Waiting
The large takeaway coffee warmed my hands as I leant back against the uninspiring window of Graceful Locks, waiting for the door to open. I still could not fathom why I was doing this. The net curtains, yellowed with age, were a pathetic attempt at concealing the interior of the salon. It was like stepping back into a time capsule, curated by someone content to live in the past.
The window was a graveyard of forgotten events. There was a poster for the town’s Spring Flower Show, already wilting under the summer sun. A faded flyer advertised a circus that had long since packed up and moved on. And most baffling of all, there was a sign proclaiming, in faded lettering, that they would cut off a woman’s long hair, then buy it for cash for use in fabricating wigs and hairpieces. I chuckled to myself, contemplating the limited demand for wigs and hairpieces in modern times.
I adjusted my elegant leather jacket, the soft material a familiar comforting weight against my stylish red top. As always, I had made an effort, even for frequenting such an old-fashioned establishment. My best ripped jeans, carefully distressed, hugged my figure. I had arranged my waist length hair, often left unconstrained and wild, in a practical updo. However, it had styled my tresses to look deliberately messy with long tendrils curling around my face to project an air of careless chic. Presenting an image of cool detachment, I viewed it as a silent rebellion against the beige conformity of the salon I was preparing to enter.
The two women huddled the other of the entrance, their voices a low, constant murmur, were the antithesis of cool. Hunkered down in plain and shapeless clothes, their permed hair short and crisp, they chattered incessantly. Stealing glances in my direction, they made uninvited remarks about my youthful fashion choices. They were, undoubtedly, regulars of Graceful Locks, and I did my best to ignore them.
With a satisfying click that silenced the old women, the door swung inward. My Great Aunt Grace, the proprietor, stood beaming in the opening.
Arrival
‘Ah, Ethel, Mildred, lovely to see you!’ my great aunt chirped, ushering the two old biddies inside. Already unbuttoning their thick coats with undisguised eagerness. They handed them to waiting members of staff who ushered their customers away, into the hidden depths of the salon.
Then my Great Aunt’s gaze landed on me. ‘Sammy, dear! So good to see you.’ She gestured me inside with a flourish. ‘Sorry, no trousers in here, though,’ she chided as she closed the door, wagging a threatening finger. ‘Please remove those rather common clothes and change into this smart smock,’ she insisted, handing me a floral garment that looked like more suited for hanging curtains in an unfashionable hotel. ‘And what are we going to do with that hair, eh?’
The moment of truth had finally come. My anxiety spiked. ‘Nothing, Aunt Grace,’ I mumbled, hoping my nonchalance camouflaged the panic rising withing me.
‘Cut it all off, Grace,’ Ethel, one of the old biddies, cackled as she settled down at a backwash.
‘And give her a crisp perm,’ her friend added eagerly, settling down alongside.
I shuddered with fear. I knew I should never have set foot in the establishment of horrors.
‘Good idea, Mildred,’ my Great Aunt Grace acknowledged, her eyes twinkling. ‘But sadly, we have no time for such a treat today, Sammy,’ she went on forlornly. ‘We need to have you helping us at once. After all, that is what I am paying you for. I’ll consider allowing one of the juniors to give you discounted perm at the end of the week, once you have shown your worth.’
‘No way,’ I muttered under my breath. My aunt, thankfully distracted by an arriving customer, seemed to let the notion slide. I hoped that she would not recall her dreadful proposal later.
Opportunity
I had come to Great Aunt Grace’s salon as I had lost my job at a trendy fashion boutique when the whole chain went bankrupt. Working there had been a joy, loving the youthful clothes, the stylish people, and the carefree atmosphere. I knew that finding another job in that wonderful world would be a breeze … well, it would be eventually.
But, sadly, “eventually” does not pay the monthly bills, especially when they include credit card statements that mock your dwindling savings.
So, my grandmother, bless her heart, suggested I help her sister, in Graceful Locks as they were short of staff. ‘Just until you find something permanent, dear,’ she added comfortingly, pre-empting my horrified reaction.
I did not know my Great Aunt Grace very well, only meeting at significant family occasions, and rarely exchanging more than a handful of words. I was aware that she ran a traditional salon, catering for a mature clientele. Consequently, I knew it was a place I should avoid like the plague, to keep my sanity and my hair. I had passed it occasionally, hidden away in a side street in the unfashionable part of town. I had always found the exterior uninspiring and not a place for me to linger.
However, circumstances had finally forced me to set a foot inside. Skivvying for a bunch of blue-rinsed pensioners was not exactly my idea of a dream job, but it would help to keep the wolf from the door in the short term.
Initiation
Having put aside my classy jeans and top as my great aunt had demanded, I found the floral smock worn as a uniform by all the junior staff, was a travesty on me. Being taller than average, it barely covered my backside.
My aunt just chuckled. ‘Don’t you worry, dear. We don’t get too many men popping in here, and certainly none who would be studying your legs anyway!’
Her assurances did little to assuage my humiliation, despite the old biddies praising my wholesome appearance and informing me that I looked cute. I spent the morning tugging at the hem, trying to preserve a semblance of dignity.
My tasks were mind-numbingly simple. I had to answer the phone in a voice that conveyed both efficiency and warmth. My aunt expected me to welcome the customers with a smile, forced if necessary but always present. I had to meticulously record appointments in a giant, leather-bound book that originated from an earlier decade. All the staff summoned me to sweep up the mountains of grey, permed hair as soon as it began accumulating on the floor. And I still had to find time to brew endless pots of tea.
The morning crawled by, with each customer essentially a carbon copy of the last. Short, permed hair in varying shades of grey, each needing either a shampoo and set, or a permed refresh of the curls. However, I quickly grasped that the occasion was as important to the customers as a social event as it was to spruce up their appearance.
The work was monotonous, but as I became accustomed to the banter, the atmosphere turned out to be quite fun. The women gossiped about everything and everyone, their observations sharp and surprisingly funny. Time, against all odds, began to pass a little faster in the afternoon as I gradually tuned into the vibe of the establishment.
Then Amanda walked in, and everything changed.
Amanda
In a lull during the afternoon, a young woman in her mid-twenties entered Graceful Locks and nervously approached the reception desk. Standing hesitantly waiting for my attention, she took in her surroundings. Her expression suggested that she had landed on an alien planet, her red summer dress looking out of place.
What caught my attention, and slowed my approach, was her hair. It was magnificent. A thick, lustrous golden blonde braid that cascaded down her back, reaching to her knees. She looked completely lost, a vibrant splash of colour in a sea of grey. I assumed she had stumbled into the wrong place.
‘Hi, er, I’m Amanda,’ she stuttered as I moved behind the desk and studied the appointment book.
‘Hello, Amanda,’ I smiled, with pencil poised. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but I, er, saw the poster in the window,’ she said, her voice soft and a little nervous. ‘And I … I would like to sell my hair to you.’
I could not help but laugh. ‘Amanda, so sorry, but that sign is ancient. We don’t do that sort of anything in here anymore.’
She looked lost and disappointed. ‘Oh, but I really do need the money …’
Before I could explain further, Great Aunt Grace – her ears pricking up at the mention of “selling hair” – swooped in like a hawk.
‘Samantha! What are you saying to the young lady?’ she rebuked, sounding distraught. ‘Of course, we do! It’s still an immensely popular service.’ She flashed the woman a reassuring smile, rubbing her hands together with gleeful anticipation. ‘Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll look after you and give you a fair price for your lovely long hair.’
I was astonished by my great aunt’s words, not least the enthusiasm that she showed for performing the task. I just felt sorry for Amanda that she needed the money so badly.
My great aunt turned towards me with her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Samantha will take care of you,’ she explained to Amanda while holding by gaze. ‘It is one of her duties.’
I was unsure what my duty would be in relation to Great Aunt Grace performing such a dreadful task. I would have preferred not to be anywhere close by. But, as with every activity in the salon, my great aunt was in control. She marched across the salon floor and turned a styling chair towards us, waving a hand invitingly. Unable to think of any other way to contribute, I lightly took Amanda’s arm and gestured her to move forward.
The chosen styling chair was in full view of the assembled pensioners, either under the hood dryers or awaiting attention. They all craned their necks expectantly, their eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity as they commented upon Amanda’s long braid.
‘Why on earth has she let her hair grow so long?’ Miriam piped, loud enough for everyone to hear.
‘I can’t imagine, dear,’ Eve replied, ‘but I am sure Grace will be doing something about it.’
‘That’s good,’ Miriam confirmed, chuckling along with her good friend. ‘I look forward to seeing that.’
I felt a surge of anger. This woman was clearly in a desperate situation, forced to sell something so personal, and Great Aunt Grace was turning it into a spectacle for the titillation of her customers.
Amanda shifted uncomfortably. ‘Is there somewhere, er … more private we could do this?’
Grace chuckled. ‘Nonsense, dear! We always do it right here. Gives the ladies something to watch while they are under the drier, keeps them entertained. Sit yourself down,’ she urged, clamping a hand over her shoulder until she did so.
I wanted to disappear, not wishing to be a part of the farce. Feeling a strange pang of sympathy for the woman, I recognised the vulnerability she was trying so hard to conceal. I became even more distressed when my Great Aunt produced a pair of huge, ancient-looking scissors and thrust them into my hands.
‘Right then, Samantha,’ she encouraged excitedly. ‘Cut off her braid!’
I studied at Amanda’s stunning hair, then looked down at the scissors, and my only thought was that I wanted to escape from Graceful Locks as quickly as possible.
Education
‘Quickly now, Samantha,’ Great Aunt Grace urged. ‘Cut her hair as close to the scalp as you can so we can maximise the value of the hair.’
My hands trembled. I felt like I was about to commit an unspeakable act. This was barbaric, a relic of a bygone era. But my great aunt’s gaze was unwavering, her instructions clear and I needed the job. I swallowed hard and forced myself to obey.
Taking a deep breath, I lifted the heavy braid from Amanda’s neck. Its substantial weight surprised me, the silky strands cool against my skin.
‘Are you sure you want this all cut off?’ I questioned, my hand holding the scissors shaking.
‘Yes,’ she hissed, in a hostile manner that made me feel I was the one forcing her into it.
‘Sorry,’ I murmured, despite the woman having placed herself in the situation. She responded by screwing her eyes tightly closed.
‘There is no need for you to be sorry, Sammy,’ my great aunt criticised. ‘It is one of your duties.’
With nervous trepidation, I positioned the scissors, closed my eyes for a second, and then … Crunnnnch!
So thick was Amanda’s hair, that I had to open and close the monstrous blades several more times, each accompanied by the loud crunching sound of untainted hair being viciously severed.
With a final thrust, the base of Amanda’s braid, still held by its thick band, fell away from her head as if in slow motion, its bulk weighing heavily in my hand. I let out a long sigh of relief, mixed with sadness.
As I had sliced through the hair, the silence in the salon had been deafening. But a rumble of appreciative murmurs began to fill the air.
‘No more girly locks for that one,’ Miriam cackled, rubbing her hands together joyfully.
‘At her age, about time too,’ added Eve.
‘Yes, Grace will soon have her looking nice and mature,’ another old biddy concurred.
As Amanda opened her eyes, she stared at herself in the mirror, her eyes glistening with tears. But there was also a flicker of relief that she had done what was necessary despite the resulting emotional stress.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. ‘Thank you for getting it over with so quickly.’
I felt guilty about receiving thanks for doing something I found so abhorrent, but I kept silent. Impatiently, Great Aunt Grace gestured for me to place the braid on a set of scales reserved for the purpose. Her eyes lit up when she noted the weight. She counted out bills from a cash box and, without displaying any sentiment for Amanda’s monumental loss, she thrust the cash in the woman’s hand.
I retrieved the severed braid from the scales, finding its weight and texture a strangely sensuous experience. Great Aunt Grace opened a cupboard and gestured for me to hang the braid inside. Seeing the contents, I was astonished. At least thirty more long ponytails and braids hung there, each a different shade, a different texture, a silent testament to countless similar transactions.
‘Wow!’ I exclaimed, open-mouthed. ‘How many years did it take to collect all those?’ I asked once I had got over my surprise.
‘That’s just from the last month, dear,’ Grace said casually, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
As the raw emotion of the situation drained away, something else began to take over. It came as an unexpected revelation. A strange cocktail of feelings surged throughout my body. Horror and sadness were still bubbling under, but there was also intense pleasure threatening to burst through. A sensual, almost primitive, thrill stimulated my body, a direct result of what I had seen and of what I had done.
Amanda, clutching her money, stood awkwardly. ‘What, er … what happens now?’
The woman’s remaining hair looked frightful. There was a patch that was almost bald at the back of her head where my great aunt had instructed me to cut close to the scalp. The rest of Amanda’s hair fell in uneven layers around her head, the ends barely covering her neck or touching her chin.
‘Well, dear,’ Grace said, her voice regaining its professional tone. ‘You can use a proportion of that cash to pay me for a trim and a nice perm, giving your hair shape and fullness. Or Samantha here can help you even it all up, completely free.’
‘Evened up. For free,’ she asked, her voice barely audible.
Great Aunt Grace nodded, but I was confused as I had no idea what part I would play to even up Amanda’s hair. However, I was grateful that my great aunt showed no inclination to hand the scissors back to me.
‘Right then, Samantha, escort the young lady next door, will you?’
‘Next door?’ I frowned. I followed the direction of my aunt’s outstretched finger, pointing out a hidden passageway at the back of the salon, obscured by an archaic screen made up of a multitude of colourful plastic strips. I beckoned Amanda through, and I stepped into another world.
Albert
“Next door” turned out to be a traditional barbershop, all polished chrome, worn leather and the pungent smell of shaving products. Putting down a newspaper and easing himself out of the barber’s chair was my Great Uncle Albert, Grace’s husband, a man of few words and even fewer smiles.
‘I’m Samantha,’ I explained as the intimidating Great Uncle Albert just stood there, staring at us blankly.
I had not seen by great uncle for a considerable time. It must have been at a family gathering but I could not remember a time when I had spoken to him. Indeed, although I knew his wife was a hairdresser, I was completely unaware that her husband was a barber.
‘Sammy. Your great niece,’ I prompted when he did not react. He looked at us, his eyes expressionless. I felt increasingly awkward. ‘Aunt Grace asked -’
Commandingly, he held up his huge palm to silence me and, without a word, he gestured for Amanda to sit in the large leather and chrome chair.
Since we had entered the alien establishment, her eyes had been flitting nervously at the unfamiliar surroundings. Her eyes settled on the even more unfamiliar haircutting implements that adorned a shelf under the mirror and hung from hooks nearby. Like me, she must have felt completely out of her depth.
My uncle draped Amanda with a large grey cape and secured it firmly around her neck. He pumped up the chair, high from the floor, and swivelled the chair away from the mirror. The woman, looking uneasy and extremely vulnerable, was now facing me as I hovered just inside the shop, unsure whether I had any part to play in the proceedings.
My answer came when my uncle selected a huge set of red hairclippers from a hook. The device looked tiny in his huge hand. The unsettling silence shattered when the fearsome machine burst into cacophonous life.
And then, he began. Uncle Albert did not ask Amanda what she wanted, and did not offer any suggestions. He simply clamped a hand on her crown and began to shear away her remaining hair, methodically, and relentlessly.
It was brutal. He rapidly sheared down the uneven strands to a severe, masculine short back and sides. Shaving the lower half of the woman’s head, he revealed pristine white skin. He coerced the short locks still covering her crown into an immaculate side parting, greasing it all down to ensure it stayed rigidly in place. Great Uncle Albert had obliterated all trace of Amanda’s femininity.
I presumed that any women my uncle’s wife sent into his overtly masculine domain would receive the same treatment. And, the month’s collection of ponytails I had seen earlier, suggested he regularly gained plentiful experience.
Although I had found cutting Amanda’s long braid exhilarating, seeing my uncle’s treatment of the woman was on another level entirely. Witnessing the power and the control he confidently flaunted was intoxicating. I watched, transfixed, as Amanda changed before my eyes. Her appearance transformed, and she seeming to shrink in on herself, her shoulders hunched, and her eyes fixed on the floor.
The process had taken just a few minutes, a testimony to Great Uncle Albert’s skills and experience. When he had finished, he swivelled the chair around to face the mirror, swishing away the cape. His features displayed an almost imperceptible smirk, betraying his satisfaction at a job well done.
Amanda looked up at the mirror, her face pale and drawn. She barely glanced at her reflection before jumping to her feet and hurrying to the door. It opened just as she reached it, and she clumsily pushed past an astonished old man with even less hair than her.
‘She next, Albert?’ the customer gruffly asked my great uncle, leering in my direction.
Great Uncle Albert sneered, cocking his head to one side questioningly, holding out a hand to invite me into his chair still covered by the remnants of Amanda’s sheered locks.
I was breathing heavily, rooted to the spot.
‘Well, wanna get rid of that haystack?’ he boomed while studying my artfully crafted, messy updo that had narrowly escaped his wife’s attention earlier.
I shook my head vigorously then spun around on the spot. I rushed down the connecting passageway, the two men’s laughter following me. The plastic strands of the screen clattered behind me as I tumbled back into the relative sanctuary of my great aunt’s salon.
Sanctuary
Back in Graceful Locks, I took a moment to gather my thoughts and allow my heart to settle. My Great Aunt Grace was busy, examining her cupboard of precious cut hair. The old biddies were still buzzing with excitement as they related my earlier unspeakable act on Amanda, the new arrivals hanging on their every word. Everything that was taking place in the salon was way outside my experience. And with my great uncle’s forbidding barbershop next door, it all seemed so surreal.
However, as I looked around, Graceful Locks suddenly felt different. The smell of perm solution and hairspray seemed sharper, the chattering of the customers more vibrant. The faded posters on the wall, the ancient equipment, the whole dusty, time-warped atmosphere … it all felt strangely alluring somehow.
I considered temporarily delaying my job searching and asking my Great Aunt Grace if I might help at the salon for longer than the week we had originally discussed. It would allow me to get the act cutting off long hair out of my system. After a while I would be immune to the impact of watching my great uncle shear a woman’s head. Then I could move on to something less disturbing.
‘Ah, Sammy,’ my aunt said, turning around and interrupting my thoughts. ‘Did my Albert take care of your customer satisfactorily?’
“Take care” felt like a misnomer, and it seemed strange to think of Amanda as “my customer”. ‘Fine,’ I shrugged, effecting a casual and nonchalant air.
Her piercing gaze locked onto my hair. I imagined that she and her cronies had cooked up another plan to transform my long hair in my absence. ‘I’m surprised that you managed to escape my Albert’s shop with all that messy hair intact,’ she remarked, looking completely serious.
I gulped, giggling nervously, assuming she was joking … despite her earnest expression not changing. ‘Of course I did,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Well, this time may have done …’ she added ominously.
To be continued
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