HairApparent
This is a sequel to Erica is Prepared to Serve at Tea by the Sea that I had originally planned to be a standalone story, but this second part can be enjoyed without having read the earlier one. It follows on immediately from when Mrs Milson muses on the previous day when she had prepared a new waitress to work in her delightful café in Billington Bay …
Prologue
Erica acted with commendable spirit on the day I had prepared her for service at Tea by the Sea. But she had dutifully turned up for work the next day at 8.15, as I had demanded, smartly filling her snug uniform, and with her severe bowlcut looking neat and tidy. While she presented a coolness towards me, she went about her work diligently and was popular with my clientele. She was fitting in so perfectly, just as I told her she would. Overall, I have to say, that I do like a young woman with spirit, I really do but such a shame she had not warmed to me.
A couple of days later, standing on the terrace of Tea by the Sea after morning inspection, my entire world felt delightfully settled.
‘Good morning, Mrs Milson,’ Erica said dutifully, if a little too smugly, placing a small tray on a table next to me.
‘Thank you, Erica,’ I said, watching as she poured from a small teapot into a delicate cup that rested on a matching saucer, admiring her freshly shaved nape as she leant over.
‘Please let me know if you require anything else, Mrs Milson,’ she smirked, a little too complacently for my tastes, but I let it pass.
Nodding an acknowledgement, I sipped my Earl Grey while looking out to sea, and I felt content. My empire in Billington Bay stood behind me, a beacon of chintz and clotted cream in this otherwise unremarkable seaside town. Years I had poured into building it, crafting its image, curating its clientele.
And a crucial part of that image had always been my waitresses. Identical uniforms comprising short black skirts that highlighted their long legs, paired with crisp white collared blouses always buttoned up to the neck, lending an air of traditional and innocent servitude.
And then of course there were their bowlcuts. Oh, those bowl cuts! Ever since I became the custodian of Tea by the Sea, I had insisted that waitresses had tidy hair, ideally a neat bob. I had never mandated the length or style, provided their hair was off the collar. With great reluctance, I allowed longer hair if it was fastened securely in a neat bun. It was all about hygiene … or so I claimed.
As a generous perk, I had always liked to offer prospective employees a free restyle at Shear Perfection, the best salon in Billington Bay. Olivia Samuels, a good friend of mine from way back, was the owner. I would often go along with each new waitress that took advantage of the benefit. I informed them it was to offer moral support but, if truth be told, I went for the sublime enjoyment of seeing their long hair chopped off. An odd tendency, I know, but innocent enough, and one I loved to indulge whenever I could.
More recently, Ben, my son – who appeared to have inherited my idiosyncratic tastes regarding hair – suggested that all the waitresses should have the same hairstyle. By mutual consent, after a great deal of enjoyable and enthusiastic debate, we settled on a bowlcut as the most appropriate style for them all to adopt. It offered uniformity and practicality, and our unrestrained pleasure.
Coincidentally, at that time, I had been trying to identify a suitable career for Ben where he would settle and flourish. Olivia, the owner of Shear Perfection, was delighted to take on my good-looking son as a trainee. Many of his tasks were mundane while he built up his knowledge and experience. However, Olivia was happy to allow Ben to develop his skills by cutting the hair of my waitresses using a room away from the main salon. My friend quipped that none of her wealthy clientele were ever likely to request a bowlcut.
So, Ben, bless his heart, was my instrument for uniformity. He sculpted those pristine, identical shapes, a reflection of my own peculiar aesthetic, and fortunately one that he shared.
I put down my cup and saucer, and I turned to observe my staff already serving the first customers of the day. The sun was shining and, although I had sufficient temporary staff to see my business through the summer months, recruiting one or two more waitresses would not go amiss. Erica had said she knew a friend who might be interested but, subsequently, she had found a summer job elsewhere. Given Erica’s ambivalence towards me, I felt that was for the best as I did not need any more militants upsetting the smooth running of Tea by the Sea.
I poured another cup of Earl Grey and surveyed my empire. The sun reflected off the silver cutlery and, in equal measure, off the shining napes of all the waitresses. So, all was well in Billington Bay.
Indulgence
With everything running smoothly in Tea by the Sea, I deemed that I could justify taking the morning off to treat myself.
In contrast to my waitresses, my own hair was a completely different story. A secret indulgence, a hidden weapon. It was long, impossibly long, cascading past my waist, a silken waterfall I kept meticulously coiled and pinned into elaborate updos. Few ever saw it in its unfastened glory, and that included my lovely son. At home, Ben had seen it loose on occasion, studying it in an almost predatory way. So, to avoid any discomfort for either of us, I invariably kept my long locks secured while we were together.
Every few months, I treated myself to a deep conditioning treatment for my hair and a dusting of my ends at Shear Perfection. Olivia, the owner, would undertake the trim – the only person I trusted with scissors near my hair – and it gave us the opportunity for a nice long chat about the latest gossip in Billington Bay. She would assign one of her more accomplished juniors to shampoo and condition my hair, although I did ask that she never the task to my son.
I viewed my ridiculously long hair as my little rebellion, a secret power concealed beneath the respectable and conservative facade of a successful businesswoman. And speaking of facades, I constructed my wardrobe with the same care as my hairstyles. Smart business suits, with skirts a tad too short for a woman in her early forties but still undeniably flattering. And paired with silk blouses, usually with a bow at the neck, that whispered luxury and a hidden allure.
It all contributed to the curated persona of Mrs Milson, known as the prosperous, slightly eccentric, proprietor of Billington Bay’s premiere tearoom.
Appointment
I had opted for one of my casual outfits for my morning on indulgence. A pink and white checked suit, rather than the more austere attire that I reserved for overseeing Tea by the Sea. The skirt was a little shorter than usual but had a slit up the back for comfort and practicality. The collarless jacket was snug when buttoned up, but the breast pockets with their gold buttons drew attention to a pair of my best attributes. The silk cream blouse, without the adornment of buttons or bows, was understated and, for me, remarkably casual. The cream stockings were an unusual accessory for me, but my personal stylist insisted they would complement the outfit and show off my legs to best advantage. And, as usual, she was correct, and I looked sensational as I set out for my morning of pampering.
The air in Shear Perfection was thick with the scent of hairspray and ambition. It was the luxury establishment frequented by every woman in Billington Bay who considered themselves a member of the ruling elite. As usual, Olivia, the owner greeted me in the manner of the lifelong friends that we were.
‘Hello, Michelle, looking sensational as usual,’ she gushed, welcoming me as we exchanged air kisses. Mwah, mwah! ‘As usual, I will be trimming your hair for you later, giving us a chance for a good old natter. With your usual junior currently away, I have placed you with a new young lady for your conditioning treatment. I am sure you will find her suitable.’
Even though Olivia and I were friends, I was prepared to give her a piece of my mind at this unexpected change to the proceedings. I was about to grumble when Olivia spoke first.
‘Megan, please may I introduce Mrs Milson, one of our most valued clients, who I will be placing in your charge,’ Olivia smirked, with good reason. ‘Michelle, please meet Megan who has only been with us a matter of days but has proved very popular with our other valued clients.’
I immediately saw why she was popular!
Meeting Megan
Megan dipped her dimpled chin and gave what resembled a little curtsey. And that is when it happened. A spark, a flicker of something … something unexpected.
Another element to my eccentricity, was a summer tradition that I liked to consider something of a perk for my most favoured summer waitress. I would carefully select one for a little extra attention including an easier work schedule, a little bonus in the pay packet, and a subtle invitation for a summer “fling” with their boss. It kept things interesting for me … and for them too, I liked to think.
But this year had proved difficult. Erica, with her sharp mind and perpetually disapproving frown, was proving stubbornly resistant to my advances. Of course, friends had warned me that my inclinations towards my staff would be unacceptable in the city. But this was Billington Bay. I was one of the pillars of the community, alongside the other formidable women of the town. We had our own rules, our own understanding. There would be no repercussions, no complaints.
In passing, I had mentioned the difficulties I had encountered with Erica to my good friend Olivia. And she had kindly served me up with an alternative young lady of exciting potential.
‘Er, excuse me, Mrs Milson, but I asked whether you would like to come with me?’ Megan questioned, head slightly to one side, with a playful smile gracing her lips. Indulging my fascination with her appearance, I had not heard her speaking to me.
She held out her hand, and I took it. ‘Yes, please,’ I said, feeling a little silly, as we moved towards the backwash.
During the previous couple of days, I had glimpsed Megan along the seafront for the first time, clearly a summer visitor to Billington Bay. On one occasion she was sitting on the sea wall licking an ice cream looking as though she had not a care in the world. It was a surprise to find her working in Shear Perfection.
Megan was young, barely half my age, and gloriously unrefined. On the seafront, she had worn the shortest of denim skirts that barely covered her bottom. However, it had allowed the whole of her long and perfectly proportioned legs to be on display. The skimpiest of tops was pretty in white lace, but had barely concealed her breasts, the thinnest of shoulder straps a risky strategy for guarding against any mishaps. In the salon she may well have been wearing the same clothes, but the briefest white overall imaginable that she wore may have been sufficient to conceal it.
Yes, it had been difficult to ignore her attire, but it was her remarkable hair that struck the greatest chord. It was a riot of vibrant colour and texture, shaved close on one side, erupting into an asymmetric plume of colourful spikes on top that defied description. It was the antithesis of my severe, yet elegant updos. Ironically, her hairstyle was as short as the bowl cuts I inflicted on my waitresses, but utterly devoid of their austerity.
As we reached the backwash, she uncoupled her hand from mine. ‘If you do not mind me saying, Mrs Milson, the outfit you are wearing is delightful. Pink has always been a favourite of mine.’
I simpered, murmuring my appreciation.
‘However, in order protect it from the water spray,’ she continued, ‘please may I take your jacket?’
I dutifully unbuttoned it, and marvelled at her butterfly-like touch as she helped me shrug it off. It was becoming an even more enticing morning than I had expected.
‘And now your skirt, please, Mrs Milson,’ she requested, keeping a perfectly straight face, despite her eyes twinkling with mischief.
Understanding
I went to unzip my skirt before reality struck. ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said haughtily.
Megan began chuckling. ‘Your face!’ she quipped, and I could not help but join in with her laughter. ‘Sorry, Mrs Milson, a very unprofessional remark for me to make.’
‘Yes, Megan …’ I was about to huff and puff, but then I wondered where that would get me. ‘But it was quite funny, so you are forgiven … you little minx.’
Still giggling, she settled me at the backwash, dampened my hair, and worked the shampoo through my tresses. After rinsing my locks, her firm fingers began massaging the deep conditioning treatment into my hair and scalp. Slow, languid, swirling movements, often lingering a moment too long at the nape of my neck. A pressure point that she accurately located and expertly stimulated. I looked up through half-closed eyes, enjoying the sensation. Sharing a knowing glance, and a mutual awareness. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there.
I was smitten. Utterly, irrevocably smitten.
She led me to Olivia’s styling chair and gently combed through my damp hair in readiness for my trim.
‘You have remarkably long hair, Mrs Milson,’ Megan praised as she prepared to depart. ‘Unique and beautiful.
‘Thank you, Megan,’ I said, at same time pressing a ridiculously large tip into her hand, my fingers brushing against hers as I did so. I took a deep breath. ‘As you are new to Billington Bay, perhaps, um, you would like to drop by to have a look around my café – Tea by the Sea – after work?’ I invited hesitantly.
Initially, she looked a little shocked by my shameless offer, then coyly dropped her eyes. ‘I have seen it, and it does look a charming establishment, Mrs Milson … but I don’t know … maybe … we’ll see …’
And then she was gone, and I quickly realised I had pushed things too far, too quickly.
Although I nattered away with my friend, Olivia, while she trimmed my hair, I was on automatic pilot, and I absorbed little of what she said. With every pause in our conversation, my mind drifted back to that joyful period when I was staring up at Megan from my supine position at the backwash. Losing myself in her big brown eyes.
When Olivia had finished trimming my hair, she helped me put my hair back into its customary updo and helped me on with my jacket. I looked around for Megan, but I saw her across the salon busy with someone else. I felt a wave of disappointment that I had ruined my chances of seeing her again, as I drifted back to Tea by the Sea to oversee the lunch time rush.
After Hours
That evening after all the staff had left Tea by the Sea for the day, I was in no rush to get home. My son, Ben, had taken time off work and he was entertaining friends at the house. So, instead, I selected a chilled bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge, grabbed a glass, and I made my way to the café’s terrace to lose myself in the sight and sound of the ocean.
As I walked past the locked main entrance I heard an insistent tap against the glass. It was not that unusual as holidaymakers often felt the need to enter, invariably just to use the toilets, irrespective of whether we were closed for the day. Feeling irritated, I marched to the door and, without first looking to see who was there, I unlatched the door and swung it wide open. ‘Can’t you read!’ I snapped, jabbing the relevant sign on the door. ‘We. Are. Closed!’
‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Milson,’ a voice whispered, moving out of the shadows, then backing nervously away. ‘I better go …’
Megan! She had surprised me, and I struggled to respond. Not just because Megan had turned up, but because of how she looked. Divested of her salon overall, her long legs emerged from a briefest of denim miniskirts and her white lace camisole top had barely enough material to hold itself together, let alone confine her pert breasts. ‘Er, no, Megan … please stay … I thought … er, um …’
She risked a tentative smile, but she was clearly still smarting from my unnecessarily angry outburst, leaving me mortified. ‘Well, if you are sure,’ she responded hesitantly.
‘I was just about to have a glass of wine on the terrace,’ I explained, holding up the chilled bottle, ‘if you would like to join me, Megan?’ I asked hopefully, my tone more pleading than I would have liked.
‘I would like that, but what about this,’ she enquired tapping one of the signs I had displayed by the entrance. Signs that suddenly seemed so petty. ‘Patrons are not permitted to wear denim, it clearly says,’ she said mournfully.
‘That’s just to keep out the riffraff,’ I countered quickly, ‘but as owner I have the power to exercise discretion. Besides,’ I added, thoroughly inspecting her miniscule skirt for effect, ‘you are not wearing very much denim.’
Her lips curled up at the corners following my little quip, her eyes twinkling mischievously. Then she burst into laughter. ‘That is really funny, Mrs Milson. So, you are implying that I am not riffraff, then?’ she asked innocently, cocking her head to one side.
I chuckled politely. ‘No, not all,’ I forced myself to say although, I thought primly, her near absence of body covering may not have met with my approval if she had been a genuine customer. After all, the businesswomen of Billington Bay had a duty to maintain standards. ‘Please come in, Megan, and I’ll get an extra glass.’
As we settled on the terrace, glasses in our hand, I suddenly felt unaccountably nervous. Unusually for me, I did not know what to say. In the past, I still held a degree of power over those waitresses who might wish to enjoy a little extra attention from me. With Megan, she was simply a young woman, half my age, who I had invited to join me for a drink. Alone. Just the two of us.
‘Well, this is nice,’ I said, clinking glasses for a second time, desperate to fill the silence and not appear foolish. I took another large mouthful of wine trying to steady my nerves. I noticed Megan had only been sipping her drink, showing remarkable restraint, implying that I alone had reduced the level on the bottle so quickly.
With my tongue loosened by the alcohol, I began blathering on about how I had built up my successful business, mentioning all the other things I had done to benefit the town. Megan listened attentively, injecting insightful comments and questions, becoming quite animated. She even brushed my arm from time to time to emphasise a point and her touch was truly electric. True to my nature, I began plotting how I would take things forward with Megan. And she made the prospect more tantalising when her hand came to rest invitingly, palm up, over my side of the table. I covered it with my own hand and lost myself in her dark eyes.
However, the sound of clanking buckets inside the café startled us. The cleaners. Damn it all. I needed to be alone with Megan, away from prying eyes. My own house was out of the question with Ben there with his friends. Any of the town’s bars or clubs during the height of summer would not only be crowded with holidaymakers, but full of inquisitive familiar faces. ‘Sorry, Megan, I -’
‘Hey, Mrs Milson, I know a place where we can be alone,’ Megan said quickly, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
She gave me no time to consider how she had discovered somewhere private after just a couple of days in town.
Lounging in Private
We bustled through the café from the terrace. I hid Megan’s presence from the sight of the cleaners, while I popped back inside to exchange pleasantries with them and wish them a good evening.
Megan, giggling, dragged me across the road by my hand. Buoyed by her enthusiasm, I felt like I was sneaking around on a teenage sizzling summer date! We slipped down a narrow, dimly lit alley that I had never had reason to enter before. I vaguely recalled that nearby businesses used it for their deliveries. We abruptly halted by a plain metal door. Megan produced a key, and she let us inside.
I could see we were in a storeroom of some kind, despite it being dim inside, even after Megan switched on the single overhead light. As I peered into the darkness at the contents of the shelves and then examined the furniture and the décor, I burst out laughing. I recognised where Megan had brought me. It was a storeroom that belonged to my friend’s Shear Perfection salon, but I knew it for another reason. It was the so-called “Select Private Lounge” that Ben, my son, used transform the hair of each my prospective waitresses.
‘I know it’s not a patch of the décor of your lovely café, Mrs Milson,’ Megan apologised, ‘but at least we can be on our own for a while. A sit turns out we are at the rear of Shear Perfection where I managed today’s deliveries. But the salon closed hours ago.’ Looking at me questioningly, she asked, ‘But what is so funny?’
Thinking quickly, I realised that I would have had no reason to have seen this storeroom in the past. So, it would have sounded peculiar to answer Megan by saying I recognised it. If I had informed her that my son had covertly filmed himself in this room shearing off the locks of countless aspiring waitresses, Megan might have backed nervously away from me. If I had told her that it was only familiar because Ben and I frequently settled down together in the evening to indulge in my guilty pleasure of watching the transformations, she may have run off as fast as her long legs would carry her! So, I feigned ignorance of the surroundings, letting Megan lead me deeper into the storeroom’s hidden heart.
‘It’s just the situation, Megan,’ I fudged. ‘Hiding away in here with an attractive young woman makes me feel like a twenty-one-year-old again.’
Megan had moved over the brighter area of the room. A single fluorescent strip light illuminated her against the backdrop of the familiar ancient barber’s chair. She shrugged off her denim jacket and beckoned me towards her, a mischievous look in her eye. ‘Well, Mrs Milson, I am twenty-one. So, would you like to feel me? she quipped, giggling suggestively.
As I stood in front of Megan, I felt a growing warmth under my pink and white checked suit despite the lightness of the material. ‘Yes, Megan, I believe I would,’ I breathed, trying to match her lightness of tone, although when my words came out, they sounded rather seedy coming from someone nearly twice her age.
‘That’s so lovely to hear, Mrs Milson, but you do look rather warm,’ she said coyly. ‘So, I think we will need to do something about that, won’t we?’
I nodded and bit my lip, as Megan began to undress me. Slowly, deliberately, peeling away the layers of my carefully constructed armour. My jacket, my blouse, my skirt, all discarded on the floor like shed skin. I stood before Megan, in my expensive silk lingerie, exposed, vulnerable, and utterly at her mercy.
Then she gently kissed me, running her fingers lightly up and down my body. I responded in kind. She eased me backwards into the familiar old barber’s chair, positioned in front of the cracked and tarnished mirror. Lowering her knees onto seat, she straddled me, all the time smiling. She pleasured me, expertly, teasingly, just enough to leave me aching for more. I was breathless, on the verge of losing all control, when I heard a creak from the door through which we had just come.
I struggled to peer over Megan’s shoulder and stare into the shadows at the back of the storeroom. ‘Erica!’ I screamed, as she stood backlit in the doorway, completely still, her face a mask of cold fury.
Compromised
My heart lurched. ‘Erica, what are you doing here?’ I sputtered, frantically trying to extricate myself from my compromising position on the chair. With Megan still pinning me down, it was impossible, and trying to cover myself up was a fruitless task.
‘You should not have asked your son to cut off all my hair into this hideous bowlcut,’ she hissed, her voice laced with venom. ‘What follows now is a result of your arrogance.’ She stepped further into the room, and I saw her eyes dart to each side, a smile forming on her lips.
I followed her gaze, and, to my horror, I saw small red lights flashing in each corner, the telltale sign that my son’s video cameras were running.
‘Yes, that’s right, Mrs Milson. Your son’s video cameras have been running since you and Megan entered this room. The same cameras that Ben uses to record the shearing of your waitresses. It was unfortunate for you that, quite by accident, I heard you discussing the cameras when I recently passed your office. I wonder what intriguing action they caught between you and Megan this evening?’ she chuckled, rubbing her hands together gleefully.
‘I demand that you stop those cameras recording immediately and that you give me the memory cards,’ I said, managing to conjure up my best authoritative voice. The shame would be immeasurable if she released the video of me in my underwear, in a compromising position with a woman half my age.
Erica chuckled menacingly. ‘Mrs Milson, I am in charge this evening,’ she declared, her voice cold and hard, like a shard of ice. Her face then broke into a cold smile as she pointed towards the camera. ‘So, from what I overheard, you and your son get turned on watching women get their hair chopped off, do you?’
‘No, Erica, it’s not like that,’ I stammered, but the truth hung heavy in the air. It was exactly like that.
Erica shook her head, ignoring my pathetic denial. ‘Let’s have some fun, shall we?’ she sneered. ‘Come on, Mrs Milson, let’s see your hair.’
Justice
My protests were useless. Megan held me firmly in place on the chair while Erica, her eyes burning with resentment, unravelled my elaborate updo. Releasing the cascade of hair I had so carefully concealed from public view for so long, it tumbled over my bare shoulders and fell down my back like a waterfall.
Megan and Erica ran their fingers through my abundant locks, their expressions a mixture of fascination and contempt. ‘It is so long,’ Erica said, her tone almost reverent.
‘I wonder if it might be considered too long for someone of Mrs Milson’s age,’ Megan contemplated, pulling on a tendril by its end, then holding it up to its fullest extent above my head.
‘Yes, far too long,’ Erica giggled, using two fingers to simulate the action of scissoring the long length of hair, causing me to quiver with fear.
They both laughed, a cruel, chilling sound that echoed in the small room. I pleaded with them to stop their taunting and to let me go, but they ignored me, their eyes gleaming with malicious intent.
My fear intensified when Erica found the scissors. They were the very ones Ben had used on her, the instrument of her humiliation. She tapped their point thoughtfully against her chin as she appraised me.
‘This can go two ways, Mrs Milson,’ Erica said. ‘We will be using these to, er, make some adjustments to your appearance,’ she stated, leaving no room for doubting their intentions. ‘Now, if you make things difficult then we will restrain you in the chair, do what we deem necessary, and release your intriguing video on social media.’
‘And if I don’t struggle?’ I asked fearfully.
‘We will do what we deem necessary,’ Erica chuckled, ‘and then consider what we should do with the video.’
I felt beaten. She lifted the single lock of hair that she had just mimicked cutting off, and then she snipped it off with the scissors. I did not struggle.
‘That’s very good, Mrs Milson,’ Megan said appreciatively, accepting the scissors from Erica.
They took turns hacking at my hair, rough, uneven snips that sent shivers down my spine. They did not rush, savouring my distress, luxuriating in my helplessness.
Chunks of my precious hair landed on the floor, a dark, tangled mass that mirrored the chaos in my soul. They hacked and sawed, their movements jerky and amateurish, transforming my carefully maintained mane into a short uneven mess.
Once all my long locks were gone, lying in a heap on the floor, Megan surveyed their handiwork. ‘It is a bit … well, uneven,’ she commented, a wicked grin spreading across her face. They both burst into laughter, the sound bouncing off the walls, mocking my despair.
‘Yes, it does look a bit, er, patchy,’ Erica agreed. ‘We need to even it up, for sure.’
‘You can leave it,’ I whimpered. ‘I can get it sorted out,’ I offered, desperate to rescue something from the awful situation.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ Megan chuckled. ‘That would be very unprofessional. ‘But how do we get it level?’ she asked, turning to Erica. ‘Like, trim it to a long bob, or something?’
‘Well, we did try … although I think we may have gone past that stage,’ Erica chuckled, ‘but I have an idea. She grabbed the hair clippers from a nearby hook. ‘These are what Ben used to “even out” my haircut.’
I looked on in horror as Erica played with the instrument of her own humiliation by my son, flicking them on and off, making a horrendous noise.
‘No, not those,’ I implored. ‘You can’t use those on me …’
‘Yes, we can,’ Erica assured.
‘But do you even know how to use these?’ Megan asked, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
Erica shrugged. ‘Well, not really,’ she admitted, ‘But how hard can it be?’
They both dissolved into renewed fits of manic laughter, the raucous sound echoing in the confined space. ‘Let’s see,’ Erica said, switching on the clippers with a malicious glee. ‘We’ll start at the back.’
Again, I pleaded for them not to use the awful device, but it was to no avail. While Megan held my head still as I tried to see what was happening, I felt Erica forcing the hairclippers along my neck and up the back of my head.
‘Oh, look, it’s bald now,’ I heard Megan observe from behind me, with a clinical detached interest.
‘Whoops!’ Erica chuckled. ‘I think I was supposed to put some sort of attachment over the blade, to stop it doing that.’
‘Oh well, it’s too late now, Erica, but I think you better even up the back and sides to the same length,’ Megan suggested. ‘But leave the top longer, so there’s some semblance of a hairstyle … it will demonstrate that we’re all heart,’ she giggled.
By that stage I had given up any hope of getting away with anything resembling a hairstyle. With the brutality of amateurs, I felt them shaving the back and sides of my head. Although indistinct in the tarnished mirror, they appeared to have evened up my hair by shaving it all the way down to the skin.
‘That’s completely even now, don’t you think?’ Erica enquired.
‘It couldn’t be more perfect,’ Megan giggled.
The only length that remained was a section of hair that swept straight back from my forehead and which covered my crown. They managed to secure it in a ponytail so, with the rest shaved, it resembled a Mohican-type style or, worse still, a man-bun. They played with my hair some more, chuckling all the while, deriving intense pleasure from my discomfort, revelling in their newfound power.
‘As she has always worn her hair slicked back into a tight bun,’ Erica mused, ‘I think the best option for sending her on her way, will be a nice old fashioned short back and sides.’ Megan nodded enthusiastically.
Erica snipped the length on top so that it finished in a blunt line halfway up the back of my head. She forced a bold and obvious side parting, combed it back away from my face, then slicked down the whole amateurish haircut with grease. The style they had created was a grotesque parody of a 1930s film star. A male 1930s film star! The stark contrast between the shaved sides and the greasy pompadour was horrifying, a reflection of the stark power shift that had just taken place.
‘Oh, Erica, that’s just so perfect,’ Megan gushed. ‘Sleek, slick, and nearly completely bald.’
I wanted to cry but, now they had done their worst, I felt uplifted as I began plotting my revenge on these two hooligans.
Revenge
But then came the warning, the cold, hard truth that put cold water on my emerging plans and solidified my fear.
‘Mrs Milson,’ Erica said in a commanding voice, ‘if you tell anyone that I took part in the events here this evening, then the videos of your sexual escapade with Megan will be leaked to the world.’
‘That’s not fair,’ I whined. ‘So, when do I get the originals of those videos.’
‘Never,’ Erica responded bluntly, before continuing with her little speech. ‘The disclosure of your questionable activities will destroy your reputation, your business, and your entire life. We would ensure you are never able to offer cream teas in Billington Bay ever again!’
I tried to imagine how it would play out in practice, and I realised that what they were suggesting was likely to come true. I whimpered quietly to myself.
‘However, as I will now be leaving the town,’ Megan added, ‘then you have our permission to blame your treatment here this evening on me. Shear Perfection, where I have worked these last few days, have no idea where I came from, and I will leave no trace as to where I am going. I will have been a phantom. Just a figment of your fevered imagination.’
I saw Erica give Megan a hug, and I was sure a conspiratorial wink passed between them. I grew suspicious about their unexplained relationship. ‘But you and Erica …?’
‘It was fortuitous for Erica that I was in town, trying out Shear Perfection for a summer job, when she approached me for help,’ she explained, but I was unconvinced. ‘However, neither salon life nor Billington Bay are for me.’
Megan kissed me lightly on the head, laughed, and disappeared through the side door of the storeroom. Despite what she had done, I still felt unfulfilled with an intense sense of loss for what could have been.
As I sunk into despair, Erica pocketed the memory cards from the video cameras. Then she took my phone and tapped out a message to my son, Ben, that he would believe was from me. ‘I am just informing Ben of your location and that you would like him to collect you and take you home,’ Erica explained. ‘So, Mrs Milson, it just leaves me to remind you not to mention my involvement with events this evening, and to wish you a pleasant evening.’ And with that, she was gone, and I was alone.
I collected my clothes from the hair strewn floor, pulled them on as best I could, and sat in the chair as I waited for Ben to collect me. Glancing down, around the chair, I observed huge mounds of my former hair. Looking up, I glanced in the mirror and saw my denuded head, and I quickly turned away again. Closing my eyes, I hoped Ben would not be too long fetching me.
I had time to ponder that everything about my life had now changed. I was trapped, a prisoner of my own desires, shackled by my own hypocrisy. My empire, Tea by the Sea, would still be standing in the morning, but the foundations were crumbling.
I was still Mrs Milson, the proprietor, but my power was fading. I was just a middle-aged woman with a terrible haircut, and evidence was out there of a secret that could destroy my future in Billington Bay.
The game had changed, and I was on the losing side.
Epilogue
‘Good morning, Mrs Milson,’ Erica, the overly smug new waitress, greeted Mum. ‘Oh, and Ben too,’ she added, turning towards me. ‘How lovely.’
I stared at the smirking student as she lined up with the other waitresses, waiting for Mum’s morning inspection in Tea by the Sea. I decided to come in with my mum this morning after her ordeal the previous evening.
Megan, the new girl recently working alongside me at Shear Perfection, had humiliated Mum for reasons that were still unclear. Mum had tried to explain, in a convoluted way, why Megan should have exacted revenge upon her, but something about her awkward words did not sit right with me. I had the feeling someone else had been involved but I was unsure who that might be, and I did not want to press Mum in her frazzled state.
‘Good morning, Erica,’ Mum responded politely, whereas I just sneered. A similar courteous exchange occurred between my mum and the other waitresses. She gave each a cursory inspection of their uniform and their haircut, pronounced them all fit for duty, and started them on their tasks for the day.
Erica smirked as she passed by, her eyes glittering with amusement. ‘That’s a dazzling new haircut, Mrs Milson,’ she commented, making a veiled reference to the pristine white skin that revealed on the back and sides of Mum’s head. ‘A considerably shorter style is most becoming on a woman of your stature.’ Her words hung in the air, laced with a chilling undercurrent of mockery.
I was seething underneath. When I had discovered Mum the night before, I had found her in the very barber’s chair, in my “private lounge”, where I cut the hair of the waitresses. Surrounding her, on the floor, were sad piles of her gorgeous long hair.
Although we both shared an interest in watching woman have their hair cut short, Mum had never once indicated to me that she intended to cut hers. I had fantasised for years that she was keeping her hair long for my benefit and, on a special future occasion, she would ask me to cut it for her. But what had occurred had thwarted any remaining hope. That said, it did not prevent me gathering all her severed locks from the floor and fastening them into a ponytail for posterity.
I made a silent promise that if Megan ever reappeared in Billington Bay, then I would shave her completely bald. And, if I discovered that she had had an accomplice, their hair would suffer the same fate.
‘Thank you, Erica,’ Mum said graciously, appearing to make a conscious effort to be respectful, almost deferential.
My suspicions about Erica bubbled under the surface once more.
= * = * =
Mum and I retired to her office. She confirmed that she felt strong enough to continue working for the rest of the day. Before leaving, I decided to spend a moment on the terrace, letting the sight and sound of the ocean calm me down. Just as I approached the doorway to the outside area, I heard someone speaking on the phone, and I paused. It was Erica.
‘Yes, Megan, it all went brilliant this morning. Ben came in with her, but he has no idea I was involved as well, so she must have kept her side of the bargain.’ Erica paused, listening to Megan’s response. ‘No, I will stick it out here for the summer. The pay’s good and the tips even better. Thanks again, my dear friend. Take care, and I will see you back at college in a couple of months.’ Erica went silent again. ‘Yeah, bye for now.’
So, that was how I found out that Megan and Erica were college friends and complicit in Mum’s humiliation. I realised that Erica, disgruntled with Mum, had put forward Megan to work at Shear Perfection so they could be close during the summer and, no doubt, plot revenge.
‘Sorry, Ben, I didn’t see you there,’ Erica yelped, startled by my presence, as I stepped onto the terrace.
‘Yes, I know,’ I acknowledged, having backed away and then slowly walked forward to pretend I had just come from the office. I was hoping to disguise the fact that I had overheard her speaking. ‘Ah, lovely Erica.’
She looked confused by my presence. And intimidated. Good. ‘Well, I better get on,’ she said, squeezing past me.
‘Don’t forget that Mum will want you to come and see me soon, so I can shave that pretty neck of yours,’ I warned, reaching out to run my fingers along her nape. ‘And, who knows, we might even consider something, er, shall we say, a little more extensive.’
