Welcome to The Silver Bowl Café, Part 1 – Annabelle

Prologue

The letter confirming my acceptance to the university felt like the greatest achievement of my young life, but the tuition fees and other costs were a noose tightening around my neck. Rent for my modest lodgings was due in three days, and my bank account was flashing on empty. Desperation had become my constant companion. That is why, when I saw The Silver Bowl café was hiring, I did not see just a job, but I also saw salvation. I completed the online application instantly, attaching a couple of photos as they requested, praying for a miracle.

The reply from a Ms Crisp came within minutes. She invited me for an interview at 8am the following morning, and she attached a detailed job description for me to absorb beforehand. She assured me that, based on my application, the interview was a mere formality. On arrival I would be issued a uniform, and then I could start my first shift immediately. The relief was so sharp it nearly made me dizzy, as wages and gratuities would be flowing into my bank account by the end of the week.

I frequently passed by the establishment. It was situated at the corner of the street where I had my lodgings, on the edge of the historic old quarter of the city. The Silver Bowl looked overly prim, even pretentious, with its stylised swinging sign featuring a steaming cup, while frilly net curtains framed the window. The premises were unashamedly designed to attract a wealthier and more genteel clientele than the hordes of students who noisily hastened past, as they made their way to the university campus.

Occasionally I had glimpsed the interior when the doors had opened as I passed. Just inside, standing at a lectern to greet arriving patrons, a formidable-looking lady always stood. She forced a smile for those who entered but scowled at anyone else. Wearing a tight-fitting suit and a severe hairstyle, she exuded the air of a bouncer outside a club. It amused me to imagine her breaking up a battle between a home team of local pensioners and an away crowd of senior tourists, all fighting over the last home-made fruit scone. However, I was careful not to smile until I was out of view of the doorway.

I had read the supplied job description three times, memorising every stipulation related to their employment standards. I wanted to look perfect for my interview and to act appropriately when making first impressions so that Ms Crisp would find me suitable. But as I was about to enter The Silver Bowl at 7.50am, a surprising and unwelcome cold knot of dread formed in my stomach.

The Assessment

Ms Crisp, the manageress (and head bouncer!) of The Silver Bowl café, was waiting for me at the lectern just inside the entrance. On the surface she was a woman carved from ice and starched linen. However, below that veneer, as I soon found out, she was far more solid and stiff than that.

Her grey designer skirt and matching blazer were tailored to a degree that felt aggressive, the hem riding dangerously high for a woman of around fifty. Her stiff pink blouse with an ostentatious bow at her throat presented an unyielding presence. She had pulled her hair back so tightly that it stretched the skin of her boldly made-up face, and the tight bun it formed on her crown screamed control.

‘You are Annabelle?’ she stated, adding a questioning intonation to give me a slight chance to avoid further scrutiny. Ms Crisp’s voice was a dry rasp, devoid of warmth. She did not smile, and, despite me arriving early, she still felt the need to pointedly glance down at her watch. Then she scanned me, her eyes lingering on my black jeans and simple top with open disdain.

‘Yes,’ I managed, forcing a smile that felt brittle on my face. ‘Yes, I am Annabelle, Ms Crisp.’

She nodded once, a sharp, mechanical motion. ‘Good,’ she said in a way that suggested I had passed an undocumented test. ‘You will be suitable to start work immediately as soon as we get you into uniform and do something about that hair.’

Despite the brilliant news that I had passed her assessment, my heart was hammering against my ribs. ‘But these are my best black jeans and most basic top,’ I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘The job description indicated smart and plain, so I thought this outfit would be fine.’

‘Oh, that is what you thought, is it?’ Ms Crisp scoffed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. ‘Well, think again, young lady. And as for that hair –’

‘But the standards state that “hair must be worn off the neck”,’ I interrupted, my voice rising in panic. I swung my long, thick ponytail behind me, a desperate gesture. ‘See? I have tied my hair up so that it is tidy and out of the way when serving.’

‘It must be cut!’ she snapped, her eyes flashing with a sudden, terrifying intensity. ‘Short!’

‘No!’ The word burst out of me before I could stop it. ‘It has taken me years to get to this length. I am not –’

‘You are not having the job if you maintain that attitude, young lady,’ she corrected, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. ‘Do you understand the consequences? Truly? No job means no money. And no money means your place at university is at risk.’

The threat that hung in the air was heavy and suffocating. My dream of studying at university, earning a degree, and planning my future, all hanging on a couple of inches of hair. ‘But I can braid it,’ I pleaded, my hands trembling. ‘Or put it in a bun like yours. Just let me keep it long. Please…’

‘Nonsense,’ she declared, her voice ringing with absolute authority. ‘Your hair must be short to meet the standard for all the waitresses at The Silver Bowl. I shall cut it now.’

‘Wait!’ I exclaimed, suddenly hit by an even darker threat. ‘Did you say you intend to cut my hair?’

‘Yes,’ she said casually, in a tone that suggested every manageress of an eating establishment did the same to her staff. ‘Now, sit,’ she commanded, pointing a manicured finger at a substantial wooden chair in the corner of her office. It appeared to reside there permanently for the express purpose Ms Crisp had declared, but, to me, it looked more like the seat of an executioner.

The Execution

‘With, er, respect, Ms Crisp,’ I stammered, thinking quickly, my legs feeling like lead. ‘Could I go to a salon after my shift? Keep it up in a bun, just for today?’

I was buying myself time, hoping she would forget her draconian demand before my next shift, and praying for a reprieve that day. I simply could not let this woman touch my hair.

‘You can’t start your shift looking untidy like that,’ she said, waving a hand dismissively, her eyes gleaming with a cruel anticipation. ‘And if you miss this shift, then the job will go to someone who will be more grateful. And that will mean that your opportunity to work here will be gone… not just for today, but forever!’

Her ultimatum crushed my spirit. I slumped on to the chair and watched Ms Crisp move with predatory grace to a glass cabinet. Initially, she took a folded sheet of stiff material, shook it out with a resounding snap, and draped it over me. I felt trapped.

Peering into the cabinet once more, she selected a brush and comb before standing behind me. Reaching out, her fingers felt cold against my neck as she undid my ponytail. My hair cascaded down, a comforting, heavy and familiar weight.

‘Just put it in a bun, Ms Crisp, please,’ I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. ‘Please.’

She scoffed, a harsh, mirthless sound. ‘Silence, young lady.’

Ms Crisp returned to the cabinet and carefully retrieved a metallic receptacle using both hands. Polished to a mirror shine, it resembled a sugar basin from the café, although it would be too large to place on a table for that purpose. Bizarrely and without a word, she upturned the basin and placed it squarely on my head, the metal feeling icy against my scalp causing me to shiver. The perimeter settled snugly on my crown, the rim pressing firmly in a constant line above my ears and eyebrows.

‘What… What is this?’ I asked, my voice shaking.

‘It’s a silver bowl, of course,’ she replied, her tone light and cheerful as if anticipating a tasty meal to fill the dish. Worryingly, I wondered if, from her perspective, my hair was already fulfilling that purpose.

‘Yes, but why is it on my head?’ I asked, panic rising in my throat.

‘To get the level of your bowlcut precise,’ she explained, her voice dripping with false sweetness. ‘You would not want it crooked, would you? After all, we demand perfection at The Silver Bowl.’

The Silver Bowl

‘A bowlcut?’ I screamed, once the full horror of what she had said had sunk in, the word tearing from my throat. ‘You cannot do that to my hair! No way!’

Ms Crisp tittered, a high-pitched, unsettling sound. ‘Yes way.’

Reaching back into the cabinet, this time she produced a set of heavy-duty clippers, the harsh metal looking brutal and industrial in her manicured hands.

‘But… But hairdressers do not use a real bowl,’ I gasped, my mind racing for a reason to stop her. ‘That would be barbaric!’

‘More fool them, young lady,’ she said, her eyes lighting up with a manic delight. ‘It is not only quick and efficient, but it also produces a neat and precise line at just the right level for a short fringe and a nice clean nape. And it ensures we achieve identical results for all staff. Now, sit up straight, young lady, and look directly ahead.’

I obeyed without thinking, paralysed by fear. I could not understand why the manageress of a café would insist on such a bizarre haircut for all her staff. Furthermore, I could not comprehend why she thought it normal for her to do the cutting. As I caught her excited expression, I suspected there was a darker purpose to her mission than simply wishing all her staff had the same haircut.

She interrupted my moment of reflection by flipping the switch on the hairclippers. The machine roared to life, a deafening buzz that vibrated through the edge of the metal bowl and directly into my skull.

She peered around my shoulder. ‘Ready?’ she asked with an excited gleam dancing in her eyes.

‘Surely you don’t really like cutting off other women’s long hair, do you, Ms Crisp?’ I begged, my voice barely a whisper, as I tried to engage with her purpose.

‘No, I do not “like” cutting off long hair, young lady,’ she purred, her pressure on the bowl tightening as she forced it against my crown. ‘I love cutting off long hair!’

I knew that statement sealed the fate of my long hair that held so many memories. The teeth of the hairclippers bit into the hair at my nape, their insistent vibration nauseating. As the blade rattled against the unyielding metal, the sound was like a swarm of angry bees trapped inside my head.

The blade sliced through the thick strands, severing years of growth in seconds. Long, heavy tendrils slid down over my shoulders. While a proportion gathered heavily in my lap, the remainder of my hair hit the floor in clumps, with a soft and final plop.

I tried to move, to pull away from the horror surrounding me, but Ms Crisp’s iron hand was holding my head in place with a firm grip.

‘Oh, look at that lovely hair fall,’ she crooned. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have gorgeous hair? It is so beautiful.’

I could not believe she could be so cruel. I was frequently complimented on the length and condition of my hair were the words on the tip of my tongue. But I wondered if she even knew how ridiculous her gushing adoration sounded given what she was doing to my locks.

‘Was…’ I spat, disgusted by her callous praise. Ms Crisp paused briefly, glancing questioningly at me. ‘It was beautiful,’ I emphasised, casting my eyes downwards to the piles of my severed hair on the cape.

‘Oh… right…’ she chuckled, cruelly entertained by my suffering at the loss of my hair, but oblivious as to how I was feeling. ‘So, now I’m just cleaning up the edges to get the perimeter precise,’ she murmured, her voice thick with pleasure.

The relentless buzzing continued, the sound representing her shearing away my identity.

Then silence fell as I observed her adjusting a setting on the hairclippers. She observed my horrified interest. ‘Almost there,’ she whispered merrily. ‘And the blade is now set to shave all those nasty bristles still emerging below the bowl. All the way down to the skin,’ she added gleefully.

I sensed the smooth metal blade gliding over my bare nape without any resistance, and I felt the cool breeze of the office’s air conditioning embrace my skin. Without a mirror, I could only imagine the devastation the hairclippers had wrought.

Finally, Ms Crisp stopped, releasing a contented sigh. She carefully lifted the silver bowl from my crown. She turned and returned it to a black cushion in the cabinet with a reverence that one would usually reserve for religious artefacts.

‘Stand,’ she ordered. ‘And look at the new you,’ she said with pride, thrusting me towards a large mirror on the wall. To amplify my horror, she held up a hand mirror so I could view the back of my head too.

The Reflection

‘Just perfect,’ she announced, her face flushed with triumph. ‘And now for your uniform.’

I stared at the reflection. The feminine young student I knew was gone. A glossy bowl of hair sat atop my head, a stark and unnatural circle above pristine and exposed skin. My slightly too prominent ears stood out from the bare whiteness on each side of my head. And the blunt and heavy fringe dominated my forehead.

After staring disbelievingly, I pulled down the ends of my remaining hair in an absurd attempt to cover the shame of my transformed appearance. But it was useless. The cut was drastic, final, and absolute. The only shred of comfort came from knowing that my hair would grow. But Ms Crisp soon swept away that small consolation.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot, Annabelle,’ she said sweetly, leaning in with a sickly grin. ‘Every two days you will report to me ten minutes before your shift. I will shave the back and sides of your head to maintain its freshness. Then, every week, I will trim the perimeter using the silver bowl to adjust the level and maintain the precision. We cannot allow standards to slip, can we?’

The Uniform

Ms Crisp stepped back, her eyes raking over my body with a clinical, assessing gaze that made me feel utterly exposed. She reached into a solid oak wardrobe next to the glass cabinet and selected a tailored white blouse and a short black skirt from a rail of similar garments.

‘Change into your uniform,’ she ordered, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. ‘Your appearance needs to be complete before starting your shift. Be quick now, young lady, as you only have five minutes before you are due to start work.’

I looked around frantically, searching for a curtain, a screen, anything. ‘Is there… a changing room?’ I asked, my voice trembling.

‘You will change here,’ Ms Crisp snapped authoritatively, her eyes narrowing. ‘I will help you adjust the fit of your clothing as required.’

She was intent on cementing the routine of degradation that had begun with robbing me of my hair. I felt a fresh wave of nausea rising up. However, with the tantalising prospect of starting work shortly, I nodded my acceptance, too terrified to speak.

My hands shook as I fumbled with the buttons of my jeans. Stripping off my clothes, I could feel Ms Crisp’s inscrutable gaze burn into my skin. I felt small, vulnerable, and stripped of my dignity. Pulling on the skirt, I found it was impossibly short, the fabric stretching tight across my hips, riding up dangerously high.

‘A perfect fit,’ Ms Crisp declared proudly, a smirk playing on her lips as she inspected the hemline.

Next came the blouse. Tailored to cling to my body, the fabric strained across my bust. It was far stiffer and tighter than the loose, modest garments I wore for university. I deliberately left the top two buttons undone to make it feel less constraining. Ms Crisp immediately dived in and fastened the blouse, the collar tight at my throat. I tugged at it, trying to create a little space to breathe.

‘All buttons of your blouse must be fastened at all times,’ Ms Crisp mandated, chiding me as if I had broken one of the ten commandments.

‘But it’s a bit tight, Ms Crisp,’ I stammered, looking for a loophole in her mandate. ‘Do you have a larger size? Or something looser?’

‘It’s tailored to fit your body,’ she said simply, as if that explained everything. ‘Walk upright and it will be fine, but slouch and it will feel tight,’ she said, lifting my chin so I was looking directly into her penetrating eyes. ‘So, heed the lesson.’

She took half a step back, her expression shifting to one of undeniable admiration. ‘You have a lovely body, Annabelle.’

‘What?’ I blustered, thinking that was not the sort of thought that a person in authority should entertain, let alone voice, in the workplace.

‘So, why hide it?’ she continued, ignoring my concerned exclamation.

‘Yes… er, no… but waiting on tables…’ I struggled to find the right word, my face burning, as I waved a hand over my appearance. ‘Dressed like this, isn’t it rather, er, offensive?’

‘Nonsense, young lady,’ she scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Our clientele at this time of year are mostly older couples. They are either tourists or locals enjoying their regular morning coffee or afternoon tea. You can be sure the older women will be admiring your lovely hair and smart appearance. And it will distract them from their husbands enjoying the sight of your perky boobs and pert bottom.’ She let out a high-pitched, tittering laugh that echoed around the office.

I stood frozen. I was at least one generation younger than her and simply unable to process the sheer audacity of her words. Struck dumb by her sexist remarks, my mouth opened and closed without any sound emerging.

‘What’s that, young lady?’ Ms Crisp asked, tilting her head slightly, offering a patronising smile.

‘That’s not… well, not very politically correct in this day and age…’ I finally managed to whisper.

Ms Crisp nodded ruefully, shrugging her shoulders. ‘Perhaps not,’ she admitted, her voice devoid of any real remorse. ‘But if it gets customers’ bums on the café’s seats, then it is necessary. Now, let us get you working.’

Epilogue

Ms Crisp grabbed my arm, her grip firm, and led me out of the office and into the main café area. The aroma of coffee and freshly baked goods was usually comforting, but, on this occasion, it felt cloying and suffocating.

We stopped in front of a waitress arranging pastries behind the glass-topped counter. She had an identical severe bowlcut to my own, and she was wearing a uniform that looked just as tight and revealing as the one I was now wearing.

I looked at the other woman, seeing my own reflection in her eyes. It was one of resigned submission. I felt like I had lost something important, not just my hair but my identity. However, with my need to work, there was no escape. I was present, I was prepared, and I was theirs.

‘Welcome to The Silver Bowl café, Annabelle,’ Ms Crisp announced.

Her voice rang with triumphant finality as she savoured her victory. A chill ran down my spine as I contemplated how my future employment as a waitress would unfold.

To be continued