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Copyright Oggbashan January 2017
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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I know I was a mess but did Mary have to be so blunt?
"No, Hugh, I'm not going anywhere with you. I'd be ashamed to be seen with you in that state. Your hair is full of plaster, your beard is straggly and paint-smeared, and your nails? Yeuck! I'm a qualified hairdresser and nail artist. What would people think if I was with a slob like you?"
"But... the villagers know I've been working on my father's barn. They know..."
"We're not going to be in the village. The Valentine's dance is in the next village. They'll judge you but what they see. They'll judge my work by you. I'm not going to wreck my career by being associated with you."
I wanted to protest that even the next village would know about me. Mary's kiss stopped me.
"I might go to the dance with you on one condition, Hugh," Mary said. "If you let me do my professional best and you wear your good suit, I'll see. If I can make you look presentable, then yes. If I can't? No. Will you let me try?"
"Of course I will, Mary, if that means you'll be my partner."
"Might be your partner," Mary corrected. "I'll do my best. Whether that will be enough? I'll see. You'll have to cooperate and let me do whatever I want. No protests, no objections. If you put yourself in my hands for a couple of hours probably two or three times this week, then maybe. Is it a deal?"
"Yes, Mary. If it means you'll come with me to the dance, yes."
"I might. That's all I'll promise, Hugh. I might."
I left it like that. Mary's mother is the village hairdresser. She has a small corner shop. She cares for the hair of most of the village women and on Saturday mornings and evenings she cuts hair for the men and boys. She deserves a better location than our village because she is skilled. Mary had been a poorly paid trainee in a large salon in the nearby town. Now she is qualified for both hairdressing and nail care she is too expensive for that salon to keep. She could set up on her own but she's decided to work with her mother for a few years first.
+++
On Tuesday evening I went to the hairdressing salon for Mary's first attempt to make me look like a potential escort. I knocked on the front door of the shop. Mary opened it dressed in her professional hairdresser's tunic over a flared skirt.
"Come in, Hugh. We'll be in the back room."
Mary's lips brushed my cheek. The back room was for the more extensive treatments such as tinting, highlighting and now Mary's nail art. I was surprised that there was no sickly smell of hairdresser's chemicals and said so.
"I know, Hugh," Mary said. "I got Mum to install a better ventilation system. The perfumes were deterring some of our male customers but some of the products I use on nails are volatile. They could be dangerous near hairdryers but not now. The ventilation system takes all that away safely and filters it before discharging it outside. Please strip your upper half down to your T-shirt. Oh, and take your trainers and socks off. I hope your feet are clean."
"Yes, Mary, they are. I showered half an hour ago. It didn't do much for my hair."
"I can see that. It's still full of plaster. I think I know how to sort that out. Sit in that chair."
"It looks like a dentist's chair," I protested.
"It was. One of my former colleagues told me it was in the town's auction. It was cheap but ideal. It cost more to have it delivered and installed than to buy it. Sit!"
I sat. Mary wrapped a towel around my neck and a black satin cape that fell below my knees. She reclined the chair and swivelled it so my head was over the washbasin.
"I'm going to rinse your hair then apply a shampoo that should loosen the plaster. I'll have to leave that on for about ten minutes. While that's working I'll start on your finger and toenails."
Mary's fingers massaged my head as she used the shower spray. Her fingers dug in hard as she worked the shampoo into my hair. I relaxed and let her work.
"Now for your nails," she announced. "They'll need softening first and you must keep your hands and feet still while they do. I know. Wait there."
She walked into the front room and came back.
"Hands still!" she ordered.
She strapped my wrists to the arms of the chair.
"Hey!"
"Shut up, Hugh. I haven't finished yet."
Mary slid a plastic former under my restrained hands. She attached each finger with a Velcro strip. I couldn't move my fingers at all. She knelt down. I felt straps around my ankles.
"Your toenails are more like an animal's claws. What do you use to cut them? An angle grinder?"
"No..."
"Shut up, Hugh. Just relax. You're getting professional care whether you want it or not. You can't refuse now, can you?"
"No, Mary. I'm helpless. But this isn't your normal professional care, is it?"
"No, Hugh. It isn't. You're getting my personal attention. I might want some from you too but not yet."
Mary gently applied some liquid to each of my finger and toenails. She swore under her breath as she worked on my toes. When she had finished she washed her hands before checking on my hair. She gently rinsed it and eased the small residue of plaster out.
"Sorry, Hugh, you'll need another application before I'm satisfied. I'll put it on now."
She rinsed the shampoo out and applied more. She dried her hands.
"Next on my list is your beard. It's coming off. It doesn't suit you and it's not much of one, is it? Any objections?"
"No, Mary, if that's what you want."
"It is. I need your head still while I do it."
She pushed two plastic blocks either side of my wet hair before tightening a cloth strap across my forehead.
"Keep still and no talking. I need to concentrate. I haven't shaved many men. The stubble is going first."
She used an electric trimmer before lathering my face. I looked at her face close to mine as she gently shaved my face. Her tongue was sticking out with concentration. I wanted to kiss those lips so close to mine. I couldn't. I was absolutely helpless, restrained by the woman I loved, and unable to do a thing. I could feel the warmth between my legs growing as Mary's face was inches away but unreachable.
Once she had finished shaving me she removed the strap and the blocks. She gently washed my face with a warm flannel.
"That wasn't too unpleasant, was it, Hugh?"
She kissed me to stop an answer. I wanted to wrap my arms around her and continue the kiss. My arm muscles strained against the wrist straps.
"Keep still!" She ordered again. "Your fingernails are next."
She pulled a wheeled stool alongside me. Her head bent over my right hand. I felt her cutting the cracked and broken nails. The nail file tickled. I wanted to clench my hand but the restraints stopped me. Mary scooted around my extended legs to repeat the cutting and filing on my left hand. She moved away to start on my left foot. The nail file's action was excruciating. She had to work on that foot for about a quarter of an hour before she was satisfied. Why? No one was going to look at my toenails. My feet lived in heavy boots on most days. I tried to squirm as she worked on my right foot. I couldn't. Her straps stopped me.
Mary sat back on her stool.
"I'll sort out your hair now. I'm not going to cut it today. I'll do that on Thursday. OK?"
