The Plump Chap II – Influencing the Tennis Academy

A sequel to Emma & Julie Feel the Heat of the Plump Chap’s Gaze written for standalone enjoyment without having necessarily read the original story. The Plump Chap’s subtle gift for influencing women to part with their hair may be diminishing, hence requiring a fresh challenge …

The Performance Coach Accepts Her Mission

The mission I was on was ridiculous. It was a pursuit that the directors of The Meadowlands Tennis Academy should never have contemplated. And, as the senior performance coach, it was one I should never have agreed to.

The board of directors had decided that an off-site brainstorming session would give us the opportunity to formulate a new business strategy for the Academy. We discussed ideas for raising Meadowlands standing in the tennis world, recruiting more experienced coaches, and attracting higher calibre aspiring professional players. Naturally, the goal of the revised strategy was to increase profitability. During our morning session we had all tossed novel suggestions into the melting pot, and we had rejected all the ideas for one reason or another. All too frequently it had come down to the cost of implementing a proposal; the Academy had little spare cash in the budget for expensive investments.

Unwisely, we may have indulged a little too freely in the Prosecco over lunch, resulting in a more light-hearted afternoon session than we had planned. We had generated even wilder ideas than the morning, and they were even easier to dismiss. I may have been feeling slightly too relaxed as I had proposed a novel idea based on a guilty secret. And it was one that could have revealed a little too much about my private interests if taken further.

It had been a worthless suggestion from a business perspective, and one that I had immediately regretted making. I expected the others to quickly forget it but, unfortunately for me, they did not. Each of my colleagues, one by one, had deliberated on my proposal and, to my astonishment, concurred that it was a concept worth investigating further. I imagined one benefit in its favour was that it would be inexpensive to trial its effectiveness. Then, if the results of the trial demonstrated improvement, it would, if fully implemented, contribute to our profitability.

The Managing Director of the Academy summarised the session. ‘Carla, with no further ideas achieving consensus, the Board unanimously accepts your proposal. As the Performance Coach, you will be responsible for undertaking the trial, with my full authority, and reporting back to the Board on its effectiveness.’

The Performance Coach Encounters the Plump Chap

I produced my plan for undertaking the trial, accepting the meagre funding provided. Having arranged facilities at the Academy to my satisfaction, I was now wandering around town to complete the final part of the preparations for trial.

I had already visited two establishments in the more salubrious part of town, but the price they quoted was way too much for our limited budget. Using my knowledge from times past, I had recalled a modest place down a charming lane away from the main thoroughfare. Situated amongst artisan shops and cafés, I wondered if it might offer better value, so I sauntered in that direction.

As I strolled down the lane, I felt distinctly chilly in the shade of the buildings, the weather being unseasonably cold. Although my tennis playing career was far behind, I still liked to enhance my athletic figure by dressing the part. However, the short white tennis dress I favoured may not have been the best choice on such a chilly morning. I was glad that I had the foresight to toss on my extremely worn denim jacket to add a touch of warmth. The sportswear-branded cap helped to keep in the heat as well, allowing my modest ponytail to plume through the hole at the back.

Glancing at my reflection in shop windows demonstrated that I still maintained the look of a tennis professional, even if I was now just a humble coach. Although I was in my forties, I thought I still appeared attractive and cool.

As I turned a corner, I peered down the lane, recognising the building I had recalled earlier. Unfortunately, now blacked out and with no obvious signage, the indication was that the former occupants had left. With that in mind, I looked around to ask if anyone knew where they had moved to, or if they knew of anywhere else suitable to fulfil my mission.

People were bustling past, but I spied a plump-looking chap standing outside the blacked-out building. Formally dressed in suit and tie, he looked incredibly pompous, just standing there, hands clasped behind his back, surveying the passing crowds through round spectacles that enlarged his eyes.

I would normally have given such a person a wide berth, but what captured my attention was his hair. Or rather the absence of it. He was entirely bald. No, not just bald but completely hairless. It was as if not one strand had ever grown on his smooth and gleaming scalp. Despite the dull day, his bare head glow within the shaded confines of the lane, and it drew me inexorably towards The Plump Chap.

The Plump Chap Observes the Performance Coach

The past week had dragged as a slow, insufferable crawl of disappointing candidates had passed me by. Disheartened, I had maintained a constant vigil in the cool shadows outside my humble establishment on the cobbled backstreet. Hands clasped behind my back, I remained a picture of respectable poise to everyone who saw me. I proudly wore a crisp white shirt, my vibrant emerald tie, a tailored waistcoat that hugged my modest girth, and my immaculately fitted trousers. Keeping up appearances was essential and, I was sure, drew the unvoiced admiration of every woman who passed me by.

My greatest asset was, I knew, my polished and utterly hairless scalp. It kept me pleasantly cool on the warmer days, offering a visual promise of relief to all who glanced my way. Sadly, the past week had been unseasonably cold, but I would never resort to the artificiality of a hat to keep me warm.

I doubted the chilly weather would have been the sole cause of no suitable candidates gracing my vision. Had I, I mused, in my relentless pursuit, finally rid the modest town of all the offending items that I sought? I chuckled to myself, a low, rumbling sound in my chest, at the thought. My unprovoked laughter attracted the odd bemused glance of passersby, each noticeably widening their path to avoid me. While the thought that I might have successfully complete my mission was agreeable, I reluctantly settled on the simpler explanation that I was suffering an atrocious streak of ill fortune.

Just then, a figure appeared at the far end of the lane, immediately looking in my direction. An athletic woman strode towards me with a certain hurried grace before slowing her pace as she approached. She wore a short white dress that looked moderately smart, but she had thrown a dreadfully worn, unbuttoned denim jacket over it. A creased baseball cap with a strange logo adorning it topped off her truly scruffy ensemble. Emerging through the gap in the back of her apologetic headgear was a modestly long and wavy ponytail, bouncing from side to side. But it struck me as utterly ridiculous on a woman in her forties. I promptly averted my gaze from the regretful sight, hoping a more suitable candidate might be approaching from the other direction.

I sensed the athletic woman had paused so, with a degree of reluctance, I turned back to determine what had caught her attention. Her gaze switched from facing me, to the nondescript storefront of my premises, and then back in my direction. Concealed from her view behind me was my sanctuary. Hidden behind the painted-over signage that hinted at the building’s former life, it was now simply a cover for my unique passion.

The woman exhibited a flicker of curiosity. My round spectacles, perched perfectly on my nose, magnified my eyes, lending them an unnaturally large, yet undeniably persuasive, quality. My unblinking gaze clearly unsettled her. I debated whether to exert my gift on her. My modest gift of influence, using the power of mind through my eyes. But such a modest ponytail was barely a prize worth collecting, so I wondered if it truly justified the effort, especially as my usual ploy might fail on such a dull day.

‘It’s remarkably hot today, madam,’ I ventured out of habit, the words sounding bored even to my own ears, lacking my usual conviction. A mere conversational gambit, a test of the waters.

She looked at me strangely, her brow furrowing slightly. ‘No, actually, it’s not hot at all,’ she said, perplexed, pulling her scruffy denim jacket around her to illustrate her point.

‘Yes, sorry, madam, you are quite right,’ I agreed, averting my gaze to conclude our conversation, and scanning the street for a more promising candidate. My energy was too precious to waste on such a meagre offering, especially in such inclement weather. ‘Good day to you.’

‘Excuse me, are you a barber?’ the woman asked, her voice cutting through my dismissal. Clearly my impeccable appearance had done its work, drawing her in despite my lacklustre opening. And, of course, my gleaming head, an unyielding promise of coolness, had captured her attention. She was intrigued despite herself.

I chuckled, a deeper, more satisfying sound this time, causing the woman to flinch at the unexpected laughter. It had been a while since anyone had asked me directly about my profession. A role that provided such a convenient veil for my true calling. ‘Perhaps…’ I replied enigmatically, holding her gaze, letting my unnaturally large eyes work their silent magic.

The Performance Coach Engages with the Plump Chap

I should have followed my initial instincts and avoided the pompous character. His random, unsolicited laughter put me on edge. And his answer to my simple question was disconcertingly vague. Either he was a barber, or he was not, so why the great mystery.

Frustrated, I had a mind to simply smile and move on, dismissing him as an eccentric. However, close-up, his gleaming head was even more captivating, while his eyes seemed to glow behind his spectacles and entrance me further. It was very unsettling.

Then I put myself in his shoes. His shining black leather shoes, I noted. He must have considered it strange that a middle-aged tennis professional was asking a bald stranger if he was a barber. There was, of course, something hidden deep down inside me, that wanted me to extend and develop the unlikely conversation.

‘Why do you ask?’ he enquired politely, although his voice had gained a subtle edge as his eyes held me firm.

‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ I said airily, waving away my need for an answer, feeling a slight flush rising on my cheeks.

‘Why do you ask?’ he reiterated, more firmly this time, pouring every ounce of persuasive power into his almost hypnotic stare. Strangely, I could feel my resistance begin to crumble, making me want to stay to reveal to him my true purpose for being there.

The Plump Chap Listens to the Performance Coach

‘My name is Carla Martinez,’ the woman recited, as if compelled. ‘I am the senior performance coach at The Meadowlands Tennis Academy,’ she explained, her words tumbled out, hesitant at first, then gaining a more professional tempo. ‘We are conducting a trial to determine if adjustments to hairstyles can enhance the performance of the aspiring professional tennis players that are currently enrolled on our training programme.’

‘Please go on, Ms. Martinez,’ I urged, my interest piqued. This was entirely unexpected. A study on the impact of different hairstyles on sporting performance? It revealed all sorts of possibilities! My mind raced, envisioning the transformation of athletes, the glorious shedding of superfluous length. This was promising. Very promising indeed.

‘We need a hairstylist at least two days a week at the Academy to help us conduct the trials,’ she continued, now speaking with more confidence, clearly caught in the web of my gaze. ‘I have spoken to two salons, but the price they are quoting is beyond our budget, despite the attraction of continuing work if the trials are successful.’

‘How very interesting, Ms. Martinez,’ I remarked, trying to hide my growing excitement.

‘But thinking about it, sir, despite the cost, I do wonder if a barber may not be the best choice for our aspiring professional female players.’ She critically eyed my bald pate, relating that to a potential lack of expertise in styling women’s hair. Reluctantly, I could understand why she might consider that as a drawback, despite me viewing it quite differently.

I almost blurted out that I would do what she asked for nothing! The excitement of her project created a hot surge through my veins, but I managed to hold my tongue. Thoughts of a steady stream of willing candidates crossed my mind, all with the potential for long, luscious manes waiting for me to liberate them. However, one must always maintain an air of professionalism, even when one’s true motive is less conventional. Patience, I chided myself. Patience!

‘Ms. Martinez, you may call me Charles,’ I said, despite it not being my real name, but one that seemed eminently suitable for this new, promising venture. My piercing eyes, magnified by the lenses of my spectacles, held hers without faltering. ‘And, yes, you certainly do require a barber. A man such as I, after all, understands efficiency, practicality, and unburdening,’ I reassured her, guiding her mind to the correct conclusion. I saw her capitulate, the stress of needing to decide falling away, her shoulders relaxing.

‘Charles,’ she echoed dumbly, the word hanging in the air. ‘Yes, with that excellent degree of understanding you are exactly what the Academy requires, for sure.’ My persuasive gift was indeed working wonders.

I tapped my phone, feigning calculations on the calculator app, then held it up, displaying a ridiculously low price that I had typed in directly. ‘I am happy to help you by simply charging the cost of expenses, with the prospect of further work in the future.’

My reasoning was simple, solely relating to my passion for cutting women’s hair. Specifically, cutting it as short as possible. Shorter than they often asked, which, admittedly, had led to the occasional unpleasant encounter with the women, their husbands, and even the authorities at times. However, I wished more women would venture into my shop. Those who did always walked out with a decidedly masculine cut that everyone could admire, having shorn them of all the hair I could justify. The Academy’s requirement was a wonderful gift that coincided with my passion, providing me with a veritable cornucopia of opportunity.

‘Perfect, Charles,’ she announced brightly, a genuine smile replacing her earlier apprehension as she handed me her business card ‘Please be at the academy with your haircutting equipment at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. We will provide you with all the other facilities that you require.’

‘I look forward to it, Carla,’ I said honestly. My broad smile, usually reserved for the quiet satisfaction of a successful acquisition, was now a public declaration of stimulated anticipation.

The Performance Coach Relishes the Arrival of the Plump Chap

The sense of accomplishment and positivity I had felt when discussing matters with The Plump Chap – sorry, Charles – began evaporating as soon as I wandered back down the lane. Was he the right person to cut the hair of the Academy’s apprising tennis professionals, I wondered, doubts creeping in.

Then I began to picture the outcome of his presence. Envisaging him cutting the unnecessarily long hair of our players. My stomach gave a lurch of excitement as the suppressed fascination, and the desire, hidden deep within me began to bloom.

I took a last look back before turning the corner. He continued to stand in that pompous way of his, hands clasped behind his back. His gleaming head caught a beam of sunlight, as if it were winking at me.

= * = * =

I had a disturbed night, filled with weird dreams of the Plump Chap grandly dancing around the room that I had set aside for the project, waving comb and scissors in his hand. I sat in the middle of the room, but I was unable to make out what he was doing as the reflection from his gleaming head dazzled me. While the result of his activities was unclear, it was a very unsettling experience.

When I had arrived at the Academy, I had surreptitiously peeped around the door into the small room we had set assigned for the trial. Apart from the equipment I had installed, it had been a relief to find the room was empty!

I nervously reviewed the detailed timetable for the morning’s activities on my computer tablet. Taking a deep breath, I walked to the reception area to await our esteemed guest.

The Plump Chap Greets the Performance Coach

The twenty-minute cycle ride to The Meadowlands Tennis Academy – the “Academy of Dreams” as I had come to refer to in my mind – was invigorating. Despite that, I would have liked to make a grander impression to those inside by arriving in my car.

However, I was still contending with the unfortunate incident involving the narrow lane outside my premises, the exotic dancer with the exceedingly long hair that I met in a night club, and consumption of a little too much wine. Although the car had come off worse than I, the authorities deemed it necessary to prevent me from driving for quite a while. A minor inconvenience, certainly, but one that I soon forgot when compared to the delightful encounters that awaited me.

I unstrapped my large leather case of haircutting equipment from the pannier on my bicycle. Marching confidently into the reception area, Carla, the Academy’s performance coach, greeted me with surprising warmth.

‘Good morning, Charles,’ she gushed, moving in to suggest she was going to hug or, heaven forbid, kiss me. I thrust out a hand before me that, clearly affronted, she shook with a surprisingly firm grip.

She wore a similar white tennis dress to the day before but coupled with a smart white top that she had zipped up neatly. Sportwear, I lamented, but infinitely better than the scruffy denim jacket from the day before. She had also dispensed with the creased cap, allowing her ponytail to plume, unfettered, from high on her crown. Bouncing around whenever she moved, it was so irritatingly unsuitable for a woman in her forties. Overall, her appearance was far too casual for a professional business pursuit, but I chose to let it pass.

‘Good morning, Carla,’ I responded, ‘and may I say how pleased I am to be here today to help you with your interesting project. ‘Your premises are most impressive, and I look forward to working here. I do not play tennis myself,’ I said, patting my generous stomach, ‘but I do enjoy watching it when I have the time.’

I did not add that, when I watched, my focus was on grading the ponytails on all the players and fantasising about scenes that I hoped would present themselves that morning.

Carla led me through a maze of corridors. Windows opened out onto tennis courts, gyms, and classrooms. The echoing thwack of balls against tennis rackets was our constant companion.

= * = * =

Finally, we arrived at a small, bright room, white-tiled and freshly painted. I marvelled at the pristine and professional modern barber’s chair standing proudly like a throne in the centre. Two wheeled trolleys stood alongside awaiting my equipment. I placed my case on one of them.

I noted the absence of a mirror in front of the chair. A sensible precaution, I felt. It would ensure the first glimpse of a radical transformation will only occur after completion. However, there were a couple of hand mirrors, hanging from hooks on the wall. I would offer those if the candidate wished to see their new appearance before they left. I also noticed there was a coffee machine sitting temptingly in the corner.

‘This is perfect, Carla,’ I said. ‘You can be assured that I – that is, we – will do great work in here.’

‘Thank you, Charles,’ she simpered, making me wonder if I had inadvertently exerted my gift upon her that morning. Realising I had not, I grasped that her reaction to me was entirely genuine, and I was intrigued. ‘Help yourself to coffee. There’s milk in the fridge. Make yourself comfortable, get your equipment ready and all that … and I, er, will fetch, Jessica, our first aspiring professional for today.’ Having said all that, she hovered silently by the door as if remembering something.

‘Thanks,’ I said pleasantly, passing her uncomfortably close in the confines of the small room, on the way to inspect the workings of the coffee maker. ‘Was there something else, Carla?’ I asked, pausing next to her.

The Performance Coach is Unsettled by the Plump Chap

‘Look, Charles,’ I ventured, loitering by the door of the makeshift salon before fetching the first candidate.

He nodded, gesturing for me to continue.

‘I am not being funny or anything, but your head … it is so, well, hairless,’ I murmured. ‘Not like just bald … but it gleams … no, it glows … and looks so smooth … unreal … sorry, Charles, I am being rude … I will be back … with Jessica,’ I stuttered, feeling my cheeks blushing.

He gently took my hand, placing my palm on top of his bare head. ‘Oh, my goodness!’ I exclaimed after a lengthy pause while my fingers explored the barren expanse. ‘It is so soft, smooth, cool,’ I judged, my pitch rising with each excited word. ‘Gosh!’

‘Er, Carla, should we get on now, do you think?’ he enquired pleasantly, smiling and looking intrigued by my interest.

I snatched my hand away, not wishing to reveal anything, especially that his gleaming dome had filled my dreams the night before.

‘Should we?’ I echoed dumbly, momentarily confused about what we should be doing. ‘Yes, of course, Charles. Sorry,’ I babbled, flushed with embarrassment. ‘I will return in ten seconds … er, no, hours … sorry, in ten minutes, with Jessica,’ I mumbled, flustered, before rushing out the door.

The Plump Chap Prepares for the Aspiring Professional

Well, Carla’s behaviour was remarkably interesting, I mused. Sipping the espresso dispensed by my machine, I was unsure what to make of her. If pushed, I would have inferred that she had a suppressed interest in hair, including the lack of it. If so, I imagined the efficiency trial she was engineering was a remarkably successful attempt to satisfy her latent cravings.

While musing on Carla’s reaction, I neatly laid out all my scissors, combs, hairclippers, trimmers, and razor. I perfectly aligned each tool in the organised way that it should be, with each a promise of enjoyable hair removal to come. Without knowing who to expect, my anticipation was a delicious ache. I stood, hands clasped behind my back, surveying my unfamiliar, but pristine, environment. Then I eagerly turned to face the door, expectant and smiling.

When Carla returned, she looked far more composed than she had after her unexpected revelation.

‘Charles, this is Jessica,’ Carla announced. ‘She is one of our highest rated aspiring professional players, aged twenty-two, and we will shortly be unleashing her onto an unsuspecting pro circuit,’ she added proudly.

The tall and athletic young woman standing before me looked supremely confident in her ability. Her designer white tennis skirt and top enhanced her lithe, muscular physique, so she looked the part. However, mentally, I shrugged as I had focused all my attention on her hair. It was exceedingly long, dark, scraped harshly into a high ponytail and then braided, a thick rope of unnecessary length that she had draped forward over one shoulder.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Jessica said politely, tossing back her plait in a familiar and well-practiced gesture that I found decidedly irritating. The Academy was no place for such habits, I considered, and then I managed to stifle a chuckle, knowing what I had planned.

I acknowledged Jessica’s greeting with a curt nod, hands still clasped behind my back. Words, I felt, were unnecessary. She initial confidence seemed to waver. It may have been my cool demeanour that unsettled her. Or, more likely, the pristine white space along with the leather and chrome chair in the middle of it, with my haircutting tools neatly laid out alongside.

Singled out, Jessica looked even more complacent. Given what we had planned, I speculated that Jessica did not know the details of what was to come. If she had realised, then I am sure she would not have looked quite as contented!

‘So, we are experimenting with different hairstyles for our most-valued aspiring professionals,’ Carla explained, her voice business-like. Jessica blinked, a frown forming. ‘The trial will determine which haircut is most efficient, to provide a competitive edge against the top-ranked players on the pro circuit. With you, Jessica, we wish to trial a bowlcut so please sit, and take your direction from Charles.’

My heart gave a little flutter of unadulterated delight at the thought of carving a bowlcut from such a magnificent head of hair. The impending removal was beyond my wildest dreams.

‘What, Coach?’ Jessica shrieked, her voice high with dismay. Ah, so I was correct with my speculation, and Carla had not revealed the full story to the students! ‘No! You never said that -’

‘Silence, Jessica, we have guests,’ Carla snapped, her voice surprisingly sharp, her eyes narrowing, silencing the young woman’s protest immediately. She turned back to me, her eyes meeting mine, and we shared a silent understanding. ‘Charles, please proceed and, as a result of this unnecessary outburst, ensure Jessica’s hair is cut as severely as possible.’

Jessica whined, a pathetic sound. ‘But I have lucrative hair care endorsements to consider. Shampoo and conditioner, and then there is -’

‘Jessica, please be quiet. Your tennis must always come first!’ Carla insisted, her voice brooking no argument. ‘Now, we benchmarked your performance yesterday. We will measure it again today after your haircut and decide if your ability and efficiency has improved. Now, sit!’

Jessica, defeated, slumped into the barber’s chair, her long, beautiful braid tucked safely between her body and the backrest. But not for long, as I plucked it out and allowed it to sway back and forth behind the chair like a pendulum, the secured ends almost touching the floor.

‘No need to be nervous,’ I lied, but feeling an odd compulsion to comfort her.

I relied on Carla’s authority to coerce the candidate, rather than the gift I exerted through my eyes when working alone. It was a peculiar, but pleasant, change to my usual method of working.

‘I … I …’ was the best Jessica managed to force from her lips. She urgently looked at the wall, then around her, and I imagined she was seeking a mirror. After all, it would a standard fitting in a salon setting. Therefore, I was grateful that Carla had the foresight not to install one to minimise any unnecessary disruption.

My fingers, nimble and eager, reached for her thick plait with practiced fluidity. I selected my largest scissors, their blades huge. Then, with a swift satisfying crunch, I chopped off the braid immediately, a clean, decisive cut.

Jessica gasped, a strangled sound of disbelief. Carla echoed her cry, although I suspected her excited pleasure was at odds with the sadness of her student.

The weight of Jessica’s hair in my hand was exhilarating. I covertly hid it in a specially prepared compartment in the lid of my case. Later it would become a new addition for my private collection where I would carefully label it, catalogue it, and place it on loving display.

Carla stood to one side of the chair, with her arms folded across her chest. She stared, mesmerised by the short stump emerging from the young woman’s crown. A difference between the two women was that Carla was biting her lip. She was attempting to conceal a smile of satisfaction, that one might even interpret as pleasure.

‘We will now complete your transformation, Jessica,’ I explained as I draped a cape over her athletic body. I smoothed the white cloth around her shoulders, and then I firmly secured it around her neck. As I pumped the chair up high, her wide-eyed expression revealed that my actions were, as I hoped, adding to her feeling of vulnerability.

Releasing the bound remnant of her former braid, allowed the wayward lengths to flop around her face. I enjoyed keeping my clients informed as I worked to help them feel less anxious. ‘Initially, we will create a perimeter for the bowl that is above your ears and high up the back of your head.’

‘High?’ she whined, suggesting it was not her preference.

‘Oh, yes, Jessica, very high,’ I confirmed reassuringly.

With my customary precision, I used smaller scissors than earlier and, starting from back, I trimmed a blunt line all around her head. The short tendrils that I severed, bounced onto her shoulders, gathered in her lap, and slipped to the floor.

After shaping the bowlcut, I selected my most powerful hairclippers. ‘Now, we’re taking it nice and tight around the nape before moving upwards,’ I narrated, my voice a soothing murmur. ‘And around the sides, we’ll just be clearing the hair around the ears.’

A persistent roar reverberated around the small, tiled room as the hairclippers burst into life. Jessica flinched as I moved them closer. ‘No need to worry, Jessica,’ I chuckled, ‘these will not hurt.’ Not physically at least, I felt it prudent not to add.

‘Coach?’ Jessica beseeched which, if I am being honest, was becoming slightly irritating. However, I let it pass on this occasion as Carla was good enough to step in. ‘Is this really necessary?’

‘Yes, Jessica, it is entirely necessary, as it will create a clean, aerodynamic line for improved performance,’ Carla explained and, as she glanced towards me.

I nodded approvingly at her justification. ‘Yes, like a nice, smooth helmet,’ I clarified.

Jessica whimpered, as I forced her head down and bared the back of her head, right down to the bone. Tilting her head to right, I shaved around her left ear and then I did the same on the other side. I could feel the tension radiating from Jessica, her entire body rigid, but I paid it no mind.

‘No need to worry, young lady’ I suggested, chuckling, ‘these clippers are very efficient and will leave no trace of hair behind to disturb your lovely profile.’

‘And you will be nice and cool when you are on court,’ Carla helpfully elaborated.

For whatever reason, Jessica did not seem reassured by my commentary. ‘A nice short fringe will enable you to see the ball clearly at all times,’ I explained, cutting it exceedingly high, close to the hairline, rendering her face utterly open and vulnerable.

‘Now we will adjust the overall shape and weight, Jessica, for optimal aerodynamics,’ I commented soothingly, my voice a low hum. I removed bulk from the crown area, allowing the perimeter to turn neatly under, covering the top of the shaved areas.

‘You will be perfectly streamlined to gain extra milliseconds on the dash for an unexpected drop shot,’ Carla added encouragingly.

Finally satisfied, I put down my tools, whisked away the cape and lowered the chair.

‘It is certainly stark and severe, Charles,’ Carla summarised cheerfully, leaning forward to thoroughly inspect my work. A satisfied smile played on her lips as she examined Jessica’s bare nape with her fingertips. ‘Excellent,’ she remarked, nodding approvingly.

I handed Jessica a small hand mirror so she could appreciate her revised hairstyle for the first time. Trembling, her eyes, wide with disbelief, focused on her altered appearance. A strangled gasp escaped her lips, followed by a piercing shriek of utter dismay. It was the delightful sound I had come to associate with my successful transformations.

Carla and I shared a look, a subtle, condescending chuckle passing between us. A quiet understanding forming between us, a mutual appreciation for efficiency, for discipline, for the satisfying removal of the superfluous.

‘Run along, Jessica,’ Carla said dismissively with a wave of the hand, her voice entirely devoid of sympathy for Jessica’s distress. ‘And send Anna along to see us.’

Carla waited until Jessica had departed before turning to me. ‘Anna is going to have a flattop,’ she explained excitedly, rubbing her hands together with delighted anticipation.

My eyes twinkled with anticipation. A flattop! For a woman! Oh, this was truly a gift from the heavens.

The Performance Coach Cautions the Plump Chap

‘Jessica looked stunning, Charles, and I am sure that her streamlined outline will enhance her performance,’ I told him appreciatively. ‘No more messing around with hair scrunchies and suchlike on court. Just pure efficiency. I was fascinated to watch you work so skilfully, but -’

‘Thanks, Carla,’ Charles acknowledged, interrupting my flow. ‘I do feel we are already working rather well as a team.’

‘Well, yes. Yes, we are, but -’

‘Go on,’ Charles rumbled, his voice dropping an octave or more, a sharp edge to his voice. His peculiar staring eyes, magnified through his spectacles, increased my anxiety. ‘But?’

‘Well, Charles, I was surprised by your running commentary,’ I said, the words tumbling out. As soon as they had and I faced the sudden change to his demeanour, I wished my words had remained unsaid. However, I pressed on. ‘Maybe a little heartless … well, perhaps …’

‘Really?’ he chuckled, which was not the reaction I was expecting. I had noted that he frequently seemed to laugh at the oddest things, or even at nothing tangible. It became annoying after a while, and very unsettling. ‘Not heartless, at all, Carla. My commentary is from my heart,’ he went on, smiling condescendingly. ‘It explains what I am doing, and why I am doing it, providing reassurance,’ he claimed.

‘Ah, I see,’ I acknowledged, thinking carefully about what I said next. ‘Well, that is fine, Charles, I guess. It certainly added something to proceedings. But you may have been oblivious to Jessica’s distress, lost as you were in the pure, unadulterated pleasure of your work.’

One thing it added to the proceedings was a warmth rising from deep inside of me, but I kept that insight to myself. If it were not so ridiculous, I would have said the sensation was a prelude to arousal. How, I wondered, could a haircut, however drastic, have such an impact upon me?

‘Ah, I see,’ Charles chirped, nodding wisely. After he had given me a moment to reconsider what I had said, he went on. ‘Yes, my focus is always purely on the art, the transformation, the liberation of hair,’ he explained. His explanation carried no hint of apology.

Did that mean he was going to change his approach? I needed to clarify. ‘Yes, but -’

A deep, dismissive chuckle rolled out of him, irritating me once again. ‘Oh well,’ he shrugged.

To be continued