Ramona Rapunzel Encounters Sam the Barnstorming Barber

Prologue

The summer air down our street, thick with the scent of freshly cut grass, brought with it a boundless sense of freedom. Back from my second year at university, I pictured quality time with my dad, and lazy days by the lake enjoying picnics with friends I had not seen for months. I looked forward to relaxing without the unrelenting pressure of lectures, assignments, and exams.

But one curved ball had already launched itself my way that summer. Dad was on a long business trip abroad, leaving me in the exacting care of our freshly extended family. My mum had left when I was fifteen to live with her tennis coach, a seismic event that still had repercussions on our lives, especially mine. Dad had married Cassandra a year later, a whirlwind courtship that felt more like a pragmatic arrangement than a passionate union.

My stepmother was conservative to the core, her wardrobe a bland symphony of tailored skirts and sensible blouses, her views as unbending as her posture. Fashion trends, to Cassandra, were a fleeting folly. Cassandra, was a woman carved from granite and our relationship, even after five years, remained a polite truce.

There was also Jason, Cassandra’s son. A little younger than me, he perpetually existed in his mother’s shadow. He attended the local college, but still seemed tethered to Cassandra’s every command, a satellite orbiting her precise world, reclusive and shy. Although pleasant enough in his quiet way, we had nothing in common. My boisterous nature and his quiet character formed an invisible wall between us.

But, for five years, we had all got along.

Cassandra and Me

My first morning back from university began with Cassandra’s voice, crisp as starched linen, echoing from the kitchen. ‘Ramona, darling, please may I ask a favour. I simply cannot get away this afternoon as my friends will be attending my bridge club. Would you mind terribly taking Jason to have his hair trimmed before the family gathering at the weekend? My car is yours for the day if you do.’

My internal monologue was an incoherent groan. Was it so important he had his hair trimmed on such a beautiful summer’s day? And, if it was, then was it so beyond his capabilities not to make his own way to the salon? This was not the freedom I had envisioned when I had arrived home, already feeling the impact of yet another curved ball.

Still, the rare promise of using Cassandra’s sleek beast of a Mercedes was a potent bribe. It meant I could escape to meet up with my friends, without having to beg for lifts. Irrespective of the benefits, I had known it would be pointless to moan, so, with a resigned sigh, I agreed.

Jason had his hair trimmed regularly and always looked just the same, flopping over his forehead and curling over the collar of his shirt. I thought his style resembled that of a businessman from decades past trying to look trendy. It was simply too long and too conservative, given his age. However, Cassandra had extremely specific and unchanging views on hair. Not just her son’s hair, but everyone’s hair, including my own beautifully long locks that had earnt me the long-standing nickname of Ramona Rapunzel. My ample tresses frequently received pointed looks from her, occasionally attracting a mild adverse comment but, unusually for her, never an outright criticism.

Cassandra decreed that hair should be not too short, and not too long. It must be precisely the right length, and always tidy. I was surprised she had allowed Jason’s hair to become out of shape but, doubtless, the perpetual grind of lunches with her lady friends had distracted her.

Jason, despite his love for swimming, where shorter hair would undoubtedly be more practical, never dared to suggest a change, even though it would also improve his appearance. He just nodded and continued to let his mother dictate the fate of his locks. Annoyingly, he was old enough to drive, but he was too laidback to arrange lessons or even book his own hair appointments.

Jason ambled out to the car at the agreed time, and we set of for town, barely exchanging a handful of words the whole journey.

The Golden Scissors

The elegant salon Cassandra used, The Golden Scissors, was as prim and proper as the elaborate updo that concealed her longish hair. We had arrived for Jason’s appointment, the last slot in the day, only for a distraught receptionist to hit us with unwelcome news.

‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ she apologised. ‘There has been a mix-up in Mr. Bernard’s bookings and, what with sickness and the summer holidays, there is no one else available to cut Jason’s hair today.’

Jason, predictably, just shrugged, a non-committal grunt escaping his lips before he wandered towards the door.

My exasperation, however, was far less restrained. ‘Are you serious? We had an appointment! Made by Mrs Montgomery, Jason’s mother,’ I explained drawing in her reputation amongst the town’s society. ‘This is ridiculous!’ The receptionist met each of my impassioned entreaties with the same shake of the head and unchanging vacant smile.

I really did not want to make another trip into town once Cassandra had arranged a new appointment for Jason. My precious summer days were already ticking away. I scanned the bustling street, debating options. And then, down a narrow, shadowy lane, an unassuming advertising board standing outside a shop caught my eye. Hair by Sam it announced, and, blessedly, underneath stated No Appointment Necessary. Perfect!

Hair by Sam

‘Are you okay with this, Jason?’ I asked, a flicker of nervous doubt stirring as we walked down the lane towards Hair by Sam. It was not a classy salon like he and his mother usually frequented. Indeed, it was a basic gentlemen’s barbershop, the kind I had only ever seen in old movies. Frosted glass obscured the view inside, adding to the air of mystery, making me anxious for the hidden unknown.

‘Sure, why not,’ he grunted amiably in his typical laidback fashion.

I had never, in my entire life, been inside a men’s barbershop. Even for myself, my experience with hair establishments extended only to expensive, brightly lit, perfume-scented salons staffed by women who spoke in hushed tones and offered herbal tea. I braced myself for a gruff old barber, doubtless named Samuel, wielding well used tools with decades of experience.

The bell above the door jingled, announcing our arrival. I stepped inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim, masculine space. And then I stopped. My breath caught. The barber was most definitely not a gruff old man. Above a polished mirror, in elegant, flowing script, the name “Samantha” elaborated the name of the owner.

She was sitting in the sole old-fashioned barber’s chair, leaning back, a book resting open on her lap. Her head snapped up as we entered, and she stood, tall and fluid, like a cat stretching. She was in her early thirties, I guessed, but her presence was timeless. She wore a short, white tailored dress that hugged her tall, athletic figure, giving her an intimidating, almost clinical air.

But it was Sam’s hair that truly arrested me. On the crown, it was so short, each strand stood erect, massing together to resemble a stiff brush. The back and sides, shaved closely, allowed her skin to shine through like a stark, pale canvas. A style termed a flattop, I later learned. A masculine style but she looked, uncompromisingly, feminine. Stunningly exotic, indeed, and unapologetically bold. Women that I knew did not look this way or carry themselves with such utterly unshakeable confidence.

Sam had captivated me. Literally. My eyes glued to her, a strange warmth spreading through my chest.

‘Er, excuse me, are you still open?’ I managed, my voice embarrassingly thin.

Sam’s lips, full and perfectly sculpted, curved into a slow, knowing smile. ‘Sure, you will be the last two of the day, sweetie,’ she purred, her voice low and gravelly, resonating deep within me.

She gestured to the barber’s chair, beckoning Jason. However, her intense, appraising gaze lingered on me, as I shuffled awkwardly onto a worn wooden bench pushed against one wall.

Then the full impact of her words hit me. Last two of the day, she had said. I had not planned to get a haircut for quite a while. I loved that it was now long enough for me to sit on, and it was in excellent condition with the ends neatly trimmed. Besides, what woman would even consider going to a men’s barbershop for a haircut?

I continued to review her words in my mind, but I decided that I must have misinterpreted what she had said. Eventually, I dismissed the implication, nudged away by the sheer force of her presence.

Sam and Jason

Jason obediently trudged over to the barber’s chair, a cheesy, almost bashful smile on his face, doubtlessly appreciating Sam’s charms as much as I did. Indeed, I imagined she enraptured all the men and boys who frequented her modest shop.

The barber dragged a comb through Jason’s unruly locks, a theatrical sigh escaping her lips. ‘Well, sweetie, what are we doing with this young chap today?’ she asked, peering at me meaningfully in the mirror.

I blinked. Puzzled, as I had assumed the barber would know what to do, or Jason would. I knew absolutely nothing about male haircuts beyond “short back and sides” and other clichés. Willing Jason to speak, to take responsibility, he frustratingly just looked blankly at Sam, then at me, then back at the barber as if watching a boring long rally in a tennis match.

Jason caused me to feel like his surrogate mother, despite only being a couple of years older than him. It was a responsibility I neither wanted nor understood. Feeling flustered under the judgemental gaze of this stunning woman, she made me tongue-tied, hot with embarrassment.

‘Well …’ I started, my voice failing me. ‘I, er …’

‘Thanks, sweetie. That was extremely helpful,’ Sam sighed, a theatrical exhalation that filled the small shop. Her eyes, like sparkling emeralds, fixed on me. ‘Right, as it’s summer, I’ll shave it all off and make him completely bald,’ she stated bluntly, her defiant stare daring me to disagree.

My jaw dropped and the thought of Cassandra’s son shaved bald. She would have a fit!

‘And you better think how much you want me to leave on your head when it’s your turn,’ she added, wagging a perfectly manicured finger at me. ‘Say nothing and you will leave bald too.’

Sam’s attitude and her audacious plan utterly shocked me. I braced myself for Jason’s inevitable complaint, his usual grumble about anything that deviated from his routine. But he compounded my feeling of astonishment.

‘Cool!’ Jason exclaimed, his eyes wide with a surprising delight. ‘Great for swimming! Mum never lets me have it off.’

Sam’s smirk widened, a private joke playing on her lips. ‘So, the young chap’s mum never lets him have it off?’ she purred, winking at me, her tongue tracing her lower lip slowly. The double entendre hung in the air, thick and suggestive.

My face flushed crimson. Flustered, part of me was still trying to find a diplomatic way to explain, to avoid any misapprehension, that I was not there for a haircut.

A sudden noise drowned out my voice. It was the sudden, aggressive roar of hairclippers. Sam had already switched them on, their metallic growl filling the space. She plunged the blade into the bountiful hair flopping over Jason’s forehead, mowing a deep furrow over his crown. She plunged the clippers back and forth in a blur, dark locks raining down onto the pristine white cape dramatically. Within moments, only dark stubble covered his head, a stark contrast to the thick mane he had moments before.

Then, Sam switched to a humming foil shaver, the whirring sound even more unnervingly intimate. With a gentle motion, she shaved him smooth, his scalp glistening white. Then she polished his head with something fragrant and oily until it gleamed like a polished pearl.

‘There you go, sweetie,’ Sam said, stepping back, an artist admiring her work. ‘Superbly streamlined for swimming.’

Jason rubbed his head, a bashful but undeniably confident smile spreading across his newly revealed face. He almost looked handsome. ‘Cool,’ he mumbled, then, emboldened by his smooth scalp, he looked at Sam, a flicker of something new in his eyes. ‘I know I’m a bit younger than you, but I wondered if –’

‘I’m terribly flattered, sweetie,’ Sam interrupted smoothly, patting his gleaming head dismissively. ‘But you are not my type.’ Her green eyes found mine again, lingering, a deliberate look, her tongue once again tracing her lips. She left me in no doubt what her “type” might be, her words sending a jolt through to my core, a mixture of thrill and terror.

‘Oh, okay,’ Jason accepted sheepishly. He slid off the chair, suddenly buoyant. ‘Thanks, sis!’ he waved airily in my direction, already half out of the door. ‘Off to meet my mates. Catch you later!’

I stared after him, annoyed. Had I known he would be so compliant with Sam, I could have just waited outside the shop and enjoyed a coffee on my own. I would have avoided the dichotomy of my growing infatuation with Sam, and the sure and certain knowledge that she was way outside my league. I resolved that I needed to follow Jason’s lead as quickly as possible and put the interaction with Sam down to an interesting, but confusing, learning experience.

‘Next!’ Sam barked, her voice suddenly sharp, snapping me out of my daze.

Me and Sam

I felt awkward, rooted to the spot, when Sam directed me to sit in her chair. Although I had not had the opportunity to clarify with her why I was there, I decided that the simplest thing to do would be to run as fast as I could and never return.

However, I suddenly remembered that I needed to pay for Jason’s haircut – why could he have not done that – before I could make my escape.

Forced into a corner, I attempted an explanation. ‘No, I -’

‘Next!’ Sam repeated, wagging that finger again, pointing at the chair. ‘If you occupy valuable waiting space in my shop then you must, of course, get a haircut.’ She beckoned me forward, an unrelenting predatory look in her eyes.

I glanced around the empty shop. No one else had entered. I was not taking up any space at all. ‘But that is so unfair,’ I grumbled, waving my arms in despair, feeling like a petulant child despite suppressing my desire to stamp my foot.

‘Whatever …’ Sam smirked at my infantile behaviour, her eyes twinkling mischievously. She turned the door sign to “Closed”, a decisive click echoing in the stillness as she secured the latch. A chill ran down my spine.

She gave me a long, appraising look, her eyes lingering on my long, flowing hair that tumbled past my waist. She tapped a foot impatiently. It was as if I was dreaming, caught in that frustrating slow-motion escape scene, but with my feet only able to step forward.

I found myself moving, a strange magnetism drawing me towards the plush leather of the barber’s chair. Sitting, my mind raced, a nervous thrum vibrating through me. Seeing myself in the mirror, I looked tiny, embraced by the chrome and leather of the huge chair, my feet not even touching the ground.

Swiftly, expertly, Sam draped a crisp white cape over me, its weight and stiffness constraining, leaving me barely able to move.

Suddenly, Sam propelled upwards as she raised the chair to a convenient working height. It was so high off the ground, adding to my feeling of vulnerability and my inability to make a quick escape.

‘I hope you have been thinking what you would like from me, sweetie,’ she prompted, her voice softer now, almost a purr as she lightly ran her fingers through my abundant hair. She clearly loved my long locks as much as I did. Indeed, as much as everyone did. Her gentle touch was delicious, and one I hoped to experience regularly in the future. Then, while still gracefully massaging my scalp, she suddenly jolted me out of my reverie with her soft tone. ‘Do you wish to be bald, sweetie, or have you decided you would prefer your hair longer?’

‘Longer!’ I squealed with a nervous chuckle, the word bursting out of me, assuring her that I did not take her quip seriously. I reasoned that a trim would be fine. It would buy me time to get to know Sam, to converse, to understand this strange, magnetic woman … even if I remained hesitant whether ongoing familiarity was what I desired. ‘Just a couple of inches.’

‘Fine. Two inches,’ Sam confirmed happily, her smile widening.

I felt a surge of relief. I had got my own way, and she was happy with my decision, so I turned my mind to deciding what we should chat about. Discussing academic life seemed inappropriate with a lowly barber. The whims of the weather were too obvious and bland. But music might provide an opportunity, assuming she was not too old to appreciate my favoured artists. Better, I thought, to simply relax and let her talk first.

However, my relief, was short-lived. A familiar sound filled the air, namely the aggressive hum of clippers. Why was I hearing that sound? My eyes widened in the mirror, my heart thudding against my ribs.

And then, shock. Pure, unadulterated shock as the volume became painful and I saw the glinting blade of the menacing hairclippers approach the side of my head.

Sam in Control

Sam forced the shining blade of the hairclippers into the hair above my left ear, a clinical, decisive movement. I watched, as if in a dream, as huge swathes of my long, beloved hair tumbled down, a dark river flowing onto the white cape, leaving my ear starkly exposed, pink, and vulnerable.

Before I could even find the words to remonstrate, before my brain could process what had occurred, she had done the same on the other side. And then she moved behind me, and I felt the blade dig into the back of my head, repeating the awful process. Within seconds, it seemed, little more than a ridiculously short cap of glossy hair remained perched on my head.

‘What …?’ I squealed, horrified by the unbelievable and ugly sight, my voice a strangled whisper.

‘A couple of inches is what you said,’ Sam responded brightly, her eyes dancing with amusement.

‘No, that’s not …’ I whined, my voice rising in protest, but it was too late. ‘Oh no!’

Not satisfied with the damage she had already wrought, Sam was using the bare blade of the hairclippers to shave the back and sides of my head down to the bone. Like a swarm of angry bees, the clippers buzzed around my ears and vibrated on my neck. White skin gleamed, stark and fresh. My ears, hidden for years, now protruded, appearing large and exposed. A blunt fringe, cut sharply high above my eyebrows, left me looking startled.

‘There we go, sweetie, a wonderfully severe bowlcut,’ Sam announced proudly. ‘Replacing all that scruffy nonsense you had covering you before,’ she chuckled unfavourably, gesturing dramatically to the dark mounds of hair covering the floor around my chair. My eyes moistened, remembering her gentle fingering untangling my long locks. The hair I thought she liked. A feeling I could never again experience.

Then, her touch surprisingly tender, she caressed my ear, sending shivers down my spine. ‘You were cute before, sweetie, but I much prefer how you look now … and seeing your charming ears exposed to the world,’ she chuckled, her thumb softly stroking the lobe.

I grasped that my opinion regarding my own appearance counted for precisely nothing.

Me Revealed

Sam lowered the chair and whisked away the stiff white cape with a flourish. Then she brushed my bare shoulders with a lightness that belied the decisiveness of her actions. Her fingers descended to the low neckline of my delicate camisole. They lingered momentarily on my chest, a fleeting, almost imperceptible touch that nevertheless sent a jolt of pleasure through to my core.

‘When you return, sweetie, be completely clear what you want from me, or I will shave you bald,’ Sam warned, her voice losing its jolly tone, replaced by an edge of steel, leaving me in no doubt of her intention.

‘What?’ I squeaked, astonished, my mind still reeling from all that had already occurred. Seriously? After what she had done, did she ever expect me to return to her?

I felt calmer when she moved away from the chair, giving me space to breathe and to gather my thoughts. Opening a small cabinet, she calmly retrieved a bottle of red wine and two glasses, placing them on the shelf under the mirror. She filled one glass, then the other, handing one to me, and clinking hers against it.

‘But that is for the future, sweetie. For now,’ Sam continued merrily, ignoring my exclamation, ‘as I have met your needs, I feel that you should satisfy mine.’ After taking a long, slow sip from her glass, her eyes never leaving mine, she purred. ‘Do you agree?’

I took a large gulp of wine, partly to lubricate my suddenly dry mouth but also to bolster my courage. My gaze flickered to the door, still locked, the frosted glass opaque, blocking out the world beyond. There was no escape. Not that I was entirely sure I wanted to escape anymore.

Having rotated the chair where I still sat, Sam put down her glass and stood in front of me. She slowly, deliberately, unbuttoned her short white dress, revealing glimpses of white lace underwear beneath, exquisitely intricate, a stark contrast to her severe haircut. Her eyes, filled with a potent mix of challenge and promise, held mine. ‘Do you agree,’ she repeated, her timbre even lower.

‘Yes,’ I heard myself breathe, the word a nervous whisper, yet firm, undeniable.

Our Aftermath

Sam’s lips curved into a satisfied smile. Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned the last button of her short white dress, letting the fabric fall open to reveal the intricately patterned white lace beneath. It was exquisite, a stark contrast to her severe flattop haircut. Her eyes, filled with a potent mix of challenge and promise, held mine, daring me to look away, as she placed her knees on the leather seat and hoisted herself upwards to straddle me.

A warmth spread through me, a curious blend of apprehension and an undeniable, thrilling pull. This was new ground for me, terrifying, but utterly captivating.

‘Come here, sweetie,’ Sam purred, her voice a low murmur, as she tilted her head and moved her lips towards mine. My breath hitched as she cradled my bare nape. As her fingers danced lightly over the smooth skin, I quivered with pleasure.

‘Still shocked by your new look, sweetie?’ she whispered, her eyes dancing with amusement, yet also a deep understanding.

I shook my head, unable to form words. Shock, yes, but something else too. A strange sense of liberation, a raw vulnerability that was suddenly, inexplicably, exciting. Her gaze dropped to my lips, and then, slowly, she leaned in.

I could observe her flattop haircut from close quarters for the first time. It was perfect. A testament to precision, each hair standing rigidly to attention, creating a neat, geometric plateau. Ever since I had first seen her, I had been mesmerised by it, an inexplicable craving to touch it, to feel her soft skin against my palm. I longed to run my fingers across its perfectly flat surface, to feel the bristles prickle against my skin, to confirm its unbelievable crispness.

As if sensing my unspoken desire, Sam pulled back slightly from the kiss, her eyes still holding mine, heavy-lidded and warm. A knowing smile played on her lips, a mischievous glint in her eyes. She reached up, gently taking my hand and guiding it towards her head. My fingers trembled as they made contact. The sensation was exhilarating, precisely as I had imagined, yet more intense. The close-cropped bristles were rough under my fingertips, contrasting with the perfectly sculpted back and sides. It was beautiful, architectural, and intensely erotic.

I lost myself in the sensation for a moment, tracing the contours of her scalp, the subtle curve where the flattop met the skin. Her eyes, half-closed, watched my every movement, a deep satisfaction blooming in their depths.

‘You like that, don’t you?’ she breathed, her voice a low purr that vibrated through me.

I nodded, unable to articulate the sheer, overwhelming fulfilment of finally touching it.

‘And that’s exactly how I feel about your bowlcut, sweetie,’ Sam grinned, ‘although perhaps, one day, we can consider taking matters further with your hair … and, indeed, with mine …’

The unplanned sacrifice of my remarkably long hair, once loved by everyone, but now replaced by a severe and uncompromising bowlcut loved by just one, marked only the beginning of my summer.

Epilogue

As I drove home, I recalled the unbelievable hour I had spent with Sam. It was a kaleidoscope of heightened sensations. It was not about pleasure in the conventional sense, but about feeling – deeply, intensely – and about shedding inhibitions, in the same way as I had surrendered my hair.

‘You’ll be back, sweetie,’ she had murmured, her voice a low purr, as she re-buttoned her dress, the white lace disappearing. ‘When you know what you truly want,’ she added enigmatically.

I had been about to blurt out that it was her that I wanted, but she placed a finger on my lips to silence me. A gentle kiss followed, before she unlatched the door, and I reluctantly took my leave.

When I had finally stepped out of Hair by Sam, the world felt different. My scalp, exposed to the breeze, had felt cool and strangely liberated. The weight of my long hair, a constant companion for years, was gone. And, in its place, was an exhilarating lightness that mirrored the lightness in my chest, a curious blend of trepidation and newfound defiance.

As I stopped Cassandra’s Mercedes at traffic lights, my hand instinctively rose to touch the short, blunt fringe that framed my face. Then they traced my shorn sides, feeling the smoothness against my fingertips. I giggled at the memory of Sam’s touch, entertaining the mystified woman who had pulled up next to me.

My bowlcut was, as Sam had so meaningfully put it, severe. Not pretty in the way my old hair had been, but bold, uncompromising, almost aggressive. It felt like a costume, yet it also felt undeniably me, or at least a version of me I was only just beginning to meet. The cool breeze on my ears, once hidden, felt like a revelation, each gust through the open window a reminder of Sam’s touch.

As I floored the Merc away from the lights, I winked at the woman alongside, then giggled again.

= * = * =

I took five minutes to ensure the car I had borrowed from Cassandra, my stepmother, was parallel to the neatly trimmed edge of the drive. Such was her nature, she would have complained at any positioning that had been less precise. And, I realised, with her son’s unexpected headshave and my astonishing haircut she would already have sufficient ammunition to launch an evening of total misery for us both.

What was I going to tell Cassandra, I wondered. The thought of her reaction sent a familiar knot of anxiety twisting in my stomach, but this time tempered by something new, something prickly and defiant. A quiet, rebellious hum vibrated beneath my skin. I had faced Sam, I had surrendered to the unexpected, and I had emerged a changed woman. Cassandra’s impending disapproval, once a crushing weight, now seemed almost insignificant compared to the seismic shift that had just occurred within me.

But then there was poor Jason, and his bald head. Her son’s transformation would hit Cassandra far harder than anything to do with me. However, as Cassandra had not thrown our front door wide open at my arrival, I judged that Jason had not yet returned home!

The familiar path to our house, lined with precisely trimmed rose bushes and a perfectly manicured lawn, felt like a journey into a different dimension. I hesitated at the front door, my hand hovering over the cold brass knocker. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

‘Ramona? Is that you, dear?’ Cassandra’s voice drifted from the living room, even and controlled, as always. With her bridge afternoon over, I envisaged her engaged in one of her intricate embroidery projects, her spectacles perched delicately on her nose.

I walked slowly towards the living room doorway, my heart thumping against my ribs. My new haircut felt shockingly exposed, every inch of my scalp prickling with anticipation. As I stood in the archway, Cassandra looked up from her needlework, her hands still, poised above the intricate floral pattern she was creating.

Her eyes, usually so sharp and discerning, widened infinitesimally, a flicker of disbelief crossing her usually impassive features. Her gaze swept over my head, lingering on the stark lines of the bowl cut, the exposed ears, the blunt fringe. I braced myself for the inevitable onslaught, the tirade about recklessness, about ruining my appearance, about letting myself go.

But silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Cassandra simply stared, her expression slowly morphing from surprise to something else entirely. Not exactly approval, but an odd, thoughtful consideration.

‘Ramona,’ she finally began, her voice calm, devoid of the usual sharp edge I anticipated. ‘My goodness.’

I held my breath, waiting.

She lowered her embroidery hoop to her lap, her fingers idly smoothing the fabric. ‘Well,’ she continued, her head tilting slightly to one side. ‘That is certainly an unexpected and remarkable change.’

I managed a weak nod, but my voice caught in my throat.

‘You know,’ she mused, her eyes still appraising me, ‘I must say, I am rather surprised but, I must confess, not entirely displeased.’

My jaw almost dropped. Whenever anything was different, it always displeased Cassandra, whether justifiable or not.

‘Your previous hairstyle, dear,’ she went on, a faint, almost imperceptible note of disdain entering her voice, ‘while long, tended to look straggly. Unkempt. I know your father liked his little princess to have long hair and hence that is why I held my tongue. But it flopped about your face with all the grace of a wet mop, if I am being perfectly honest.’

I winced inwardly, but a part of me, the new, rebellious part, felt a strange detachment. She was right, in a way. My long hair had become a bit of a burden, a security blanket I had hid behind for years.

‘This,’ Cassandra said, gesturing towards my head, ‘this is infinitely better for a young lady. So neat. So tidy. It frames your face in a most seemly manner, dear, highlighting your cheekbones. And your ears! I am unsure whether I knew that you had such, er, well-defined ears. Your unruly hair hid them away for so long.’

She continued, a faint, almost clinical smile playing on her lips. ‘It shows a certain decisiveness. A maturity. Yes,’ she concluded, her tone firming, as if she had just reached a logical and undeniable conclusion. ‘It is very smart. You look quite respectable.’

Respectable. Neat. Tidy. These were high praises from Cassandra. She had left me dumbfounded. I had expected fireworks, tears, accusations. Instead, I got a measured assessment and a backhanded compliment wrapped in a veneer of approval. Despite her generous praise, I strongly believed the only word that described my hair was “sexy”!

‘Your friends will need to coin a new nickname for you other than Ramona Rapunzel,’ she quipped disturbingly, as Cassandra never made jokes.

I winced, momentarily, at the unsubtle and jarring reminder that Sam had erased my past identity, and that my appearance had irrevocably changed.

‘In fact,’ Cassandra added, her eyes narrowing slightly in contemplation, ‘I might even consider a similar style for myself. Which of the stylists at The Golden Scissors did it for you, as I cannot imagine Mr. Bernard would have created such a severe style. Whoever it was, I hope they did not cut Jason’s hair too,’ she chortled, ‘otherwise he might return here bald.’

Goodness, Cassandra’s cracking jokes now, as well as considering a change to her unvarying hairstyle! I realised Jason had not yet returned, otherwise we would be having a markedly different conversation. One that I was incredibly happy to defer for as long as possible.

‘Yes, Cassandra, it was a different stylist,’ I fudged, deliberately omitting any details of what had occurred with the receptionist, and failing to mention that my hair was not cut at The Golden Scissors.

‘Well, Mr. Bernard is rather stuck in his ways, so a change of stylist might not be such a bad idea,’ Cassandra mused. ‘Perhaps next time we are in town together you could introduce me to …?’

‘Er … Sam,’ I answered in response to her fishing, wondering what my stepmother would make of her. ‘Yes, my bar- … er, barnstorming stylist is called Sam,’ I cleverly confirmed, avoiding her making deductions from Sam’s role as a “barber”.

‘Sam. Samuel. Yes, a good solid name. I like that,’ Cassandra decided. ‘The clipped back and sides, the length on top, and the blunt fringe … all contribute to an air of efficiency. A great deal easier to manage, I imagine, than a long, cumbersome mop that constantly gets in the way.’ She reached up, a thoughtful expression on her face, and touched her own perfectly coiffed updo. ‘Yes, something to consider this summer. Very practical.’

I could only stare at her, my mind reeling. She was not only accepting my severe style, but considering it for herself? This was, in its own way, far more unsettling than an outright explosion. It was not a rebellion to her, but merely a pragmatic and practical choice.

‘It’s true,’ I managed to croak, my voice still raspy, ‘it’s certainly, er, practical.’

‘Yes, of course it is,’ she said, nodding approvingly. ‘A significant improvement, dear. And now, a cup of tea would not go amiss,’ she added, before returning to her embroidery with renewed vigour.

= * = * =

Waiting for the kettle to boil in the kitchen, I turned my head this way and that, admiring myself in the mirror, suppressing, as best I could, the inevitable giggling at the memory of Sam touching it. A loud scream disturbed my protracted appreciation.

‘JASON!’

My stepbrother had, indisputably, returned home … and his mother had seen him. I contemplated hiding the garden and leaving Jason to face his mum’s tirade alone. But as I felt a sense of guilty at having taken him to Sam in the first place, I turned off the kettle and hovered in the doorway of the living room.

‘Hi Mum,’ Jason eventually managed during a gap between his mother’s rantings, looking less sheepish and more courageous than I would have expected. ‘I am now superbly streamlined for swimming,’ he said during another rare pause, quoting Sam’s words from earlier. ‘And spectacularly satisfied,’ he added, chuckling inanely.

It was enough to stop Cassandra in her tracks. She turned to face me, and I readied myself to take my deserved share of her onslaught.

‘I ask you,’ she sighed, raising her arms in exasperation, ‘after all these years how could Mr. Bernard – how could The Golden Scissors – have done this to me.’

Jason looked towards me, seeking guidance, his newfound boldness, unlike his baldness, appearing to have left him. I decided it was not a suitable time to make a joke about it being Jason’s head that was bald and not hers. Besides, it was not poor Mr. Bernard who had done it.

‘Ramona,’ she stated. Here we go, I thought, bracing myself. ‘You will drive me to your new stylist, at your convenience, one day this week. We are never frequenting The Golden Scissors ever again.’

Jason was still looking at me, his eyes widening, and he looked like he was about to correct his mother. I shook my head slightly, and he smiled, playing along.

A strange, almost mischievous anticipation began to bubble within me. I had faced my barber, faced my stepmother, even my stepbrother, and had emerged with a quiet strength I did not know I possessed.

The stage was now set, the players in place. The true drama, I sensed, was about to begin. Meeting Sam, Cassandra would learn that the world was far messier, and far more interesting, than she had ever allowed it to be. I approached it with a mixture of dread and dark amusement.

‘I would be happy to drive you over to Sam’s tomorrow, Cassandra,’ I offered sweetly. ‘Rather inexcusably, I do believe I forgot to leave a suitable tip,’ I explained, stifling my laughter.

‘Marvellous, Ramona,’ my stepmother gushed. ‘And, yes, you must make amends to Sam, as a good stylist must be treasured.’

Oh, she is, I silently agreed.

Let the games begin …