ellie, and welcome to AstralPursuits,’ my new boss enthused when he collected me from the reception area of his newly built offices. Half my age, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, he led me through a large open-plan area. Decorated in bright colours, he proudly pointed out various features before entering his glass-walled office.
‘Didn’t you have hair when I interviewed you, Ellie?’ he casually asked as we sat down.
‘Er, yes,’ I replied hesitantly, fearful that my hasty action might have jeopardised my new position. ‘Yes, I did.’
‘Oh, right,’ he answered, unworried, showing no concern. ‘I need to go through boring admin things with you, then we’ll meet for coffee with a few of your colleagues before getting you settled into your workspace to design our next super-game.’
= = =
And that was it. Feeling unencumbered by the past and with my creative juices flowing, I embraced the exciting new opportunity and quickly made a name for myself.
I had considered returning to the barbershop to remain bald, at least for a while, if not for life. However, the thought of waiting amongst the lecherous males was off-putting, as was the idea of that little plump chap grumbling away behind me.
Instead, I bought my own hairclippers and foil shaver, and, over the next few months, I kept myself completely bald. I became used to the routine every morning, even enjoying it. Comparing the ten minutes it took to shave my head with the hour or so of washing and drying I had previously endured, it was a welcome change.
= = =
For a time, when I was briefly unwell, my hair quickly grew out into a horrendous hedgehog-like crew cut. By that time, I had come across an establishment that described itself as a gender-neutral barbershop. They welcomed both men and women and, according to their social media, anyone in between! Yes, it was that sort of lovely, inclusive place, and one you would only find in the city!
After my first appointment, I strutted out with a truly short but very chic cropped hairstyle. Over time, I received variations of my clippered pixie style. However, I dismissed any thoughts of letting my hair grow longer because, each time I stepped out from the shop, I always felt so fresh and youthful.
It became an intrinsic part of my new uniform, a reflection of a harder, more streamlined Ellie. It was an Ellie who had discarded her signature long hair on the floor of a scruffy barbershop. And left behind the messy emotional entanglements of her old life in a town far away.
= = =
AstralPursuits took off like a rocket, in no small measure due to my imaginative designs and inspired artwork embedded in the computer games. They amply rewarded me financially, and they promoted me swiftly. But as we expanded, my role became more managerial, leaving me yearning for a more creative outlet for my underutilised abilities.
Tiring a little of the city life that I had fully embraced for over four years, I decided to buy my own place in a country village. It was necessary for me to commute to the city offices once or twice a week, but I could complete a great deal of my work from home. The village was close to the town where my family still lived. It was also where I had once lectured on art and design at the college.
On a nostalgic wander around the college campus, I bumped into a former colleague. Unexpectedly, she offered me a part-time position, lecturing on job opportunities for art and design students in the world of commerce. It did not impinge on my company commitments, but it did provide a wonderful opportunity to indulge my creative talents.
It did feel strange expounding my views to a fresh batch of the bright young things, especially as they looked impossibly youthful after my brief time away. Also, I looked different, as I was no longer flouncing around behind the lectern in floral dresses and wild long hair. I had reinvented myself with monotone tailored ensembles and chic cropped hair. Fortunately, I felt completely comfortable with my transformed appearance.
The students, to their credit given their youth, politely listened to me. However, I doubted they absorbed very much of what the middle-aged, power-dressed corporate woman was droning on about. Nor would I have expected them to, not when they had years of enjoyable college life to look forward to.
After five years away from full-time academia and building a successful new career, I was grateful that I had finally achieved an inner peace and a perfect balance in my life. And I never expected that to change …
