It was about 10 in the morning, way too early for Claudette. She had been sleeping a lot more lately since Friedrich was arrested by the Resistance fighters. He had been staying with her for a couple years when they picked him up for war crimes. They met at a party shortly after France surrendered to Germany, at the home of one of her friends. Seeing him in the uniform, while a bit intimidating, was still an undeniable turn-on, if for no reason other than the power it implied.
At the time, she was simply sick of the directionless, unmotivated artist-types she usually dated. She was beginning to feel old for her twenty-two years, looking for someone more dignified and stable to occupy her time with. He had caught her eye from across the room, talking to their host. Claudette?s mind began to wander back to that first night. She saw Friedrich in her memory, imagined running her hands over his muscular body one more time. She could practically feel his hands brush against her face when the pounding on her front door grew louder.
?Open this fucking door, you Nazi pig, before we come in there and get you!!?
Claudette threw on the silk robe Friedrich gave her the last time he got a pay raise and shuffled towards the door. This was not high on her list of favorite pastimes, dealing with the French Resistance beating her door in. She passed the coffee table on the way to the door, grabbed her morning cigarette, and lit up before opening the door. What the hell, as long as she was going to deal with people harassing her, she might as well be more comfortable. She cracked open the door.
A group of five French Resistance officers armed with ropes and a black duffel bag greeted her with a collective stare. She took a drag off her smoke and shot them an icy glare. She took in the scene in front of her, the uniforms, the ropes, the suspicious looking bag, and five very angry Frenchmen. Claudette ran her free hand through her long brown hair, and knew that this was not going to be a good morning. She blew a cloud of smoke in their faces, scowled, and said, ?Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what in the hell do you bastards want today??!?
The biggest two each grabbed one of her arms as she stood for a split second in shock. Once she realized what was happening, she fought furiously, put her cigarette out on the bare hand of one of her assailants. As he howled in pain, she saw a window of opportunity and broke free of his grasp. With one arm and both legs free, she was able to land several good blows before the others got a good hold on her. They pinned her up against the door, binding her hands and arms. One grabbed her by the hair and spun her around the face the man she presumed to be the leader of the operation. He opened his mouth to speak, and before he could get any words out, she spat in his face.
He wiped his cheek off and said, ?Mademoiselle St. Laurent, you have been found guilty of being a Nazi sympathizer. You have betrayed your countrymen and France herself. We believe you have a debt to society. You will come with us.? Two of them, keeping a close grip on the ropes binding her hands followed Claudette, with one man on either side, and the leader took the front. They paraded her through the streets of Paris several blocks to a courtyard. There was a chair in the center, and a small crowd had gathered. People she recognized from her neighborhood screamed curses at her as the motley crew made their way to the chair, parting the crowd like the Red Sea. Someone spat on her, but she was not able to determine who it was. She almost felt as if she was in a dream, like none if it was real. ?Hell?, she thought, ?Maybe if I really luck out, these past two months will be just another bad dream?.
Mid-thought, she was shoved into the chair and tied down. Four of the men tied her to the chair as the fifth opened the black bag. She shouted a few curses at the crowd and at the men who took her from her house that morning. The one she had burnt with her cigarette earlier backhanded her across the face, calling her a Nazi and a traitor. If she could have moved her arms or legs at that point, she would have retaliated, but given that she couldn?t, she was faced with the realization that it was useless. Revenge would have to wait.
The man had unloaded the contents of the bag. A giant pair of scissors gleamed in the morning sun. A pair of big black clippers lied on top of the bag. He approached her, bearing the scissors. Without a word to Claudette, he grabbed a handful of her hair and hacked it off close to her scalp. She wasn?t about to beg or plead. He wouldn?t have the satisfaction, that bastard. She sat there, memorizing the faces of the men doing this to her. Revenge would have to wait.
He took another section of her shining chestnut hair, pulled it taut, and shoved the scissors into it, then letting it drop in her lap. That time she felt the cold blades touch the top of her head. She could hear the crowd screaming various things. By the things they were saying, she could tell that this man?s name was Jacques. Jacques took another chunk, right above her left temple, and sheared the hair, once down past her shoulders, to a stubby patch less then an inch long. Claudette could tell that the front of her hair was almost nothing, and she was seething with rage. Jacques worked his way over the rest of her head, strewing her hair all around the chair. He yanked on a chunk of hair on her crown. Taking the giant shears, he violently separated the hair from her scalp. This process continued for another several minutes, until Claudette was left with a very uneven patchwork of hair. Tufts were sticking up all over her shapely head, none of them more than an inch long. She was sure she was an absolute mess, but if that was all, she thought, there?s a big bottle of absinthe in the cupboard.
?Are you through? Because I have business to attend to, if you are.? Without receiving a verbal response, her head was shoved down. She could feel a pile of cut hair spilling out of the front of her robe with her chin, as it was touching her chest. She heard a loud humming sound, and felt the clippers vibrating on her nape. Jacques ran the clippers all the way up to her crown, leaving an inch-wide wake of the tiniest stubble. Claudette felt a cool breeze hit the shaved strip, and knew it was almost totally bald. Jacques sheared the hair immediately to the left of the original strip. As Claudette felt the bald patch widen, she began to get aroused. This was definitely unexpected, and had no idea why in the hell that, of all things, was happening. Jacques placed his rough hand on the stubble to turn her head. An involuntary shiver ran up her spine as his hand brushed against her mowed head. The clippers had made their way around to the side. It was a strange sensation, enjoying the sensation and hating the process. Jacques inserted the clippers underneath what, at one point, had been Claudette?s sideburn. He continued all the way up to her temple. After a few more passes with the clippers, he moved on to the other side of her head. Now all that was left of Claudette?s gorgeous brown hair was several tufts near the front, refusing to lie down, as if they were shouting that their time to surrender had not yet come. Jacques mercilessly mowed them down, and she was almost completely bald.
The other men untied her as Jacques spoke to the crowd about punishing Nazi sympathizers. He ordered them to turn in anyone they suspected of the offense. The crowd looked very willing to cooperate, given their morning of free entertainment and spectacle. Claudette got up from the chair, and rubbed her newly shorn head. It felt like sandpaper. She was almost certain she looked awful, and couldn?t wait to get home. Still, she couldn?t deny that it felt? interesting. She was sure it was less then a millimeter long at this point.
It took her about an hour to make her way first through the crowd, and then through the streets of Paris to her house. She could almost feel their eyes on her, but knew that her time would come. Whether she liked the tactile sensation of her stubbly scalp or not had no bearing on her course of action from this point on. Upon walking in her front door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She didn?t look quite as badly as she had expected. In fact, her eyes looked huge, and her neck looked even more graceful than before. She shook her head (and for the first time she could remember, no hair moved with it), walked to the bathroom, and washed all of the cut hair off her body, thinking of a plan.
To be continued?
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