Rising & Falling, Part 3 – Samantha Reacts to The Ultimatum

Moving Forward

For a short while, Samantha and I existed in the strange new reality we had created. Samantha increasingly embraced her masculine persona, relishing the freedom and power it gave her. Sam moved differently in her manly suits and uncompromising flattop haircut but, unquestionably, she remained the object of my affection.

And I, as Michaela, revelled in the control I exerted over her. I never abused that power, but it was reassuring that if I wished us to do something together, she would invariably agree to my desires without question. The strong female personality I was adopting appeared to be what Sam enjoyed when she dressed in formal masculine attire. It was a peculiar dynamic but an immensely satisfying and enjoyable one.

But, as I soon learnt, it was all an illusion.

Shattering Illusions

One morning, feeling content in Samantha’s flat during a relaxed breakfast, my entire world shifted once more.

‘I’ve booked you in with Brenda again,’ she casually announced while buttering her toast, crushing the illusion that I had control.

‘Brenda?’ I asked, confused. ‘But I don’t need another haircut just yet.’

‘Yes, you do,’ she said, a glint in her eye. ‘Brenda has cut it well, but it lies too flat for my liking, and it does not make the best of your features. You will be having a perm.’

A perm? The thought filled me with dread. I imagined myself with a mass of frizzy, uncontrollable curls.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, my voice firm.

‘Too bad, Michaela,’ Samantha said, her voice cold, reasserting the authority she had spared me for a short while. ‘You are going, so change into the red-and-white polka dot dress,’ she insisted, handing me the garment, ‘and you can wear it with this white linen blazer I have bought for you.’

‘Oh, thanks so much, Sam,’ I gushed, admiring the new jacket excitedly, but kicking myself for capitulating so easily. ‘It’s so cute, and they will coordinate perfectly,’ I enthused.

I quickly slipped into the attractive ensemble and found myself slipping back into my former subservient role.

‘You look delightful, Michaela,’ Samantha acknowledged. ‘Well, apart from your hair.’

Her shrewd comment brought me back to reality as we left the flat and marched towards Top Style by Brenda.

Fearful Return

As I hovered behind Samantha in the doorway of the salon, Brenda marched over and greeted me like a long lost relative, rather than a customer she had met only once before.

‘And what an absolutely lovely outfit, Michaela,’ Brenda gushed. ‘Now, please take a seat. I am all ready for you. And you are looking very dapper too, Samantha,’ she added, clearly taken aback by her masculine attire and stark haircut. ‘Er, very dapper.’

I sat in Brenda’s styling chair, paralysed with fear, as she merrily wheeled up a trolley on which stood and an abundance of perming rods, together with a variety of bottles and other equipment.

‘This is going to be so much fun, Michaela,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘We’re going to give you the most amazing curls.’

Samantha stood behind Brenda and, observing I was about to discuss the necessity of a perm with her, she wagged a threatening finger at me. The warning was unambiguous, and my lips stayed firmly closed.

The stylist selected one of the smallest perm rods, sectioned a small strand of my hair, and began winding it. Winding it so tightly, I grimaced.

‘Not too tight, is it, my dear?’ Brenda asked, concern in her voice.

‘Not at all,’ Samantha piped up, just as I was to make a complaint. ‘I read somewhere, that for a first time perm it needs to be extra tight to ensure the bonds in the hair break down completely to create the curl. Isn’t that right Brenda?’ Samantha urged.

‘Well … er …’ Brenda stuttered, looking puzzled. I suspected Samantha was spouting a load of nonsense, but Brenda did not want to openly contradict her. ‘Well, it won’t do any harm to ensure it is curly,’ she suggested diplomatically.

‘In that case, give the rod an extra half a turn, just to be sure,’ Samantha smirked.

Brenda did as Samantha told her, and I yelped with the pain. My eyes were watering.

‘We have to suffer for our beauty, my dear,’ Brenda chuckled as she started on the next section.

I had observed the vast number of small rods heaped on the trolley, and I could not believe she intended using all of them. But she did, and the rolling of each was as painful as the first. Admittedly, once secured, the pain subsided a little but the tension on my scalp persisted. It felt like the rods were pulling out my hair by the roots. When she eventually stopped, I was relieved. But only briefly, as then things got even worse.

Brenda coated the rods with the evil-smelling perming solution. The chemicals burned my scalp, and the odour was overpowering. And she told me that the liquid had to remain in place for a considerable time. During this period, Brenda, oblivious to my discomfort, chatted away to Samantha who was peering at me with undisguised glee.

Eventually the perm solution was neutralised and rinsed, and Brenda painstakingly removed all the perm rods. The relief was immeasurable. A quick blast of my hair with a blow-drier was all that she needed to do to remove the dampness, and then Brenda placed me back in the styling chair facing the mirror.

I gasped. My smooth wedge hairstyle had turned into a riot of extremely tight, unnatural curls, which sprung out from my head at all angles. Not only that, but somewhere along the line, Brenda had transformed the colour of my hair to a shade of burgundy red that picked out the colour of my dress.

‘Oh, that’s taken beautifully,’ Brenda gushed, stretching out one of the ringlets that recoiled like spring when released. ‘I used a different process, involving an extra strong solution and the smallest rods to ensure the tightest of curls, just as Samantha requested.’

I held Samantha’s gaze in the mirror. She smirked back at me, making me realise that I had once again reverted to a pawn in her power game.

‘Now, I’ll shape it with the hairclippers,’ Brenda threated, ‘to give you a really bold, sharper look.’

I had no idea what to expect but I reasoned that it could not get any worse than looking like “Orphan Annie”. Using her hairclippers together with a large comb, she shaped my hair as if she were trimming a garden hedge. Brenda shaved the area around my ears and along the back of my head. Small, coiled springs of hair were bouncing everywhere. I kept my eyes tightly closed.

When she had finally finished, I risked a look. She had sculpted my hair into an extreme geometric bowl-like shape, burgundy red in colour, perched on my crown. When she held up a mirror, I saw that she had shaved the back of my head, leaving a stark contrast between the curls on top and the bare skin below.

In my striking red dress, with my rigidly permed hair complementing its colour, I looked like a fearsome business leader from a bygone era. However, my appearance did not intimidate Samantha in the least. She loved it. She ran her fingers through my curls, her eyes lighting up with admiration and desire.

But the charade could not last. The balance of power had been upset, the game too twisted.

Samantha’s hook was working loose, and it was beginning to lose its power to entrap me.

The Reckoning

Over the next couple of days, Samantha professed her love for my transformed appearance. However, I sensed that her victory of forcing the red curly perm on me was more exciting than how I looked thereafter. Yes, she feigned enthusiasm each evening that we met, but she was less keen that before on me staying for the whole night.

After deeply contemplating how our relationship had changed, I decided how I wanted to proceed. I desired reaffirming the balance of power between us. More than that, I was determined to wrest control back from Samantha and reassert my rightful dominance.

One morning, I visited her unannounced. Her welcome was cool, but she invited me in and offered me coffee, which I accepted. We chatted amiably and I sensed she had something else she would rather be doing. So, I realised I needed to act.

‘Sam, I am taking you to the barber again,’ I announced, my voice cold and devoid of emotion.

She had been delighted with her flattop and was happily preening herself as I was speaking. I could tell she felt good about herself.

‘What?’ she asked, confused. ‘Why?’

‘Because you need to go,’ I said, my voice cold and devoid of emotion. ‘Fasten your shirt collar, and put on a tie,’ I insisted. ‘We’re going now.’

She looked alarmed while busying herself doing as I instructed. ‘A trim?’ she enquired, but I pretended I did not hear, even when she repeated the question.

Joyful Reunion

As soon as Samantha was ready, we headed back to The Dapper Gent, the traditional barbershop manned by Jason. With her sombre charcoal suit, dark grey shirt, and black tie, she looked extremely smart. The recently acquired severe flattop haircut complimented her attire perfectly. Furthermore, the austerity of her appearance matched my solemn mood.

As before, I was wearing my black-and-white checked two-piece suit, this time coupled with a burgundy-red silk blouse, buttoned up to the neck. The cut and colour of the ensemble complemented my drastic clippered perm, lending me an air of strict authority that I was keen to exert.

I pushed open the door of the barbershop, grabbed Samantha’s hand, and dragged her inside. Unlike the previous occasion, I detected resistance from her. I reconciled her reluctance to her having not initiated this visit, and her nervousness about what was going to happen.

Jason, the barber, looked surprised to see us again so soon. I noticed that he diplomatically dipped his eyes away from my recently permed hair, a rufous concoction that had materialised on my head since our last visit.

‘Hello, folks,’ he said, taking a cautious approach to addressing the odd couple. ‘Still looking sharp, Sam. Not really in need of a trim yet, so I do hope nothing is wrong.’

‘Er, um …’ Samantha managed, before I quickly interjected.

‘No, nothing wrong, Jason,’ I clarified briskly. ‘Sam requires a headshave.’

‘What!’ Samantha yelled, her eyes widening, looking more animated than I had seen her all morning. ‘No! What?’

‘I see, Michaela,’ Jason acknowledged thoughtfully, ignoring Samantha. ‘As in bald?’

‘Is there any other sort of headshave?’ I quipped, chuckling, and Jason dutifully joined in. When our laughter had subsided, I embellished what I meant. ‘Smooth like glass, Jason.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Samantha scoffed, hoping I was not being serious.

‘Pristine, so it appears like no hair has ever grown on Sam’s head,’ I went on, extolling my vision, ‘and with a shine as bright as the sun.’

‘Excuse me?’ Samantha gasped, her eyes betraying her inner panic and turmoil. ‘I am here you know!’

Jason and I directed our gaze towards an increasingly frustrated Samantha, then turned to face each other, exchanging a conspiratorial smile.

The barber gestured towards one of the leather chairs. ‘Alright. Have a seat, Sam,’ the barber instructed, echoing his words from our last visit.

‘No! Michaela, you cannot do this to me!’ she wailed. ‘Michael, no!’

‘Yes, I can, Sam,’ I said, my cold eyes locked on hers. ‘You’ve pushed me too far, and now it is time to restore the balance of power.’

As she stood immobile, I grabbed her arm and steered her towards the chair where Jason was waiting. She fell into the seat, allowing the barber to cover her with his cape and pump the chair up to a comfortable working height.

The barber grinned and grabbed his hairclippers.

Samantha pleaded with me, begged me to reconsider, but I was unmoved. I met every complaint with the icy indifference she had frequently displayed towards me in the past.

‘This is for our relationship, Sam,’ I explained in a more conciliatory tone, and her whining suddenly stopped. Her breath hitched. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Samantha finally understood.

I watched, a grim satisfaction creeping into my heart, as the immaculate flattop covering Samantha’s crown disappeared under the blade of the clippers. In a matter of minutes, only a fine pelt of bristles adorned Samantha’s head as she stared straight ahead into the mirror, her expression unreadable.

Silencing the hairclippers, Jason then fetched a bowl in which he whisked up a white foamy substance as if making a cake. Using a brush, he coated Samantha’s entire scalp with shaving cream. She looked extremely vulnerable with just her white head peaking above the cape.

‘Please, Michaela,’ Samantha whined.

My heart hammered against my ribs. ‘Sam, it is what you need, and it is what I want!’ I claimed, my tone holding firm.

She recoiled slightly at my abruptness, but it proved sufficient to keep a lid on her incessant wailing. Noting Jason brandishing a sharp-looking old-fashioned razor above her head may have contributed to her adopting a stiff and silent demeanour.

As the barber placed the bare blade against the hairline at Samantha’s forehead, she winced.

‘Please keep still, Sam!’ Jason ordered firmly. ‘I am extremely experienced at using the razor, but it is extremely sharp. You. Must. Not. Move.’

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.

With practiced efficiency, the barber began scraping away small sections of foam and, with it, any remaining bristles. Resolute, I continued watching, both fascinated and horrified in equal measure, as Jason slowly and gleefully erased the final remnants of Samantha’s femininity.

Following a satisfactory inspection, he buffed Samantha’s head with a cloth. Then he stood back, sighing with professional contentment at a job well done.

I had heard the term “chrome dome” applied to men who had lost all their hair, but never was the term more apt. I studied Samantha’s scalp and not one bristle remained, the skin displaying a pristine whiteness.

Only one of my precise requirements remained outstanding, but Jason soon remedied that.

Reaching for a small bottle on a shelf, the barber filled his cupped palm with a viscous oil. Transferring the liquid to Samantha’s scalp, he used both hands to massage her whole head. Soon, her skin shone like glass.

Unexpectedly, Samantha began to emit a barely audible moan that followed the rhythm of Jason’s moving fingers on her skull. I recognised that familiar sound, and knew, that with her eyes half-closed, she was becoming aroused, a slave to his firm and thorough ministrations.

‘Shaved to the bone,’ the barber accurately declared, the emotive phrase causing Samantha to shudder in the chair as Jason continued to massage her head.

‘Perfect,’ I breathed, noting her ears were even more prominent than with the flattop, but that did not detract from her attractiveness.

Once Jason had finished buffing Samantha’s head to a glistening shine and her quivering had abated, she opened her eyes. She examined her reflection in the mirror, her eyes widened, looking huge without any hair to frame them. She tentatively touched her scalp.

‘That looks good … and it feels good,’ she said, without any emotion and a barely perceptible cold smile. It was as if she was just trying to appease me. ‘Can we go now, Michaela.’

The Assessment

We were silent on the walk back to the flat. I made coffee and we settled down on the sofa. When I reached out to caress her bald head, it felt utterly amazing. But after an all too brief time, she flinched away from me.

‘You have gone too far,’ she said, her voice trembling with anger.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I have not. You have gone too far. And I am not taking your attitude anymore.’

‘I really thought you were the one,’ she whimpered. ‘You have lasted longer than any of the others,’ she acknowledged, ‘but my search continues,’ she concluded dramatically.

On the sofa, head down, she sipped her coffee. I knew she was crying.

‘Everything for a reason, Samantha,’ I offered in consolation. She failed to respond.

I marched to the dressing room and jammed all the outfits I had accumulated into two large suitcases. Returning to the lounge, I kissed Samantha lightly on her shining bald head, and walked out of her flat, tears running down my cheeks.

The hook had come loose. I was free of Samantha’s entrapment. Her game was over.

Epilogue

A week after I had left Samantha’s flat for the last time, I found myself back in the college’s cafeteria, having licked my wounds and feeling ready to rejoin the world. I had known that neither of us would be messaging the other this time.

Since we parted, I had found a different salon to relax my curls and adjust the hairstyle to my liking. I had grown to love the deep red colour. Although I had convinced the reluctant stylist to keep the style partially shaved, she had suggested doing that on just one side to give a stylish asymmetric appearance that looked perfect.

I was unsure what had dragged me back to the cafeteria. I did not expect to see Samantha dutifully waiting for me, regretting her behaviour, and pleading for us to get back together. Or did I, I wondered? And if she did, would I yield? Whatever, it was academic, as she was not there.

Having paid for my coffee, I looked around for somewhere to sit alone. However, it was moderately busy, so I headed over to a table by the window already occupied by one person.

‘Mind if I join you?’ I asked, looking down at the attractive woman seated on the opposite side of the table.

She slowly looked up from her book, her amused eyes dancing over me, a faint smile curling the corners of her lips.

‘Not at all,’ she said brightly, gracefully motioning for me to sit down.

The long flowing dress she wore with its delicate floral print complemented her fluid movements. The plunging neckline added a touch of whimsy to the formality of her gown. Her extremely long chestnut hair flowing loose down her front, over one shoulder, looking like silk, softened her appearance even more.

I had seen the woman around the campus on occasion, but we had never spoken. In my mind, I had named her “The English Rose”. Languidly, she raised a hand that I took in mine. ‘Christine,’ she announced, a charming smile playing on her lips.

‘Michaela,’ I said, lightly shaking her hand, before sitting down, adjusting my clothing as I did so.

‘Michaela?’ she said questioningly, although I did not believe she was expecting an answer, as her eyes roamed over my body once again. ‘I have always admired the Goth style, but I prefer a more understated look.’

‘Like an English Rose?’ I ventured.

‘Exactly,’ she chuckled. ‘However, Michaela, you carry it off extremely well and you look absolutely stunning,’ she added with no trace of sarcasm or contempt for my appearance.

‘Thanks, Christine,’ I blushed, although I doubted it showed with my pale makeup.

When I had left Samantha’s flat, I had included her Goth attire in my packing. I reasoned that she was unlikely to need it again and the striking garments would give me scope to experiment with my look. The red and black corset, the miniskirt comprising layers of black lace over a red satin base, and the thigh-length black leather boots, perfectly complemented my burgundy-red haircut. Well, I believed they did, and it was heartwarming that Christine agreed.

We talked. Really talked. About books, and about music, even touching on the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. Even after just an hour or so, I was convinced that it was the start of something special.

Unexpectedly, she posed a question. ‘So, do you think I should change my style, Michaela? Adopt the Goth aesthetic, for example?’ she asked, her eyes twinkling.

An idea sparked in my mind, a dark and unsettling impulse. ‘Change is good, but evolving your own style is important.’

‘Go on …’ she urged, clearly intrigued.

For a brief period, I studied her critically. ‘I suggest you dispense with the long floral dresses. I suspect that you have tired of that dated look. Wear trousers, or even a suit, so that you project a stronger image to match your character.’

‘Interesting,’ she giggled. ‘And do you think I should, er, wear a shirt and tie with my, er, suit?’ she asked, her voice hitching.

‘Yes, you certainly should,’ I confirmed.

She looked shocked by my blunt assessment and appeared to be turning over my words in her mind before she spoke again. ‘And what about my lovely long hair?’

‘That would need cutting short,’ I stated matter-of-factly. ‘Very short indeed.’

‘Thought so,’ she chuckled nervously, and she became contemplative once more.

She had left me dangling. I wondered if I had been too open with my peculiar thoughts.

‘So, I need to be rid of all the trappings of femininity that I currently exhibit,’ she summarised. ‘You would mould me, shape me, transform me into something more agreeable?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow.

I drew a deep breath, realising I had been stupid to expect to find the one … again! And in the cafeteria of all places!

‘Exactly, Chris,’ I confirmed. ‘Change you into something more to my liking. Even, the object of my affection,’ I ventured.

‘It’s Christine,’ she snapped primly. ‘Never, Chris.’

‘It has been Christine,’ I pressed. ‘But it will be “Chris” … as soon as we have completed your transformation.’

I could see the penny drop. Her eyes widened, and she giggled. ‘Well, Michaela, when do we start?’

I had hooked Christine, I had entrapped her, and the game had started once again.

The End