Prim & Proper III – Fiona Looks to the Future & Confronts Her Past

A sequel to Prim & Proper II – The Foxy Lady Moves to The City written for standalone enjoyment without having necessarily read the original story. After sombre art college student Fiona Vinson, rejects flamboyant college lecturer Ellie Fox, she successfully completes her degree without further undue pressure or interruption, before embarking on a career as a freelance design consultant. Fiona, with her life simple and relaxed, goes for a trim from Mrs Jacobs at Prim & Proper, and suddenly everything changes …

Five years is a long time. Enough time for a college girl from a small town to grow into a confident woman, to discover herself, and, most importantly, to let her hair grow. And grow it did, way past my waist and long enough to sit on whenever I accidentally had a mind to do that. The severe bowl cut that I imposed upon myself to ward off the attention of my art college lecturer, Miss Ellie Fox, became a distant memory.

My hair, a rich, dark cascade, had become my pride and joy, a symbol of my own quiet blossoming as a woman. It was not a conscious effort to mimic the Foxy Lady, as she had urged all those years earlier. I had just allowed my hair to grow, naturally and beautifully, into something that felt entirely me. I valued my treasured locks; my friends and family loved them, and my tresses offered a signature look recognised by all my clients. Furthermore, they were here to stay!

= = =

Since leaving college I have gained ample freelance design work from commercial organisations. It left little time for me to develop my fine art skills, but it did allow me to move to a lovely studio apartment of my own. Furthermore, I had just taken the next step in my personal development by establishing my art and design consultancy, Vinson’s Vision.

I had secured sufficient bespoke contracts to occupy me for the next six months. Soon I would be taking on one or two staff, but for a short while I would be just bossing myself about. And the first thing I elected to do as Managing Director of VV was to give myself the day off, as I knew there would be precious little opportunity in the months to come.

= = =

I had enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at my favourite café in the market square. Fortuitously, the weather had been pleasant enough to allow me to sit outside. So, I lazily watched the world pass by as I nibbled my croissant and sipped the delicious coffee.

I was wearing what I laughingly called my arty uniform, quite different from the prim ensembles that I used to wear at college. I had carefully chosen a variety of smart, casual clothes that successfully combined into a variety of coordinated outfits. Each enhanced my artistic appearance and corresponded with my clients’ expectations of how a design consultant should appear. On my day off, I wore a tartan miniskirt, a snug-fitting red lace top, black opaque tights, and leather boots, topped off with my black leather jacket.

Even after a second cup of coffee, it was still far too early for my next scheduled task of the day. I considered abandoning my day off, as it was proving more challenging to organise than managing an assignment for an awkward client. Catching up on outstanding office administration, surprisingly, seemed preferable to just kicking my heels in the sunshine. However, I had something else to do first.

= = =

I sauntered from the market square, doing a little window shopping on the way, as I made my way towards Prim & Proper, the only salon in our small town. I had scheduled my regular appointment with Mrs Jacobs to trim the ends of my long hair. Ruefully, I recalled the time when “regular” meant every four weeks without fail to keep my unchanging bob immaculate. But now it was every four months, and even that often stretched further due to the pressures of work. That said, it was a relaxing ritual that I always looked forward to, performed by the hairdresser who had cared for my hair my whole life.

Finally pushing open the door of Prim and Proper, the familiar sound of the tinkling bell announced my arrival to a flustered Mrs Jacobs.

‘Oh, Fiona, dear! It is so lovely to see you, but you are a tad early,’ the ageless hairdresser remarked, as she continued working on the woman in her chair. ‘I need to get Mrs Davis ready to go under the dryer,’ she said. ‘Oh, and then I have another customer before you,’ she added, breathing out a long sigh. ‘Although that one will not take me too long. You could pop out for a coffee, then return in half an hour or so?’

‘It is not a problem, Mrs Jacobs. I have taken the day off today,’ I explained. ‘So, I’ll be happy to wait.’

However, I am not sure she was fully listening. She was already bustling Mrs Davis over to the horrendous hood dryer that I hoped I would never need to sit under.

Mrs Jacobs had been my hairdresser for as long as I could remember. She had maintained my unchanging mid-length bob throughout my teenage years until I started at college. Undoubtedly, I would have kept the same style throughout my college years if my world had not been upset by Ellie Fox, my art lecturer. While there had been an immediate spark of attraction between us, I was unhappy with her unsubtle attempts to change my appearance. She urged me to grow out my bob. However, my innate stubbornness resulted in me asking Mrs Jacobs to cut my hair even shorter until I ended up with a drastic pudding bowl haircut. After that, Ellie got the message and backed off for the rest of my time in college. An unfortunate end to what could have been something special.

After Mrs Jacobs had aided my brief, but mistaken, flirtation with shorter hair, she had helped me grow it out. By trimming it regularly, it grew evenly, finally achieving the magnificent length and lustre that it now exhibited.

While Mrs Jacobs bustled around the salon checking on other customers and her staff, I settled into a comfortable chair by the window, idly flipping through a magazine.

The door tinkled, announcing a new arrival, and I casually glanced up, wondering if it might be someone I knew. Well, it was, but it was the last person I had expected.

My breath caught in my throat. It was Miss Ellie Fox.

= = =

My former art tutor from five years earlier marched straight up to the empty reception desk. She caught the attention of Mrs Jacobs in the far corner, and they exchanged greetings when she immediately hurried over. With Ellie’s attention taken, she did not notice me sitting behind her, close to the window.

The Foxy Lady looked remarkably different. Starkly so. Gone were the flowing floral dresses, the worn denim jacket, and the artistic bohemian flair. She wore a smart, almost severe, navy-blue skirt suit, crisp and perfectly tailored, with a blindingly white blouse with a bow at the neck. It was the epitome of professional attire, corporate in its severity.

As I stared, the irony of what I saw hit me sharply. Ellie’s outfit was not unlike the prim and formal style that I had adopted in my early days at college, as I desperately tried to project an air of seriousness. Meanwhile, my own style had developed into a casual, youthful look, combining flair with a touch of exuberance, shouting professionalism and creativity.

I had not seen my lecturer since college. I had continued attending her excellent lectures and tutorials, and she had still been working there when I left. However, following our awkward confrontation soon after I started at college, she maintained a safe and professional distance thereafter. At times I reminisced, saddened by what had occurred and wondering what might have been. But it was now water under the bridge.

Through the grapevine, I had heard that soon after I had left college, Ellie had moved to a new job, based in the city. Fortunately, I had always been able to perform the bulk of my freelance work from home. However, occasionally, I need to take the train into the city for a face-to-face meeting. While travelling, I sometimes wonder if I might bump into Ellie. However, the city is a big place with a large population, so, of course, that had only been a ridiculous pipedream. But now, here she was back in her old town at Prim & Proper.

Ellie’s eyes, still as piercing as I remembered, swept over the salon, then landed on me. My breath hitched.

= = =

She peered, a familiar analytical glint in her eyes, as if trying to place a half-forgotten painting. ‘Excuse me. Do I know you?’ she asked, frowning slightly in concentration.

My heart hammered a little. ‘Yes, Miss Fox,’ I managed, my voice a little reedy. ‘I am Fiona. Fiona Vinson. From the college.’

Recognition dawned, and a slow, almost predatory smirk spread across her lips. ‘Yes, that’s right, Fiona,’ she stated, in that annoying way I remembered that suggested it was her informing me of who I was. ‘That must be five years ago,’ she mused. I nodded. ‘Good heavens, you look so different with your hair so long. It is like mine used to be,’ she added wistfully.

My long hair. The hair that had been my quiet rebellion, my burgeoning self-expression, finally matched her glorious mane. It had been the sight and feel of her beautiful hair, lodging in my subconscious, which had encouraged me to grow mine. But I did it outside her direct influence and outside her frustrating demands.

Still taking in her formal appearance, I had assumed she had tied back her own hair or wound it into a corporate bun. The irony was that, in the past, she always wore her hair loose. But then I looked more closely, suddenly realising her hair was remarkably short, with little of it remaining!

= = =

The Foxy Lady’s hair, or the lack of it, was truly unbelievable. There was no more than an inch on her bristly crown, and even less on the back and sides. A little more stylish than a buzz cut, although only by a little. My jaw nearly dropped. This was the woman whose honey-blonde cascade had been legendary around the whole college.

‘I’m glad you finally took my advice to grow your hair,’ she said, her smirk widening, a playful challenge in her eyes.

I bristled. ‘No, it was not down to your advice, Miss Fox,’ I said dismissively, unwilling to give her the satisfaction, the credit for something that felt so intrinsically mine. ‘I just allowed mine to grow… just out of curiosity,’ I lied. ‘After all,’ I added, with a flash of defensiveness, ‘I liked it short back in college. Short hair is neat, practical, and has a certain charm,’ I said, spouting old arguments I had with her that I no longer believed. ‘Besides,’ I snapped, ‘it suited me short.’

To my surprise, she nodded, her expression suddenly serious. ‘And you were right too, Fiona,’ she agreed. ‘Yes, short hair is charming as well as practical. So, as soon as I moved to the city, and because of you, I had mine chopped off,’ she announced triumphantly. She made it clear that I was the reason for her drastic change, although I failed to understand her reasoning. ‘And, Fiona, I have kept it short ever since.’

‘You had your hair cut short because of me, Miss Fox?’ I gulped, the words barely a whisper as she patted her cropped head with a casual gesture. The idea that I, naïve little Fiona, had impacted Ellie Fox in such a profound way was astonishing, almost unbelievable. I would not have thought she had even remembered me after those few heady and confusing months at college. And certainly not two years later, after I had graduated and she had moved away to work in the city.

‘Yes, Fiona. Well, of course, I did not really want to,’ she admitted, a hint of something deeper, more vulnerable, in her tone, quickly masked by a shrug. ‘And I was so nervous. But it was a necessary gesture, because of… well, the reason does not matter…’ she trailed off, a vague, unfinished sentence hanging in the air.

= = =

‘Oh,’ I said, my mind racing. Did she mean she had her long hair chopped off because of me? Was it a gesture of defiance, or something else entirely? A way to cut ties, quite literally?

‘Do not look so shocked, Fiona. I simply went to one of those old-fashioned barbershops and told him to take it all off,’ she continued, her voice light but with an unconvincing edge, as if not the whole truth. ‘Mrs Jacobs would have questioned that, wouldn’t you?’

She turned to the hairdresser, who nodded, a knowing, placid smile on her face. ‘Yes, I was sad to see the loss of that lovely long hair I had nurtured for you. I thought you must have gone to prison, what with you being away for so long as well.’

I wondered where Mrs Jacobs had got the idea that women had their heads shaved in modern prisons. Television, I assumed. More to the point, what she thought Ellie might have done for her to go to prison. But I did not press the point.

‘But the barber, he just did exactly as I asked,’ Ellie said gleefully, pulling my mind back to thoughts of the dreadful-sounding barbershop, feeding on my anxiety. ‘Down to the wood, that’s what he called it.’

‘Down to the wood?’ I gasped, picturing the razor against her scalp and her emerging from a barbershop with a shining bald head. I idly wondered if she had taken any photos of herself when she was bald. I was surprisingly curious.

Ellie laughed, a bright, ringing sound that filled the small salon. ‘Yes. I kept my head bald for a while, but now Mrs Jacobs keeps it stylishly short and chic for me.’

Mrs Jacobs, ever the professional, gestured Ellie towards the chair. ‘She was booked in before you, Fiona,’ she explained, a twinkle in her eye. ‘But her hair doesn’t take long,’ she quipped.

= = =

Does not take long was surely an understatement. With Ellie’s hair already so incredibly short, it shocked me to learn that she was there to have it cut even shorter. But with accustomed ease, she settled into the chair with the familiar white cape draped around her shoulders.

Mrs Jacobs, with a practised hand, picked up her electric clippers and flicked the switch.

The buzzing sound vibrated through the quiet room as she systematically mowed all Ellie’s hair down to a uniform half an inch. They both acted like it was the most normal thing in the world, but I found it shocking. Then, using a different attachment on the hairclippers, she expertly shaved the back and sides of her head smooth. Ellie chatted easily with Mrs Jacobs, but her eyes kept meeting mine in the mirror, projecting a mischievous glint. I tried my best not to stare, to focus on my magazine, but I could not help myself. It was dreadful but, at the same time, mesmerising.

I recalled Mrs Jacobs once telling me that using hairclippers on a woman was unladylike. She preferred just using scissors and a comb. However, she was demonstrating no qualms about using them vigorously on Ellie’s hair.

‘There we go, dear. You are now ready to rejoin your unit and go back into battle,’ Mrs Jacobs quipped. It was true that Ellie’s haircut, with the crown hair sticking up like a brush, certainly had the air of a marine’s uncompromising flattop haircut.

‘Do you approve, Fi-fi?’ Ellie asked, using the affectionate name she had coined for me, one that I had not heard in seven years and had forbidden her to use.

She fixed her eyes on mine in the mirror while running her hand over her freshly shorn head. My eyes widened as she got to her feet, then walked purposefully over and took my hand. Hers felt soft and warm as she brushed my fingers delicately against her own scalp, holding them there. I felt incredibly warm, my heart hammering in my chest, and I blushed deeply.

It was like the intervening years had not happened, my mind harking back to when she encouraged me to lose my fingers in her long golden hair. ‘It’s all stiff and prickly,’ I lied, marvelling secretly at its softness. I pulled my hand away quickly, my face flushing again, although she grabbed my hand, intertwining her fingers with mine.

Ellie Fox’s pout, while still managing to smirk, indicated that my emotional reaction had both amused and intrigued her.

= = =

‘Fiona, dear, your turn,’ Mrs Jacobs called, her voice a welcome distraction.

I shook off Ellie’s hand and slipped into the chair, the familiar surroundings comforting. ‘Just the ends as usual, Mrs Jacobs,’ I requested, settling back, ready for my routine trim.

‘Fi-fi,’ a voice purred from directly behind me. ‘I think we can do so much better than that, can’t we?’

Ellie’s presence was suddenly overwhelming, filling the space around me.

‘Miss Fox?’ I questioned, feeling an immediate rush of heat to my cheeks. My mind instantly reverted to the naive, intimidated student I had been five years earlier. My adult self, my independent self, seemed to shrink under her gaze.

‘Perhaps you might allow me to give Mrs Jacobs a few pointers, Fi-fi?’ she suggested, her tone light but with an undeniable edge of command.

‘Er, I’m not sure…’ I replied nervously, my voice barely audible. I was sure, completely sure, and a flicker of my old defiance desperately wanted to assert itself. But it felt weak, suffocated by her presence.

‘Ooh! Was that a “yes“, Fi-fi?’ she snapped, her reflection rising to its full height, her posture radiating authority.

‘Yes, Miss Fox,’ I said, the words tumbling out childishly, automatically.

I hated myself for it, for the instant surrender to her demands, her control, but I could not help it. All those years earlier, I had not given in to her. I had remained stubborn. But there had been a spark and, unquestionably, I felt that spark reigniting itself deep within me.

She had edged directly behind me, her reflection looming over mine in the mirror. ‘Mrs Jacobs,’ she began, her voice crisp, clear, and utterly in charge. ‘We will have the back cut well above her collar,’ she insisted, placing the edge of her hand in a chopping motion high up the back of my head. ‘And then follow the line around to the front, above her ears,’ she demanded, guiding each of her index fingers along the imaginary line she envisaged. ‘And then blend that into a nice short fringe,’ she added with finality.

= = =

I could not believe the instructions that Ellie Fox had just given to Mrs Jacobs. But, furthermore, I could not comprehend why I was doing nothing to challenge her, let alone contradict her. My beautiful long hair, my symbol of self-discovery. Was I truly under her spell again, after all these years? The irony was almost unbearable. In college, she had ridiculed my short bob, pushing me towards growing my hair longer. Now, she was instructing Mrs Jacobs to bring it back, but even shorter and more severe.

Mrs Jacobs, looking apologetic, brandished her scissors, her expression mirroring my internal conflict. ‘Such a shame…’ she murmured, her voice laced with genuine regret.

I agreed. Every fibre of my being screamed for her to stop, to let me keep my long hair, but my voice was frozen. I felt utterly powerless, trapped by a force I could not articulate, let alone resist.

I felt Mrs Jacobs slide the cold steel of the scissors through my hair, high up the back of my head, resting against my skin. The blade traced the same line that Ellie had demonstrated. It was too high. The bulk of my hair tumbled down below that line. This had to stop.

‘Such a shame,’ Mrs Jacobs repeated, but her reflected expression quickly changed from sorrow to grim determination as I felt tugging on a lock of my hair.

Crunch!

I heard the scissor blades close emphatically, and a great weight was gone from the back of my head. I felt my hair slithering down my neck like a traitorous snake.

In the mirror I could initially see no change. But Mrs Jacobs, firmly in her element, swiftly opened and closed the scissors again, and my head became even lighter. Repeatedly, she continued the action until suddenly a glint of the blade was visible in the mirror above my right ear. Doggedly she pressed on until she had severed all the hair on that side, revealing my ear in its entirety. Hair was sliding down the cape like a silky waterfall, gathering in my lap before tumbling to the ground. Mrs Jacobs adjusted her position and then repeated the process on my left side.

Soon, all the weight was gone. My hair, once a glorious cascade, was now extremely short, shaped into a bowl, but much, much shorter than any bob I had ever had before. With her scissors and comb, the back and sides were as short as Mrs Jacobs could make them, fully exposing my neck and my ears.

‘Don’t forget the nice short fringe,’ Ellie reminded Mrs Jacobs, who moved swiftly in front of me. She cut a blunt line high above my eyebrows, leaving a wide expanse of forehead visible and giving my eyes a permanent look of surprise.

‘Do you wish me to use hairclippers, Ellie?’ Mrs Jacobs asked, her voice cautious.

Was she serious? Hairclippers? I had never had them used on me. Even with my shortest bobs at college, Mrs Jacobs had always used scissors and a comb. She meticulously shaped each strand, reducing the shortest areas to a fine pelt. The hairdresser had steered me away from them, telling me that using clippers on women was too aggressive and unladylike. So why was she inviting Ellie to tell her to use them on me?

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Jacobs,’ Ellie smirked, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror, a spark of triumph there. ‘And with no guard whatsoever.’

My stomach clenched. Mrs Jacobs, with a gentle, regretful sigh, placed her hand on the top of my head and bent it forward, holding it firmly in place. The cold metal of the clippers touched my neck, then vibrated upwards, a harsh, buzzing rasp, peeling off my hair. It fell away in clumps, revealing the pale skin beneath. The sound was deafening, the sensation alien and raw. The clippers stripped the hair to the perimeter of the bowl, then around my ears, meticulously clearing everything in their path.

I saw Mrs Jacobs glance at Ellie as she silenced the hairclippers, raising an enquiring eyebrow. Ellie smiled, clearly understanding and relishing the question. ‘Yes, Mrs Jacobs, please shave her hairline with the razor… down to the wood.’

‘Yes, of course, Ellie. Given where we are, that will be for the best,’ Mrs Jacobs agreed. ‘Keep completely still while I do this, dear.’

I found it hard to accept that they were conspiring to shave half my head, making the action sound like it was the most normal thing in the world. I wanted to remonstrate, but all that came out was a strangled cry of disbelief. The cold foam jolted me as she smeared it on my neck and around my ears. A gentle rasping sound followed as she began to scrape away the remaining bristles at my hairline, later followed by the smooth glide of steel over my bare skin.

Afterwards, I stared at my reflection, a stranger staring back. I had a stark, smooth bowl perched on my crown, a truly short fringe framing my forehead, and bare, white skin showing on the back and sides of my head. My ears, usually hidden, felt suddenly enormous, exposed.

Ellie ran her fingers up my newly shaven neck, tickling my remarkably smooth skin. I quivered, with either pleasure or sadness, but which, I was unsure.

‘Very nice, Fi-fi. Well done,’ she breathed, but with a palpable, patronising edge to her voice, as if I were a child who had finally performed a simple trick correctly.

= = =

I numbly paid Mrs Jacobs for my haircut, the cost feeling negligible compared to the magnitude of what had just happened. I moved to put on my leather jacket, desperate to cover myself, to somehow regain a sense of myself.

‘Thank you, Mrs Jacobs. Both of us will see you again in two weeks,’ Ellie said, her voice bright, as she skipped towards the door. ‘Now, Fiona, we are going to chat about the importance of maintaining your smart appearance.’ She took my arm, her grip firm, possessive, as we walked out of Prim & Proper.

I tried to make sense of what was happening, my mind a jumbled mess of confusion and reluctant compliance. She linked her arm through mine, her energy pulling me along.

‘Don’t look so worried, Fiona,’ she urged, squeezing my arm lightly. ‘With your haircut taken care of, we can now focus on your wardrobe.’

‘What?’ I queried, the word a tiny, disbelieving squeak.

‘I am surprised, Fiona. A tartan miniskirt? At your age?’ she chuckled, shaking her head dismissively. ‘A smart skirt suit,’ she continued, her voice full of confident planning. ‘Grey, I think, paired with a crisp white blouse. And a nice bow at the neck. That will be a perfect accompaniment to that impeccable bowlcut.’

Words failed me. I would look exactly as I did in college. Prim and buttoned up.

‘Hmm?’ The Foxy Lady sought an answer, her gaze expectant.

‘Yes, Miss Fox,’ I answered, the words escaping me before I could think. The defiance was gone, replaced by a strange, numb resignation.

My head, once framed by a cascade of dark, rippling hair, now stripped bare, a stark, almost brutal, artistic statement. My long hair, my symbol of freedom and maturity, was gone, replaced by a cut that spoke unequivocally of obedience.

I had become a living sculpture, an unwitting canvas, and the artist was Miss Ellie Fox.

 

To be continued