Victoria’s Threads of Tension

Prologue

The pressure behind my eyes was a constant, throbbing ache. Exams were looming, and the mountain of textbooks felt like it was physically weighing me down. Sleep was a luxury I could not afford, and the paracetamol I was popping like candy was not even touching the sides of the pain anymore. It was time to admit defeat and see a doctor.

I shed my usual study uniform of hoodie and trackies – the sartorial equivalent of surrender – and pulled out a summery dress. Something bright, something that did not scream “stressed-out student”. It was short, maybe teetering on the edge of too short, but I needed a boost.

I wrestled my hair out of its perpetual messy bun. The thick, dark strands cascaded down my back, almost reaching my thighs when I wore them loose. I brushed it until it shone, then gathered it into a high, swinging ponytail. It was a trick I had learned years ago, a way to feel better, somehow. The weight of the ponytail redistributed the pain, pulling it away from my forehead and easing the pressure. Reassuringly, the ponytail brushed the back of my thighs, longer even than the hem of my dress.

I looked more like my old self, even if I did still feel awful, but I was confident that my doctor would set me back on the path to full health.

Waiting

The waiting room was sterile and smelled faintly of disinfectant and anxiety. Becky, the young receptionist with the choppy, multi-coloured bob, greeted me with a chirruping away in a tone that felt a little too bright for the atmosphere. ‘The doctor’s running a bit late, Victoria, so probably about half an hour wait.’ She smiled, but her eyes moved behind me to address the next patient. ‘Just take a seat.’

I sank into a plastic chair, fighting the urge to pull out my study notes. But I needed to switch off, even if it was for only a little while. I closed my eyes, focusing on the feel of the cool air on my bare legs, and trying to ignore all the people with their multiple ailments surrounding me.

Consulting

Finally, Becky shrilly called my name and pointed me in the right direction. Dr Eleanor James was a sweet, older woman in drab dark clothes, but she always seemed permanently frazzled, just like her curly grey hair, as if constantly trying to catch up.

She smiled wearily as I sat down. ‘So, Victoria, what can I do for you today?’

I explained about the headaches, the lack of sleep, the looming exams. She did a series of perfunctory tests, shone a light in my eyes, poked and prodded my head. Irritatingly, her gaze kept drifting towards her computer screen, where notification bubbles were constantly popping up. I would have preferred to have all her attention, or none at all.

‘Hmm,’ she said, more to the screen than to me. ‘Well, painkillers are not really the answer, are they?’ I had worked that out, so I was unsure why she was asking me the question. ‘An exercise plan or change in diet might help. Even alternative therapy such as acupuncture.’ Her tone was vague, almost sounding like she was asking me for suggestions.

Exercises? Therapy? Acupuncture? I was a student, drowning in debt and deadlines, without the time or the money to indulge in any of that. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

Every time I tried to elaborate what I had tried or discuss what were the best options, another message would flash on her screen, pulling her attention away. Her advice felt disjointed, rushed. She left me feeling that my problem was not serious enough to warrant her full attention.

Was I just being overly dramatic, or was my perception simply a result of stress? Whatever, I just believed she did not believe my problem was worthy of her time.

Then, suddenly, she perked up, her eyes widening slightly. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, waving vaguely at the computer screen. ‘That reminds me. We have a new practitioner, Heather, who has just joined us here. Given her background, I think she might be able to help you immediately. It would certainly save you making an appointment elsewhere if you are agreeable.’

What kind of appointment? A consultancy referral? Physiotherapy? Exercise in a gym? The same thoughts racing through my head. But the chance of getting immediate relief was too tempting to pass up. ‘Okay,’ I said, relieved. ‘That would be wonderful.’

‘Excellent!’ She scribbled something on a pad, then ushered me towards the door. ‘I will tell the receptionist, and she will escort you to Heather’s room.’ She was already halfway back to her computer, another message demanding her attention. ‘Oh, and good luck, dear,’ she added distractedly.

I walked back to the reception desk, feeling a flicker of hope. Becky, the receptionist, took one look at me, a strange, almost pitying expression flickering across her face. ‘Right, Victoria, Heather’s room is just down the corridor. Last door on the right.

I thanked her while she looked me up and down, her eyes lingering, with a strange expression. ‘Oh, and Good luck!’ she said, her usual chirpiness replaced by an odd wavering tone.

Preparing

Behind a blank white door with no sign of a name or number, was Heather’s room. It was small and clinical, dominated by an adjustable chair that would have looked more at home on the set of a science fiction film. Heather herself was a formidable middle-aged woman, wearing an impassive expression and a crisp white coat. With her pale complexion and short blonde hair contributing to her appearance, she looked as washed out as I felt.

I stood awkwardly inside the doorway, feeling uneasy at only receiving a curt nod by way of welcome.

‘Hello, er, Heath- … er, hello,’ I stuttered, realising I did not know how best to address her.

She gave her curt little nod again by way of acknowledgement. ‘Did the doctor explain my methods?’ she demanded, her voice cool and detached.

I felt myself flush. Between the doctor’s distracted consultation and Becky’s odd behaviour, my brain felt like it was full of cotton wool. I could not remember any specific details of what the doctor had said. But I could not admit that, not without sounding completely stupid. So, I simply nodded, trying to appear confident. ‘Yes,’ I said, hoping I sounded convincing. ‘I recall it did not involve more medication.’

‘Good,’ Heather said, appearing to take my nod as confirmation that I had had everything explained. ‘I practice holistic, non-interventionist, alternative treatment methods without the use of pharmaceutical products.’

Holistic, non-interventionist, alternative. The buzzwords sounded good to my bewildered brain, even if I was not entirely sure what they meant, either individually or collectively. But anything was better than stuffing myself with more pills.

‘Settle into the chair,’ she said unemotionally, gesturing towards the monstrous contraption that dominated the entire space.

I cautiously approached the chair. It looked like something out of a dentist’s surgery, all chrome and leather. Once I had sat down, Heather pressed a button, and the chair slowly reclined until I was lying flat and feeling strangely vulnerable.

I scooped up my ponytail and laid it beside me on what was now a table. I wanted to keep my hair out of Heather’s way while she was treating me. The movement made my dress ride up even further, and I tugged at the hem, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness.

‘Wow, that’s quite something,’ Heather commented with surprising casualness, her gaze lingering on me for a moment. I could not tell if she was talking about my dress or my hair.

Before I could formulate an appropriate reply, she reached down and, uninvited, moved my ponytail, letting it cascade down the back of the chair. ‘There,’ she said, reverting to her cool tone, ‘that’s better.’

Once the chair was fully reclined, she instructed me to relax. ‘Just close your eyes and let go.’

Given my exhaustion and the persistent throbbing in my head, it was not difficult. I closed my eyes, focusing on my breath.

Treating

A comforting humming sound filled the room, that I assumed to be a genre of music based on white noise, designed to relax me. I even experienced the gentle, soothing vibration through the chair. It was not exactly the sound of the ebb and flow of waves on a deserted shoreline, but it came close.

Then, a localised purring began at my forehead, slowly moved upwards towards my crown.

I had not felt so relaxed in ages. Laying back, I just surrendered to the sensation, letting Heather do whatever she was doing.

I was suddenly jolted from my reverie by the sensation of a great weight seemed to have lifted from my mind. The tension in my scalp had eased, and the pain was relenting. Whatever she was doing, it was working.

The gentle humming and vibration morphed into a comforting head massage, as Heather moved a device back and forth around my scalp. It was like a gentle, rhythmic kneading, releasing all the knots of tension.

‘The final stage,’ Heather announced proudly, as I experienced a gentler vibration from a different device for the next five minutes.

‘Mm,’ I acknowledged pleasurably.

After a brief period of silence, Heather announced that she had finished. She pressed a button, and the chair slowly returned to an upright position.

‘How does that feel?’ she asked, her voice still detached, but with a hint of professional satisfaction.

‘Amazing,’ I said, honestly. ‘Thank you so much.’

Heather, naturally, rewarded my praise with a curt nod. ‘My methods are well-proven.’

I walked towards the door, feeling lighter, calmer. I reached for the handle, pulling it open, then turned back to thank Heather again.

And that is when I saw it.

Revealing

She was standing there, holding something in her hands. Something huge and dark and frighteningly familiar.

It was my ponytail.

Severed.

In her hands.

Beside her was a trolley, and on the trolley were hair clippers, covered in long, severed tendrils of dark hair, with a foil shaver and pairs of scissors alongside.

My mind struggled to comprehend what I was seeing.

Heather looked at me, her impassive expression unchanged. ‘I am unsurprised that you experienced severe headaches,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘This hair weighs a ton!’

I looked around the room, desperately searching for a mirror. Finally, I spotted one on the far wall. I stumbled towards it, my heart pounding in my chest.

The reflection that stared back at me was alien in all senses of the word.

I was completely bald.

As bald as an egg.

Not a single hair on my head.

It appeared like none had every grown there.

Just smooth, white scalp.

I could not comprehend what I was seeing. This was not non-interventionist. She had intervened with my appearance. This was mutilation of the highest order.

Approving

At that moment, Doctor James passed by the open door and peered into the Heather’s room.

‘Oh my, Victoria!’ she exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘You look so much better already, my dear! So fresh and bold! Following Heather’s treatment, your symptoms should now abate quickly.’

The doctor beamed at me as if I had just undergone a miracle cure. ‘How fortuitous was it that I remembered that Heather, our newly appointed alternative therapist, had once been a hairdresser.’

‘Wha- … what?’ I said dumbly.

‘It was far easier and quicker for you to receive treatment here,’ the doctor remarked, ‘than expecting you to make an appointment at a salon. And furthermore,’ she added, ‘there will be no charge, on this occasion, for this new service we are offering!’

Doctor James turned to Heather, with her voice full of enthusiasm. ‘I hope you will not mind if I refer more of my patients to you for the same treatment, Heather! We get so many students with similar symptoms at this time of year.’

‘Certainly, Doctor,’ Heather agreed, her eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a chill down my spine.

I was speechless. The two medical professionals glossed over my attempts to protest about my treatment, caught up in their own bizarre little world.

The doctor bade us cheerful farewell, and Heather turned back to face me.

I tried again. ‘My hair -’

‘The hair that I removed will not be wasted,’ Heather interjected, clearly believing I was about to ask where my hair would go, rather than why it was not still where it was. ‘I will donate it to a hair loss charity who will use it for making wigs,’ she stated proudly, as if I had not been involved in the matter.

‘Yes, but -’

Heather smiled, an undisguised predatory glint in her eyes. ‘You can recommend any of your friends to come to me and donate their hair … oh, and I will also give them a free treatment,’ she added with a rare smile.

Epilogue

I could not take it anymore. Storming out of the room, tears welled up in my eyes. I pushed past the stunned silence of the patients in the waiting area and gave Becky, the receptionist, a withering stare as I was passing her desk.

‘Hang on, Victoria!’ Becky called after me.

I stopped, reluctantly, bracing myself for more unwanted attention.

She rushed over, her eyes wide with a strange mixture of pity and admiration. ‘Wow, you look so cool!’ she said, her voice breathless and apparently sincere. ‘Some of those Heather treats don’t look anywhere near as good as you – all bumps, angles, and big ears. But your ears are perfect, and your head is as white, rounded, and smooth as a billiard ball!’

‘Right … thanks,’ I managed, not meaning it but keen to get away.

‘No problem, Victoria,’ Becky smugly chirped, thrusting a colourful pamphlet into my hand. ‘Here’s a leaflet for scalp aftercare, especially important in the sunshine. There is an excellent sunblock recommended that has the bonus of giving your head a lovely shine. It also suggests a foil shaver you can buy so you can maintain your scalp’s freshness at home. Or I can book you in for a follow-up appointment with Heather if you prefer?’

She cocked her head to one side expectantly, presumably waiting for an answer.

‘Right …’

‘Have a nice day!’ she sang out brightly, unaffected by my unenthusiastic response as I walked out into the fresh air.

I could not believe what had just occurred. Raising my hand to my bare head, I felt its smoothness, and I had to accept that it had occurred. I had never been so angry in all my life. Bald and humiliated, I was completely at a loss for words.

The world seemed to have tilted on its axis.

I felt like I had stumbled into a bizarre, twisted reality.

But fortunately, my headache was gone.