Mrs. Anderson by f35h

---

“Steven Wilson, come here!"

I froze, knowing that whatever was coming, it wasn’t going to be good.

“Now, please."

I turned, and walked as slowly as I could towards the owner of the voice, Mrs. Anderson, the teacher most feared by pretty much everyone in the school.

“Do you think that is an acceptable standard of appearance, Steven?"

“Er, no Miss?"

“Look at you! You’re a disgrace! What on earth have you been doing?"

“Er, playing football, Miss."

“Well it simply isn’t good enough. Tuck your shirt in and do your top button up."

I did as she told me, flushing with embarrassment, as I heard my mates sniggering behind me. She reached over, and pulled fimly at my tie, tightening it so that the knot was right up to my collar.

“Come with me."

I followed her across the playground.

“Your hands are filthy, and your face isn’t much better. Get in there and give them a good wash with soap and water." She gestured towards the toilet block. “And comb your hair while you’re at it. I’ve never seen such a mess."

“Er, I don't have a comb, Miss."

Mrs. Anderson sighed. “Why does that not surprise me." She dug in her handbag and produced a black plastic comb.

“You’ve got two minutes. I’ll be waiting, and I expect to see you clean and tidy."

“Yes Miss."

I washed the mud from my hands, and peered into the mirror. I could see why Mrs. Anderson had sounded so annoyed. There were streaks of dirt where I’d wiped my face with dirty hands, and my hair was even more dishevelled than usual.

Washing my face was easy enough, but making my hair tidy was another matter. I’d managed to avoid my mother’s attempts to send me to the barbers for a back-to-school haircut, and so, two weeks into the new school year, my thick, wavy hair was hanging past the bottom edge of my collar, covering my ears, and falling into my eyes when I didn’t shove it back with my hands.

All my friends had their hair long, but mine was the longest. I knew that it looked a mess, and it wound up my parents and teachers no end. Mostly I loved this, but sometimes I felt that it was a bit childish, and thought that maybe it was time I did something about it, maybe actually get my hair cut without Mum nagging me endlessly, and just tidy myself up a bit.

I never followed through with these thoughts, worried about what my mates would say, but there was a delicate balance to keeping my hair long; I knew that there was a point at which my mother would lose patience and march me down to the barbers, or even take the kitchen scissors to it herself. It was hard to know which was worse!

Equally, I was well aware that my hair didn’t meet the school regulations - my rather ineffectual form teacher had told me at least twice to get it cut - but Mrs. Anderson was a different proposition. She was quite capable of both giving me detention, and writing to, or even phoning my parents, insisting that my hair was cut, and cut short. That would undoubtedly result in a nightmare visit to the barbers, so I’d better do what I could to appease her.

I tugged the comb roughly through my hair, but it sprang back into its usual state of disarray. I didn’t have much time left, so desperately, I wet it down and tried again. This time it behaved better, but it was much too long to be combed forwards, so much as it pained me, I did my best to part it on the side, and comb it back neatly.

I looked in the mirror and hardly recognised myself. The only time my hair looked remotely like this was when Mum dragged me to the old-fashioned barbers who thought that all boys should have a short back and sides. I knew I’d be laughed at if my mates saw me looking like this, but, somehow, there was part of me that kind of liked it…. No. That was ridiculous. Hoping I’d done enough to avoid any more of Mrs. Anderson’s displeasure, I hurried out.

“Hmmm... Well I suppose that’s an improvement." She studied me closely. “Turn around." I did, fearing the worst.

“Tidier it may be, but your hair is far too long. It needs cutting directly." She paused, and smirked at me. “Unless you’d like to start putting ribbons in it, and wearing a skirt?" She enquired sarcastically, raising her eyebrows.

I said nothing.

“No, I thought not. There was a letter sent home at the end of last term, and another one at the start of this term, which made it perfectly clear that boys’ hair must be kept off the collar and out of their eyes. Did your parents not receive them?"

“Er, I don’t know, Miss."

The letters were most likely still screwed up at the bottom of my bag, but I didn’t think that Mrs. Anderson needed to know that.

“Well, they certainly should have. Never mind, report to my classroom at breaktime tomorrow, please."

“Er, yes Miss." I wondered whether to ask what my punishment was to be, but decided against it.

“Run along now, Steven, I’m sure there’s somewhere you should be."

“Yes Miss."

I walked away, catching a glimpse of my reflection in a window. I guessed that this was the longest my hair was going to get. I’d have to get it cut before Mrs. Anderson got in touch with my parents. A good trim, to get it off my collar should keep everyone happy. Perhaps I’d go further, ask the barber to reveal the bottom half of my ears. That would be shorter than most of my friends, but maybe it would be good to look a bit tidier, smarter.

Unbidden, my mind wandered to the old-fashioned barber that Mum used to take me to. What would happen if I walked in there and asked for a smart, tidy haircut? I shivered. The grumpy old barber there would probably take his clippers to it, whatever I said, and I’d leave shorn and slicked, with a perfect parting and my hair nowhere near my ears.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I knocked nervously on Mrs. Anderson’s classroom door. I had, of course, messed up my hair as soon as I’d been out of her sight yesterday. I didn’t really understand why, but I had felt a little pang of regret as I did, destroying the careful order, but I knew that my neatly combed hair would invite nothing but ridicule.

Today though, I’d remembered to bring a comb, and had popped into the toilets on my way to Mrs. Anderson. I’d repeated what I’d been told to do yesterday, top button, tie, face scrubbed and finally dragging the comb through my damp hair, forcing it into a side parting. I told myself that this was just to appease Mrs. Anderson, but looking at myself in the mirror, smart, tidy and respectable, gave me a strange feeling inside. Did I actually want to look like this? How on earth would I face my friends?

“Come in."

She frowned at me over her glasses. Her iron grey hair was set into its usual immaculate helmet of curls, which looked like it would easily withstand a hurricane.

“I’m pleased to see you looking neat and tidy, Steven. But I’m afraid that hair still needs cutting."

“Yes Miss."

She stood up, smoothing her tweed skirt over her knees.

“But first, I want to make sure that you understand the new school policy. I tried very hard last term to persuade the headmaster that we should adopt much stricter rules for boy’s hair. As far as I’m concerned, hair that is just above the collar is far too long."

This sounded worrying. Perhaps I should have read those letters, after all.

“Unfortunately, the headmaster couldn’t be persuaded to change the policy to require proper, short haircuts for boys. The only thing that he would admit was that the current policy wasn’t being enforced adequately."

OK, a bit of relief. So I’d get a detention or something, and I’d have to have my hair trimmed up above my collar, but that was always going to happen. Mum would probably be nagging me to go at the weekend anyway. Mrs. Anderson continued.

“So he agreed that any boy who persistently refused to get his hair cut should have it cut in school, by an approved member of staff. We sent the letters out to ask parents what they thought, and the response was overwhelmingly positive. Not a single objection." She smiled at me, mercilessly, as my eyes widened in shock.

“Now I checked with your form tutor, Miss Taylor, and she told me that you have been instructed to get your hair cut twice since the start of term. Is that correct?"

I hung my head. “Yes Miss."

“But you didn’t."

“No Miss."

“Very well. On the stool please." She gestured across the room at a high stool, the kind that normally lived in the science labs. Next to it was a table with a large white sheet draped over it.

“Can you guess who the approved member of staff is, Steven?"

“I think it’s probably you, Miss."

“Correct. And of course, that means that I get to decide your haircut." She draped the sheet around me, tucking it tightly into my collar. “I never trained to be a barber, but I used to cut my husband’s and my sons’ hair."

Now the sheet had been removed, I could see that the table was covered with hair cutting equipment; combs, scissors, a spray bottle and a large red tub of Brylcreem, and a terrifyingly large pair of black electric hair clippers.

“And now I’m going to cut yours, just like I did theirs. I never gave them anything fancy, just a proper, smart short back and sides."

She walked back across the room, removing her suit jacket. Underneath was a cream blouse with a large bow at the neck. She put a white coat over her blouse.

“There will be a great deal of scruffy hair coming off that head of yours, Steven." She said by way of explanation. “I don’t want it getting all over my nice smart clothes."

She walked back, and in the silence I could hear the heels of her leather boots clicking on the lino. I couldn’t quite believe what was happening. I’d walked in here expecting some boring punishment, a lecture about my hair, and to be told to get it cut in the next few days. Instead, my unwanted, if admittedly long-overdue haircut was to be imposed right now, by the strictest teacher in the school.

She picked up the spray bottle and a comb, and started to wet down my hair, dragging her comb firmly through. I was glad that I’d combed my hair before I came to see her. She tutted as she combed my long hair straight down in front of my face.

“I really don’t understand why all you boys are so scared of the barbers." She said scornfully. “You’re going to look so much smarter when I’ve got rid of all this mess. Head down, please."

Mrs. Anderson’s hand on top of my head forced my chin onto my chest. There was a loud buzzing sound as she turned on the clippers, and she brought them up to the back of my neck. Yikes! She wasn’t kidding. I really was going to get a short back and sides, emphasis on short.

She ran the clippers firmly up the back of my head, and sheaves of my hair rained to the floor. She repeated the process, working around my head until she reached one ear, then the other.

“At least we can see your ears now. Head up." She released my head and put down the clippers but there was no respite. She started lifting up sections of my hair with her comb and shearing them away with swift snips of the scissors, oblivious to my discomfort.

“Parting on the left, I think." I felt, rather than saw, the scissors slide into the long hair that hung in front of my eyes. With three quick snips, my long, face-obscuring fringe lay in my lap. What was left on my forehead felt distinctly longer on one side. I tried to reach up to check if it really was.

“Keep still please." My hand was slapped away. “I’ve cut your fringe like that on purpose. It will stay nice and neat in a side parting now."

“Yes Miss." I gave up. There was no escape. When I left this classroom, I was going to have the shortest, smartest haircut that I’d ever had. Mrs. Anderson simply wasn’t going to settle for anything less.

“Now we need to make sure that this lies down neatly." She remarked, mostly to herself. There then followed an uncomfortable few minutes as she vigorously attacked the little hair I had left with a pair of thinning scissors. More hair rained down onto the white sheet.

Finally, Mrs. Anderson seemed satisfied. She picked up a small brush and whisked most of the fallen hair from my face and neck. She opened the tub of Brylcreem. I thought about objecting, but what was the point? It might be the final humiliation, but it really was the least of my problems. A large white blob of the sticky cream was massaged into the decimated hair on the top of my head, and a severe parting was carved down the left hand side.

“Now that’s a more appropriate haircut for school." She whisked away the sheet and handed me a small mirror. “Don’t you look nice and smart now? I’m sure that your mother will be pleased to see you looking like a respectable young man."

Well, I couldn’t argue with that. Mum would be delighted, if more than a little surprised. As for me, I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps I was still in shock, but I didn’t hate it. It was very different, certainly, but, trying to be objective about it, Mrs. Anderson had actually done a good job; I looked even smarter than when Mum used to take me to the barbers, and whilst ‘smart’ wasn’t normally what I aspired to, I didn’t really have a choice now, so I might as well make the best of it.

“Now I expect this standard to be maintained, Steven. Regular visits to the barbers, please, for a proper, short haircut, and neatly combed, with a parting. I’m not going to tolerate scruffiness from you, and I won’t hesitate to have you back here for a haircut if I see it getting too long again. Do you understand?"

“Yes Miss."

She dismissed me, and I walked slowly back, wondering how I was going to explain what had happened to my friends. A small smile formed on my lips as I imagined how many of them might end up sat in Mrs. Anderson's classroom, with her big black clippers roaring up the back of their heads.

---