Upgrading Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses

Prologue

The crisp morning air vibrated with anticipation. Standing on the makeshift stage in the market square of my hometown of Boulham, a smile bloomed on my face. The sun, a benevolent spotlight, glinted off my sophisticated inverted bob haircut. My style was a testament to my desire for modern design and living.

‘Good afternoon, my fellow citizens,’ I began, grabbing the attention of the assembled masses spread out below me. I, Elizabeth Frobisher, Mayor of Boulham, welcome you all to celebrate an inaugural charity event for our cherished municipality. This day marks a significant moment in our development. The time when we are leaving behind archaic traditions that serve little purpose,’ I explained, briefly pausing, holding my arms out wide. ‘We now embrace a brighter, more philanthropic future for our beloved town.’

A wave of applause arose from the crowd, endorsing my words. Smiling faces looked up at me adoringly, but they were intermingled with a small number that were less happy. This included sour-faced men steadfastly keeping hands in their pockets, not even applauding. I cast a glance off to one side and saw a line of worried young women, all attempting to comfort and support each other. The stage was set, quite literally, and everything in my life had been leading up to this moment.

After grandly rousing the crowd by waving my arms for a while longer, I then patted the air to calm the people down a little. Silence fell and expectant faces looked upwards.

‘What we will achieve today is serious and important. However, I would like to ask all of you to do just one more thing,’ I paused. Looking around, taking in the whole crowd, I then thrust my arm into the air. ‘Enjoy!’

Tradition

One year earlier, the same faces had filled the market square, but the atmosphere had been vastly different. The town had been celebrating the 49^th annual Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses competition, a tradition I had always loathed.

As a lowly, freshly elected councillor at that time, I had watched the event with barely concealed disdain. Like dolls, the women of Boulham had paraded their impossibly long hair, prancing and preening for the judges’ approval. The final flourish came when every entrant lined up. Then they had spun around, swishing their back and forth in front of the audience’s eyes, a particularly aggravating gesture. The whole sorry enterprise seemed like a relic of a bygone era, a celebration of vanity masquerading as tradition.

Jealousy may have fuelled my disapproval. Unlike my contemporaries, I had never had the opportunity to enter the competition myself. Since I was young, my hair had never grown longer than the middle of my back. Whenever it reached that length, it was always too thin and wispy to merit more than a pitiful glance from my contemporaries. However, as I grew older and the missed opportunities of youth had faded, that disappointment changed. It had metamorphosed into scarcely restrained contempt for every woman who had entered the competition over the years.

Innovation

So, for more than year, I had pursued my yearning for change. I had repeatedly suggested to my fellow, longer-established councillors that we follow the lead of more progressive towns in the county.

One altruistic pursuit that had found increasing favour elsewhere were family and friends sponsoring the philanthropic concept of women shaving their heads. Given modern women no longer needed long hair this graphic illustration of change seemed the perfect demonstration. Furthermore, performing the task as a public event, drove the message home to the whole town, especially when donating the pledged cash to charities supporting those with hair loss.

I appreciate that, on the face of it, the notion appeared completely wrong, ridiculous even. Shaving one person to help another who had no hair was strange, to say the least. However, it was undeniably popular around the county and, to my mind, exhibited altruism and self-sacrifice in its purest form.

However, there was an aspect to the activity that I had not shared with anyone. It dated back to the time I watched my contemporaries parading their long locks when mine would not grow. I revelled in fantasies of running up on stage, scissors in hand, and snipping off the displayed tresses. So, the idea of long-haired women, pressured to part with their prized tresses for a worthy cause, stirred something within me. It was a potent mix not only of civic duty but also a more personal fascination that drove me to intensely pursue the notion.

But my colleagues on the council always shot down all my proposals for change, however expressed, dismissing them as an obscene threat to Boulham’s cherished heritage. Unanimously, the council staunchly refused to entertain the idea of seeing the women and girls of our town publicly shaved and then wandering bald around the town for years to come.

‘It’s not about how we appeared in the past, but more about promoting how caring our town is now,’ I had implored from every angle on countless occasions. ‘Please, just think about it.’

‘Unthinkable!’ they had unanimously chorused, clinging to their antiquated notions, holding out against any form of change.

But then fate had kindly intervened.

Foundation

Six months after the 49^th Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses event had taken place, I had become the town’s Mayor. Considerable changes had taken place in the following six months, which had led to me finding myself on the stage in the market square.

The previous Mayor had retired unexpectedly through ill-health. None of my fellow councillors viewed me as first choice for the post. After all, I had only served a relatively brief time as a councillor. And my unconventional attitude to tradition did not help me win friends. However, ironically, because of the town’s antiquated system for managing unscheduled re-elections, I came to the fore as the least opposed compromise candidate!

With the title of Mayor, had come influence. A great deal of it! I finally had the power to sanction the change that I craved. However, I accepted that I could not be heavy-handed with my craving, otherwise it might all fall flat. I had to be strategic, a puppeteer pulling the strings from behind the velvet curtain of tradition.

Organisation

Amongst my initial responsibilities as Mayor, I took the reins of the planning committee for the 50^th Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses competition. It was due to take place six months later, so I had more than enough time to hatch my plan.

The committee was comprised mostly of women, the majority of whom were former entrants of the competition. Their ages ranged from eighteen to nearly seventy, encompassing the whole tiresome period of the outdated tradition. There was sufficient collective knowledge and familiarity of the event, they all acted as if there was little to do. They were content to implement the same process that had served them well for forty-nine years.

There were also a couple of men attending the meetings. Their involvement was overseeing the construction of the stage and managing the associated tasks for the event. Otherwise, they showed no interest in the process. They were simply content to admire the long hair of the town’s women from afar.

The whole committee were blissfully unaware of the political manoeuvring that was unfolding. If they had been more aware, then things may have progressed differently, and turned out far more to their liking.

Preparation

At the first planning meeting, I floated the idea of a slight shift in focus to the traditional competition for its fiftieth year.

‘Instead of rewarding length,’ I began, my voice carefully modulated, ‘what if we encouraged each women’s family and friends to sponsor them to cut their hair … into a shorter style? The sponsorship money could go to charity, and the cut hair donated to make wigs for those suffering from hair loss.’

My suggestion, as I expected, met with a heady mixture of concerned apprehension and hesitant curiosity. Younger women on the committee, clinging fiercely to tradition or their own long locks, vehemently opposed the idea. But others, perhaps sensing the changing tide in the town and further afield, remained more open.

I emphasised that we could consider shorter styles, rather than employing the brutal practice of headshaving practiced by less enlightened towns. Using my own inverted bob as an example, it found favour with the committee especially those with unstylish and ageing perms.

In the back of my mind, I hoped stylish hairdressers would establish salons in the town in the future. So, no longer would the women of Boulham have to rely on the ancient styles peddled by the town’s ageing hairdressers.

Proposition

Having gained the attention of the committee, I pressed on, weaving a tapestry of persuasive arguments. I spoke of the positive impact the event would have on the community, the money raised for vital causes, the wigs provided to those in need. I subtly highlighted how this altruistic act could improve the entire town’s reputation around the county.

Then, I played my trump card. ‘Think of the older women of Boulham,’ I suggested, my voice laced with empathy. ‘As we get older, we tend to cut our hair shorter, resorting to the limited unfashionable styles offered by our local salons. This represents an acknowledged, but unspoken, rite of passage that leads us to look even older, before our time, than we feel.’

I paused for effect, letting the words sink in. The more senior women nodded, their permed grey curls bouncing in sympathy. ‘So, what if we encouraged women to embrace shorter styles at a younger age? Would that not make our older women compare favourably, and appear younger by association?’

It was a flimsy argument, even a manipulative one, but it worked. The senior women, ever conscious of their appearance as they grew older, latched onto the idea with unrelenting delight and enthusiasm.

I had planted the seed of change. A seed that I was determined to nurture into bloom.

Standardisation

Once the concept of Boulham’s younger women sporting shorter hairstyles had taken root, I introduced my most audacious proposal. Uniformity! ‘To avoid petty jealousies arising from differences in style,’ I declared, ‘I propose that all participants receive the same fashionable haircut.’

An approving murmur rippled through the room, accompanied by appreciative nods. The older women launched into an enthusiastic debate regarding the merits of various hairstyles. I was pleased to give them the belief, however misguided, that they were directly contributing to the emerging plan. Bobs of various lengths were frequently mentioned, and fashionable crops by one or two. And a couple of unnecessarily cruel older ladies even suggested the young women should have neat perms like theirs. I listened patiently, letting them feel like they were in control, but I subtly steered the conversation towards my desired outcome.

After considerable discussion by the committee and subtle manoeuvring by me, we finally reached a consensus. I summarised the chosen style as a fashionable amalgamation of all the ideas that we had considered, wanting everyone to feel they had played their part.

‘All the participants will have a smart bobbed style,’ I explained, noting the murmurs of agreement from around the table. ‘We will keep it nice and short, to avoid it looking too different to the shorter styles already adopted by our older citizens,’ I had elaborated, receiving universal nods of understanding. ‘A glossy cap of hair on the crown with the back and sides nicely “levelled”,’ I had enthusiastically described, noting the rest of the committee riding the wave of my eagerness, even rewarding me with a modest round of applause. I decided against elaborating what I meant by “levelled”.

‘Our bold plan will eliminate the silly and petty competitions over length, thickness, and shine. The issues that plagued the pretentious and outdated Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses event,’ I proceeded confidently, now I had the whole committee on my side.

I paused while accepting another round of applause.

‘And so,’ I concluded, ‘let us look forward to change …  Bowl ’em in Boulham is born!’

Inauguration

So, after fate had elected me Mayor of Boulham, allowing me to overturn forty-nine years of tradition, I stood on the makeshift stage in the market square. Excited, I had introduced the inaugural Bowl ’em in Boulham event. Few of those looking up at me would know exactly what would transpire that morning, even those who had joined me on the planning committee. I was tingling with anticipation.

After my rousing welcome speech, I reminded the audience that their generous self-sacrifice would not only make the whole town proud, but it would also prove extremely valuable to the recipients of our charity. Then I thrust an arm into the air. ‘Enjoy!’ I had commanded, attracting a massive chorus of cheers and applause.

With the stage set, quite literally, the players began to assume their positions for fulfilling their allocated roles, including a tame counsellor who was filming the day’s proceedings.

When the younger women of the town, with their ridiculously long hair, had learnt of the cancellation of the 50^th Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses they were extremely disappointed. After all, like their predecessors, they had wasted so much time ensuring their hair was looking good in preparation for the event.

So, when we announced the event to replace it, those entrants who had anticipated the former competition were hesitant. However, peer pressure from their more altruistic friends, coupled with the overwhelming enthusiasm of the older women, had swayed them. And the mothers were positively giddy at the prospect of their daughters finally having more manageable and cheaper-to-maintain hairstyles.

Eventually, the spirit of the occasion captured the mind of even the most vocal dissenters.

Initiation

Finally, the moment I had long been waiting for had arrived. I consulted my clipboard and called Alicia to the stage. At twenty-one, she possessed the longest hair in Boulham. As the crowd parted, she slowly climbed the flight of steps onto the stage, her eyes nervous and downcast. Her hair cascaded down to her ankles, poignantly reminding us that she had been the winner of the 49^th Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses competition, a title that would forever remain unchallenged.

Two of Boulham’s seasoned female hairdressers, women rarely visited by anyone under the age of sixty, eagerly stepped forward. Their permed grey hair and floral aprons offered a stark contrast to Alicia’s white lace minidress and abundant auburn tresses.

Alicia looked lost on the stage. A deer in headlights, ready to run. But Doris and Ethel, their eyes sparkling with barely suppressed glee, were quick to manoeuvre her into the middle of the stage, turning her to face the expectant audience.

Standing each side of Alica, the hairdressers each gave her hair a cursory brush through, then eagerly bundled her tresses into two thick ponytails. A single tear rolled down Alica’s cheek.

‘Don’t worry, Alicia,’ Doris chirped, wiping the tear away with her finger. ‘This won’t hurt a bit,’ she added, her voice laced with saccharine sweetness.

‘Oh, yes it will,’ cackled Ethel, her eyes gleaming with wicked delight, appearing to revel in the sight of another tear forming.

I whipped up the enthusiasm of the audience as the hairdressers stood, eagerly poised with their scissors encircling the ponytails. The crowd initiated a spontaneous countdown, enthusiastically led by Alicia’s mother who stood at the foot of the stage, the sound echoing throughout the square.

On the count of zero, Alicia screwed up her eyes and, with a flourish, the hairdressers closed their scissors and snipped off the two magnificent ponytails. They tossed the hair into a large plastic dustbin at the rear of the stage as if it were simply rubbish, although the receptacle was destined for a charity later that day.

Doris and Ethel stood back, giggling like schoolgirls, as they awaited their next victim with scissors poised.

Alicia, left alone, appeared rooted to the spot, unsure what to do next. The little hair that remained flapped miserably each side of her head, the ends barely covering her ears. She caught her mother’s eye, undoubtedly hoping for solace. But Alica’s mum simply rewarded her daughter with an enthusiastic thumbs-up, thrilled by the prospect of the next stage of her daughter’s drastic transformation.

Culmination

I led Alicia to the corner of the stage where Mr Bates, the town barber, had positioned his chair. He stood to smartly to attention behind it, a white nylon jacket covering his crisp white shirt and dark tie. A folded haircutting cape rested over his arm. He was a man who the women of the town never visited in a professional capacity. Mr Bates was a man who understood precision and discipline.

During the planning of the event, I contemplated whether our local barber would wish to be involved, or whether we would need to look elsewhere. Growing up as a man in town populated with long-haired women, I anticipated that he would be reluctant to offer his assistance. Surprisingly, he was not only willing to help but very eager to do so.

With a wave of the hand, Mr Bates gestured for Alicia to sit in his chair. As soon as she had perched on the edge of the seat, he fastened a thick white cape around her neck, a stark contrast to the deep auburn of the little of her hair that remained.

‘Mr. Bates,’ I commanded, my voice ringing with authority, ‘ensure the hair is cut high above the ears, the fringe is short, and the back and sides are shaved.’

A collective gasp came from the crowd when they heard, for the first time, the severity of what I had planned for each of the day’s participants. Mr Bates and I had previously agreed what I required him to do, but I stated it unambiguously for dramatic effect.

And it worked. Nervous glances passed between the younger women in the crowd, as if they were reassessing the fate of their hair. But the bossier candidates continued to apply pressure on their peers, and they kept everyone under control and in their place.

‘Yes, Ma’am,’ Mr. Bates replied, his voice trembling with excitement. ‘Alicia’s hair will be cut to perfection, as it will for all of those who will follow her into my chair.’

With practiced movements, he deftly trimmed a precise perimeter for the bowl. It was high above Alicia’s ears, incorporating the shortest of fringes. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he activated the electric shaver and began to meticulously shave the back and sides of the young women’s head, revealing the pristine, white skin beneath. The hum of the shaver filled the square, a mechanical symphony of submission.

I watched his work with unwavering scrutiny, ensuring he shaped Alicia’s glossy auburn bowl as high as we agreed, and he shaved her neck completely bald.

‘Truly delightful,’ I murmured, surveying the audience, daring anyone to voice dissent. Men in the crowd shuffled nervously, realising they had lost all influence over the day’s events and the length of their women’s hair.

‘So wonderfully short, especially her neck! A vast improvement,’ called out Alicia’s mother, from the foot of stage. ‘And we will save so much money on hair products that I will be buying myself a new dress.’

A wave of cheers and laughter erupted from the crowd, led by Alicia’s own gleeful mother.

Alicia, however, hung her head, her face flushed with a mixture of embarrassment and humiliation.

Continuation

Becky followed Alicia, then Christy, then Davinia, and then more.

‘Bowl ‘em, bowl ‘em, bowl ’em,’ was the crowd’s hypnotic chant as each young woman made their way onto the stage.

Doris and Ethel filled the plastic bin three times over with a mountain of severed hair of all shades, textures, and lengths. Mr Bates ensured not one bristle emerged on the back and sides of each woman’s head, below the precise perimeter of the glossy bowl.

It was a glorious production line. Long hair sheared from women’s heads, and the uncovering of delectable napes, was a testament to the power of my vision.

Each apprehensive woman ascended the stage, their long hair a symbol of the past, and descended with a bold, uniform statement, a uniform symbol of what was in store for all the young women of Boulham.

Finally, thirty-four women, all sporting identical bowlcuts with pristine napes shaved to the bone, lined up on stage, facing the audience. I gestured for them to slowly turn, highlighting their bare, pristine necks to the audience. Although a parody of the swishing long hair that marked the end of every Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses event, it presented a delightful and uncompromising vision of the future.

A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd, a roar of approval that reverberated through the square. It was the validation I craved, the proof that Bowl ’em in Boulham was not just a fleeting fad, but a permanent fixture in the town’s calendar, a testament to my leadership and my unwavering commitment to progress.

Epilogue

As the cheers subsided, I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. I had not only raised a considerable amount for charity and modernised the town’s traditions, but I had also indulged a secret desire, a dark pleasure that I would savour for years to come.

I had harboured a secret, a more personal motivation for championing the specific style I had chosen. The image of a woman, her long, flowing hair sacrificed to the sharp precision of a bowlcut, had long been an arousing fantasy of mine. And on that momentous day, I had realised that fantasy, not just once, but thirty-four times over.

Later, in the privacy of my bedroom, I reviewed the video of the event, reliving each moment, each snip of the scissors, each bare nape revealed. It was a guilty pleasure, I knew, but one I could not deny myself.

Boulham would never be the same, and neither would I.

The time for Boulham’s Beautiful Tresses was over.

The time to Bowl ’em in Boulham had just begun.

The End