No Flappers Here, But Hair Once Cut Can't Be Recut

“There were no flappers with long hair in the world. But unlike clothes or makeup, once your hair is cut, you can’t undo it.”

“There’s a regular barber shop near Broadway.”

“A barber shop? That’s where men go.”

Mabel asked in surprise, her eyes wide. Louise shrugged her shoulders.

“There’s no other place where I can get a Bob cut. When I first got my hair cut two years ago, I got turned down at every beauty salon in the city. Do you want to become a man? Go to a barber shop.”

She gave a mocking laugh.

“I came out boasting I could do it, but even two barber shops turned me down. Fortunately, the last one I tried said yes. Turns out it’s a favorite spot for Ziegfeld girls. The skill isn’t bad either. Ready to give it a try?”

“Haa…”

Mabel could not answer right away, so Louise winked one eye playfully.

“Mabel, this is something I’ve been meaning to tell you… once you cut your hair, it grows back.”

Becoming a flapper was inevitable. Mabel smiled softly and nodded.

“I’m ready.”

“Good! Hop in my car.”

At that moment, the telephone rang. Louise excused herself and went to answer the call in the living room.

A moment later, she returned with a sigh and apologized.

“I’m really sorry, Mabel… I have to take you to the barber shop and then go straight to Mom’s place. She’s been crying and fussing because she fought with her boyfriend.”

“It’s fine, Louise! I’m really grateful for your help. I’ll never forget this.”

“No need for that. Tell me all about it later, okay?”

Mabel stepped out of the shabby barber shop, leaving behind the cheap cigar smoke, greasy pomade, and spicy Bay Rum aftershave.

She took a deep breath, and the acrid gasoline smell from passing motorcars stung her nose. To avoid the dark smoke, she turned her head slightly.

Though she had grown up in Manhattan, this was the first time she had entered Hell’s Kitchen, the neighborhood of Irish immigrants.

Actually, today was the very first day she had ever done something like this.

Mabel pulled a cloche hat from her handbag and pressed it down deep over her head. Short hair slipped through her fingers with a smooth rustle.

She hesitated, then awkwardly touched the exposed nape of her neck.

The moment she sat in the barber’s red leather chair, the long, lustrous golden-brown hair that had once reached all the way down her back was sliced away in chunks.

She could not bear to watch and tightly closed her eyes. Holding on to her hair was a foolish thing to do, yet her body trembled at the relentless snip of the scissors.

But what was the point of regret now? It was already too late.

From across the street, a group of men in faded blue shirts caked with construction dust walked toward them. They noticed her standing in front of the barber shop and slowed their steps.

Mabel hurried her gait, trying to avoid their suspicious gazes. For a moment she lost herself and glanced around.

Just like Broadway, named after the Great White Way, hundreds of electric bulbs on the theater signs flashed ceaselessly.

Mabel spotted an empty taxi cab in front of the New Amsterdam Theater and approached the passenger side. The driver gave her a blatant look.

“Where to?”

Caught off guard by the impolite tone she had never encountered before, Mabel hesitated.

“Sixty-fourth Street, Fifth Avenue, please.”

The moment she settled into the back seat, the taxi cab roared to life. The driver glanced at her while navigating the crowded Broadway traffic.

“Are you one of the Ziegfeld girls? I saw it on the sign…”

Surprised by the absurd question, Mabel did not know whether to laugh or get angry.

Ziegfeld’s Follies was Broadway’s most famous show. The chorus girls in it were called Ziegfeld girls and were renowned for their beauty.

They received proposals from rich men like Louise’s mother, became mistresses, or, if lucky, actresses.

Mabel forced a bitter smile.

A Ziegfeld girl at the debutant ball this year. It was also proof that her transformation had succeeded.

The taxi cab passed the Plaza Hotel and dropped her off at the corner of Sixty-fourth Street. In front of the Edwardian town house built of red brick and lime stone, a black Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost sat waiting.

Mabel checked her wristwatch.

Eight-thirty.

The owner of that limousine must have arrived here thirty minutes ago.

Standing before the arched gate, Mabel raised her fingers to the doorbell and took a deep breath. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt.

“Oh, what do I do? I can’t do it.”

After much hesitation, she turned back and searched inside her handbag. She pulled out a small silver flask no bigger than two fingers and slipped it inside her coat, then opened the lid.

It was the cheap whiskey Louise had given her right before leaving, saying to drink it if she needed courage.

She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then brought the flask to her lips and tilted her head back. The cheap whiskey made in a bootlegger’s bathtub tasted terrible.

Mabel clamped her mouth shut, shivered, and coughed violently. The bitter alcohol smell filled her mouth and overwhelmed her sense of smell. Her throat burned and her body grew hot.

“Haa…”

She took a deep breath and placed her fingers on the doorbell. She was about to press it, but her head spun. She had downed the strong liquor in one gulp.

In the moment she staggered, the doorbell was accidentally pressed.

Suddenly startled, Mabel turned to flee, but the gate opened as if it had been waiting for her.

She froze in place.

“Good evening, Darlington residence. What brings you here?”

Harrold asked in a stiff voice, not recognizing her identity.

Mabel slowly turned her knee joint with a crack.

“It’s me, Harry.”

Harrold’s eyes widened as if they would pop out.

“M-Miss Mabel? Where have you been all this time…!”

He quickly pulled her inside the gate. Then, fearing someone might have seen her, he looked around and slammed the door shut.

Mabel handed him her coat and hat. Harrold, who had caught them without a thought, turned white as a sheet.

“Good grief, what is this…!”

He stopped speaking, cleared his throat, and stood there in silence.

“Everyone has been worried about you. Baron de Rocheret went upstairs to the salon a little while ago. Miss Mabel, please change into your clothes and go to the salon.”

“No. Since I’m late, I’ll go up like this.”

Mabel shook her head and stubbornly closed her mouth. The fact that she had changed her place recently suggested she had stalled as long as possible in the reception room before coming up.

“Oh, dear!”

Clang! A loud noise rang out.

Turning around, she saw Helen with her mouth gaping as she stared at Mabel. A long-beaked oil pitcher lay on the floor beside her. It must have been knocked over while she was fetching oil for the lamps around the house.

“Helen!”

Harrold pointed at the floor, and Helen hurriedly picked up the pitcher. The pungent smell of spilled oil reached her nose.

Taking advantage of the confusion, Mabel quickly ran up the stairs.

She lifted her skirt out of habit, but when the hem rose all the way to her thighs, she was startled and let it drop.

Once the cumbersome skirt hem no longer dragged around her ankles, her steps became lighter. Having removed her corset, she wasn’t even out of breath while climbing the stairs.

Mabel suddenly looked back.

The servants stared at her retreating back with dazed expressions. Judging by their reactions, perhaps her plan had succeeded after all.

Standing in front of the salon door, Mabel tucked her tousled hair behind her ears to tidy it. A terrible piano piece leaked out from the gap in the door. It seemed Mildred was performing with her rusty skill while waiting for Mabel to appear.

At that moment, Harrold’s hurried footsteps could be heard climbing the stairs. He would no doubt nag her to change her clothes.

Mabel used the heat of the whiskey surging through her entire body to courageously knock on the salon door. Then, instead of waiting for an answer, she opened the door and stepped inside.

The noisy piano music prevented anyone from noticing her arrival.

On a large club chair sat Walter, who looked as if he wanted to cover his ears, drinking whiskey. On the sofa opposite him sat Baron de Rocheret, sitting neatly and staring at the grand piano.