Bouffant to Bald Series- The Wicked Stepmother By Tease ‘n Spray
The front door closes behind me with a loud bang. I walk out to the curb and set my suitcase down. The cabby puts it in the trunk and opens the door for me. I get in and we speed off to the airport. A brown paper bag sits beside me. I open it and smile at the sight of its contents.
With the paper bag under the seat in front of me, my eyes close and again, I smile at the thought of it. The 747 roars down the runway and lifts off, heading west towards California and home. My mind drifts between wondering what will happen when dad gets home and sees what I’ve done to the actual deed itself. Whatever the cost, it was worth it!
I arrived at my dad’s house in London three weeks earlier for our first visit since he and Mom divorced last year. Dad moved to England with his business and wasted no time in finding a girlfriend. Camille is about half his age and twice his speed, if you know what I mean. At dinner the first night, she and Dad announced they planned to marry.
The next two and a half weeks were unbearable. Camille was with us nonstop, making a big fuss over Dad and driving me crazy. It was so obvious that she was only interested in Dad for his money. Why he couldn’t see it was a mystery to me. The worst came three days before I was to go back home.
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Dad had to leave on business and insisted I stay the remaining time with Camille. He thought we should get to know each other better.
“Just give her a chance, son. She’s really sweet when you get to know her; and besides, it would mean a lot to me.”
What could I say? I watched Dad drive away and turned to face her.
“Okay now, let’s see what we can find to entertain us the next three days,” she cooed, making chills run down my spine.
I can see why Dad is head over heels. About twenty-five and a former beauty queen, Camille is a real knockout. She always looks like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine, except for her auburn hair. She wears it in curls piled up high on her head and goes to the hairdresser two or three times a week to keep it looking perfect. It’s really stunning, but more suited to someone Mom’s age. I think she does it that way just to please Dad.
The next morning, Camille greeted me at the breakfast table.
“Good morning, love. We’ve a busy day ahead, so get hopping.”
I picked my way slowly through breakfast and tried to hide out in the garden to no avail. She found me and we got into her car for the drive into the city.
“We must get in some shopping today, but first let’s get you looking like a proper gentleman,” she said as we stop in front of a barbershop.
“No!” I wailed in protest. “Mom lets me wear my hair like this. I don’t want it cut!”
“Now, now, I’m sure she’ll be quite pleased.”
Camille practically dragged me through the door and into the shop. “Here he is, George. Cut it nice and short.” Camille smiled wickedly and purred, “Maybe you’ll be a little nicer to your stepmom from now on.”
George was a big man and had no trouble wrestling me into the chair. “Sit still, son. Wouldn’t wanna cut you,” George laughed as he threw the cape over me and started shearing off my shoulder-length brown hair at the scalp.
A few minutes later, I was staring at myself in the mirror. The layered and blow-dried hairstyle was gone, replaced by a goofy-looking bowl cut. My ears were burning red with anger and humiliation. I dreaded going home and facing the laughter of my friends and girlfriend. She’ll probably break up with me!
I tried wearing a baseball cap to hide my haircut, but it’s no use. The bare skin glows like a light bulb around my ears and neck. That night, I lay in bed and a plan began to form in my head. I’d fix Camille real good for this, and Dad, too.
Things fell into place the next day. Camille announced she was going to the hairdresser’s after lunch.
“I’d like to come with you.”
She turned to look at me. “Really? Whatever for?”
“Well, um, I think your hair is real, um, pretty and I’d like to see it being done, that’s all,” I stammered.
She broke into a beaming smile. “Okay, then, it’s a date.”
We arrived at the hairdresser’s and I took a seat in the waiting area.
“No, no, come on over here where you can see better,” Camille said as she motioned to the styling chair next to hers.
I took a seat and watched Myrtle, an older heavyset woman, begin to comb and spray Camille’s red locks. Soon, her hair was backcombed and standing straight up about a foot above her head.
“It’s quite a sight isn’t it?” Camille grinned from underneath the tousled locks. “Just wait.”
Myrtle took each lock of hair, combed it smooth and rolled it into a big, fat shell curl. Each curl stacked over the last and was held securely in place by hairpins and lots of hairspray.
“Myrtle adds an extra fee for all the hairspray I require. Don’t you, Myrtle?” Camille said with a giggle, obviously pleased that her hairdo was such a pain to create.
When all was finally in place, Myrtle took a rat-tail comb and alternately lifted and pressed the hair until its shape suited her. Then a final, thick coat of hairspray called lacquer was sprayed all over Camille’s hair until it was a solid, stiff mass of beautiful curls and swirls.
“Okay. Let’s head home,” Camille said, as she looked herself over in every mirror she passed by on the way out of the beauty salon.
We arrived at her house and she asked, “Would you be a dear and bring Mommy a drink?”
I handed her the drink and sat down on the sofa. As usual when Dad’s not around, she drank it quickly and asked for another. I obliged and poured her another double Scotch whiskey, this time adding some sleeping pills I found in the medicine cabinet. Handing it to her, I asked, “May I touch it?”
“Your hair. May I touch it, please?”
She looked at me for a second, took a stiff belt from her whiskey, and said, “Why, I suppose so, just don’t mess it up.”
“Oh, I won’t.” At least, not yet, I thought to myself.
I moved behind her and ran my hands over the stiff curls. The feeling was sensational. Maybe I can get Julie, my girlfriend, to wear hers like this sometime. I studied how the curls were formed and layered in neat rows around her head.
Soon, Camille’s head was nodding and she slurred, “Woo, Mommy is feeling a bit tired. Maybe I should lie down…”
Her chin fell to her chest and she began to snore. I went upstairs and retrieved all the things needed to give Camille her just desserts. Soon, I had my workstation set up on the table beside her chair. I took pillows and propped her upright, making sure her entire head was unobstructed. Then, I started.
She stirred as I pulled the first curl from its place. I paused as she mumbled something and passed out again. The curl stretched out above its roots, I picked up the sewing shears from the table, placed them about two inches from her scalp, and Schick! The hair recoiled around my fingers before I dropped it to her lap. I pulled another curl out and Schick! Then another, and another, cutting each one off and leaving a short stump behind.
When all the curls were gone, her hair was transformed into a sick-looking jumble of jagged ends sticking out from her head in all directions. I placed the shears at the roots of her bangs and slowly snipped them off, leaving her looking like a circus clown instead of the elegant fiancée of a rich older man. I wasn’t through yet, though.
“Let’s see if we can even this up a bit,” I chuckled while snipping off Camille’s locks as close to the scalp as possible. She turned out looking like a mangy dog, patches of scalp showing through the remains of her red crowning glory.
“Oh, my! Myrtle would never allow you to be seen like this.” I lathered up the stubble and, using her leg razor, shaved her head totally smooth. I moved her full-length dressing mirror downstairs and set it up in front of her chair, ensuring she will see herself first thing when she wakes tomorrow. My last move was to gather all her curls into a grocery sack and put it next to my suitcase.
Early the next morning, I call for a taxi. When it arrives, I kiss the still passed-out Camille on the cheek and say cheerily, “Hope you enjoy your new hairdo, Mommy dearest!” Laughing, I head out the door.
Later that morning Camille is awakened by the telephone. Half awake, with a pounding headache, she lifts the receiver and says, “Hello.”
A voice says, “Look in the mirror, Mommy.” She squints at the reflection, then drops the phone, clutches her bare scalp with both hands and screams bloody murder. The voice on the other end laughs hysterically and hangs up.
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