GifGirl

GifGirl by Gloria Klien

Sitting in the chair, you still can’t believe what is about to happen. Last night, full of bravado, and one too many vodkas, you had agreed to cut your hair. Not just the bi- monthly trim and condition that had kept your near waist-length hair in such superb form for nearly five years, but a radical change. Just how radical, was already making your heart race, your throat tighten and dry, and had turned your legs to jelly. Even if you weren’t securely bound to the chrome and leather stylist’s chair, you doubt if you could have made it to the door, let alone out onto the street and back to your old life. As it was, all you could move was your head, to nod silent affirmation, as the stylist explained just how your hair was going to be chopped, cropped, bleached, dyed, and finally shaved, until you had been transformed from walking Shampoo Commercial to total skinhead.

As the stylist finished her quiet explanation, and reached for the shears, your new lover, and architect of your present predicament, gently brushed your hair until it was parted, one half cascading down your back and over your tightly bound arms and wrists, and the other falling loosely over your exposed breasts. This partial nudity had been the cameraman’s idea. As if being given a forced haircut wasn’t bad enough, the whole thing was being recorded and published on the Internet. Still at least they had let you keep your briefs, stockings and heels on, at least for the time being.

A tug on your scalp, the feel of cold steel on your skin, and the first lock was gone, again and again the shears snap shut and the pile of chestnut brown hair, that had been part of you, and your life for so long was filling your lap. By now even though one side of your head was untouched, the other was looking bizarre, the whole crown was nothing but ragged tufts, with long wisps, still intact around the sides. Within minutes, these too had joined the huge pile now covering your lap and spilling over onto the crisp tiled floor. Just to emphasise the point your head is turned to camera, first one way to show the “before” and then the other, to show the beginnings of the new you. The clippers now proceed across your shorn head, each pass of the chattering cold steel leaving a neat mown path of bristles in their wake, each one standing up to reveal your pale scalp for the first time. One side of your head now prepared, it’s time for the other to meet its fate. This time though, the long mass of hair that had been your pride and joy for so long is gathered up and twisted into a long ponytail. Tighter and tighter it’s twisted until you feel they are trying to pull it out by the roots, then release…. A pair of garden shears, another little joke from the cameraman, finally chop off the last of your once luxuriant locks. Again the clippers attack your scalp, their strange vibration, mixing with the coolness of the air on your denuded scalp, to heighten the mix of fear and growing sexual excitement that has taken over your body.

“So, now we have a little crop-top.” The stylist’s voice brings you back to the present. “Let’s turn her into a bleached blonde.”

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Your lover now covers your head with peroxide paste, and the deep chestnut hue, only barely recognisable as stubble, is destroyed.

“Of course, we would never normally use anything this strong, but as your hair was in such superb condition, and as you had agreed to lose it all…..”

Not very reassuring when your scalp is starting to burn and itch, though. Finally the chair is carried over to the washing station, the solution is rinsed off and you are back in front of the mirror. Staring back at you is a complete stranger. The long, soft mass of hair that used to ripple like flowing water over your shoulders and down your back is gone. In its place is a very beautiful, but eerily stark face, all features, big eyes, big mouth, huge eyebrows, enormous ears, and a shaped head covered in a snow-white pelt. You gasp in horror, but at the same time you are amazed at how good you look.

“Going well, isn’t it,” the assembled team nod in agreement. “Now let’s do some art…”

Your lover is keen to carry on and starts to prepare a solution of dark blue dye. While he is doing this though, the stylist who has been studying your face for some moments, decides to do some “art” of her own. “Those eyebrows are going to have to go…” Your lover looks up and shrugs, you look worried, two waxed strips are swiftly and firmly pressed onto each eyebrow, and while your lover steadies your head, rip, rip… your thick eyebrows, the only reminder of your true hair colour are gone. While you are still reeling from the shock, you head is being painted blue. The bleached stubble swiftly picks up the colour, a quick blast with a dryer, and all is ready. Taking an edging clipper, your lover starts to cut a series of intricate patterns over your head, the white of the exposed scalp contrasting with the blue hair stubble to give the appearance of a Maori tattoo. The effect is stunning, but you can see that you are getting closer and closer to being totally bald.

“You see, what we are going to do is re-edit this so that you start completely bald and then the pattern appears to grow to cover your head, clever, eh?”

The last pass, and you are completely bald, but not bald enough. Your head is covered in shaving foam, then carefully shaved, the blade finally removing every trace of your hair.

“Polish ?”

“Why not?”

You sit stunned as your head, having been subjected to so much abuse, suffers the final indignity of being covered in warm wax, and then buffed to a radiant shine with an electric buffer. It’s over, you are released, and start to get dressed, everyone packs up their equipment, you have kept your word.

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