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"Moira, we must have a talk. Your behaviour nowadays doesn't suit me at all. You are rebellious and disobidient. I don't tolerate it any longer."

"Dad, it is her fault, since she has shown up things are no more like they were before."

"She? Don't you know her name? She is called Roswitha and when you mention her I want you use her name."

"In any case things went wrong since this Ros-wi-tha came into our lifes."

Moira was right as far as the time table but Roswitha didn't cause the troubles. It was my daughter Moira who was the troubleshooter.

My wife had left me when I was 30 years old, leaving me behind with two daughters, seven and four years of age. She ran away with another man and moved to another state.

I had tried to be at home as much as possible after the divorce but of course I had my work in the business community during a greater part of the day. So I was in need of professional help to run the household and take care of the children. In the course of seven years three of them had come and gone, all middleaged women. But since about six weeks Roswitha had taken over this task. Her parents came from Puerto Rico and Roswitha had all the characteristics of a Latino: light brown skin, dark eyes and jet-black straight waistlength hair. Bedides she was 27 years old and had a well shaped body, rather small, no more than 5 feet and 5 inches.

For the first time in seven years I had got butterflies in my stomach. Though I was ten years older she seemed to like me too and of course my two daughters, Moira and Fiona, noticed.

My housekeepers were used to go to their own places at the end of the day, dependent on the conditions. Roswitha didn't constitute an exception in this respect but she spent a lot of her spare time in our house, which means with me.

Moira was nearly 15 now and obviously s considered Roswitha as an intruder and a menace to our motherless family. For seven years the three of us had constituted a close community. I could understand the feelings of Moira but she acted straightawayin a disagreable and intolerable way towards Roswitha. The girl didn't deserve that, she always was friendly and handled my daughters with sympathy.

Moreover Moira's aversion was attended with rebellious behaviour. In the evening she often went out and came home later than I had allowed her. Her make-up was overdone and she gave me impertinent answers. Of course I didn't tolerate this and punished her by forbidding her to leave the house and being confined to her room. For some time she mended her ways but it didn't last long.

Lately she came from her room in the evening telling me that she went to see her friends. It had been reported to me that she was seen at places whith questionable reputations, sometimes smoking and/or drinking beer. I would remonstrate with her about it later as this was not a good opportunity.

"You are not going outside looking that way," I told her , "Wipe that stuff from your face."

"Daddy, it has taken me about one hour to doll up myself. I can't wipe it off now."

"You look like a whore! Get upstairs and do as I say. Now! Or I'll do it myself."

Muttering she went back, came after some minutes down again. She hadn't removed all of her make-up but it looked acceptable.

"Don't be late," I told her, "otherwise you'll be grounded."

When she had gone Fiona complained that Moira often occupied the bathroom for a long time.

"She is always endlessly pampering her hair and applying make-up and I have to wait all that time.."

I promised my 12 years old that I should see to it.

Yes, that long, blonde hair of Moira! Her pride and glory! When my girls had been younger their hair had been cut in a short or shorter style but one of my housekeepers liked long tresses on girls so she had asked me to let them grow their hair. It had been five years ago and Mora's locks now had grown to waistlength. She loved it, her tresses were thick and wavy and curled somewhat at the ends. Fiona didn't like long hair (too laborious) and had a nice chinlength bob.

Roswitha ofted braided her long black locks or she pinned them up or wore them in a bum or ponytail. When she was free of work at the end of the day she mostly had her hair hanging down which was the way I favoured.

She had told me that Moira several times had suggested that she should have her hair cut short.

"Why should you do that?" I had asked, "your hair is beautiful."

"Moira thinks that a short cut should suit me better."

"Rubbish."

She had looked at me with an enigmatical smile but had said nothing.

Moira wasn't back in time that night and that filled the cup to the brim.

"You are grounded for a week," I told her, "I've warned you."

"Daddy, you can't do that to me. I've appointments with my friends."

"I don't care. Besides, who are those friends? I've heard that you have been reported at doubtful places, drinking and smoking. What more is going on there? Are you being laid? I forbid you to see these so-called friends any longer and I shall see to it that if you nevertheless do you'll go nowhere any longer."

"You are a hypocrite!" she cried out angrily, "Look what you are doing with that....that Roswitha."

I slapped her in the face, really hard.

Startled and red as a beet she looked at me: "I'm sorry, dad, I didn't mean that."

"Go to your room, I'll talk to you tomorrow."

The next morning I told her that she had to come home after school immediately and was not allowed to leave our house before next morning.

"Also on Thursday?" she asked, "You know that there is a celebration at school."

"I'm sorry but I don't make exceptions. Furthermore you don't more meet those doubtful friends of you. Do you hear me?"

"Yes daddy," she said meekly.

At the end of the week her good intentions had faded.

A new clash with Roswitha led to a climax. The latter had untied her plait and taken down her hair which cascaded across her shoulders and her back. Being in the hall I heard Moira in the kitchen say to her: "You look ridiculous, you are too old to wear your hair this way."

I strided into the kitchen: "Moira, offer your apologies to Roswitha."

With an angry look at me she asked: "What for? She thinks that she is a young girl who can afford to wear her hair hanging down. I told her to cut it, that suits an old tart like her better."

Those words made me furious. I grabbed my daughter at an arm and dragged her outside to my car. I opened the door at the passengers side; "Get in!"

I shoved her on the seat.

"Ouch, you're hurting me!" she whined.

But I stepped to the other side, got in and started the engine.

"Where are we going?" Moira asked.

"You'll notice soon enough," I snarled.

About ten minutes later I parked my car near the shopping centre and dragged her out of the car.

"What are we doing here?" Moira was embarrassed.

"I'm going to teach you a lesson, perhaps that will make you behave like a decent girl."

In front of the barbershop where I used to have my hair cut I made a stand, opened the door and dragged my daughter with me inside. It was near closing time and there were no other customers. Jim, the barber, nodded at me: "Hi, Michael, just in time."

It dawned on Moira what was going to happen: "No!!" she cried, "I don't let that asshole cut my hair!"

Again I gave her a hard slap in the face. My rage had increased again.

"Cut her hair as short as possible, Jim," I told the barber.

Moira struggled to get out of the chair but now two men restrained her and she had no chances at all.

"I cannot cut her hair when she keeps moving like this," Jim announced.

"Moira, if you don't sit still we have to tie you to the chair," I warned her.

But she shouted curses and obscenities and was totally out of control and unmanageable.

I nodded to Jim and he grabbed her right wrist and tied it to the armrest with velcron tape. Following her left wrist and next her ankles to the chair. With a strap around her waist she was fastened to the chair and could only move her head. I chose a position behind the chair and fixated my daughter's head with two hands while Jim switched on his clippers, placed them at the centre of her forehead and moved them relentlessly towards her crown....

Moira suddenly got quiet, she took a deep breath and began to cry while her body slackened and was laying limp in the chair.

Jim had provided the clippers with a number 4 attachment and he went several times back to the hairline for further swe

eps. Curtains of two feet long blonde tresses slowly slid down from her shoulders to her lap and partly hit the floor. Soon the hair at the frontal part of Moira's head had a length of no more than 1/2 inch. I positioned her head to the left while Jim made more paths with the clippers across the right side, around her ear and over her temple. The same procedure was repeated on the left side. Long tresses were still hanging down from the back of my daughter's head but merciless the clippers sent them to the floor.

"You want it shorter?" Jim asked me, removing the attachment from the clippers.

"No, that will do," I answered. My rage had faded and I felt pity for my daughter. Perhaps I had acted too rigorously but she had to blame herself too by her shameless maledictions which had provoked me to vent my rage on the destruction of her most precious possession.

"I'll taper the edges at the back and sides," Jim said, "Lest her head looks like a porcupine."

Apathically Moira rose after we had released her. I paid Jim and we got in the car. On the ride home not one word was spoken...........

During more than a week Moira wouldn't talk to me and cut me dead.

On a Friday, about ten days after these dramatic events, I came home rather early from my work and found only Fiona in the house. She told me that Moira had gone into town with Roswitha. This was odd, they never had gone out together. I didn't have much time to be puzzled as they soon returned. Though....I was confronted with another mystery! Roswitha had covered her head with a scarf which she never did. She gave me a mysterious look when I made a remark about it but didn't say anything. Also Moira had covered her head but that wasn't unusual since the shearing.

Roswitha approached me, bearing a plastic bag in her hand: "I've got something for you," she said, handing me the bag.

I was astonished to find her plait in it: "Why did you do that?"

"I'll explain. Today I had a long and intensive talk with Moira. We have spoken about everything that made our relation so awkward. Moira has apologized for her behaviour and she has promised that she will try hard to obtain normal relations between us. We have decided to start anew. Moira said that she had thought a lot and had given matters due consideration after she had been shorn and she wanted this event to regard as symbol of a new start. She surprised me to dare me to do the same: sacrifice my hair! I have to admit that I have more than once toyed with the idea to do this once in my life and now the opportunity offered me the chance. So I accepted the challenge. Together we went to your barbershop and asked Jim to give us the same haircut."

Roswitha took off her scarf and exposed her head on which black stubble not longer than 1/8 inch was visible. Her scalp had a lighter colour than the rest of her tanned skin, her head was perfectly shaped and she had small beautifully chased ears.

Moira took off her scarf too and showed the same short stubble but as she was light blonde she looked virtually bald.

I was flabbergasted but had to admit that both girls were very pretty without hair. Different but cute.

"Daddy, I want to apologize to you and I hope that you will forgive me. I've been a bad girl, I've been drinking and smoking , using weed and speed with the wrong people. I'm no longer a virgin, the boys using us girls like whores. I'm ashamed and regret having been such a bitch. I promise that I'll try to be a good daughter. Please, forgive me."

I hugged her: "I'm so glad that you have woken up to the fact having done the wrong things and wanting to change. I'm sorry that I have devastated your hair, I shouldn't have let me carry away by my rage and I have to ask you to forgive me."

"Daddy, I've learned that there are more important things than having beautiful hair. And I save a lot of time," she added laughing.

Roswitha said to me: "Michael, today the summer holidays have begun. Cannot you take a leave? Let's all go somewhere to celebrate our new start."

"That's a good idea. I'll see if I am able to arrange a thing or two."

I looked at Roswitha. Odd to see her without that long black tresses. But her oval shaped head was perfect, her tiny ears were laying flat to her scalp and she had a long slender neck. She could pull it off to look good with this very short buzz cut. Just as Moira: with 1/8 inch her appearance came over better than with the 1/2 inch cut.

Suddenly I felt some one pull at my sleeve. Softly Fiona said: "Daddy, I want that haircut too, like Roswitha and Moira.. I'm nearly thirteen and after the holidays a junior high."

"Sure, my darling, if you want that I won't object."

"But I'm hesitating to enter a barbershop alone, all those men looking at me."

"Tomorrow I'll go with you"'

My brother-in-law offered us to use his beachhouse in Georgia and ten days later we travelled there. After we had installed ourselves we were gathered at the dining-table. Roswitha mentioned that her hair had grown to 1/4 inch; "You know what I crave to do? Maybe you think it is crazy but no one knows us here."

She made me curious: "'Well, what is it?"

"I would like to experience how it feels when my head is really shaved with a razor to smoothness. It doesn't matter that the little grow comes to nothing, in a few weeks it would be back, if I want it anyway."

"You mean to say that you consider to keep your head shaved?" I was somewhat dismayed.

"Darling, not for ever! But yes, perhaps this summer."

My daughters had listened attentively and Moira barged in: "Daddy! I want to join her!"

"Me too!" Fiona exclaimed.

I held my hands across my ears: "Not all together! So I assume that I soon can rejoice myself in the company of three baldies."

"Only for this summer, daddy. Please, tomorrow is my birthday. It would be a marvellous present," Moira begged me.

"Okay, a triple headshave on Moira's fifteenth birthday. We never will forget this memorial event. Well, we'll do it tomorrow morning like this: first I'll save Fiona and you two will watch. Then Roswitha and Moira will shave each other under my supervision, casually I may give instructions."

They all agreed, the next day everything went as planned and I had lunch with three smooth baldpates.

Before our departure to the beachhouse I had informed my daughters that the house had two bedrooms. They had to sleep in one and Roswitha and I should take the other. They understood and didn't object. When I was at a moment alone with Moira she asked me: "Dad, why don't you marry Roswitha?"

Surprised by Moira asking this question I said: "Why should I do that?"

"She loves you and since she and me are on friendly terms I think she really is nice."

"I know and I love her too but being somebody's loved one is something else than being his wife. When you marry you commit yourself and she would have to accept two stepdaughters. And she would be your and Fiona's stepmother. Do you realize that?"

"Sure but I don't object and Fiona is very fond of her. You could ask Roswitha's opinion."

I pondered on the question and decided to tell Roswitha about my conversation with Moira. When we went to bed that evening I said: "Sweetheart, we have to talk."

Anxiously she asked: "Is something wrong?"

"No, but we have to take a serious decision." I told her what Moira and I had talked about and then asked: "What would you say when I ask you to marry me?"

Roswitha had listened intently and at first rather uneasy but now she began to cry: "Of course I will. There is nothing that I want more than marrying you."

"Remember that I am ten years older than you and have two daughters."

"I don't care, I love you and you are not old. And Moira has changed so much, I love her too."

Well, it was settled. Moira and Fiona congratulated us and we decided to marry during our stay in Georgia. It would be a sober ceremony with only the next of kin of both of us. I offered the three girls to buy them wigs but they rejected the idea: "Oh no! No wigs, we want to be seen just as we are. Our shaven heads are the symbols of the new start that we all have made now."

The end.

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