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Starting a new life in Podash - Part 4 - Here to stay.

I picked up the phone and dialed the number. “Hello, Betty Lou’s” The voice on the other end was sing songy – a real telephone voice. “Erm hello, I mean er Hi. This is Karen, Karen Coleman”

“The English girl?”

“That’s right, yes. Erm er I was looking to make an appointment with Betty Lou”

“Well we have you listed in the book for tomorrow anyway for your regular set.” Regular set? I had been in just once more since Betty Lou had restyled me to look like the Queen. Even so it seemed I was now already a regular.

“Erm yes, but I wondered if I could have something else done too?” I heard the woman turn away from the phone and call into the salon. “Betty Lou, it’s the English girl. Wants to know if you can fit in some extras tomorrow not just the set?” Listening hard I can just hear Betty Lou’s reply in the background. “What, oh sure, guess it’s time we permed her…” Attention is focused once more on the phone to me.

“Betty Lou says no problem, shall I book you in for your perm?”

“What, oh er, oh, uhm. No – No thank you. It’s my colour actually. I need my blonde roots retouching.”

“Oh, OK. I see. Betty Lou – she says she needs a bleachin’ tomorrow.”

“What, well I can’t perm and bleach at the same time, the girl’s hair will just fall out. OK book her in for a bleach tomorrow and we’ll perm her in a couple of weeks. Get her to come in about forty minutes earlier though, I’ll fit her in around Missy Joy and Bea’s perms OK?”

“Betty Lou says can you come in early tomorrow, about 2.20 then she can sort you out before your normal set appointment. Is that OK?” I confirm that everything is fine and I will be in the following day.

The following day I walk up the path to Betty Lou’s. The ruffled curtains obscure the windows so you can’t see in but the smell is unmistakable. Even ten feet from the door the scent of shampoo and lacquer hangs heavy, not as heavy however as the ammonia of colours and perm solution. I am wearing my white nurses uniform underneath a pink cardigan since I have come straight from work. Pink – this town is really getting to me. Time to enter the chintzy fantasyland, which is Betty Lou’s beauty parlour and submit myself to her tender ministrations. The entrance bells tinkle as I push open the door and step in. For once the dryers are unoccupied but the two chairs by the mirror each have a caped occupant. One of the ladies is having a cream colourant pasted onto her locks by Betty Lou whilst the other is being tightly wound onto perm rods by Betty Lou’s assistant, Mary Ellen Hukabee. Betty Lou looks up and smiles as I step in. “Hello Karen, good to see you. I’ll be right with you once I finish up with Missy Joy’s. OK? You take a seat now.” I follow her instructions and walk over to the waiting bench which lines one wall. I sit down taking the weight off my weary feet. Even with sensible orthopedic shoes, work seems to take it out on my poor old tootsies.

I look over at the two chairs. The ladies ensconced under Betty Lou’s capes have similar perfect fuchsia mouths and a hint of blush. Betty’s client is having a creamy colour applied to her hair whilst the other is being tightly wound on perm rods, dutifully handing papers and rods to Betty Lou’s assistant as she works to create a perfect, neatly wound head on her silvery grey tresses. As I watch I realize that the lady with lavender hair is in fact young – even younger than me. I had initially taken her for one of the older generation of Podash residents.

Betty Lou finished running the clippers over Missy Joy’s nape. I could see how it was almost totally denuded. Betty Lou dusted it off with a soft brush. She swept the small mirror in behind Missy Joy so she could see the back. Missy Joy smiled and nodded then asked “can we have it cleaned up today please Betty Lou?”

My word! How can a young girl like her be so nonchalant about wearing such an old ladies hairstyle?”

On the second Saturday of every month someone from the Silver Lake Community Estates is required to drive over to the Highland Pharmacy and Medical Supply in Walsh County for materials. Agnes Hildebrandt, the director, thought it would be nice for me to get out and see more of Nebraska and the drive into Walsh County is easy, about twenty-five miles along the same road the bus followed when I first came to Podash, but in the other direction. I would leave tomorrow morning, driving Silver Lake’s big grey, Ford, or station wagon as she calls it. Director Hildebrandt carefully explained that I should never exceed the speed limit, posted in miles per hour along the road and there should be no confusion with that because the speed meter in the Ford is labeled in miles per hour and I needn’t worry with metric conversions. She was extremely concerned however, that I remember that in the US, traffic must drive forward on the right side of the road and after handing over the keys, walked to the car with me and placed a big strip of white surgical tape above the speed meter and then, with a thick black felt pen wrote the words: “KEEP RIGHT”.

It is wonderful to be out and by myself for a change. It’s a beautiful day, hot and sunny and the big Ford’s air conditioning keeps me very comfortable. On a whim, I decided that I’d wear the same outfit I wore when I first arrived from the UK, under the pretense of not wearing my starched whites because they are so easy to get dirty handling boxes and Director Hildebrandt absolutely abhorrers a soiled uniform. I am utterly relaxed. Nebraska is nothing like the UK. It is so flat that all I see is the bright blue sky above me and two walls of passing corn, planted right up against the asphalt road that stretches far and straight. There is nothing much of interest for me to listen to on the radio and soon my mind fills with memories of home. I am soon humming and singing out quite loudly in the car. Oh my! London! That all seems so long ago.

With my fourth and final load of supplies rudely tucked away, I decide to explore the town a bit and march off in a renewed spirit of wonder and exploration. I look all around. To think that just a short time a go, I was living a completely different life in the middle of twenty-first Century London! This is amazing! I soon loose all track of time and it is nearly four o’clock in the afternoon when I return to the car.

I notice that the same man that had waited on me is now standing outside the doorway of the Highland Pharmacy. As I pass, he pauses to stare and greet me with a long and low whistle of appreciation. I blush, but the truth is, it makes me feel very good. A girl likes to think she looks pretty to a man’s eye. And that triggers an epiphany. Although the culture here in the middle of Nebraska is old fashioned; simple, narrow and out of touch with the rest of the world, everything is all very normal to those who live and work here. If I just go along with the Podash version of reality, everything should be just fine.

I am happy as a lark when I return to Silver Lakes, lock the supplies in the nurse’s cabinet and park the car. I’m confident the worst of it is behind me now. That is… until I hand the keys back to Director Hildebrandt. Agnes Hildebrandt is not impressed. A Spartan woman, Director Hildebrandt stands stiffly at attention, unsmiling and intimidating in her immaculately crisp whites. “Nurse Coleman, where is your uniform? I see you’ve had yourself quite the frivolous holiday. You may trust that by the end of the day Monday, your superfluous little presumptions shall be dealt with. Now if you will excuse me, I must make a phone call.” I cannot believe that Director Hildebrandt is so upset. She says nothing more; I am dismissed and return to my room to ponder on what will happen on Monday.

“Karen. I have a hair appointment with Phyllis Spretzel this afternoon. I called her up and asked her to fit you in at the same time as me. Now… hush a minute… don’t interrupt me. There’s things that need to be said.”

I stare at her incredulously, what is wrong? Elsie continues with barely a pause.

“I know you’ve been trying real hard to fit in around here and Lord knows that’s a hard enough thing to do, but… well… there’s been some talk. Now Betty Lou is a fine hairdresser, that’s for sure. A fine lady. Don’t you misunderstand me. Thing is… there’s talk. Maybe Betty Lou’s been too accommodating, being as how you’re from England and all. Betty Lou’s like that… she’s real polite. Thing is… these poofy little sets you keep asking her for, might be just fine and dandy in England… but, here in Podash, they’re frivolous and just reek of vanity. Then… as if after all that… poor Betty Lou’s fine work still wasn’t good enough for you. “I’ll speak plainly Karen. That last episode over in Walsh County; well that is the last straw. And then you go waltzing into Director Hildebrandt’s own office acting like some Prima Donna Queen Hussy and… well that’s just totally disrespectful. We just refuse to stand for it anymore.”

She pauses in waiting for me to follow. I must admit she always looks very well turned out with her neat head of well dressed if very short curls. Of course she wouldn't be expecting me to wear my hair like that but something a little bit more understated won't be a problem will it. 

“Of course Elsie, I understand, I would be happy to tone down my appearance a little...”

“I should hope so.” she says as she turns back towards the interior of the shop

“So… this afternoon, you’re coming with me… we’ll sit you down in Phyllis’s chair and be done with it. It’s time you look like a Proper Podash Lady, once and for all. No ifs, ands or buts… I don’t want to hear any more about it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes Elsie, perfectly clear” What else can I say? I am upset by what she was saying. What does she mean frivolous and reek of vanity? I have tried so very hard to fit in... but she has been so supportive, my mentor as it were I feel I have to bow to her wisdom.

So it is that whilst on the outside I am quite relaxed inside my mind is in turmoil on the ride over to see Phyllis. I have to go along with her - I do so need people here to accept me.

“You understand Karen that this is really for your own good?" Elsie offers as we walk up to the door. I nod meekly. "Of course I do Elsie, you have been so kind to me since I arrived. I just wish you had said something sooner, I never meant to offend anyone at all” The salon looks just like a normal house from the outside. The only give away it’s a hairsalon is a small faded sign by the door “Phyllis Spretzel, Lady’s Hairdresser” Somehow the sign seems to emphasize Lady. This is no trendy unisex place, that’s for sure.

“This is all so strange and new to me and I do appreciate your help....”

“ No one's offended here Karen. We all understand you've been trying very hard... we simply need to get your appearance straightened out and put an end to wagging tongues" She steps to the door and pushes it open, even before the door swings clear I catch the cloying scents of chemicals and lotions. The atmosphere is so thick you can almost see it. I look at the back of Elsie’s head as she steps in. She wears her hair so short on the back and sides, it’s only about an inch, tapering down to a half inch long. "Hello? Phyllis? We're here.”

“Elsie? That you? Here for your trim?”

I look around in amazement. Phyllis’ “Ladies” hairdressing salon appears to be what was originally the back porch of her house and has now been closed in and outfitted with the necessities of her trade. We enter through her kitchen, through what had previously been the back door. The most prominent feature is her hairdryer. It is an ancient contraption; consisting of a massive cubist vinyl covered chair in a dark rose color, with a tall chrome shaft rising vertically nearly 200 centimeters centered over the seat back. A large geared track supports a bullet shaped dryer dome so that the metal hood itself may be mechanically raised and lowered. The hood is over 70 centimeters wide and easily 100 centimeters tall with a retractable three quarter circumference rose tinted acrylic visor around the bottom. I’ve never seen anything like this. The “chair” looks like an old barber’s chair with a heavy metal base and footrest, with comfortable seating of well worn black leather upholstery. The rest of the equipment is equally heavy duty and industrial looking, although Phyllis has gone out of her way to soften and feminize the décor with ruffled curtains, garlands of plastic greenery and framed magazine covers of romantic and idyllic scenery. I have never seen anything like this.

 I am suddenly nervous, this place makes the salon I went to back home look positively modern and trendy, indeed even Betty Lou’s place looks to be more modern than this museum. “Yes... I have Karen with me.”

“Karen? The English one?”

I force a smile to my face to hide my nerves, trying to be as friendly and warm as I can.

 Phyllis is a truly formidable woman; a full head taller than I, she is somewhat stocky and overweight and wears a short sleeved, dark turquoise nylon coverall over white nylon slacks. Her massive bosom defies gravity by virtue of some undergarment of incredible structural engineering. The short hair on top of her head resembles a fresh pad of steel wool, but the sides of her scalp are barren. By the look of her, Phyllis could as easily be a blacksmith as a hairdresser. This woman represents my entry and accreditation with the “Inner Sanctum” of Podash Ladies. This is very unnerving.

I find myself unconsciously smoothing down my skirt and standing up a little straighter.

“Well my word, look at you. yes... I can see what they mean... it's a shame ... you should really be ashamed of yourself.”

“I'm sorry, I really don't understand” My hand almost unconsciously strays to my hair and pushes up from behind in a gesture that I have adopted over the last few weeks.

“Poor Betty Lou... the things you asked her to do. Take advantage of her like that... asking for this and that. Betty Lou is a good hairdresser, she could have set you nice enough.” Well Phyllis certainly doesn’t pull her punches. But what does she mean? “Erm, er, I'm sorry but I really don't understand, Betty Lou simply styled my hair similarly to the way I had it done at home...I apologize if that is unsuitable for here. I meant no offence.”

“This is Podash. Not some flighty place.”

“Please forgive my ignorance it was not intentional...and I have been so lucky to be made to feel welcome here...I do appreciate that...”

I cast my eyes around the salon taking in the aging decor and thinking how Shelley's seems a world away from this - in fact it may as well be a world away. “Well you're welcome here... everyone knows that. We expect when we go a visiting we act nice and do things so as not to offend our guests. Intentional or not... things have to be put right. Now I’ll make a start on sorting you out then I can give Elsie her trim so take off your blouse and come over to the sink.”

I stare at her a little aghast. Take off my blouse? I pause for a moment and then do exactly as I've been told, carefully unbuttoning it then folding it to place it on a side table. I walk over to the sink. It's a deep double tub white porcelain affair with a center swivel faucet and a black hose. It looks like it should be in the social history gallery of a museum but has a certain kitsch appeal.

“What kind of brassiere is that? Elsie why haven't you taken this girl over to Myra Anne's and gotten her some decent foundations? The girl's indecent!”

I look down at my feet embarrassed. I want to cover my body but instead just stand there meekly submissive. Elsie answers. “Well to tell the truth Phyllis... I had no idea. Karen? Is that French?”

“Erm, er, aaah, no its English, I'm sorry is it very immodest?”

“Well there's nothing to it. Little pointy things. You should be wearing full support. You get a little older and you'll wish you had taken better care of your self. Well no matter now... come over to the sink.”

I walk over to the sink aware that my heels sound loud on the tiled floor breaking the otherwise silence in the shop as the two ladies scrutinize my underwear. I meekly sit down. Phyllis sweeps a towel on my shoulders.

“Put your head down - I need to scrub this good.” I immediately bow my head down into the sink.

“I said down. We don't need to be getting water all over my floor.” I bow down even further, the sound changes as my head is now inside the tub

“A good lather up for you... rub dub three men in a tub...” This woman is strange; eccentric we would say at home. I close my eyes and wonder what on earth I am doing but realize there is no arguing whatsoever with this lady as she scrubs and rubs at my hair. I watch as the lather falls pinky red into the tub – the copper rinse being stripped from my hair. She finishes this with a good squirt with the hose – I am soaked and dripping. Then she takes another bottle from the shelf and runs a nozzle through my hair. I realize that this is another colour rinse. Does any lady wear her hair its natural colour here?

“Now stand up and wrap your head in this towel... and mind you... no water on my floor!” I feel totally bedraggled and roughly treated - I hurriedly wrap the towel tightly around my head but still a few cold drips run down my bare shoulders

“Quickly... over and into the chair.” I hurry over to the chair and look at it - it is very old fashioned with a round metal base. I pause for a moment to summon up my courage and sit down. Phyllis gives me a brisk and rough toweling off. “There now, that's better. Now... where's my cape?” She unfurls a plastic cape decorated with a multiflowered print – it looks a bit like a shower curtain. It's a real cape though... just looks garish. It’s very strange and is cold on me – I break out in goose pimples.

“Now dear, we're just going to roll this all up and do the perm... I'll shape it up after we see what we have to work with. Here... hold this box. When I need a paper you hand me one.” I take the box as she offers it my mind in turmoil. A perm, she’s kidding right, I haven’t asked her for a perm. I find myself trembling as I suppress the urge to leap and run. “Are you cold?”

“ Er no, I'm OK thank you.” Every hairdresser seems to be intent on perming my hair. I have resisted so far.

“Well you're shaking. You sure you don't need a sweater. I have one over on the hook. Elsie... be a dear and fetch Karen the sweater.”

“Thank you but I don't need a sweater...”

“All right then, stop that shaking” She sections first bit of hair over my forehead. It’s long, perhaps the longest length left on my head maybe seven inches or so. Betty Lou and Pattie had both set it up and back from my face. “Erm do I really need a perm?” It is Elsie who interjects.

“Need, of course you need a permanent. I thought I made it clear on the way over.” I look down at my feet. “That’s exactly the problem you see, I should have marched you over here straight from the bus station so Phyllis could perm you. Now don’t you go making Phyllis feel you are ungrateful. Why don’t you ask her nicely to give you a perm?” She can’t be serious can she? I don’t want my hair perming but she wants me to ask for it? “All of Phyllis’ ladies wear their hair permed. It’s only proper. Now Karen where’s your manners?” I pause for only a heartbeat then manage. “Erm, er, Mrs. Spretzel, Would you perm my hair for me please?” She grunts acknowledging my request.

“Well?   Paper?” I hand over a paper to her meekly. My bangs are still very long; they hang below my nose if combed down flat. Phyllis starts to wind it up then snorts in disgust. “This is ridiculous... I'm just have to shorten this right now.”

What does she mean, shorten this? I stare into the mirror; my hair is bobbed so the top layers are all that length. She cannot be serious can she?

“Hold this rod, while I comb this all down”

I hold the rod in my left hand; the right still holds an end paper. I stare into the mirror as she combs, shampooed my hair has just a little natural wave, the curls having all been washed out. My hair is combed over my face, etc… straight down all around and I peer through a curtain of hair unable to see the mirror.

“Hold your head up, look straight ahead... I don't want this all crooked” I sit very still with my head erect and level Phyllis closes on me, I catch a glimpse of silver through my hair then realize she has shining silver sheers in hand.

“Erm, er, Mrs. Spretzel, erm er Phyllis...”

“Silver bells.... cockle shells...” Snip.......... straight across the middle of my forehead and severed locks fall away. Suddenly I can see again and it is a scene of devastation. I watch the scissors now. Oh my god that is four inches or more of hair falling.

“It's Christmas time... " Snip........ Same length.... cut away the hair falling away exposing my face. "Erm er, I didn't really want a short fringe..." I mutter but then shut up realizing there is little I can do about it now

“Fringe? Elsie? What's she talking about?” Snip. More hair falls as she works back towards my ears. “You mean around the ends? Don't worry... I'm just roughing out the shape.” I struggle to work things out for a moment then with a flash of realization manage to offer “Fringe is what we call bangs at home”

“Bangs! Well, why didn't you say so? Don't you worry none Honey... bangs... excuse ME... a FRINGE will look just fine on you.” I look quietly into the mirror meekly accepting what is happening to me. Phyllis works her way all around my head creating a parallel line – an absolute bowl cut. Oh my god, its hideous, what is she doing to me? I stare into the mirror. My bob is gone. My hair is now short – a hideous bowl cut. What have I done to deserve this? There is still more to fall however as she now begins to layer my hair, combing each section up to its remaining length of three to four inches then with a swift snip each time she slices each length in half it seems, shortening my hair all over in a rapid succession of cuts. At last she is satisfied. “That's better. Now let's try this again. PAPER!”

I hand over a paper meekly and look down at the severed lengths of blonded hair in my lap on the cape and fight back a tear as I realize my hair has been slaughtered. I defy any woman to not at least have nerves to contend with if not tears as she watches her hair coming off like this. “What's the matter Honey? I hope you're not going to start crying now? For heaven's sakes it's just hair and you still have plenty left. Land's sakes.”

This old woman has chopped my hair all off, it looks bloody ridiculous, why didn't I say anything? Who does she think she is? And now she is going to perm me! I sniff back a tear and look straight into the mirror, fixing her gaze. "Erm er no, that's OK it was just a surprise, we didn't talk about what I wanted doing or anything, I didn't expect such a short cut but I'm OK...thank you.” (The refuge of the British, always try and be polite)

“Paper! Am I going to have to ask you each and every time? When I place a rod and you see my hand... you give me a paper. Do you expect Elsie to come over here and do this for you? This is your perm. Now please hand me a paper.” I hand over another paper and immediately prepare the next. Time to show her I am a quick learner. “Erm how long have you been doing hair Mrs. Spretzel?” I ask meekly.

“Years. Learned it at the Votech School... Couldn't see much of a future down at the packing plant. Punching a clock and all that. This is better... taking care of my ladies and all. I like to see my ladies looking nice and smart. Gotta natural talent for it.”

I manage a smile as I hand over the next paper. “Its years since I last had a perm...it's obvious you've had lots of practice you wind in the curlers so expertly....” (I'll try complements, see if that softens her...)

“My Ladies know what's right. I know what's right. After a while it's just natural. Everybody's happy. You stick around here... you'll learn. I tell you what... when you walk out of here today. There's one thing you can count on... and that is - you will, I swear to god, look like a born and bred Podash Lady. You may not think so just right this minute... but you will. And ... you'll thank me for it.” She has worked quickly and now the top of my head is clustered with tightly wound perm rods. “Well... there... that's the last of them. Wasn't so bad, was it. Now... where is my cloth?” Well with most of my hair on the cape and shop floor it’s obvious I am really a shorthaired girl now. Podash ladies all seem to have short curled hair, some extremely short like Elsie, some a little longer like Brenda Jean and Missy Joy. I hope mine is more like Brenda Jean’s, that’s softer, the way it curls just at the top of her ears...Then realization hits, this is it, my hair is all wound in curlers and she is gonna put some sort of goop on that will make my hair curly - permanently curly until it is cut out...oh my! Shelley joked about perming me; Rita and Janice were keen to see me permed. Brenda Jean and Betty Lou wanted to perm me and even Pattie said I should have one. Everyone seems to think my hair should be curly and I have resisted it for weeks now this woman has just launched in and started doing it without my agreement…

Phyllis has her rolled tea towel in hand and puts it up against the back of my head just beneath my rods... reaching her arms around my head on each side to fasten it with a pink plastic covered diaper pin at the front of my forehead. She's a big woman and her fleshy upper arms are very resting on my shoulders as she works. I sit feeling a little uncomfortable with her being so close to me.

“This is to stop any lotion that runs”

 Phyllis leaves me for a moment, walks to a cabinet and gets the perm solution - returns and snips off the cap.

“Oh, OK...” I sit very still and stiffly looking into the mirror feeling almost silly with this towel wrapped around my head and my hair tightly wound onto rods. Elsie speaks... “My goodness Phyllis! Is that something new? That's a different fragrance isn't it?”

“This? Yes it is. Comes from an outfit in Kansas. Supposed to last a little longer. They claim it somehow gets down into the roots... I'm going to try it on you next touch up.” I wonder what they are talking about - I have instantly been hit with the ammonia of the perm, that strong distinctive scent that used to swarm out from the door of hairdressers shops as you walked by.

“Whew... opens the sinus doesn't it? Well, Honey let’s say goodbye straight hair and hello lovely tight curls, let’s get this on then over to Old Robbie.” She begins to run the nozzle along the rods, starting at the top.

“Erm it does smell very strong indeed” I manage to murmur as she moves the bottle along the rods then jump as the first icy cold touches reach my scalp. “Stimulating isn't it? You just know special things are happening... when that first icy blast touches you... it just brings shivers of excitement up and down your spine doesn't it? The ladies love it!”

I shiver involuntarily as the lotion seeps through the rods to hit my scalp, it is so cold and I admit this to Phyllis. “Oh my, that's cold...” I say

“Yes it is. Really gets you every time. You like it don't you? See... we have some fun here.” Fun, how can this be fun I wonder. Still I force a smile.

“Now we'll just cover this all up, so nothing escapes and let the magic begin. And when you're composed, I want you to get up, walk over to Old Robbie and have a seat. He's a waiting for you.” Old Robbie is Phyllis's dome dryer. It is a prized possession... a towering masterpiece in chrome, Bakelite, vinyl maroons and grays and chrome! I take a long hard look into the mirror, I feel so strange almost as though it can't possibly be me sitting in this museum of a salon with my hair wound in perm rods...then it hits me, what's left of my hair...this woman has chopped a lot of it off. Before this job I had hair below my shoulders now it is most definitely short - not just short but also in the process of becoming permanently curly. Still there is no way of turning back the clock so in a fit of pragmatism I resolve to step into this transformation wholeheartedly. “Erm will you be setting my hair after the perm” I ask meekly.

“Of course I will, once you are curled I’ll sort out the shape then set you, don’t you worry.” I stand and walk over to the dryer where I am installed, the heat of the dryer to help the perm to process.

As I sit under the dryer pondering what is happening to me, Elsie takes my place in the chair in front of the mirror. She leans forwards and I watch as Phyllis begins to briskly shampoo her short white curls. I am in a perfect position however to see as she selects a bottle of “Roux Fancifull” from the shelf above the sink and massages the rinse through Elsie’s locks. When she sits up with her head shrouded in a towel I wait expectantly until she is revealed – her hair is now blue. Not a deep Marge Simpson sort of blue but a definite pastel blue. On a young woman it would have looked, edgy, punky – here on Elsie it just sort of looked right somehow. I watch as Phyllis begins to comb out each of Elsie’s curls and stretch them to around two inches long or so. With a swift practiced snip a half-inch falls away onto the cape. Elsie’s hair is already really short, why does she want it trimming I wonder as I watch her hair be cropped to length. After just a few short minutes of trimming the curls are all shortened to Phyllis’ satisfaction. The back and sides are untouched, I’m not surprised at around a half inch long they are hardly in need of a trim. Phyllis begins to carefully smear setting gel through Elsie’s curls before she speedily and expertly winds her head with rollers. Just the top of course similar to the perm rods, which crown my head. A net and earpads and she is installed under the dryer next to me and it is my turn to be ministered to by Phyllis – this time it is rinsing and neutralizing before further rinsing then sitting up in front of the mirror. Phyllis pauses for effect before she pulls away the towel and I stare in total amazement. It’s all just too much to take in. My hair is now very short – my ears are fully exposed for the first time since I was a teenager. The top is a mass of short firm curls, afro curls almost the result of the tightest of perms I realize and therefore as the name implies permanent! Finally my hair is now no longer blonde it is lilac! There is no other way to describe it. It is obvious that I too have been “treated” to one of Phyllis’ rinses. Phyllis wastes no time with small talk but simply begins to smear setting gel through my curls from a jar. “Dippity Doo” I read the legend “Perfect for short hair” well short hair I now have… It seems to be the work of moments to wind my curly top with tiny rollers; my purple locks now blatant stretched over green plastic curlers. A net and earpads then back under “Ole Robbie” to dry. Like a perfectly running production line Elsie is freed from the confines of the dryer but surprisingly, Phyllis hands her a headscarf, which she slips over the rollers, and she leaves the salon on an errand of some kind. She returns around fifteen minutes later with a package and looks pointedly at me as she places it on the small coffee table, which groans under the weight of antique magazines. She slips off the headscarf and into a small comb out cape then returns to the mirror. Of course with the noise from the dryer I can’t hear their conversation but I watch as Phyllis swiftly removes the net then twists free the rollers. Elsie is left with a rounded bubble of blue tubes over the top of her head but even so she is smiling into the mirror and chatting animatedly with Phyllis. I watch her pick up the scissors once more and work over the curls, trimming here and there then fluffing and teasing the curls out into the most perfect of little domes. Phyllis pauses for a moment and walks over to me. She turns off the dryer and feels around my warm head. “You’re dry so let’s have you up next to Elsie.” Thus I find myself surrendering my gown in favour of a smaller cape then walking over to Elsie in front of the mirror. “I got you some new foundation garments Karen, something more fitting, they are in the package…” Elsie smiles benevolently but in a way that implies there was no way of refusing this gift. “Erm thank you Elsie you are too kind.” I managed as a reply.

“So why don’t you pop in the bathroom and try it on.” I do exactly as I am told. I unwrap the package. It contains underwear but the sort I have not seen outside a museum exhibit. It is heavily padded, stitched and wired, more like some sort of straightjacket than a bra and knickers. I struggle with all the hooks and zippers for some minutes before finally getting it on. My entire chest, waist and hips are now confined in stiff white cotton and my breasts have been elevated and endowed with more prominent peaks. I then struggle for a few moments more to replace the small comb out cape. Then taking a deep breath I step out and walk back into the salon. Phyllis’ place is only really a sort of room off her house. She only has the one styling chair but now she has dragged a vinyl and chrome, dining chair through from the kitchen. Elsie is now seated on it next to the normal styling chair. At Phyllis’ invitation I walk over and sit down in the empty barber type chair. This is a remarkably difficult chore, thanks to my new underwear and I now sit much more upright. I look into the mirror, my head still crowned with rollers and net but next to a lady with the same sort of curls, as I fear I now have. Phyllis looks into the mirror making eye contact with Elsie. “So what’s it to be?” she asks. Elsie pauses for just a moment.

“Neat and tidy please, real clean today Phyllis.” Phyllis nods and picks up the small clippers that I now recognized as edgers. “High and tight then?” With a gentle “clack” they buzz into life. Elsie keeps her head erect looking into the mirror as Phyllis moves up close behind her. “Yes please, REAL tight…” Bzzzzz, they move up the back. I can’t see from where I sit beside her but I can hear the note change as the clippers begin to bite. Bzza, bzzaa. Phyllis works away concentrating and moves towards the right side. Elsie sits absolutely immobile but now I can see the clippers above her ear. Bzzzz. There is no guide comb fitted, this is taking the hair all away. Bzzzzz. They buzz up as high as the temple clipper shaving the area below but Elsie simply watches impassively. Elsie interrupts Phyllis’ concentration. “Take it real high today please – all the way to the curl, show Karen what a real Podash hairdo is.” Phyllis smiles and nods and I can watch in terrified amazement and disbelief as the clippers return to Elsie’s scalp shaving away all that remains on the side of her head. Elsie smiles into the mirror as Phyllis moves to the other side and quickly denudes that too. The clippers are clicked off and Phyllis lays a towel on Elsie shoulders. She busies herself at the sink then begins to smear white shaving foam onto Elsie’s neck and above her ears. “Full summer finish Hon?” she asks as she rubs the soap onto the shorn scalp. Elsie ponders for a moment then answers. “Sure why not… all the way.” Phyllis’s’ fingers are soon smoothing more soap even higher up the back and sides of Elsie’s head, all the way to the curly top. She pauses to wipe her hands then picks up a razor. Not some pink little safety razor like you might use to shave your legs. This is the real thing, a cutthroat. I watch in fascination as the blade is scraped around Elsie’s head, removing the soap and leaving pinky scalp behind – scalp, which is now deliciously naked. Soon it is all done and she wipes around Elsie’s head with the towel. She again drops this onto her shoulders and picks up the spray bottle. She hands Elsie the face mask which she immediately clamps over her visage before sssss,ssss,ssss,ssss,ssss,ssss,ssss,ssss,sssss she works to soak the remaining curls. Even as the cloud begins to dissipate she turns her attention to me. “I’ll give you another coat once that’s dry, now Karen let’s get you sorted out.” She then pulls free the ear pads and unties the net before starting to unpin and twist free the rollers.

Soon Phyllis has all of the rollers out of my hair and I stare at what remains. Oh my god, it’s a sort of light purple shade and the curls, they are so tight. She has just permed the top too; the back and sides are still straight. What can she do to make this all look presentable? “Erm er Phyllis, what colour is that you have given me?” “Lazy Lilac. It's a light mid summer rinse. I think it's very complimentary with your complexion.” Lilac, did she say Lilac?

“Erm, er, thank you. It's very nice.”

“Now about these bangs... excuse me... your fringe” I smile at her attempt to be polite. “I see just a nice roll over the top of your forehead... not too much, just a gentle roll that brushes across the top. What do you think Elsie?”

“What? Her fringe? Yes that would be pretty.” I like the term gentle...I try to relax a little. Phyllis parts my hair along the hair line, opens the coils with a comb using her finger to help shape them like a wave that's about to break and cascade over my face.

“What do you think, Elsie?” I watch intently as she works, the feel of the permed curls is so alien to me. They seem to tug at my scalp in a way that is so hard to describe to anyone who has never felt it – a sensation I had not known for many years. Of course one soon gets used to it. “Oh... that is just so sweet.”

Phyllis begins to open the coils on top of my head separate them into larger curls easing them into bouncy fullness.

I sit and look at my emerging style. I now sport a dome of curls in a sort of mushroom style carefully set into stylish rolls giving lift from my scalp – permanent lift I realize thanks to the perming solution. The curls are about an inch and a half to two inches long and create a perfect bowly look. Below this my hair is short – about a half inch long and still straight - Phyllis had cut it too short to wind on rods I assumed. Even so it is dramatically short – I haven’t had my hair cut around my ears since I was a teenager. Oh well at least it is substantially longer than Elsie’s radically short cut. Phyllis is standing next to me holding the clippers in her hand. “Elsie? Sideburns?” she asks scrutinizing my hair. Elsie frowns into the mirror, her brow furrowing. “Phyllis are you going soft?” my eyes stray to her own freshened haircut – the sides of hers are not just short they are bare. “Karen is here to make sure she fits in as a member of our community. She wants to walk out of here looking like a real Podash woman.” She looks at me through the mirror, her eyes intent on mine. I find myself meekly nodding. Phyllis smiles at me in the mirror, a no nonsense sort of smile that makes my heart skip a beat. “She needs it cleaning right up. Karen tell Phyllis you want it neat and tidy…” This woman will accept no dissent at all. Is this some form of rite of passage for me though? Does she really want me to articulate this myself as some form of submission? Even as the questions fly through my mind I still hear myself say “Could I have it neat and tidy please.” Phyllis smiles almost triumphantly and Elsie beams. “You heard her so let’s make it REAL neat and REAL tidy.” Phyllis nods and the clippers clack into life. Bzzz they begin to whine. “No problem, let’s take it high and tight then…” she says as she inverts the clippers. “Not too high, go easy on her this time…”

I bow my head meekly ready for her to buzz around my hairline and neaten the cut as I have got used to

“Karen! What are you doing? Hold still!”

I raise my head and look straight into the mirror. The clippers sound loud and menacing. She places the churning blade directly against the side of my head right beneath the line of curls above my ear... it is so loud. Phyllis’ free hand clamps onto the top of my head, onto the curls and she pulls the clippers straight down... the short hairs are flying. Oh my god what is she doing - she's clippering the side, not the neck as I expected, how Betty Lou does it. Bzzzzzzzzzz. How high above my ear is that? How short is it cutting...My eyes widen in horror as I stare fixedly into the mirror.

She does it again... right beneath the curl line and down... she continues around toward the back... each time starting at that same parallel - and down - stripping away the short hairs leaving only a downy surface. It can’t be- she’s not taking it that short is she? I stare at the side; I can't really see.... has she cut it really short? Oh no, that’s what she meant by tight. It’s a "tight side" like Elsie...oh my god! And she has hers shaven too - shaven like smooth. No she wouldn't do that to me, she is just trimming it, I knew the back needed trimming, and she obviously feels the sides needed trimming under the curls too.

When Phyllis reaches the other ear, she stops, dusts off the clippers and adds a little lubricant to the blades. I can't really see since I daren’t turn my head to look but the shape of my face has been altered by the fact the hair isn’t bushing out wide at the sides.

She flips the clipper over in her hand - blades facing up now. She picks up a comb and slips it under the curly perimeter and lays the cutting edge at the bottom of the curly top and push straight up. The comb is angled away from my scalp but even so the clippers bite through my new curls sending disembodied little “c” curls to fall onto the cape. My curly hair remains safe only with the area of my head that curves away toward the top. I stare at the clippers; there is no guide comb on them. "Erm, er Phyllis, you are cutting the hair really short at the side" I manage to force out, my voice squeaky with tension. Phyllis works below the graduation she has just cut in above my temples, the clippers now pressed in tight to my scalp. The blades take away my sideburns skimming my temples as they rise. She bends the ear down and out of the way - repeat the cleansing of all hair beyond a precise vertical boundary that is no wider then the actual width of my skull. Few curls remain above that former hairline... those that do are nearly vestigial - it's a clean mechanical taper – I still have all the curly bulk on top

Oh my god it is such a severe look – I am emerging as a true Podash woman with a style which apes Elsie’s own although mine is still longer, still almost a bowl cut. Phyllis has designs on that however. "You know Elsie... this ban... fringe is too long now... doesn't look right... I think I'm going to shorten it a bit. What do you think” Elsie puts the question to me – “Karen? Do you want to keep the fringe?” Of course I want to keep what’s left of my fringe but since Phyllis started by chopping back five inches or so from it I am confused, uncertain. “Erm, er well I'm not sure?” Phyllis takes that as my answer. "Fine. I'll trim it"

"Erm, er that's not quite what I meant..."

Too late. She takes the small scissors in a straight line and knocks half of it off.

"There... that does look like a fringe, doesn't it?" I am forced to admit that the short hanging remains of hair   (I stare at in total disbelief, its only about an inch long now - it did hang down into my mouth when I washed it and before Elsie brought me here to Phyllis’ - in total she has cut six or seven inches of hair that I already considered short) well it can only be described as a fringe and a radically short one at that. “Now I’ll have to lift the sides some to match it in.” The clippers keep working. Again the comb lifting the curls at the side and more are consigned to the salon floor destined to be swept up and dumped in the bin. She works all around my head raising the perimeter until at last my curly bowl style is a very respectable replica of Elsie’s cap of curls. Below this I have short, no very short hair cut clipper over comb creating a border from the cap down to my temples. Below this margin lies the true horror. Her clippers have denuded my scalp, clipper shaved me back to shadow. Whilst I can only see the sides I know the back has received the same treatment. She takes up her tailcomb and begins to fluff and tease my remaining curls into shape. Carefully placing them creating a rounded froth of curls. Perhaps froth is the wrong term; that sounds almost frivolous, carefree. This is more of a confection, perfectly arranged like some immaculate presentation in a Parisienne patisserie. Oh no, clippers again... “I'll shape this top now. Give you a nice round top. Finish it all off just nicely. Nice and neat. A perfect dome.”

I watch now totally resigned to having my hair like Elsie's who is after all a perfect Podash woman which is what Phyllis promised me - a perfect dome eh?

“Now if you go back to Betty Lou you tell her just how you want your hair, you hear. You say you have a tight one and a half inch top perm on small red rods and you like the back and sides high and tight.” I know I am going to regret asking but even so I hear my own voice uttering the question which hovers at the forefront of my mind…”Erm, er just what do you mean by high and tight?” Phyllis smiles and picks up the small mirror sweeping it in behind me. I stare wide-eyed at the devastation that has been wrought at the back of my head. The curls are indeed in a stiff dome crowning my head with immaculate rigid form almost in a cap which just crowns my cooling head, a line of curls running perfectly horizontal on the level with my slaughtered fringe or bangs as Phyllis would have it. Below these curls though the clippers had been at work. Bristles hardly long enough for me to tug at with my carefully manicured fingernails covered my scalp for a distance of no more than three finger widths down from the permed curls. The lilac rinse leant these bristles substance, I was sure that had I not sported softly purple locks you would be able to see my scalp through them she had cropped me so severely. As my eyes moved down towards my neck however I saw there was still more horror to find. From a very carefully and expertly tapered margin (how could I be admiring Phyllis’ work another part of my racing mind questioned) the skin below shone pale with just a hint of stubble shadow – almost naked…the thought sent a shudder through me. I shuddered noticeably as Phyllis’ finger stroked over my near naked nape up to my bristly hairline. “When we take it high we can do it here to your temple height as I have done for you today or often we take all the straight hair off just leaving permed curls. I’ve gone easy on you since it’s your first proper cut here and you only have a top perm. Next time you make sure Betty Lou takes you all the way to the top…you’ll be used to it by then.” She paused admiring her work then remembered my question, “Oh of course tight means tight to the skin. This is just the clippers. Some of my ladies like Elsie have a full finish with the razor. Takes it off nice and smooth leaving her perfectly neat, clean and tidy…” She leaves the remark hanging in the air for a few heartbeats then comes the question I am dreading. “Would you like me to finish off yours too? Really clean?” Elsie’s eyes bore into mine. I flick my gaze to the naked skin above her ears. What can I say? My mouth is dry, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth but even so I manage to force myself to speak. I really have no choice do I? “Err, aargh.” Swallow Karen I think to myself and my tongue flicks over parched lips. Suddenly an image of Missy Joy’s expression as she looks into the mirror with Betty Lou shaving her nape smooth pops into my head. “Erm, er.” The pause seems to hang in the air forever then I surrender. “Er, y-yes, yes please…” Elsie’s face breaks into a grin of triumph and Phyllis too looks pleased. “Good girl, I knew you would fit in here.” Elsie crowed as Phyllis turned to the sink. “When the weather is this hot you can’t beat real shaved ‘whitewalls’ you know.” Her hand strays almost unconsciously up the back of her own freshly shaven head in a gesture I recognize from my own experiences at Betty Lou’s. “There’s only a few ladies, apart from you and I of course, who appreciate the benefit of a good shavin’ and how convenient a real smooth finish to whitewalls and back can be. There’s only three or four of us have the full smooth back and sides like me. Sure many of Betty Lou’s ladies have the nape razor shaven but an all round clean up is just something else don’t you think? You can have a full summer finish like mine next time where its oh so smooth all the way to the curl but this time Phyllis will just whitewall the bottom for you OK dear?” Phyllis places a towel on my shoulders then begins to spread the foam around the back and sides of my head. It is very white and I am reminded once again of my image of a French pastry. She smoothes the soap in a glaringly white border over the sides and back and I stare in mute fascination into the mirror, suppressing the urge to giggle. “Now don’t move Honey.” Phyllis murmurs as she grips my crown with her free hand. I suddenly feel the razor hard and menacing high on my nape – no not my nape, it is above my occipital bone. Scriape, the feeling is delicious as it runs down the back of my head. I notice myself blushing and my heart beat races. “You can go back to Betty Lou’s if you want but I think you had best be one of my regulars” Phyllis offers as she works. Elsie interjects. “My but you are honoured, Phyllis doesn’t usually take on new regulars.” The razor continues to scrape and I lose myself in the sensations as she continues to talk. “Your hair grows a half inch a month and being as its an inch and a half at its longest that means all this curl grows out in just three months. You need the top perming every six weeks then to keep it neat.” Scriappe, scrape. She pauses to wipe the soap and shaven hairs from her blade. “I think we can go for a tint rather than the rinses though, I’ll give you a lovely lilac or maybe violet tint in a couple of weeks when your perm has settled down…” Scriape, scrape, wipe. Elsie once again interjects. “Oh violet Phyllis; that will be perfect.” Phyllis nods as she continues to shave. Sets once a week then and trims every other week. With hair this short you can’t leave it to a month or so like Betty Lou can with her bubbles. So the cycle is set, trim and set, set, colour-trim and set, set, trim and set, set, perm-trim and set. OK?” She finishes scraping around my ear then wipes around my head with the towel – a towel that feels rough and scratchy on my hyper sensitive scalp which glows with a rosy tinge. “There we go, all done. Shaved whitewalls like this when it’s cooler but towards the end of the spring I like my ladies to have me give them a full summer high tight.” So this is it then, it seems I am now on course for having my hair in the archetypal “Podash ‘do”, one of Elsie’s no nonsense clique but even so I find myself smiling and nodding. “Thank you Phyllis, that’s very nice.” She picks up her plastic spray bottle. This one is smaller than the plant spray like Betty Lou’s this one works simply by squeezing the bottle – its nozzle delivering the brown lacquer from within onto the hair. She hands me a face shield. Ssss, sss, ssss, ssss, ssss, sssss. She moves the bottle around my head, the spray scooshing out onto my curls. Soaking into my hair and drying to rigidity. Experience now tells me that my curls will be immobile, so stiff that to touch them you might fear they would snap off since they seem so brittle. It seems my transformation is complete. From the outside all is calm thanks to the confines of my new, firm and heavily wired Spirella 709 Corselet and the rigid hold of the lacquer on my remaining locks. Inside though I am awash with turmoil and emotion as I pull my blouse back on and offer my thanks and farewells to Phyllis. Her parting words are “See you next week.” This is it; my hair is going to stay like this.

As we are walking out of the door the sun and breeze hit my shaven skin at the same time causing me to gasp involuntarily. Of course the breeze has no chance whatsoever of disturbing my short, lacquered curls. We get into Elsie’s car in silence and drive to the coffee shop. I get the feeling Elsie wants to show off her latest creation. The car is filled with the scent of shampoo, lacquer but above all permeating everything is the lingering smell of the perm solution, which seems to leave a note like the carrier alcohol of freshly applied perfume. We walk in and people turn to look then immediately turn back to their food and drinks. It seems I am no longer the curiosity in town, I hear one or two approving murmurs from close tables. “‘Bout time too” etc. Anywhere else the sight of two “lady’s of an age” with such severe haircuts, especially in contrasting colours, Elsie’s blue and my lilac, would have earned many a second glance I am sure but not here in good ole Podash. Brenda Jean is sitting at a table stirring coffee. Her own helmet perm looks suddenly luxurious when compared to my own style. She looks up as we approach and smiles then her face becomes serious. “My, my.” She says as we sit down. “So you’ve both been to see Phyllis today?” the question is rhetorical but Elsie answers anyway. “Yes and not before time too. I had my regular tidy up scheduled and Phyllis was kind enough to fit Karen in too.”

“Well she certainly didn’t hold back any.” Brenda Jean smiles almost conciliatorily. “On either of you that is. Do I see a fresh perm there Karen? Well see and scent, that’s a pretty pungent solution Phyllis is using.” Elsie nods.

“Of course you can’t beat a nice tight top perm.”

“Phyllis has cut the girl pretty darned short, still no one has left her place with long hair in fifty years. You could have guaranteed Karen would be leaving her long hair on the floor as soon as she stepped in.” Long hair what did she mean, my hair was already short when I walked in. Still I did leave six-inch lengths of silky hair on Phyllis’ floor as I left.

“Now Phyllis went a little easy on her, it’s longer than mine” The only difference was the short border between curls and smooth shaven scalp at my temples, Elsie’s is smooth up to the top. “She didn’t want it to be too severe the first time.” I still didn’t understand how she could say that; this was an incredibly severe hairstyle anyway. “Karen will have a set next week and a trim the week after, if this weather holds then she can have the back and sides lifted and the real tight finish all the way just like mine.” Elsie nods. It is a given now that I am one of Phyllis’ clients and my hair (or lack of it) is now firmly in her hands. “You know she would have looked perfectly respectable with one of Betty Lou’s bubble perms. Betty Lou was all set for her permanent this week anyway. We were just working up to it gently you know.”

“Karen needed to fit in with no more gossip, I said at the start I should take her to Phyllis and you let Betty Lou fool around with her English styles…” Brenda Jean nodded, accepting responsibility. She returned to my new style, her eyes scrutinizing the smooth sides. “So you had Phyllis wet shave the whitewalls for her did you?” Elsie protests at that.

“Nope I did not. Karen had seen Phyllis give me a clean finish and well, she asked Phyllis herself to give her a proper clean up to her whitewalls.” Elsie looks me in the eyes and I find myself nodding but then lowering my eyes to the floor. “And when she goes back for a trim she will darned well look Phyllis in the eye and say “Real high, and real tight, and real clean” and she will walk out with a ‘do like mine.” I continue looking at the floor. I guess Elsie realizes I had little real choice in this transformation. “Well good then. You look very nice Karen and it’s nice to see you decide to tone down your hair and become a respectable member of our community.” With that no more is said and conversation turns to the quality of the coffee… 

The rest of the afternoon is spent on buying some new clothes that suitably complement my severely matriarchal haircut and rigid foundation garments. At 7pm Elsie drops me off at home. I say goodnight, turn, close the door and begin to walk toward my dresser. I have just finished unbuttoning my sweater when, in the corner of my eye, I notice myself stepping before the mirror. Alone in my room, this is really the first private moment I’ve had today and as I pass, I pause and turn toward my reflection. My reflection? Wait… How can this be my reflection? I don’t recognize this woman. Reflexively, I slowly raise my hand and placing the palm against the back of my neck. The woman before me mimics the movement, caressing and sliding her hand along naked flesh before rising in search of hair. I know that gesture.

We drop our hands in unison, then raise the other upward, extending the index finger like a foreign probe, inching ever closer to the precise little fringe that curves outward from the woman’s hairline like a small ocean wave, frozen in time, before it breaks onto a ruddy shoreline. When she touches it, I experience the very real sensation of brushing my fingertip across stiff fibers. I press my finger into it and watch the hard cylindrical shape flex every so slightly, as she does the same. When we drop our hands again, I see the coil return to its original pristine position. I saw it move, I felt it on my finger, but the hair on my head registered no contact. That is so strange.

Puzzled, I drop both of my hands to rest on my hips. The woman spreads the fingers of each hand, pushing her white pointelle knit sweater out of the way, behind her, to grip her waist. My waist does not feel right either. It is thick, Thickened by the firm and heavily wired material of the Spirella 709 Corselet that completely encloses, molds and braces my torso. The woman in the mirror does not look especially heavy, but appears stout with very good posture. Her breasts rise majestically above her chest as a pair of distinct cantilevered mounds, the sharp peaks of which glisten in two brilliant highlights beneath the sheen of her darted, pale blue, nylon acetate blouse. The blouse itself is very ornate, closing with a series of triple groupings of round, pearl tone buttons. A small neat collar is closed primly around her neck from which extend, a pair of long cloth tails, much like those worn by a High Court Judge at home. These embellishments, perhaps once considered very stylish, now serve as testament to the idiosyncrasies of women’s fashion, and styles popular decades before I was born. This outfit… this blouse, neatly tucked into a high waist, gray flannel, and calf length skirt, together with the white sweater is conservative and matronly in the purest sense.

 Of course… it is my reflection in the mirror. I am not that distant from reality. I full well remember this entire journey. Every bit of it… right down to my fitting for this firm, antiquated support foundation, my first pair of support stockings… right down to the very tips of my toes within these equally firm and supportive black orthopedic shoes.

It is my hair that underscores the full depth of my assimilation. I had thought to preserve at least a slight resemblance of the life I left behind, call it a nostalgic memento of Piccadilly and Trafalgar. I had so hoped that Betty Lou would continue to indulge my heritage and nationality through stylings that allowed me to feel sensuous and womanly. Although her interpretations of the Queen’s own hairdo is hardly representative of a modern UK woman, they are full, buoyant and unequivocally feminine. In the privacy of my room at night, I would brush and pamper and though it is set luxuriate in the familiar and satisfying care and pleasures of my own hair.

What Phyllis Spretzel has done to me in taking my hair is harsh and brutally severe. She has stripped me of pretense to any soft or sultry feminine mystique. My face is bare and honest. Eyes, nose and mouth… ears, cheeks and chin… stark and prominent as they can be, with no coy distraction, or complementary adornment. This, my last cut, perm and set complete my transformation. My treasured tresses have been reduced to a vestigial replica of their former glory and sit now as a simple gilded crown above my head. The lazy lilac tint is completely unnatural and purely decorative. It is feminine by assignment. There is no ambiguity. A man does not carry this hair in Podash; a woman does.

I should be sick to my stomach at the sight, but I am not. My hair is neat and tidy. I am neat and tidy. I look like a woman of mature substance, a woman so precise, confident and assured of her place and presence that artifice and feminine guile are unnecessary. I look every bit the matriarchal equal of Elsie and Phyllis Spretzel. When I next step forth into the morning light, there will be no hushed gossip, no quizzical second glance, and no question, but that I belong here. In hindsight, I did not appreciate the totality of my assignment and now it has consumed me and I am at peace and I am at home.

This is my new life in Podash.

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