The Landlord’s Wife

The Landlord’s Wife

“Oliver, Ava is here to see you about the rent,” she called out to her husband. 

My landlord, Mr. Wilson, was a man in his early forties with salt and pepper hair and a terribly fit body for his age. His wife, Serena, was at least a decade younger than him. She had graceful curves and sported an immaculate bob, the tips almost grazing her shoulders. 

I went to talk to Mr. Wilson about the slight delay in the payment of rent as I was facing some challenges and to my relief, he quickly agreed. I thanked him briefly and was about to leave when his wife, Serena, joined us. 

“Now that you are here, how about a cup of coffee?” she insisted. 

 I thought of politely turning her down but given how generous they were, I reluctantly agreed. While Mrs. Wilson and I sipped over the beverage near the kitchen aisle, talking about my new job in town, a scene unfolded before us. 

Mr Wilson was sitting on a stool as a man proceeded to cape him. An array of haircutting items were placed by his side. 

“Oliver prefers home haircuts,” Serena told me, reading into my hesitation. “That’s Ryker, his brother. He is a barber by profession.”  

“I see.”

“You ready?” The man asked Mr. Wilson, poised with a clipper machine in his hands. 

“Absolutely. I can’t wait to get rid of the bulk.”

The thing is, I have never seen a barber in action. So when the clipper came alive with a whirring buzz and sailed right through the middle of the lush salt and pepper hair, I was a lot more than intrigued. The first pass was interesting, the second and third passes were compelling and when I watched the hairs tumbling down the white cape, I realised that I could not stop staring. In under a minute, his head was shorn from short to shorter, leaving behind a fine pelt of black on top. The barber moved to the back with a different clipper, almost skinning the back and sides. 

Mrs. Wilson went on chattering about the town, the ladies club she frequented and some more but I found it hard to focus. It was ridiculous as to how drawn I was to this haircut and at that point, I wanted nothing but to leave. But for some reason, Mrs. Wilson would not stop talking. 

Finally, Mr. Wilson was done as he was being uncapped. The salt and pepper of his hair was barely noticeable now, making him somewhat quite young for his age. 

“Okay, sweetheart. It’s your turn now,” he called his wife over. 

Immediately, Mrs. Wilson stiffened. “I am thinking of getting my hair done next week, Oliver.”

“But why? It’s already summer. And look at the scorching weather outside!” 

“Honey, Ava is here. It would be really rude to make her sit alone, you know.”

He walked over to us in determined strides. “Nonsense! I will keep her company.” 

“But Oliver—”

Her words were interrupted when he physically took her hand and escorted her to the stool he had abandoned earlier. “I have heard enough of your excuses, Serena. There’s no point keeping the hair long in the summer.” 

I was a bit surprised to learn of his dominant nature, given how adamant he was of his wife’s haircut. What shocked me was the fact that he was letting a barber cut his wife’s hair. Serena was definitely unwilling, but I felt like her protests were too feeble. For a second I thought of intervening but by then, his wife was already under the cape and the barber was brushing out her long bob. 

“So, we are doing the summer usual?” The barber asked him, not her though.

“Yes, the same one, Ryker.”

Meanwhile, Mr Wilson joined me in the kitchen aisle. I offered him a half-smile and kept staring at the hapless woman under the cape. The barber gathered the top of her hair and secured it, letting the hair on the sides and back open. 

“So, Ava, have you ever tried the short summer hairstyles?” Mr. Wilson asked. 

“Umm…no. I prefer my hair longer.” 

“And the heat doesn’t bother you?” 

I shook my head. “As long as I keep up the bun, no.”  

His eyes grazed over the messy bun I was sporting and glinted wishfully. “That’s a pity.” 

The barber brandished the loud clippers with one hand while another hand firmly pushed down Mrs. Wilson’s head and attacked at the back. She visibly trembled as I watched the swathe of dark hairs skitter down the cape. With every pass, the back of her head was revealed skin.  

“Oh, my God,” I muttered.  

“It’s alright. My wife is quite used to this haircut. Every summer she gets the same one. And she has to keep it like this throughout the summer,” he decreed in a manner that was obligatory.

“And she’s okay with it?” I countered. 

He shrugged. “Well, she does try and talk me out of it every year but as soon as those clippers hit her nape, she’s as pliant as a kitten. Look at her now, accepting her haircut without a complaint.”

I noticed that she did look submissive sitting on that stool now. Her head was tilted to the left as the humming blades pushed through the curtain of hair, exposing her ears. Even though she could not see her haircut, her eyes forlornly stared at the big chunks of severed locks in her lap. The right side of her head received the same brutal treatment and in no time, half of her head was buzzed. 

The barber took down the top now, the only considerable length on her head. It was doused in water as he proceeded to snip the length not more than 2 inches from the scalp. 

“It’s too short, don’t you think?” I asked Mr. Wilson because that haircut was undoubtedly for a little boy than a mature woman. 

“Is that so?” He smirked. Then he hollered over. “Ryker, I have changed my mind. Let’s do a high-and-tight this time.”  

The barber paused and acknowledged with a nod. “Alright then.”

I was not well-versed with the term but the look on his wife’s face told me that it was bad. She pleaded with her husband with her eyes and when he simply shot her a ‘look’, her shoulders slumped in defeat. 

The barber replaced the comb and scissors with the clippers. He adjusted the guard and then cupped the back of her head. Instead of gliding the machine, he pushed her head towards the vibrating metal teeth as sheathes of hair fell to the floor. Suddenly, that 2 inches of hair looked longer than what was left of it. Soon, the rest of her head was reduced to the same pelt, exposing her scalp. 

The barber paused, studying the shorn head for a moment before picking up another clipper. This one bore no guard at all. My hands went clammy in anticipation of the damage it could do, and surely enough, when he used the same on her denuded back and sides, it left nothing but exposed skin. The black covering was slowly giving away to the white skin, tapering high up her crown and on the sides. The onslaught went on as I watched with rapt attention and a certain degree of dark pleasure. 

She was powerless under the cape; her head being shorn like a sheep and yet not a peep passed her lips. And for some reason, I was curious. Why would a wife endure it anyway? 

“What do you think now, Ava?” Mr. Wilson’s voice sliced into my thoughts. 

“That’s an awful amount of hair on the floor,” I said. 

“Oh, yes,” he delighted. “This haircut is quite popular in the military, you know. Shaved high up the temple, tighter on the crown…almost like a stubble. And when you touch the back, it’s barren. Smooth as a cueball.” 

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and goosebumps skittered across my skin. But he went on, his voice low and husky. “Sometimes, they shave your entire head except for a thin strip of hair on top.” And then I felt it. His finger slowly traced the outline of my earlobe and pushed a few strands behind my ear. “Imagine, your ears exposed, your nape shaved and no more heavy bun on your head. Just a small velvet covering of hair.” 

His touch lingered over my nape, circling lazily. “All this hair clipper shaved and scraped clean.”

I gripped the marble top of the kitchen aisle and pressed my lips to suppress a moan. The image he was painting, coupled with the sensual touch, was harrowing. And yet the moisture between my legs grew warmer. I cleared my throat, licking my lips. 

“What’s that?” I asked when the barber worked her nape with a small machine. 

“It’s a trimmer. To clean up the edges and make it smooth. Of course, foam and a straight razor do a better job.” And he added, “The blades scrape you so clean you wouldn’t even know if ever had hair.” 

“I see.” 

The barber was done with Mrs. Wilson. By the end of it, most of her hair was lying lifeless on the floor. And as soon as she was released, her hands pawed at her head. Sadly, the longest length she sported was barely half-inch on top. The rest of her head was nothing but a wide expanse of scalp.   

My landlord seemed pleased. “Ryker, it’s perfect,” he complimented and then turned to me. “What do you think, Ava?”

I briefly looked at Mrs. Wilson, who was still wincing at the loss. “It’s summer-appropriate. You look…nice, Mrs. Wilson.” 

“See you in two weeks, Ryker,” said Mr. Wilson. 

I quickly made my excuses. “I think I should go now.” And I practically ran out this time. However, I didn’t fully make it out when I heard the couple arguing. 

“You said a summer cut, Oliver. I am practically bald now!” cried Mrs. Wilson. 

“This is your new summer cut. And don’t tell me that you didn’t enjoy the clippers. I saw you, practically shaking under the cape.” 

“Oliver, it’s so short.”

His tone was calm yet authoritative. “Yes, love, and you are going to keep it that way from now on.” 

“I look like a man!”

“Enough whining!” He scolded. “If you complain one more time, I will personally shave your head bald as well as your eyebrows.”

A week later, I came across Mrs. Wilson at Walmart, although I didn’t recognise her at first. I didn’t know what had transpired that night or in the next few days, but her head was shaved to the bone like her husband had threatened. A closer look revealed that even her eyebrows were shaved and she had amateur strokes painted over it. 

We exchanged polite pleasantries and left. That night, vivid dreams assaulted my senses.

I imagined how Mr. Wilson exerted his dominance and reduced whatever little sprouted on his wife’s head. The sight of her sitting helpless on the stool, naked with her head pushed down to her chest. Her hands and legs were tied while her husband spread the shaving foam all over her head. He did say how he favoured a straight razor over balding clippers. The blades rasped against her scalp, in slowest and cruelest strokes until her head looked like a cue ball. And because that man loves perfection, he repeated the process for the second and third time. His final act was spreading the foam over her eyebrows and scraping them clean. And by the end of the dream, I realised that it wasn’t Mrs. Wilson on the stool. 

It was me.

I was being shorn, shaved and denuded. 

Instantly, I woke up with a start.