The Barber & The Businesswoman – Louisa Captivates Roberta

Prologue

The first time I saw Louisa, I was mid-way through a tense breakfast meeting with John and David from the audit team. We were trying to relax, away from our place of work, outside Café Corner, a trendy spot on the market square.

I was being manipulative, in a sense, but it was time well spent. It was a way for me to gauge the auditors’ intentions and pre-empt their questions, ahead of them grilling me in more formally back the office environment. The encounter was proving extremely useful, and we had built up a good rapport. And, most importantly, I would be one step ahead of those two men later in the day.

But then everything changed, and my world turned upside down.

She walked past.

Louisa

Louisa! She was a stark contrast to the grey conformity that my office colleagues and I exhibited. Her leather miniskirt was striking. It made my own tailored skirt suits seem conservative in comparison, despite me favouring higher hemlines than my female colleagues. And her red lace top was simply audacious. It was see-through in places, and it had a neckline that plunged into oblivion, and the whole thing screamed rebellion.

And then there was her hair. A glorious, untamed mane of honey-blonde curls that cascaded down her back, almost reaching her waist. It was a lioness’s crown, a vibrant declaration of individuality.

As she queued up for a takeaway coffee, John and David, predictably, turned into drooling neanderthals. They started making crude jokes, whispers laced with thinly veiled lust. I should have said something. I should have told them to shut up, to show respect to the woman. But, despite my embarrassment, I ignored them. I froze. Call it surprise, call it shock, call it cowardice; whatever it was, I remained silent.

Then Louisa, coffee in hand, marched right up to our table. She did not raise her voice, and she did not resort to insults. Instead, she used a selection of carefully chosen words, each one a perfectly aimed dart that punctured their inflated egos. She dissected their boorish behaviour, with surgical precision, leaving them stammering and red-faced. I knew I was good at handling challenging people, but she was masterful.

And, by her precise and justifiable action, she had captivated me. I, Roberta, a director at a top accountancy firm, usually so composed and in control, felt a spark ignite within me. It was more than admiration; it was fascination. A potent cocktail of awe and, dare I say, edged with intimidation.

As she turned to leave, she paused beside me, head cocked to one side ‘And you,’ she scoffed, her eyes meeting mine, ‘you really should not condone that kind of behaviour.’

Those ice-blue eyes, held a sharp intelligence, a knowingness that rattled me to my core.

My carefully constructed façade of professional confidence crumbled. I felt exposed by her observation. Stammering some kind of agreement, I watched her, mesmerised, as she walked away.

I could not help but follow her with my gaze, burning with curiosity. Where did she live, and what did she do, I wondered. She soon answered one of my questions when she disappeared into a nearby shop. Above the window a bold sign proclaimed the name of the premises as Louisa the Barber. As I peered through the window, I saw she was preparing for her day, suggesting that she was Louisa, the eponymous barber.

The realisation should have been a cold shower on my infatuation. The thought of associating with a barber was absurd, whether a woman or not. Our worlds were galaxies apart. I considered myself a pragmatic woman, working through calculated steps to reach a well-defined end. I imagined Louisa living in a vibrant, almost chaotic existence. Any sort of connection would be impossible. Ridiculous, even.

So, although I could never socialise with someone as lowly as a barber, the thought would not leave me. The infatuation took root, a stubborn weed in the carefully manicured garden of my life.

And so began my daily ritual.

Ritual

Each morning and evening, on my way to and from the office, I took the long way round. The way that inevitably led past the window of Louisa the Barber. As a woman who valued efficiency more than anything else, I was now deliberately adding unnecessary time to my daily commute, all for a fleeting glimpse of a woman I barely knew.

Always impeccably dressed, I began to adjust my appearance each morning in ways that I hoped would appeal to Louisa. My wardrobe had always consisted of immaculately tailored skirt suits in muted colours, crisp silk blouses, and I always arranged my waist-length hair in a sophisticated updo. It was my armour, my professional uniform. I presented a picture of polished perfection, a woman in control.

Aiming to impress Louisa, I wore my skirts shorter, added a splash of colour, and left one or two buttons unfastened. So, from the outside, I was exerting control but, inside, I was a total mess.

Each time I was close to Louisa the Barber I would slow my pace, pretending to admire the window displays of the antique shop next door. But all the while, I was desperately trying to catch sight of Louisa through the barbershop window. Sometimes, I would even walk past twice, praying she would not notice. But the intense desire to see her, even engineer an “accidental” meeting, mingled with the primal fear of exposing my ridiculous obsession.

More than once, I bought a takeaway coffee from Café Corner, lingering across from her barbershop, pretending to sip my beverage while furtively staring through the large window to catch a glimpse of her. But I never found the courage to go inside, and to speak to Louisa like any other person would. And later, as I moved away, the lukewarm coffee would go straight in the bin, a symbol of my wasted efforts.

I knew it was irrational, this infatuation. After all, I was an extraordinarily successful businesswoman, accustomed to attracting attention. I could control any man – or any woman, for that matter – in any context that I desired, whether at work or play! All it would take was a more provocative outfit, a shorter skirt, a lower neckline, a strategically aimed glance. I knew the game, and I knew how to compete, and my objective was always to win!

But Louisa was different. With her wild hair, her defiant style, her unapologetic attitude, she was a breath of fresh air, a vibrant anomaly in my predictable world.

Contacted

For weeks, I tormented myself. Should I step inside the barbershop? Should I invent an excuse for doing so? Request a trim of my waist-length hair? I frequented an expensive salon every three months without fail. Although it would be strange to switch my allegiance, it would be an opportunity to start a conversation. An opening to gauge her interest that, once I had charmed her, could lead on to something more.

But I hesitated. I was not even sure if barbers allowed women in their shops. I had only ever seen men inside of hers. But there were no signs on the door indicating whether she welcomed women or, indeed, prohibited them from entering.

Finally, one morning, Louisa was alone in the shop at the time I was passing, and I sensed everything in the universe was aligning. So, I took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

The bell above the door jingled, announcing my arrival. The scent of shaving cream and something indefinably masculine filled the air. Louisa, standing behind the vintage barber’s chair, turned to face me. Her gaze was sharp, assessing.

Normally unflappable, the woman who could negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat, I found myself tongue-tied and trembling. Louisa showed no sign of recognising me from the café incident which was, without doubt, for the best.

‘Excuse me … er, Miss,’ I stammered timidly, my voice barely above a whisper. ‘Can I get my long hair trimmed here?’

Louisa’s response was immediate, and brutal. ‘Dressed like that, then no, you do not belong here,’ she barked back, her voice laced with disdain. ‘This is a barbershop. Only return once you have dressed more appropriately.’

My carefully constructed world shattered. No one, but no one, had ever spoken to me like that. I felt a wave of humiliation wash over me. Was she joking? Her expression was stone cold, her eyes unwavering.

‘Sorry …’ I murmured, retreating, defeated.

Dejected

After Louisa had rejected my poor attempt at engagement, I spent more than a week in a state of confused dejection. But the infatuation would not die. It festered, a constant, nagging presence in my mind.

Finally, I came to a desperate conclusion. If the only way to get close to Louisa was to change my inappropriate appearance, then so be it. I would comply with her absurd demands. Having reviewed how I looked in the context of the domain that she ruled so strictly, I deduced that wearing a skirt in her male premises was what had offended her.

So, I invested in an expensive designer trouser suit in a stunning shade of burgundy. I wore it over a luxurious silk shirt, collar spread wide, unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of my cleavage. I remained elegant, still professional but, undeniably, my appearance was more appropriate for Louisa’s workplace.

Reacquainted

The morning that I wore my new outfit, I felt uncomfortable. The trousers felt stiff, the shirt too loose. I passed the shop twice, steeling myself. Finally, I took another deep breath and scuttled inside, even though there were other customers present. I hoped, with a desperate naivety, that Louisa would approve of my appearance.

Louisa had just finished giving a businessman a short, sharp haircut, the kind that screamed “corporate drone”. He seemed pleased enough as he paid, dressed in a generic grey suit, crisp white shirt, and subdued tie.

As Louisa turned her intense gaze upon me, I found myself becoming increasingly nervous as I hovered near the entrance. ‘Excuse me, Miss,’ I said, praying she would not recognise me from our earlier encounters. ‘Can I get my long hair trimmed here?’ circling a hand vaguely around my updo to indicate what may lie beneath.

Louisa’s response was identical. ‘Dressed like that, then no, you do not belong here,’ she said, her voice dripping with contempt. ‘This is a barbershop. Only return when you have dressed more appropriately.’

‘But … but …’ I stuttered, gesturing weakly at the designer trouser suit I had purchased, just to gain her approval. I did not have the words to express my disappointment.

Louisa scoffed. ‘Something normal, like my other customers, would be more appropriate,’ she said, gesturing towards the departing businessman and a couple of similarly dressed men awaiting their turn. ‘Do you see any of my customers wearing red suits?’ she sneered viciously.

Horrified, the puzzle began to drop into place. Louisa wanted me to dress like her other customers, enforcing an unwritten rule for anyone entering her barbershop. Understanding the implication of her mandate was difficult for me to accept, but the inevitable conclusion was obvious.

Tailored

After Louisa had rejected me for the second time, I walked apprehensively into a traditional gentlemen’s outfitters. A plump and cheerful chap accepted my presence without question, acting professionally to meet my unusual requirements. After the tailor took my measurements and made copious notes, I returned three days later.

When I walked out after my fitting, the tailor had dressed me in a shapeless and unflattering dark grey suit, coupled with a matching a waistcoat. Underneath all the heavy fabric, a stiff white shirt was buttoned up to my throat, with a nondescript tie knotted firmly around my neck. I glanced at myself in the mirror, quivered with mild disgust, then quickly looked away.

My masculine outfit looked and felt ridiculous, especially with my long hair still piled up on top of my head, but I hoped it was my passport for Louisa’s attention. Once we had established a relationship, I expected to have the opportunity to impress her with my usual stylish wardrobe.

Welcomed

When I entered the barbershop for the third time, Louisa looked up from cleaning her hairclippers, casting her intense gaze over my outfit. I just stood inside the doorway like a tailor’s dummy, too nervous to say anything at all.

‘Well?’ she demanded, in a tone that indicated she did not recollect me from my previous visits.

‘Sorry … yes … er, can I get my long hair trimmed here?’ I asked, once again circling a hand vaguely around my updo.

Louisa’s response was completely different from the previous occasions. ‘Of course you may, Madam. I am Louisa and I will be delighted to meet your wishes. Please take a seat.’

That was unexpected … but in a good way! I was making progress, I said to myself. ‘Thanks, Louisa. I am Roberta,’ I introduced myself as I sat down.

‘Roberta, eh?’ Louisa contemplated. ‘Nice suit,’ she added. ‘Far more appropriate for entering a gentlemen’s barbershop than the clothes some people might care to wear,’ she smirked.

I was unsure whether she was mocking me. So, I gave her a curt nod, and I forced a smile. However, to avoid saying the wrong thing that might break the growing bond, I employed the simple expedient of saying nothing at all.

Having taken my suit jacket and carefully placed it on a hanger, Louisa invited me to take a seat in her barber’s chair. Then she draped a heavy black cape over me, fastening it even more tightly that the knotted tie constraining my neck.

She closely examined my artfully crafted updo, extracted the securing pins, and allowed my hair to unravel down the back of the chair. She tenderly ran her fingers through it, her gentle touch everything I had hoped for whenever I had thought about her.

‘So, a trim, Madam?’ she questioned unemotionally, responding to my initial request. I nodded my agreement, and I sensed her shrug disinterestedly. I nearly laughed at the preposterous idea that I would allow a simple barber to do anything more than trim my hair. After all, the whole exercise was just my subtle and clever way to spend more time with the object of my affection, but that objective was something she would be oblivious to.

Under the circumstances, I decided not to reprimand her as, to do so, might get our relationship off on the wrong foot. ‘Yes, please, Louisa. No more than a couple of inches.’

‘A couple of inches,’ she echoed disparagingly, tutting as she dampened the ends of my hair before picking up her scissors and comb.

Trimmed

Taking great care, Louisa meticulously trimmed just two inches from the ends. As she was not my usual stylist, I found myself extremely nervous about what she was doing and felt unable to engage in any form of conversation during the process. That failure was unfortunate because talking to her had been my sole purpose for placing myself in her chair!

Once Louisa had completed her task, she used a hand mirror to show me the result. It was perfect, and certainly as straight and neatly bevelled as my usual stylist in the expensive salon that I frequented.

‘Thank you, Louisa,’ I squeaked, my voice sounding unnaturally high-pitched. ‘Per … perfect.’

‘Just as you requested, Madam,’ Louisa sniffed coldly, unfastening the cape and leaving me to wonder if I had said or done something wrong.

‘I will leave you to restore your hair to its updo, assuming that’s your intention,’ Louisa said. ‘As this is a barbershop, it is not something I have experience of,’ she complained, holding my gaze in the mirror, looking intimidating.

A woman walking down the street in a man’s suit with waist length hair trailing down her back would be an unusual sight. Obviously, there was no question that I would not put my hair up before leaving, so what was niggling her, I wondered. I was sure Louisa had something else she wanted to say, but I was unsure that I wanted to hear it.

At that moment I knew that I should just leave, but I felt compelled to ask. ‘What?’

‘Wearing a smart suit like that, Madam, it would be more appropriate for you to have a short and neat haircut. That is, if you wish to truly belong here,’ Louisa insisted. ‘Do you wish to belong?’ she demanded, her words laced with strong emotional overtones.

Conflicted

I so loved my long hair that I was totally conflicted by Louisa’s implication concerning its length. I used my beautiful hair to enthral and entrap people. But here was the object of my affection – the one I wished to ensnare – suggesting I have it cut it short. Indeed, she was demanding that she should be the one to crop it into a much neater style. My mind was giddy with contradictory thoughts and emotions.

‘I am waiting,’ Louisa demanded after just ten seconds, tapping her foot with undisguised irritation at my brief pause, before I was ready to reply.

I wished to prolong our interaction as long as possible, hoping to use that as a springboard for our future relationship. So, I reasoned that I had to give her an answer that she wanted to hear. ‘Well … yes … I suppose …’ I acknowledged tentatively. However, in my eternal quest to maintain control, I had to express my conditions. Trying to sound more assertive, I added, ‘But not too short, please. I…’

‘Of course, Madam,’ Louisa boomed as she picked up the hairclippers. ‘But you must leave it to the professional to define what we might construed as too short. Is that not so?’

‘I suppose so … but -’

Sheared

The raucous sound of the hairclippers drowned out any further debate. Pushing my head firmly down so my nose was touching the cape, Louisa began shearing me like a sheep.

I sensed the cold blade of the clippers against my neck and felt her thrust it upwards and over my crown. Long tendrils of hair tumbled past my downcast eyes. No sooner had she completed the first pass, then she returned the blade to my neck to widen the furrow through my hair.

‘No, stop it,’ I squealed, squirming under her unrelenting grip.

‘Calm down, Madam,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s only a haircut.’

Although I continued to complain and attempted to struggle, she held my head down with a vice-like grip. I saw a waterfall of hair rolling down the cape and tumbling down to the floor. I struggled to believe so much hair had once been on my head.

Due to her forcing my head downwards, I could not see in the mirror. I had no idea how short she was shearing me. How short she might consider “not to short”.

I had no clue as to the workings of hairclippers. I contemplated whether there was a setting that would just trim a small proportion of my long hair. In the back of my mind, I suspected it was a forlorn hope, but I grimly hung onto it as Louisa continued her enthusiastic assault on my head. The only clue as to the device’s effectiveness was how readily the back of my head sensed the coolness from the overhead fan. I shivered from fear as well as from the cold.

After less than five minutes Louisa silenced the hairclippers, and she released my head. The reflection in the mirror before was unrecognisable. Gone were the long locks that had framed my face, replaced by a uniform fuzz of around two centimetres sprouting straight out from my scalp. My head looked like a hedgehog rolled up into prickly ball.

‘There we are, Madam,’ Louisa smirked. ‘Not too short.’

I opened my mouth and closed it, more than once. I stared down at the floor and saw mounds of my former hair encircling the chair. For the first time in my life, I did not have the right words to express my thoughts. I wanted to scream, and I wanted to stamp my feet, but what good would it have done. However, her piercing gaze in the mirror suggested she wanted me to say something.

‘Is it, er … I mean is this it?’ I stuttered, dreading the thought of anyone seeing me looking like a hedgehog.

‘No, Madam, of course not’ Louisa responded. ‘I would not send a customer from here looking like that. Having rid you of all that surplus hair, I can finally see what I am doing, so I can sharpen up what remains.’

‘Oh …’ I managed, not having a clue what she was on about. But I soon found out.

Sharpened

Louisa retrieved the hairclippers and flicked off a plastic attachment that had covered the blade. Their raucous sound filled the shop once more. Taking a large plastic comb, she held it horizontally just above my crown with short uneven lengths of my hair poking out above it. With great precision she ran the clipper blade over the top of the comb. The teeth made a loud clattering sound against the plastic comb, and they snipped off all the protruding hair to a uniform length.

She adjusted the position of the comb and repeated the action, time and time again. A satisfied look flitted across her features as she checked her work from every angle, then stood back. She had squared off the rounded shape of the bristles on my crown, leaving the appearance of a stiff brush, with each hair standing upright. I doubted that a spirit level would have called into question the level surface she had fashioned on my head.

‘Your hair has the ideal texture for this uncompromising style, Madam,’ Louisa explained excitedly. ‘Each strand stands erect, and the entire surface is completely flat.’

‘Oh … so is it finished?’ I stuttered, almost pleading.

‘No, not quite,’ she chirped. ‘Nearly …’

Not content with reducing the length of the hair on my crown, she forcefully employed the hairclippers on the back and sides of my head until white skin glinted through the dark shadow that was all that remained of my hair.

I tried to convince myself that the situation could not get any worse. So, as I contemplated whether she would leave me any hair, Louisa jolted me from my thoughts. Without any warning, she smacked a cold substance against my skin, along my neck and around my ears. It had a creamy texture and, when she brandished a razor, I suddenly realised, to my horror, she had covered the back and sides of my head with shaving foam.

I made a half-hearted complaint that Louisa did not even acknowledge. She pushed my head down and scraped my neck clean of any remaining hair. She forced my head to one side, before skinning the bristles from my left temple. Then she repeated the action on the other side of my head, shaving it down to the bone.

The freshly shaved skin, never previously exposed to the air, exhibited an unbelievable bright pink glow.

Flattened

‘I am nearly, er … nearly bald,’ I whined, as Louisa whisked away the haircutting cape and held up a mirror for me to examine the full extent of the horror she had inflicted up on me.

‘Please do not exaggerate, Madam,’ Louisa smirked. ‘I have trimmed your hair, and now it is short and neat … just as you requested.’

I tried to think back, attempting to recall if I had asked her to shave me half-bald. But what did it matter, I concluded. She had done it, and I was emotionally drained.

‘A short and neat flattop means business in your world,’ Louisa explained, ‘and that is exactly what you now have.’

‘Only if I was a man,’ I whined, my anguished tone becoming more obvious as the stark reality of the situation became more apparent. ‘But I am not …’

I stumbled to my feet and, barely realising it, Louisa helped me into my suit jacket and fastened the buttons. ‘Look at yourself in the mirror, Robert,’ she smirked, rechristening me. ‘Nice suit, shirt, and tie, and now an appropriate short and neat haircut that shows you truly belong.’

‘Belong?’ I bawled, failing to grasp the meaning of her words, still believing we belonged together. ‘Belong where?’

Epilogue

Louisa stepped back, surveying her handiwork with a cruel satisfaction. ‘I remember you,’ Louisa sneered, grinning maliciously. ‘Condoning the crude behaviour of your male colleagues outside Café Corner. Well, now you truly belong to that businessmen’s world,’ she cackled.

As I stared at my reflection, at the unrecognisable suited individual with a stark flattop staring back, I realised the horrifying truth. I had not just lost my hair, but I had also lost myself. I was unable to respond to Louisa’s awful, but accurate, judgement.

Transforming from a sophisticated businesswoman, I had become a caricature of corporate masculinity, all at the whim of a stunning woman I was desperate to impress. And, to make matters worse, she knew exactly why I had done it. She had manipulated me, played on my infatuation, and turned me into a grotesque version of myself.

I staggered to my feet and fumbled in my bag for the ridiculously small payment that Louisa, the barber, demanded. My usual salon would have charged five times as much.

While I had been suffering in Louisa’s chair, I had been aware that other people had entered the shop. As I made my way to the door, I noted two men seated on the bench awaiting their turn. They wore bland suits, white shirts and dull ties that were like mine. And I judged that, once Louisa had trimmed their short hair, they would have flattops identical to mine.

‘Well, boys, what do you think of Robert?’ Louisa called out, gesturing to my departing form.

‘Very neat and tidy, Louisa,’ one of them piped up. ‘An appropriate style to complement his nice suit.’

‘Short and neat, just as you prefer, Louisa,’ the other chirped. ‘Yes, very appropriate.’

‘A credit to your skills, Louisa,’ the first added, with no trace of irony, ‘and it is well apparent that he now belongs.’

The humiliation was complete. I had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. I had never felt so ashamed.

‘Cheerio, Robert,’ Louisa yelled as the door was closing, followed by each of the men adding a polite, ‘Goodbye, Sir.’

The End