Prologue

The sticky heat of the island wraps around me like a damp blanket the moment I step outside. It is a stark contrast to the air-conditioned chill of my city office, the place that held me captive until I finally broke free for this holiday. My shoulders still hold tension from all the deadlines and late nights, but the sun is starting to melt it away. Almost.

My butt-length hair, my pride and joy, usually feels like a silken waterfall down my back. Here, in the humidity and drenched by the sea, it is becoming a straw-like burden. The beautiful blonde ends are brittle, splitting higher and higher up the shaft with every dip in the ocean and every hour under the relentless sun. My long hair specialist back home, the magician who keeps it looking perfect, can fix the damage later, but I need to stop it getting worse now. A simple trim, just the dry tips, that is all I need.

I have plaited my hair into two thick braids today, looped forward over my shoulders for comfort in the heat. It reaches past my waist, the two heavy, blonde ropes unique and eye-catching. I am wearing a lightweight lace camisole top and my favourite denim miniskirt, radiating a simple, cool look for tourists in paradise.

The Search

I start my search near the hotel. The first salon, all bright lights and polished chrome, looks promising but insists on making appointments beforehand. The receptionist points to a small, framed sign, in a language I could not read, shaking her head. Despite the relaxed atmosphere, she gestured to the computer on the desk, suggesting it is the sole gateway to nabbing a stylist. I try explaining, using my hands to show a tiny snip, saying “trim, just the ends”, but her polite smile does not waver, and neither does her refusal.

The second place, a little further out, perhaps more for local people but still looking quite upmarket, is the same story. They shake their heads, gesturing to a dog-eared diary on the reception desk, full of scribbles and rubbing out, with barely a gap of white paper showing. It is frustrating. All I want is ten minutes and a pair of scissors.

Dejected, I wander into the less touristy streets. The air here is thick with cooking smells and the sound of chatter. I spot a salon that looks completely different. The sign is faded, the paint around the window is peeling, but through the glass, I see it is busy. A bustling salon must be a good sign, right? Plenty of customers means they know what they are doing.

I take a deep breath, a flutter of trepidation in my stomach. Bonni’s Parlor does not look like the places I am familiar with, but it is busy. They must be able to fit me in for a quick trim.

The Parlor

Stepping inside Bonni’s Parlor, the noise hits me, vastly different from the relaxed and sophisticated atmosphere of the place near the hotel. The sound of chatter, buzzing clippers, the rhythmic snip of scissors, and the roaring of hairdryers, fills the air. There are several women working, all looking slightly frazzled, their hands full with clients, mostly women and children. The floor is littered with mounds of dark hair clippings.

My eyes scan the room, and I catch the gaze of one stylist. She seems a little less frantic, more in control, than the others, though still busy. Above the cracked, slightly mottled mirror in front of her is a handwritten card, proclaiming herself to be “Bonni”. The owner, I presume. She is plump, wearing a floral apron over her clothes, and her own shoulder-length hair is a tumble of dark curls.

I walk over to her, trying my best to explain. I hold up one of my long braids, miming tiny snipping motion with my fingers. ‘Trim,’ I say, ‘Just the ends. Very little.’ I even raise my voice slightly, the way tourists stereotypically when they think it helps to overcome the language barrier. My behaviour feels silly and childish, but I am desperate.

‘Yes, ma’am, sit, sit,’ she says, nodding enthusiastically. She gestures towards a long bench along the back wall. Patiently waiting local women and fidgeting kids are stuffing it full. ‘You. Sit!’ she repeats when I do not move quickly enough, jabbing a finger towards the bench.

The Bench

I look at the bench, then back at Bonni. There is absolutely no way I can squeeze onto that bench without sitting on someone’s lap. ‘Not much room,’ I say, waving my hand apologetically towards the bench. ‘I stand. Here. It is fine.’

She looks puzzled for a second, then her face lights up with a bright smile. ‘Yes, ma’am, I understand,’ she says breezily, nodding vigorously. I gather she thinks that I said, “I understand”.

‘Mushroom, ma’am?’ she asks, tilting her head slightly, a curious expression on her face.

My brain stutters. Mushroom? Did she think I asked for mushrooms, magic or otherwise? ‘No, no,’ I say, trying again. I shake my head. ‘Not mushroom. Not much room,’ I explain, pointing at the bench again. ‘It is fine. I stand.’ I nod, pleased that my words and gestures seem to be getting through this time.

‘Ah. Fine. Mushroom,’ she repeats. Okay, she is obviously mishearing some of what I say But I just nod again, hoping “fine” is the operative word in this context, and she gets that I am standing until she is ready.

She suddenly jabs a finger more demonstratively, towards the bench and the wall behind it, reiterating her instruction. I am vaguely aware that there are framed photos there, slightly faded, but they add little to the situation that was occurring. I was not planning to admire her pictures while I waited. Besides, I am giving my attention to typing a quick message to my friend back at the hotel, telling her where I am.

‘Understand, ma’am!’ the stylist says again, making sure she has my attention.

I look up, distracted by my phone but eager to show I am following along. I nod eagerly, giving her a thumbs up. Yes! She understands! But then I frown internally. Why does she keep implying there is much room? I really do not want to squeeze onto that bench with those kids.

The Clarification

I stay standing, finishing my message, hovering awkwardly. Bonni needs to be absolutely clear about how much of my hair I want cut. I hold up my thumb and forefinger, leaving about one and a half inches between them. ‘Just trim the ends,’ I say slowly, more loudly, looking directly at her. ‘Just the tips. Little bit.’

Suddenly, Bonni’s eyes widen, not with confusion, but with excitement. I see it dawn on her face. ‘Tips,’ she murmurs under her breath, and her colleague next to her chatters away excitedly in their own language. Then it dawns. This pretty tourist with the long, blonde hair has graced her salon with her presence, and Bonni is looking forward to a big payday.

Before I can process that thought, the stylist has acted. She unceremoniously turfs out a child who has climbed into her chair and propels the complaining boy back to the bench. The kid looks stunned. She grabs a towel, gives the seat a quick, perfunctory brush, scattering dark hair onto the already thickly covered floor. ‘You, ma’am! Sit!’ she beams, gesturing grandly to the newly vacant chair.

In my open-toed sandals, I navigate the huge mounds of black hair clippings that cover the floor, feeling a bit grossed out. I perch on the worn vinyl of the chair, and she drapes a grubby cape over me, drawing a braid over each shoulder. The cape smells faintly of old hair spray and something else I cannot quite place, but I choose not to dwell on it.

I look in the cracked mirror in front of me, catching her eye. I hold up my thumb and forefinger again, the same one and a half inches apart. ‘Okay? Remember? Just this much,’ I say, pointing to my ends. I stare at her reflection, seeking confirmation.

 

‘Yes, ma’am,’ she sighs. ‘Un. Der. Stand!’ she states pedantically, as if I am the foreigner! ‘So much … so little!’ she says, her English broken but her smile wide. She gives me a thumbs up, just like I did earlier. Okay, good. She gets it. A little bit. So much little. Perfect.

The Trim

I wait for Bonni. The stylist, to get herself organised and commence undoing my braids. I hear a notification on my phone, so I pull it out again, to check my friend’s reply. She is asking if I found a good place. I tell her I found one, and I am just waiting for a trim. She immediately comes back with suggestions for where to go for lunch and what to do in the afternoon. Distracting but, undeniably, important, the conversation becoming more involved.

Suddenly, I hear it. Two quick, sharp metallic snaps, right next to my ears. The sound is ominously thick and heavy. Not the delicate snip of a trim. It is the sound of something substantial being cut even though she had not unravelled my braids.

My head snaps up. Shock freezes me as I stare into the mirror. My braids are gone, severed close to the scalp.

I see Bonni turning away, a huge, thick mass of blonde hair in her hand. She passes my long braids to the colleague next to her. She takes them, holds them against her head like a wig, and dances a merry little jig, shrieking words to an unidentifiable song. It results in highly amused uproar amongst the waiting customers. ‘Me now the blondie lady!’ she jokes, giggling, exhibiting my beautiful hair to everyone present.

‘What …?’ I demand, my voice coming out as a strangled gasp. Surely, this cannot be. Please tell me this is not happening. Bonni has cut off my braids and leaving virtually nothing?

A loud, buzzing roar instantly drowns my protests. I see Bonni is brandishing heavy-duty hair clippers with a determined expression on her face.

The Cut

The plump stylist, even strong than she looks, positions my head firmly with a vice-like grip. In the mirror, my eyes are wide with horror and disbelief.

Even though I try to complain above the incessant racket from the hairclippers, she continues moving with lightning speed. First, she uses the blade of the clippers to create to define a border around my head. It is a harsh, straight line. She has reduced the hair on my crown to an inch and a half long, sitting well above my ears at the sides and well above my eyebrows across my forehead. It establishes a strange, helmet-like shape perched on my head.

She grunts with satisfaction once the edge is precise, then she starts shaving everything below that harsh line straight down to the skin. Not clipped, not buzzed, but shaved. Dazzling whiteness around my ears contrasts starkly with my bronze neck, tanned already from my time in the sun.

Moving behind me, I feel Bonni assaulting the back of my head and the nape of my neck in the same way. I prayed the contrast was not as extreme as it was around my ears. However, I accepted that, from behind, it was likely that I resembled a schoolboy who has just left an over-enthusiastic barber after the summer vacation.

It is a whirlwind of activity. In less than five minutes, my butt-length blonde hair, my long, flowing treasure, is gone. Bonni has transformed it into a severe, exceedingly short, geometric monstrosity.

The Finish

Bonni finishes her work with a flourish, turning my head gently this way and that for inspection. ‘Cool hair, ma’am,’ she says, beaming proudly. She holds up a small hand mirror so I can see the back. As I feared, smooth, shaved skin leading up to the short, blunt cut. ‘Cool hair for blondie lady.’

Then, she indicates to the wall behind the waiting bench, to the faded photos I had not looked at properly when she pointed at them before. ‘Here. Mushroom style is not cool for ladies. Mushroom is for kiddies,’ she explains.

My eyes finally focus on two of the pictures. A beaming boy and girl, with the exact same severe, short haircut as me. The short, blunt fringe, the rounded perimeter, the shaved back and sides. It is a bowl cut. Or, as they call it here, it seems, a mushroom cut.

My lungs feel tight. My legs are shaking as I slowly get up from the chair. I look down at the floor, at the dark mounds of hair clippings from the local customers. Mixed in with them now are thick, shocking handfuls of my own blonde hair, my severed braids lying separate, like discarded ropes.

It is gone. All of it. The trim I wanted was an inch and a half off the ends. The cut I got is an inch and a half long.

I stare at my reflection in the cracked mirror. It is a stranger looking back. A stranger with a “Mushroom haircut” for kiddies.

Worry about going back to the hotel and facing my friend, about going home and facing my work colleagues, floods through me. How can I possibly explain this? My expensive long-hair specialist will probably faint.

Epilogue

But then, as I step out of the oppressive heat of the salon and back into the tropical sun, a tiny, absurd thought surfaces. Well, at least the cap of hair perched on my head is going to be incredibly comfortable in the heat and humidity. A bare, shaven head under a short, blonde cap.

The hotel bar is heaving, and guests have filled all the stools. I see my friend making her way through the crowd, looking for me. Her eyes widen when they alight on my hair. She is astonished as recognition dawns.

‘But … but you … only went for a trim,’ she stutters, too shocked to say more.

I shrug. ‘I’ll explain once we’ve got a drink,’ I say, gesturing towards the bar.

My friend’s eyes scan the line of occupied stools, then she looks at me glumly. ‘Not much room.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Don’t you start!’

The End