“You’re that girl in the Evening Post, aren’t you?”

A familiar shudder rippled through Tracey Whitehead’s body. Always on constant alert for the easy sympathy which would inevitably flow from the `Beauty Shorn By Sicko” headline in the local rag, the acknowledgment still rankled. It usually comprised: “Hey, it was terrible what he done to you, dear” and “Me, I’d throw away the key”, etc. Each requiring the same response: Yes it was terrible. Yes I will be growing it back as fast as I can. Yes I will wear it long, eventually, and no, it doesn’t look as if my eyebrows will grow back, okay?

Those folk were bad enough; worse were the `no-smoke-without-fire’ brigade who reckoned she must have `asked for it’, and could not possibly have found herself there by accident – and that it was probably a sex game gone wrong. Their cool, withering stares spoke silent volumes, and the owner of the Wig Emporium clearly belonged to that category. “And which variety of hairpiece were you looking for, Madam?”

`Hairpiece’. What a horrible word. But going around bare headed wasn’t an option, neither was wearing a hat out of season with only the interminable, itchy interregnum between baldness and hairstyle to look forward to. Wigs, disapproval and helplessness filled the room.

“That one’s real hair, so it’s rather expensive!”

Tracey felt flustered, which had of course been the shopkeeper’s intention. She indicated her aim not to pay too much, that she was only in need of a temporary cover-up.

“In that case – over here.”

The assistant motioned towards an array of shiny silver acrylic 50s-style numbers. Tracey enquired as to whether they were a little old fashioned, the assistant replied to the effect that beggars can’t be choosers. So it was that the customer emerged, disquieted and still £50 lighter, with her stubbly head curiously adorned with a tightly curled and side parted glossy silvery short bob. Not, let’s face it, a trend favored by many 22 year-olds, and most certainly not her `hairpiece’ of choice. But it was only for a few more weeks and even if it was obviously fake, so fucking what? I’ve been through it. You haven’t. Deal with it.

In truth, it was the sheer lack of eyebrows that upset Tracey the most. She’d always assumed they would grow back and was both astonished and saddened to find that wasn’t always the case, and that hers were lost forever. One wit’s proposal that she stick two trained caterpillars to her face did not amuse. The only thing to do was accept it – they were gone, but the hair would grow back, someday.

---

Now: If there is anything more tedious than watching paint dry, or the pot that never boils, then it is waiting for hair to re-grow. At least paint only takes a day. Five months had passed since Tracey’s brutal shaving and she was almost at the point of pulling it out again in sheer frustration. For anyone burdened with fine, blonde locks, the seemingly unending `progress’ from nothing to bristle, through stubble to buzz cut, to brush cut then elfin crop, is as painful as it was painstaking. At once the young girl had to pinch herself: Did I say `burdened’? Time was when those same locks fell easily to her waist in alluring, seductive ringlets; a white riot that cascaded effortlessly as she walked. With confidence. With self-assurance. Now all that was gone. Three years growth hacked off in a matter of minutes. That bastard has so much to answer for, she reflected as she brushed what was now a pixie-length crop forward for the first time.

---

“Like your hair.”

The compliment was as sudden as it was unexpected. It came from an unfamiliar and very smartly-dressed work colleague.

“Oh, er, well thank you… I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”

” Dianne Lean. Two `N’s. In Dianne, that is. I run the HR department on floor 5, maybe our paths haven’t crossed before.”

“Oh I see. Well, thanks anyhow.”

“Look, I do apologize, I hadn’t meant to intrude. It’s not quite true to say our paths haven’t crossed. I had actually noticed you wearing a wig for some time. Then, when you finally took it off, I wondered what took you so long, since your own hair looks fabulous!”

There followed an uneasy silence. It was indeed barely a week since Tracey had discarded the cheap rug and drove to an out of town barber’s for a rescuing trim. He was a kindly, middle-aged gents hairdresser and if he had seen through her rather lame face-saver about `coming off chemo’ then he was good enough not to show it. First he had evened up the entire length to about 2 inches. Then after lightly tapering the nape and leaving two long and ravishingly thin sideburns, he made a few deft snips high on her forehead, cropping the shiny fair bangs super short, not unlike a 1960s Mia Farrow. In fact at 5 feet tall in her heels, the term “elfin” could never have been more appropriate.

“Really…”

Tracey turned to examine her admirer. A short, stylish, woman, late-30s, with straight, shoulder length hair expertly streaked and expensively trimmed. Too round-faced to be called pretty, but obviously well versed in the art of make-up, she created the best for what she had. Her ears seemed to protrude slightly through her hair, and her plump cheeks may have looked chubby had they not been so well framed by an owner who also clearly knew a good haircut. Sharp of dress and confident of manner, you could tell she wasn’t the type to suffer fools gladly, but her countenance was still kind, and she certainly deserved both of those `N’s.

“…Well, um, thanks,” was all she could manage but Dianne was only too glad to keep the conversation flowing.

“No, really, I quite liked your wig, it had a kind of artless elegance about it. Passé but blasé, so wrong it was right, do you see what I mean?” Tracey didn’t, but kept quiet. “You must have real guts to do that. I mean, I could see myself wearing it, but only to make a sort of non-conformist statement!” Tracey nodded blankly, not wishing to let on it had simply been a low-cost necessity. But she did wonder if this woman was the real deal. One thing was certain, she wasn’t one for letting go.

“But now you’ve grown it back, I can see why you chose that style; it enhances your gamine features!”

More blank stares.

“Your cheekbones, dear, it compliments them perfectly! You’ve been so brave ,you know. When I read your story in the `Post’ I felt outraged. Violated even, simply by reading it! How any man could do that… a vile, evil pervert! But hey, don’t get me started. Look, I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward here, but maybe would you like to discuss this somewhere else? After work today, perhaps?

“Well…” It was a relief just to get a thought in edgeways. Sure, Tracey had never seriously broached the subject in the office. People generally seemed awkward or embarrassed on her behalf to talk about it, and even those whom she had considered friends did seem to be keeping their distance somewhat. It surely wouldn’t do any harm to bring the topic out into the open. It was just she had never envisaged pouring forth to a co-worker she hardly knew. Especially one who, if she didn’t know better, might even be coming on to her. The very idea!

But then, on the other hand…

“Okay. The Red Lion, six thirty.”

There was just time for Tracey to nip home and fetch some necessary items, and, having arrived ten minutes early, she just sat on a chair, musing. This was the first time in living memory she’d faced the world with hair close-cropped and off the ears. Throughout childhood and teenage everyone had always encouraged her to make the most of her blonde good fortune, a challenge seized with relish and considerable success where boys were concerned. But although she could more or less have her pick, she usually went for the lonely, vulnerable types, in need of help. Why? Did she really think that about herself? Well, only a shrink could answer that one. And this Dianne woman – what was her motivation? Did Dianne think I was a hard luck job, in need of
assistance? Ironic, that. And was she really coming on strong? And if so, was there an opportunity to be gained here?

Without any warning, her new mate had breezed into the room, and Tracey’s jaw dropped in wonder. Dianne had only changed into some kind of full-length Dior creation, redone her make up and… what on earth had she done with her hair?

“Ah, I’m so glad you turned up. Do you fancy a pint?”

Tracey blushed. “Er, yes thanks… look, I feel so scruffy…”

“Oh , don’t worry yourself. I know you live a lot further away than me – I run HR, remember? I’d plenty of time to throw something on and I was booked in at the hairdressers anyway.” That only made the youngster feel even more humble. She’d thought Dianne’s hair looked great beforehand. But Dianne had already anticipated the next question. “It’s what they call an angled bob, Trace. All the rage these days, apparently. You can feel if you like.” Uncertainly, Tracey stretched her arm out to where the precision-cut hairline flawlessly paralleled the jawbone.

“At the back, silly!”

“Oh, right…” Now this was strange; she’d never fingered another woman’s hair before. Why would she want to? An uncertain pause. Sensing the unease, Dianne turned her face away to give Tracey an unimpaired view of her newly pared-down nape. How the main body glistened and gleamed a freshly tinted platinum . The impeccable half-moon trim from earlobe to earlobe, the darker area below reducing gradually, and ever so gently, into a shorn nothingness at just the point where the hairline ended. To the touch, however, well that was something else. Moving south from the crown, all bouncy and incredibly firm. Then the cut-off point; so blunt and yet sharp at the same time. Best of all, the downy undercut from soft mink to honed stubble, and everything in between. She had felt quite proud of her own new pixie look, but touching Dianne’s luxuriance made her feel again rather inadequate.

Not a pleasant thing to feel, inadequacy.

“That’s nice. Now rub the other way!”

“What, you mean upwards?” A slight nod indicated approval. At this point Tracey allowed herself a modest riposte. The woman may be older, taller, higher of rank and have a better haircut but she wasn’t having it entirely her own way, the control freak.

“Very good at giving orders, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely, but I don’t give orders to just anyone, my dear. Now come on, feel properly – you know you want to.”

Whaat? How could she know? Here they were in a public place, late afternoon, not even ordered a drink and already… And yet Dianne was right – she would like to run her hands through one more, if only to draw the full effect. Maybe Dianne had been to mind reading classes. That nape did not require a second invitation. Oddly, it hurt at first – well, just a bit. Above the hairline lay a myriad of tiny pinpricks. If, say, it was dark, and you hadn’t been aware it you were feeling hair, you may have withdrawn sharply. Now Dianne was angling her head slightly forward, and the bristles stood even further to attention. The blonde girl drew her palm upward, against the grain, against the grade, slowly savoring the feel of each individually truncated strand as it grew imperceptibly longer and softer toward the apex of the flawlessly graduated semicircle.

“I think you know what comes next – please tell me you do.”

And with that Dianne pushed her head back, this time offering only slight resistance. So Tracey carried on, her petite fingers exploring the delicate, multi-layered denseness that sat upon the shaved nape. So precise was the cut, so expert, that she could still have counted each hair, had she wanted to.

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, dear, and maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. Can I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“I can see you staring into space. So I’m wondering; are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

In fact Tracey was thinking – even tousled, that bob looked fantastic. So , quite truthfully, she replied – “I’m not altogether sure what you mean”.

“All right, let me put it another way. Is it possible, Tracey, that you could be feeling what I’m feeling?”

“You mean, physically?”

“How otherwise?”

Tracey had to really ponder hard while she framed the best answer to this query. Finally:

“… I’m not sure quite how to say this… But – I guess if you are feeling the same as what I think I’m feeling – then – I suppose I must be!”

“That’s good enough. Back to my place, then.”

There lay the cue for the junior one to pack up and follow her leader to her `07 Reg. BMW, and thence to her apartment, modern and minimalist, in the better part of town. The sitting room just a wall-mounted plasma screen TV, an expensive leather sofa and two matching chairs. Walls and floor shone a luminescent white, so much so you could hardly tell where one ended and the other began. The owner’s stilettos clacked against the floor tiles as she strode purposefully toward an open door.

“The bedroom’s here. I’ll be ready whenever you are. And…” Dianne gave a coquettish shake of the head. “There’s more where this came from…” and giggled. Though not uncontrollably. Dianne never lost control.

That quality was about to be tested, in spades.

“Er – actually…” Tracey wasn’t sure how to say this. She considered expressing: `I’m not sure how to say this.’ But she had to, for it was now or never. “Before we go ahead with this… are you listening, Dianne?” A murmur to the affirmative from the bedroom as clothes were removed and high heels kicked off. “Before we do this – I need you to give me something.”

“If it’s an advancement reference, you’re out of luck.”

“Nothing so shallow as that. As if!” Tracey gave a hollow laugh. ” No, you have to give me your hair.”

Momentarily, the boss turned statuesque. Maybe she hadn’t heard correctly. “My hair? You mean… I mean, well, you had it not half an hour ago, and you can have it again…”

“No Dianne. That’s not what I meant. I said I must have it. All of it.” And with that Tracey reached into her handbag and produced the set of portable electric clippers she’d picked up from home, that were purchased a month ago, a heavy weight borne with the same patience and fortitude that had guided her through the interminable growing out process, biding their time for the occasion, that was now.

Dianne’s eyes widened. She’d said what? She wants to take my hair? She opened her mouth but no words were forthcoming. How do you reply to something so outrageous? This wasn’t in the script, not at all. A girl not much over half her age had no right whatsoever to make a demand like that, not under any circumstances. Okay, so she had suffered a traumatic episode – maybe it could unbalance a person to some extent. But that was just totally out of order. So naked, flustered, but still composing her arch reply, she marched back into the room and straight into Tracey’s open arms. “What the fu…” As the blonde had clamped her lips onto her open mouth, Dianne never got to finish the curse. Instinct insisted that she tear away, the girl had to be deranged after all, to pull a stunt like that. Instinct positively demanded that she take stock, weigh things up, and decide the right thing, which was to run a mile. Desire, however, had other ideas. The bitch was red hot without a doubt. At once her fiery breath was inside her own body. Now their breasts pushed hard into one another, and that could only lead to… Automatically Dianne gently eased forth her pelvis and with a guilty joy realized that neither of them had on underwear, and that only Tracey’s pants stood between two hot, wet and completely denuded pudenda.

“You wax, then?” said one, breathlessly. “Brazilian. Twice a week. Just in case.” heaved the other. “So do I”.

“In that case…” It was the dominant one who spoke – so that would be Tracey. “Let’s go for it.”

In no time all garments were off and the office workers fell onto the bed, their bodies locked in a hot, sweaty embrace. Massaging eac
h others’ tonsils, perspiring bosoms heaving into one another, best of all scorching, shaven, sodden pussys rubbing in tandem, and that special place located simultaneously and with an effortlessness no man could ever imagine…

“…But first…” With a sharp, incongruous, and seemingly calculated jolt, Tracey Whitehead pulled away.

“Your hair”.