Sam the Barnstorming Barber Encounters the Classic Cassandra

A sequel to ‘Ramona Rapunzel Encounters Sam the Barnstorming Barber’, written for standalone enjoyment without having necessarily read the original story, but summarised below to provide a reminder of the storyline and the characters involved

Previously, with Ramona Rapunzel …

I had just returned from my second year at university for the long summer break, a time for relaxation and enjoyment, and avoiding anything that resembled responsibility. Dad was still away on business, so I was sharing the house with Cassandra, my stepmother, and her son, Jason.

Jason, reclusive and shy, attended the local college but still seemed incapable of making even the smallest decision without his mother’s approval. His conservative hair, previously trimmed with meticulous regularity by Mr. Bernard at The Golden Scissors, had been too long for a young guy, especially one who loved to swim.

A day earlier my life had taken an unexpected turn. Cassandra had, with her usual unyielding tone, asked me to drive Jason to get his hair cut at the classy salon they usually frequented. On arrival we discovered there was an error regarding his appointment. Looking for options, I led an anxious Jason, to a nearby establishment down a narrow lane. Hair by Sam it announced, at indicated No Appointment Necessary. It was a small gentlemen’s barbershop, with frosted glass obscuring the interior. When we went inside, we found a single old-fashioned barber’s chair, and a worn wooden bench for waiting customers.

And then there had been Sam, or Samantha. In her early thirties, she had worn a white tailored dress that hugged her tall, athletic figure, giving her a clinical air. But it had been 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. A masculine style, termed a flattop, yet she looked, uncompromisingly feminine and stunningly exotic.

With no guidance from Jason or I, Sam had decided to shave Jason smooth so that his scalp gleamed like a polished pearl. Jason himself was delighted as it was perfect for his passion of swimming and, just for once, he appeared unworried by what his mother might think.

Sam had completely entranced me. Known as Ramona Rapunzel since childhood on account of my incredibly long hair, I had meekly surrendered to the barber’s desire to totally transform me. Sam had shaved the back and sides of my head down to the bone, exposing my ears. Cutting a short fringe, had revealed my forehead, giving me a severe bowlcut. Initially, I was extremely annoyed. However, progressively, my infatuation, her proximity, and the thrill transformation had let to arousal, freeing me from my irritation. This had led to us enjoying a steamy after-hours session in the shop that evening. When I left, I felt transformed, both inside and out, looking forward to our next encounter.

= * = * =

Cassandra had never been a fan of my former abundant tresses. She had deemed them straggly and unkempt, flopping about with all the grace of a wet mop. Cassandra’s opinion was that hair should be not too short, not too long, and always tidy. When I had arrived home, she judged that my bowlcut was perfectly neat and tidy. She had even contemplated replacing her constant elaborate updo for something similar herself.

= * = * =

I had led Cassandra to believe her family’s long-standing stylist, Mr. Bernard at The Golden Scissors, had been responsible for her son’s shaved head, not mentioning a mix-up with the bookings. So, because she considered Mr. Bernard’s at fault for not simply trimming her son’s hair, she wished to have a consultation with my new stylist. We agreed to visit Sam the next day.

Cassandra had said she was excited to meet “Samuel”. Mischievously, relishing the impending chaos, I had not told her that Sam was a barber, or that she was a woman. I was curious to see what my stepmother would make of Samantha!

Preparing Ourselves

‘Please can you drive this morning, dear,’ Cassandra requested politely, handing me the keys to her precious Mercedes for the second day running. ‘I confess that I am feeling a tad nervous over what may occur this morning.’

‘No problem,’ I happily confirmed as were about to leave the house. ‘But no need to be anxious, Cassandra, as Sam is lovely, and think how exciting it will be to embrace a change of image.’

I noted Cassandra’s hair was in its usual precise and perfectly coiffed updo. Remembering I had never seen her hair loose, not even in a ponytail, I realised I had no idea how long it was. I sometimes wondered, as a prank, about asking dad if she went to bed with her hair in an updo, but I decided he would not thank me for asking!

Cassandra was wearing a smart black-and-white checked suit, with the skirt just above the knee, coupled with a crisp white blouse tied with a bow at the neck. Along with accessories, she sported a classic ensemble that, while neat and tidy, was boring and added ten years or more to her age. I had often wondered about suggesting adjustments to her look so she would appear more stylish. However, she preferred to take fashion advice, such as it was, from her clones at the bridge club. Even after the five years since she married dad, she did not encourage such intimacy, and our relationship remained a polite truce.

That morning, Cassandra would have found it easy to decide how to present as her style never altered. But I was up at 6am and had flipped between a considerable variety of outfits. Sam had seen me the previous day in my favourite denim miniskirt and lace camisole top, so I felt wrong to dress the same way.

It had only been twelve hours since my haircut, and I was still figuring out what outfits complemented such a severe style. Should I dress down to reflect my hair’s austerity and severity, I wondered, or did I need to choose something to give it a lift. In the end, I settled on a strikingly short red summer dress with white polka dots, puffed sleeves, and a plunging neckline. It was very feminine, presenting a jarring contrast with my new hair … and I loved it! I hoped Sam would too!

I felt a thrill of mischievous delight as Cassandra covertly eyed my outfit, her lips pressed into a thin line, no doubt battling whether to criticise my choice. ‘Time to go, Romana,’ she admitted, pulling the front door closed behind us.

Returning to Sam

‘Er, The Golden Scissors is this way, dear,’ Cassandra indicated towards the high street, chuckling condescendingly.

‘Sorry, I thought I told you, Cassandra. I went to a different stylist,’ I explained, leading her down the lane towards Hair by Sam. ‘Just down here.’

‘Oh, Ramona, I thought you meant a different stylist at The Golden Scissors,’ Cassandra admitted, sounding concerned.

‘No, Sam works from a different establishment,’ I clarified, gesturing towards the small shopfront. Hair by Sam appeared in bold italics above the frosted glass window, with Gentlemen’s Barber in mercifully smaller letters below.

‘A barber!’ my stepmother shrieked disbelievingly, looking anxiously along the lane, her poised facade cracking ever so slightly.

‘Yes, Cassandra,’ I chuckled, enjoying her rare display of unease. ‘We’re here!’

‘But … but, this is a men’s barbershop,’ she cried, stopping dead in her tracks. ‘No … I simply cannot go …’ Her voice trailed off, a note of genuine distress obvious.

‘Come along,’ I said excitedly, taking charge as my stepmother showed uncharacteristic nervousness. The thought of witnessing Cassandra’s reaction to Sam’s persona was thrilling.

Cassandra took a deep breath, adjusted the bow on her crisp blouse, and followed me in. The bell above the door jingled, a cheerful sound in the quiet space. Sam was on her knees, rummaging in a cupboard beneath the mirror. All we could see was a white garment covering her back – that delectable tight white dress – and the shaved back of her head contributing to her flattop hairstyle.

‘Excuse me, sir!’ Cassandra barked, her voice regaining its usual crispness when Sam ignored the bell and continued rummaging, oblivious to our presence.

Hearing my stepmother’s summons, Sam unfurled from the floor like a cat waking up and rose to her full intimidating height. She spun around, her bright, intelligent eyes falling on Cassandra.

‘Good morning, madam,’ she said pointedly, her lips tilting into a subtle, knowing smile.

‘You are a woman,’ Cassandra stated, her eyes widening slightly as she noticed the elaborate text over the mirror, which clearly read “Samantha”.

‘Yes, madam, last time I looked,’ Sam quipped, looking down and weighing her breasts with two cupped hands through the thin material of her white dress. It was a brazen, unapologetic gesture that made Cassandra flush scarlet with embarrassment.

‘Well, really,’ Cassandra spluttered, but, ever pragmatic, she moved quickly on. ‘I am Cassandra Henderson, and Ramona, here, is my stepdaughter. Yesterday, you cut her long straggly hair into a quite beautiful style.’

‘Yes, she does look beautiful, doesn’t she,’ Sam admitted. ‘Especially in that lovely red polka dot dress,’ she added, keeping a straight face but winking at me when she thought Cassandra was not looking. My heart gave a little flutter.

On hearing those words, my ever-watchful stepmother did a double-take of the two of us, inspecting us warily, attempting to discover something she may have missed. ‘Yes, well, that’s as may be, Samantha,’ emphasising her full name. ‘But as you clearly have a remarkable talent for cutting neat and tidy hairstyles then I suggested that Ramona bring me to you for a consultation.’ Cassandra managed to sound both condescending and expectant. ‘Although I had anticipated that you to be working alongside Mr. Bernard at The Golden Scissors.’

‘Ah, the lovely Mr. Bernard,’ Sam gushed. ‘I know him well – professionally that is – but he is rather stuck in his ways,’ she sighed. ‘And, if I may be so bold, I do see his dated influence with your elegant updo.’

‘Well, really …’ Cassandra spluttered at the veiled insult, but as she had expressed the same to me the previous day she could hardly disagree. ‘So, Samantha,’ she snapped, reasserting her authority over proceedings, ‘a consultation, please.’

‘It will be my pleasure, Mrs. Henderson. Please take -’ Sam began, gesturing to the barber chair.

‘However, I was not aware you were a gentlemen’s barber,’ Cassandra interrupted, her eyes sweeping over the decidedly austere surroundings. ‘So, Samantha, I am doubtful that I will permit you to restyle my hair,’ she remarked haughtily.

‘We’ll see,’ Sam said confidently, her gaze unwavering, a challenge in her eyes.

Cassandra gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. The game continued.

Consulting with Cassandra

‘Please, Mrs. Henderson, do take a seat. A consultation costs nothing but a brief period of your time. And from what I understand, you are here because you are considering a change. A change that may be substantial if Ramona’s transformation is influencing your thoughts.’

Cassandra hesitated, her gaze flicking between Sam’s bold gaze and the stark simplicity of the barber chair. She was a creature of habit and order, and this austere place, this audacious woman, was an affront to both. Yet, it was obvious she felt an undeniable pull, a curiosity sparked by the sheer radical transformation of my own hair. She smoothed imaginary creases from her skirt suit and, with a sniff of disdain, finally settled herself stiffly onto the plush, worn leather of the barber chair.

Sam moved with a quiet efficiency, circling Cassandra, her movements fluid and economical. ‘So, Mrs. Henderson,’ Sam began, her voice calm and professional, though a hint of her earlier mischief lingered, like smoke in the air. ‘You’re considering a change. Tell me, what is it about your current style that you find, shall we say, less than ideal? Or rather, what is it you hope to achieve with a new one?’

Cassandra’s jaw tightened. ‘My hair is perfectly adequate,’ she stated, her voice tight. ‘It always has been. Mr. Bernard has tended to it for years,’ she sniffed haughtily. ‘However, I saw Ramona’s fresh style. It is very neat. Very tidy. Exactly as hair should be.’

She paused, her eyes darting towards Ramona’s bowlcut, then back to Sam’s flattop, a flicker of something unreadable in her gaze.

‘And with Jason’s recent development, I thought it might justify a fresh approach. Though I must confess, I still do not understand how Mr. Bernard could have been so brutal with my poor son.’

Sam’s lips twitched. ‘Ah, Jason’s “recent development”,’ she mused, her eyes meeting mine for a fleeting moment, conspiring with me not to tell my stepmother who had cut her son’s hair. ‘Yes, a liberating choice for him, wouldn’t you agree? Especially for a keen swimmer.’

‘Perhaps …’ Cassandra huffed.

Sam turned her attention back to Cassandra’s updo, her fingers briefly touching the tightly coiled hair. ‘Your hair, even in this exquisite updo, speaks volumes, Mrs. Henderson. Precision, control … a certain rigidity. And, I imagine, a remarkable length, hidden away in its folds.’ Sam’s fingers gently probed beneath the coils, tracing the hidden expanse of Cassandra’s hair. ‘So, have you never worn it loose?’

Cassandra bristled. ‘No, of course not! It would be most unseemly for someone of my … er, disposition,’ deliberately replacing the word “age” at the last minute! ‘My hair is difficult to manage when loose. Untidy. It would go all over the place.’

Sam hummed softly, a non-committal sound. ‘Refinements are possible. The length trimmed, layers added, weight removed, contributing to an improved presence, Mrs. Henderson. But I understand your preference for control. Your current style, while certainly tidy, completely masks your hair’s true potential. It is like a beautifully wrapped present that has never opened.’

Sam pulled a section of hair from the top of Cassandra’s updo. She let it fall freely for a moment before quickly pinning it back into place when her uninvited touch received a very pointed look of irritation.

Turning away from the mirror for a moment, Sam turned to face me, a look of sheer exasperation clouding her features. It was a frequent reaction from people when they encountered my stepmother! ‘Samantha!’ she mimed, in a mock warning, slapping the back of her wrist softly for emphasis. I bit my lip to stop myself from bursting with laughter.

Cassandra missed nothing. ‘What?’ she barked, turning her head, realising something was going on behind her back. But we both remained silent, doing our best to maintain an innocent expression.

‘And those unchanging views on hair,’ Sam said, recalling her analysis from earlier, ‘namely “not too short, not too long, precisely the right length, and always tidy”. These are good principles, Mrs. Henderson. But “right” in this content is subjective. What if “right” could also be strikingly modern? What if “tidy” could also be a statement?’

Cassandra frowned, intrigued despite herself. ‘A statement?’

‘Indeed. Look at Ramona’s haircut,’ Sam said, gesturing towards me. ‘It is neat. Tidy. But it is also unapologetic, bold, and frankly, powerful and liberating. And you, Mrs. Henderson, radiate power. You demand respect. Why shouldn’t your hair reflect that?’ Sam, despite the absence of an invitation, began to slowly, deliberately unpin Cassandra’s elaborate updo. Pin after pin came out, each one placed carefully on the counter beside her. Cassandra sat frozen, a deer in the headlights, as the coiled fortress of her hair began to loosen.

Finally, with the last pin removed, Cassandra’s hair cascaded down, a dense, dark curtain around her shoulders that tumbled down to the middle of her back. It was thick, slightly wavy, and clearly healthy, despite being perpetually bound. As I had never seen it loose before, I found it shocking to see it unleashed, a wildness that seemed utterly out of place on Cassandra.

Sam ran her fingers through the long strands. ‘As I suspected your hair has beautiful condition and texture. Keeping it this length, Mrs. Henderson, and constantly pinning it up does it a disservice.’ She stood back, studying Cassandra’s face, her profile, the set of her shoulders. ‘You say “not too short, not too long”.’ I propose a length that is exactly “right” for you. A style that is exquisitely tidy but sculpted with an edge. A timeless hairstyle that we refer to as “The wedge”.’

Cassandra gasped. ‘What? A … a wedge!’ she exclaimed breathlessly, and Sam merely nodded, although I had no idea what that name implied.

Explaining the Restyle

‘But, Samantha, that style is, er … it is incredibly short, especially at the nape,’ she stammered, her hand instinctively going to the back of her neck. ‘And angled sharply? It is like Olympic ice skaters frequently had?’

I knew nothing about The Olympics or ice skaters so that did not help me picture the style. Moreover, I was surprised my stepmother knew anything about skating. I tried to picture her gliding over the ice with short hair, wearing a smart suit and blouse, and had to reign in my laughter.

‘Precisely, Mrs. Henderson,’ Sam said, her voice rich with conviction. They adopted the style both for practicality and smartness in their chosen profession. ‘Short at the nape, building into a clean, strong line up to the crown, framing the face with sharp, precise angles. Very tidy. Very neat. No flopping. No straggling. Each line planned, each curve intentional. It is a cut for a woman of power and conviction, Mrs. Henderson, that commands attention without being ostentatious. Professional, yet unequivocally modern, it is the ultimate “control” haircut with every strand exactly where it should be, yet it broadcasts strength, not suppression.’

Cassandra sat in stunned silence following Sam’s convincing speech. She looked at me, then back at Sam. Her mind was clearly warring with itself. The traditionalist in her screamed “no!”, but the part of her that had been intrigued by the neatness of my bowlcut, was listening.

‘Will, it be very short,’ Cassandra whispered timidly, her voice barely audible, willing Sam to say otherwise, but she was disappointed.

‘Yes, it will be conspicuously short, but I will tailor the style to exactly the “right” length to suit you, Mrs. Henderson,’ Sam replied, her eyes unwavering. ‘It will enhance your best features, and it will take moments to manage, saving you a great deal of time each day. Constantly neat, without hiding behind elaborately constructed updos.’

There was a long pause. I held my breath, watching the battle play out on Cassandra’s usually impassive face. This was it. The decisive moment.

‘You, er … you truly believe this would suit me, Samantha?’ Cassandra asked, her voice tinged with a vulnerability I had rarely heard.

‘I don’t just believe it, Mrs. Henderson,’ Sam said, picking up a comb and a pair of wickedly sharp scissors, letting them gleam in the light. ‘I know it.’

Cassandra looked at me, then at the tools in Sam’s hands, then at her own long, now unleashed hair spilling over the back of the chair. A strange, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her. ‘Very well,’ she said, her voice firmer this time, an unexpected resolve in her eyes. ‘Do it. But I expect it to be very precise. And very tidy.’

Sam smiled, a genuine, warm smile that transformed her clinical demeanour. ‘Precision is my middle name, Mrs. Henderson. Please, allow me hang up your jacket for you and then we can begin.’

Clippering the Tresses

I watched as the familiar stiff white cape billowed over Cassandra, fully enveloping her, with Sam fastening it securely at her nape. I remembered how vulnerable I had felt in that chair a day earlier, amplified when Sam pumped it up to a comfortable working height. Judging from my stepmother’s expression she was feeling equally helpless.

Sam combed through Cassandra’s hair, allowing it to cascade down the back of the chair, contrasting with the starkness of the cape. Smiling, she reached forward to select her largest hairclippers from a hook next to the mirror.

‘Hair … er, hairclippers, Samantha?’ Cassandra questioned uncertainly, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Yes, Mrs. Henderson,’ Sam confirmed boldly, not hiding her excited anticipation. ‘I will remove your excess hair swiftly and cleanly before entering the artistic phase of your transformation.’

With a loud roar, the hairclippers came to life. Cassandra stiffened, her eyes wide as Sam brought the cold metal to the nape of her neck. The deep thrum of the motor echoed in the quiet shop, a raw, almost primal sound. A long, thick swathe of dark hair slipped down the back of the chair, a shocking contrast against the pristine fabric, before coiling at her feet. Cassandra flinched, but she did not pull away.

Continuing the line she had established, Sam adjusted her position and repeated the action on both sides of Cassandra’s head until she had dispatched all the long hair to the floor. Despite her locks having been shorter than mine, a sizable mound had collected at her feet. The barber had left Cassandra with a shapeless long bob that ended just below the level of her chin, failing to reach her shoulders. Put simply, it looked awful.

Cassandra let out a long, low sigh as Sam silenced the hairclippers, suggesting she had been holding her breath throughout her initial shearing. ‘That was horrible,’ she complained. ‘It looks horrible.’

‘There is a long way to go yet, Mrs. Henderson,’ Sam said, tapping her shoulder to provide a degree of comfort. ‘And plenty of hair to go as well,’ she chuckled, but my stepmother, unamused, did not.

Sam partitioned a large section of hair on Cassandra’s crown, combed it through, and pinned it in place. The rest of her badly bobbed hair hung down from the precise parting Sam had created around her head. Taking the hairclippers again, and using a comb to lift long tendrils, she ran the blade over the comb, reducing the unpinned hair to a fine pelt of around five millimetres.

‘Oh, my goodness!’ she exclaimed as Sam severed her tresses and they scattered over the white cape, gathering in her lap. ‘This is all going so fast,’ she whined.

‘Thank you,’ Sam said, deliberately, I imagined, misinterpreting her complaint. ‘That gives us an idea of your head shape now I have removed the bulk. I will sharpen up the edges during the final stages.’

Cassandra’s eyes widened, but she remained silent, no doubt contemplating how much shorter than five millimetres Sam could make it. The clippers moved quickly, Sam efficiently, clearing the back of her neck with practiced ease. The fine downy hairs at her nape vanished, revealing smooth, pale skin.

Satisfied with her progress, Sam unpinned the top section. Briefly, the longer hair covered the areas Sam had just clippered, the style resembling an avant-garde undercut. It amused me to think of my stepmother having such an edgy style, but it did not last long once Sam had retrieved her scissors and comb.

Lifting the hair with the comb, section by section, she merrily snipped away with sharp, decisive cuts. More heavy locks tumbled, Cassandra’s old identity gradually disappearing. The sound was surprisingly loud in the small shop, each snip like a tiny, final judgment on her past conservatism.

Sam worked with an artistry that was mesmerising. She was no longer just a barber, but an architect, sculpting her creation from raw material. Although I had not known the origin of the style’s name, “the wedge” began to take on a distinct shape, the stark lines emerging with startling clarity. Diagonal cuts angled upwards from the short nape, building volume and creating a distinctive silhouetted ledge high up the back of her head.

Tilting Cassandra’s head, Sam used her fingers to expertly guide the hair, her eyes constantly checking the mirror, ensuring perfect symmetry. She sharply cut the hair at the sides, framing Cassandra’s ears, which were now elegantly exposed.

The solid weight of Cassandra’s unlayered hair, a constant presence for years, simply vanished, replaced by a feathered lightness that I could almost feel from where I sat.

Cassandra watched the transformation in the mirror, her expression a mix of apprehension and a dawning, almost fearful fascination. Each snip revealed more of her neck, more of the sharp angles forming around her face. Unlike my blunt fringe, Sam had created sweeping layered bangs that swept back from her forehead, leaving her looking strikingly authoritative, fiercely intelligent, and surprisingly youthful.

‘I could leave the clippered back and sides a uniform length as they are,’ Sam explained, ‘but, with your elegant neck and delightful ears, Mrs. Henderson, I would like to fade those clippered areas to make your finest assets really stand out.’

‘Fade?’ Cassandra echoed, her confused voice suggesting that she was struggling to make sense of what was happening.

‘Yes, Mrs. Henderson. Like mine,’ Sam explained, leaning over, taking one of Cassandra’s hands from under the cape, and placing her fingers at her hairline. I could not help but feel a twinge of jealousy, remembering I had joyfully practiced that role the previous evening. ‘So, under the wedge at the top, the clippered hair will remain the length it is now. But then, using a trimmer, I -’

‘Oh, my goodness, Samantha,’ Cassandra chirped wondrously. ‘That feels lovely. Like velvet.’

‘Precisely. So, I will use the trimmer with a fine comb to gradually reduce the length until, at the hairline, I will shave it right down to the skin.’

‘Shaved?’ Cassandra echoed disbelievingly. ‘Down to the skin?’ Then she seemed to visibly calm herself. ‘Sure, why not. In for a penny …’ she chuckled.

Selecting a small trimmer, Sam proceeded to fade the back and sides of my stepmother’s head, The fine pelt at the top changed to a black velvet pelage further down, culminating in pristine white skin gleamed through at the hairline.

Finally, Sam put down her equipment, lowered the chair, removed the cape, and stepped back. She picked up a fine brush and gently swept the stray hairs from Cassandra’s face and shoulders. ‘There, Mrs. Henderson,’ she announced, her voice soft but firm. ‘Your new look.’

Assessing the Transformation

Cassandra stared at her reflection. Her face, usually so composed, was momentarily blank. The severe wedge haircut was undeniably radical for her. It was sharp, precise, devoid of softness apart from the crafted layers sweeping back away from her forehead and framing her ears.

The length was exactly as Sam had promised. It was short at the nape, rising to a strong, clean line that hugged the back of her head. It was a power cut, uncompromisingly bold, yet still exquisitely neat and tidy. The length was “right”, crafted by Sam and tailored especially to Cassandra’s appearance.

My stepmother reached up, tentatively touching the smooth, closely shorn nape, then the sharp, defined line of the wedge. Her fingers traced the angles, as if mapping this unfamiliar territory. She turned her head from side to side, observing the severe precision from every angle. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips as she quivered with delight.

‘It truly is very neat,’ Cassandra finally said, her voice still a little breathless, her eyes meeting Sam’s in the mirror. ‘And extremely tidy.’ She paused, then added, with a hint of something new, something that bordered on pride, ‘And exceedingly precise.’

She looked at me, her gaze lingering on my own bowlcut, a silent acknowledgment of our shared rebellion. I nodded in silent confirmation that I wholeheartedly approved of her appearance. Not only did the style suit her perfectly, but it also took more than ten years from her age. She was no longer one of Mr. Bernard’s updo clones that gathered at the bridge club. She had blossomed into something entirely different.

‘Thank you, Sam,’ she gushed, truncating her name for the first time. She pressed a bundle of cash into Sam’s hand, including am extremely generous tip. ‘I shall be returning to you regularly, Sam, and you may call me Cassan- … er, you may call me Cassie.’

What? Did I hear right, I wondered? Anyone that called her Cassie in the past would have been severely reprimanded … even my dad! Sam had clearly made an impression on my stepmother.

‘However, Sam, I suspect I will not be spending as much time with you as Ramona will be,’ she chuckled knowingly.

‘What?’ Sam and I snapped in unison, the looks of astonishment on both of our faces clear. ‘Oh, er … what do you mean, Cassandra?’ I questioned mildly, aiming for an innocent tone but feeling worried.

Improving the Future

‘Do not look so shocked, the two of you. I saw the chemistry between you as soon I walked in. I am not completely blind you know. And, if I was as young as you have made me look and feel, Sam, then I might be fighting my daughter for you … well, if I was not married to her father,’ she tittered.

My jaw dropped. I had never heard Cassandra talk about such subjects in this way. Or call me her daughter, rather than stepdaughter.

Cassandra stood, and Sam helped her on with the suit jacket. She admired her hair in the full-length mirror, running her fingers up her nape, and smiled. Taking in her whole reflection, she sighed with satisfaction. ‘However, Sam, you will have to wait to get your hands on Ramona as my daughter and I are going to enjoy a coffee together. Then we will be hitting the fashion stores. She will be helping me select some more fashionable outfits to complement my edgy new haircut, crafted by my wonderful barnstorming barber.’

It was not just my stepmother’s hair that Sam had transformed but she had improved her whole personality for the better. ‘I’ll be back later, Sam,’ I called out over my shoulder, turning back and winking as I made my way to the door. Intertwining my arm with Cassandra’s, I smiled. ‘Right, Mum, let’s go!’