An Apprentice Needs Help

by Wannabe Ginger

Part 13

 

Karen was poised to begin the finishing of my hair. As the last of the three models, the three girls, I knew now what was coming. The rollers were still in my hair but the dryer was well behind me. I was cooling whilst Karen paid attention to the two strands of now highlighted hair that would frame my face. They were being toned down from a bright, almost white or platinum blonde shade, to what Karen promised would be Strawberry Blonde!

As the foils were re-sealed, Karen looked at my face in the mirror in front of us. Framed in rollers, make-up still almost perfect - it would need re-touching – there was little doubt in my mind that I would pass off the whole event without discovery. Apart from the one judge, who had promised not to reveal my secret. She herself being transformed and living as a woman, running a successful hair and beauty business. I could just see her in the corner of my eye. She walked around the platform on which this theatre was being played out. Her hair, I thought again, was suited to her mid-40s age, set in a highly structured style, backcombed but leaving the curls from her rollers clearly visible. The whole style in a glorious pastel shade of peach blonde. No, there would be no problems now.

Karen continued looking, saying nothing. She smiled. She was studying the shape of my face, I guessed, just making sure of the way the style would work.

"You're such a star!" she whispered. "I could eat you!"

"Well, the feeling's mutual!" I replied, meaning exactly what Karen knew I meant.

"That's what girls do best for each other."

Her tongue slid across her bottom lip and back across the Cupid's bow that formed her top, lipsticked, lip. Outrageous flirtation it was.

 

"We have no time now – your rollers must be removed and we will transform you into the finished article – make you one of three triplets who look just the same." Karen said as she warmed to her task. The photographer appeared again. Click! Click!

 

The first roller was removed, from the front of my head. The hair seemed longer as it was unwound, than I had remembered it. I suppose it's the way the roller stretches and straightens the hair shaft. The curl sprang into the lock of hair that had been released. A huge bouncing roll of hair fell forward across my eyes. My instinct was to raise my hand, as if to catch it. Karen spotted this and instantly warned me. "Hold still!" My hand gripped the arm of the chair on which I was seated. I was helpless and powerless. "Whatever you need to do." I said. "Exactly!" she replied.

That first curl seemed to have every colour that had been put into my hair within it. It was red, oh how wonderfully red, but it had a shaft of blonde, another of copper and another of brighter red.

Karen's hands were unrolling a second strand of hair, then a third – either side of the first. These would be drawn back towards the crown of my head when the backcombing started. These too had highlighted strands that shone in the stage lights.

 

In the mirror, I could see another model's hair being styled – she was an outrageous blonde with hair that was longer than almost any other model's. The blonding had been quite dramatic – I wondered what natural colour was hiding under there! Her hair was being wound into a pillar of curls stacked high above the crown of her head. Every last strand had been pulled high and fastened securely, leaving what looked like a huge ponytail at first. Then, the stylist was sectioning the gloriously thick mane into pieces that were, one by one, being twirled into rolls and tubes that stacked one upon the other. By now, they were at the third row around the crown, probably nine inches above her head…. And there was more left! I was sure that the work in that style would earn the stylist a place in the prizes, at least. Her two other models had different styles, one was a very untidy shaggy style – which I didn't like at all – very informal and streaked with blonde. Just a mess really – that would set the stylist back… or maybe it wouldn't with the contrast to the piled-high blonde. The third of her models was a raven headed, Mediterranean girl whose hair was a huge tumble of ringlets. Almost jet black. She had cleverly put very fine streaks into the hair to accentuate the curls. Indeed, this girl was a serious contender for a prize.

 

My attention had been distracted from the work going on above my head. By now, at least six or seven curls were unrolled and Karen was working increasingly fast. Each curl was allowed to rest on my head before anything was done with it. The ninth, tenth, eleventh unrolled; all still the same diameter; and all holding the same volume of my extended hair.

Karen paused for a minute. "We must check those kiss curls." She said, meaning the strands that would be at my temples, toned strawberry blonde. She unpeeled the first of the two foils – "Perfect!" she said, reaching to the other and removing the foil. Try as I might, I couldn't tell what they would be like when dried – all I could see was that the colour was nowhere near as white as before. The toner was removed there and then. Still, I couldn't tell what they would be like – except that they would be different to both Margot and Ginger – neither of whom had highlights there.

They made me feel just that extra little bit more feminine. My thighs tensed again. The restraint was as tight as ever and the arousal had come back. I was conscious of the wetness around that area but there was to be no release – for hours!

The underwear, too, reminded me that whatever I was looking like on the outside, there was a real paradox in the way I was feeling – a boy's body, encased in female clothes – alright, that's more than enough of being unusual. The make-up and the hair were external signs that enabled me – and would enable me to continue – to pass as a girl. But having complete underwear – that was a matter of my own choice, nobody else's.

 

And now I was loving it! I consciously posed for the photographer for the first time.

 

Click! Click! "This will make a fabulous collection in an album and the press." He said. The press??!! I hadn't thought it would get that far!

 

There was more to this than helping Karen with her work and this competition. There was more to this now because I had become very close to Ginger – and she to me – dressed this way. Made-up this way. With my hair being done this way.

The genie out of the bottle – that was very true.

Karen was beginning to work on the removal of the last of the curls, more than twenty-five rollers were now cast aside. The smaller ones, marginally smaller, from the nape of my neck, we combed through once. She began gently brushing them through. It was an incredibly sexy feeling. Looking at myself in the mirror. I could certainly fancy someone that looked as good as I surely soon would.

My thoughts lurched back to the early days of this process. To when I had gone home the first time with hair that was coloured. Treating it very much as a laugh, I made light of its significance. My Mother had been home and had been cool about the whole idea. Her own experiments with her own hair colour over the years made sure of that.

She too treated it as a laugh. "So many boys do these things, these days…" she said. "Not like in the Sixties, but I'm sure loads of us then would have done, given half the chance. Made our boyfriends do that, I mean. We just went as far as long hair – everyone did."

My mousey-brown hair had become a much richer shade. I had been quite expecting a reaction; only hoping it would be cool. She said it would be 'ok' with my Father. So it proved to be. In fact, I'm not sure he had noticed before, one evening, Mum said that she'd grown used to the colour of my hair and really quite liked it. She suggested that she'd help me choose the colour "next time". If that wasn't approval, I couldn't think what was. Dad kind-of murmured tacit approval. It was funny that he seemed almost to avoid the issue.

With the competition in mind, for several weeks, that colour sufficed for me- Karen's intentions were that I should not change the shade at all and, as the colour began to fade, it had become less noticeable. Dad never mentioned it again, but Mum had repeatedly drawn attention to my hair.

One time, when she had returned from the salon having herself had a change of colour, she said I should try her colourist – "She's very good and would really do it well… if you'd go to her at the salon." I declined, saying that I'd be too shy for that – being among all the women having a colour done. Little did I know that I would soon be doing that …. brazenly!

 

Another time, she said she was going to the department store and could easily fetch me a home colouring product, if I'd tell her the colour I'd like. We did talk about it that time and, maybe I was tempted. She had discovered my liking for really auburn shades and we talked about alternatives.

 

She was on the point of leaving with an "order" before I said I really shouldn't, not then – knowing that the competition was only 2-3 weeks away. So there it rested.

Back to reality - to "here and now"………

Karen brushed each curl through carefully, preserving what would finally make the style so…. So!!!

She put a clasp into the locks that covered the top and the crown of my head.

She combed the lower strands, those that were most heavily extended, into a curtain across the back of my head – well, I think that's what she was doing. It was difficult to see in the mirror. My gaze was fixated on the process that was unfolding before my eyes. Before my heavily made-up eyes. The lashes fluttered but, weighed down by mascara, moved slowly. Almost vampish, they were. Surrounded by glorious eye shadow. Fixated, that was the word. I couldn't shift my eyes from the vision.

 

Karen then took a pair of the most enormous electric curling tongs from the shelf beside her. They were ready to transform that curtain of hair into a rolling, springing, bouncy flip curl. All around my neck. The sides spread out wide until, unexpectedly, Karen turned one side, the right, inside upon itself. Rolling the front of the curl to line the cheek. It was instantly recognizable. It was Pussy Galore, from the movie "Goldfinger". Honor Blackman's wicked wicked woman. An early focus of my sexual fantasies, she was.

 

This left the top and crown of my hair. Thick, with extensions, there was enough for her to separate three or four strands, clasping them again out of the way of the next stage. "Backcombing!" she exclaimed, "….. you've always liked that, haven't you?!!" Karen said, with her eyes drilling into my own in the mirror.

 

"You got it!"…. I replied…… "Whatever you decide!" That was the contract we had. I was completely in her hands. Powerless. But in one sense, I could control something. I could control where this would lead after the competition. Hat was enough, for now.

 

Karen was soon to backcomb the whole of the front section of my head. The hair from my temples, not including the highlighted strands, we also included. So the whole of my face was surrounded by two or more inches of backcombed bliss! Once it had been combed to within an inch of its life, my hair was smoothed to form a bouffant top, from which, or around which, the semi-chignon would be gathered. The backcombing did tend to blur the definition of the highlights in the main body of the hair but most were still easily recognized. The blonde, the gold and the copper all were woven together.

 

The strands that would form the tumble of curls behind the crown and down the back of my head were now released from the clasp. We were nearing completion! It seemed as though a hundred pins were needed to secure that top backcombed part. Each took a few seconds, but the pinning seemed to last an hour!

Karen's hands worked their magic on the remaining twirls of hair – forming curls that rolled upwards and around the crown of my head. They stood above the bouffant part, clearly visible in the mirror as I looked. These final curls must have been fully three or four inches above my head. They cried out to be touched!

"Take it easy, we're nearly done." Karen whispered in my ears. But we weren't! The part I longed for most – to see the tumbled highlighted curls arranged at the back, and then lacquered into place - would still take time. I was loving every minute.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ginger…………..

She smiled and her lips formed words clearly: "Just wait till I get you home!"

 

At last, the clouds of lacquer were applied and I knew that the dressing of my hair was complete. The time for judging was approaching. I stood, for the first time in nearly an hour. I felt a little unsteady on my feet. Partly because of the height of my heels. Partly because of the heady atmosphere and the obvious flirtation that I had seen in Karen's eyes. Partly because of Ginger's closeness and the continuing admiration between us. So many factors. The heat of the lights. The brightness of the mages in the mirrors. I felt almost drunk, even though I had touched no alcohol for hours.

 

As I stood, my hair swirled around my shoulders, quite stiffly, it was true, but the effect was electric. I tossed my head backwards.

Click! Click! – another photograph. Pure luxury. The feel of the hair on my skin.

My dress, hiding the constraining underwear, looked perfect. Ginger was approaching and, with a kiss to my cheek, as girls would do in such a circumstance, greeted me with the words "You look perfect!" I returned the compliment, saying, "Only because Karen's made me look as wonderful as you do." Our matching clothes, with our similar hair (that differed only in the intensity of the colouring) made us look like twin sisters.

The third, Margot, rose from the seat where she had been sitting. I was expecting a degree of jealousy in whatever she would say – after all, she had increasingly been gunning for me, it had seemed.

Quite the contrary.

"You both put me to shame." she said. "I think you'd win without me."

He was wrong, in fact. Her own hair looked as wonderful as our own did. The streaks in her hair and the collage of curls that framed the back of her head were nearly identical. It was perhaps only the choice of her clothing that really was a mistake. OK, it made a contrast with the floaty, feminine creations we were wearing but, in all honesty, the S&M style catsuit was too strong in my view.

"Not at all!" Ginger and I both exclaimed.

We stood, the three of us, each with our "1980s Big Hair", quite dramatically coloured, all with highlights frosting in the strong lights above us.

All around us were other groups of models with their hair receiving the final touches – the extra curl here, the extra backcombing there. All around, there were stylists doing their most extravagant extra pieces of "technique" that would differentiate their girls' hair from all the others.

Karen had worked marvels with "Us three Girls". Whatever the outcome – and to tell the truth, I really couldn't care, except for Karen – this had been a most incredible and memorable night. Life could hardly be the same again after this. Ever!

 

There were some dramatically different styles and colours on the female heads all around us. There were bright flashes of 'electric' colours, razor cuts of incredible geometry, flowing trails of Raphaelite curls – in reds and blue-blacks and blonde. There were styles piled high in topknots, with equally as many as long sleek Cher-like styles. Who could make a choice out of all of these.

 

The judge with the glorious pastel shade of peach blonde appeared at Karen's side.

"You have do SO well!…..", she said, "You're placed Third overall!".

We didn't know, but the judging had been going on all along. All through the evening, the stylists were under scrutiny. We would all have had heart failure each time a Judge came past, if we had known!

Third place.

I began to re-live the moments when, faced with the choice of going through with the whole competition, or refusing.

Margot had said "OK then Karen, tell him about the competition and the reason for the portfolio of photos. You can let Ginger in on that secret too, because she knows nothing about either." Ginger's eyes and mine had met – what was this all about?

Karen explained that her workplace had entered her into a competition for Apprentice hairdressers and there were events coming up in which she would have to perform several processes and create styles using models. She wanted us to be her models, and the first event was in about three weeks' time. Not much time for practice.

"More than that, I can't say." she said. "Apart from the need for there to be three models……"

"We have three……." Margot had interrupted.

"Yes, but the event is for female hair…." said Karen, "….and we have two girls and a boy." Her words hung in the air.

 

It was then that the words "either as a girl or a boy" had begun to take on a whole new meaning. Ginger was silent. Margot was too, at last.

 

I had sat and thought for a moment that seemed like an hour. With my dyed auburn hair, cut in a Wedge-cut with the crown still lifted by the rollers I had tried to put in myself that morning. A boy with a woman's hairstyle. A female model. That's what I was now, standing there.

 

Loving every minute.

"It's a big thing to ask, I know" Karen had said again.

"There just IS no time" said Margot.

Back in the reality of the competition hall, I had still said nothing. My mind was still racing. Third Place! Sponsors? Colours? All these people!!!? How had all this suddenly happened? But, then, here I still was, voluntarily. I had chosen to be here. I loved the way it had been bringing Ginger and me closer together.

 

The moment before I agreed to go on with the competition, Ginger had said something like "whatever your "third model" decides, he'll be very special to me either way. I won't think any less of him if he goes along with the things that you're now suggesting – or if he doesn't. I'm finding him increasingly sexy and could get a real hit from being next to him on your model stage, with us both having you do our hair. Karen, you should be pleased he's come this far, not be disappointed if he goes no further."

 

So, instead of refusing to go on, it turned into a willing agreement. I committed myself to a whole different set of experiences that I had never imagined would come from a simple offer to have my hair washed by a girl friend who I fancied very much and who was starting a new job.

We hugged – all four of us; Karen and her three "girls" – Margot, Ginger and me. If we could have danced, we would have danced. I had completely forgotten what prizes we, or rather Karen had won. It really didn't matter. We had not come first but that didn't matter at all, either. The prizes were being awarded.

Our presentation passed in a blur, with words from the principal Judge that complemented Karen on her abilities and also her choice of models - for the symmetry of their hair in colour, length and condition.

Second prize went to a stylist from the far opposite side of the stage. Her three models were all bright, bright blondes. One Pastel, one Ash and one Gold. All of them had perfect Pageboy Bobs. Not a hair out of place. Sleek and sexy. All had bold fringes that framed their faces, almost hiding their eyes. The cutting had given them the edge over our more highly styled creations.

The First Prize was eventually awarded to a stylist who had re-created the Spice Girls – well, three of them at least. There was Ginger Spice, whose hair was a perfect copy of the original "Geri"; bright red with bold slashes of blonde framing the face. A "Posh" had a perfect pageboy Bob cut and a black model had a "Scary", with bright highlights woven into a tumble of crazy curls that seemed to fill the room.

What was so creative in that???!!! We all looked in amazement. The judges had perhaps been conned. OK, there were hairdressing skills – different skills – needed to create each look. That as enough to get into the competition, but the stylist had shown no originality at all.

We looked at each other, happy that we had won an award, but at the same time feeling cheated – well, for Karen, at least, who had worked so hard. She had made all of us look fabulous – fabulously feminine. She deserved First Prize. The three of us agreed. We hugged her hugely. The closeness of this short moment was electric. Its intimacy was remarkable.

The photographer was again at our shoulders. We needed to fix our make-up, we were told. The final photographs were to be taken.

By now, I was dreaming of going home to Ginger's place. It was all becoming just a little too much. But for Karen's publicity – the photos had to be taken. She would be noted for the future.

Ginger squeezed my hand for a moment. Our eyes met.

We both knew what we meant. It was time to go.

 

TO BE CONTINUED>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

  

  

  

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