The forfeit

[Rainwearmad]

The bell above the door of "Curl Up & Dye" jingled merrily as Mark, a man teetering on the edge of thirty-two, stepped inside. He swallowed hard, the scent of hairspray and chemicals doing little to calm his churning stomach. He'd lost a bet. A really, really bad bet.

The salon was a kaleidoscope of colour and activity. Hair dryers hummed like spaceships, snippets of conversations mingled with pop music, and the air crackled with feminine energy. A chorus of "Hello!" greeted him, but he only had eyes for Belinda, the salon's manageress, a woman with a sharp wit and an even sharper bob. She stood behind the reception desk, a knowing glint in her eye.

"Right on time, Mark," she said, her voice a smooth purr. "We've been expecting you."

He managed a weak smile. "Hello, Belinda. Ladies."

Hayley, Denise, Kate, Harriet, Jenny, Jane and Cheri, Belinda’s team of stylist assistants, all waved and nodded, their expressions a mixture of amusement and anticipation. Mark knew most of them vaguely from around town. He'd always thought of them as friendly, but now, under the weight of his impending doom, they seemed like a pack of hyenas circling their prey.

Belinda gestured towards the back. "Come on through, we have a chair all ready for you."

As he followed her, Belinda flipped the sign on the door to "Closed" and locked it with a decisive click. Mark's heart leaped into his throat. This was really happening.

"Don't worry, Mark," Belinda said, her tone surprisingly soothing. "We're professionals. We'll take good care of you."

They led him to a styling chair tucked away in the back. It was a relatively secluded area, thankfully away from the prying eyes of any walk-in customers. He sat down heavily, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread.

"So," Belinda began, clapping her hands together, "as you know, you lost the bet. And the terms, as I recall, were… leniently decided in our favour."

Mark mumbled something unintelligible.

"Right," Belinda continued, her eyes twinkling. "I've decided that you are to have a perm."

The word hung in the air like a toxic fume. Mark felt his face drain of colour. "A perm?" he squeaked. "But… why?"

Hayley, a bubbly blonde, chimed in, "Because it'll be hilarious! And you'll look fabulous!"

Denise, a quiet brunette, added, "Don't worry, we'll make sure it's a nice one. Maybe something… voluminous?"

Mark looked at them, desperation creeping into his voice. "But… my job… my image…"

Belinda placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Nonsense. It'll be a temporary image enhancement. Besides," she added with a wink, "we'll be documenting the entire process. For posterity."

A flurry of phones appeared. Camera flashes assaulted him. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to his fate.

"Okay, girls," Belinda said, clapping her hands again, "Let's get started!"

"First, we need to wash his hair," Kate announced, grabbing a shampoo bottle.

"Oh, dear," Jenny said, feigning concern. "We seem to have run out of gowns."

Mark's hopes flickered for a moment, but they were quickly extinguished.

"Not to worry!" Harriet exclaimed, disappearing into a storage room. She emerged moments later with a bright yellow, fully waterproof raincoat and matching trousers, complete with a hood. It looked like something a child would wear to a rainy school sports day.

"This will do perfectly!" Harriet declared, holding up the rainwear. "Keeps you nice and dry!"

Mark stared at the outfit in horror. "But… that's… humiliating."

"Think of it as protection," Belinda said, her voice firm. "We wouldn’t want any chemicals splashing on your skin, would we?"

Before he could protest, Hayley and Denise were helping him into the rain gear. They zipped and snapped every fastener, tightened every drawstring, and secured every toggle. He felt like a brightly coloured sausage being squeezed into its casing. They deliberately left the hood down.

"Alright, Mark," Belinda said, producing some rope. "Just a little security measure, alright? We wouldn't want you to get up mid-perm and ruin the surprise!"

Mark's protests were ignored as Hayley and Denise gently but firmly tied his wrists and ankles to the chair. He was completely helpless.

"Don't worry, Mark," Cheri said, with a wicked grin. "You're in for a very wet experience. You'll be grateful for that rain gear!"

Next, Jenny, Jane, and Cheri reappeared, all similarly attired in bright, mismatched rain gear. Jenny wore a red PVC coat with a large belt, matching red trousers and a sou'wester hat, Jane opted for a blue hooded mac, and Cheri had donned a lime green jacket and navy waterproof trousers. They looked like a team of colourful, waterproof commandos.

Kate wheeled over a trolley laden with shampoo, conditioner, and various hair products. "Ready for your wash, Mark?"

He closed his eyes, bracing himself.

The next few minutes were a blur of soapy madness. The girls attacked his hair with a vengeance, lathering it with mountains of shampoo. Suds cascaded down his face, neck, and the bright yellow rain gear. The girls themselves were soon covered in foam, their own rain gear glistening with soapy water.

Mark coughed and spluttered, trying to keep the shampoo out of his eyes. He could hear the girls giggling and shrieking, their voices echoing in the confined space. They were having way too much fun. Buckets of water were splashed all over him. Despite the rain wear, everywhere felt wet.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the shampooing frenzy subsided. Mark was drenched, exhausted, and covered in suds. The girls were equally soaked, their rain gear clinging to them like a second skin.

"Right," Belinda said, surveying the scene with a satisfied smile. "Now that we've thoroughly cleansed our canvas, let's move on to the next stage."

First, the rain wear was removed, it was so wet that it took 2 of the woman to remove it without tearing. Next, they dressed him in a cagoule, with a large hood and drawstrings, and waterproof trousers. He felt utterly humiliated and exposed.

The girls, still in their rain gear and now also wearing plastic aprons, tied him back into the chair. Belinda produced a large, unflattering rain poncho, patterned with oversized polka dots.

"This," she announced, "is to protect you from the… ah… less pleasant aspects of the perming process."

The poncho was pulled over him, enveloping him from head to toe. He felt like a giant, polka-dotted mushroom.

The next few hours were a torturous blur of chemicals, rollers, and the constant click of cameras. The girls worked with practiced efficiency, their chatter a mix of technical jargon and lighthearted banter. Mark sat in silence, his head throbbing, his scalp tingling, and his dignity slowly evaporating.

Finally, as the last roller was removed, Belinda declared, "And… we're done!"

The girls untied him from the chair and removed the rain poncho. Mark cautiously touched his hair. It felt… springy.

"Now," Belinda said, her voice taking on a mischievous tone, "there's just one final part of the bet."

She gestured towards a corner of the salon, where a long, floral rain mac hung alongside a matching rainwear bonnet and a pair of bright yellow wellington boots. Mark stared at the ensemble in horror.

"You can't be serious," he whispered.

"Oh, but we are," Belinda said, her eyes gleaming. "You have to walk home in that."

Mark adamantly refused. There was no way he was going to parade through town in that ridiculous outfit. But the girls were relentless. Before he knew it, they had him cornered. Jenny and Jane held him down whilst Hayley and Denise put the boots onto him. Harriet and Cheri wrestled him into the rain mac and did it up tight. Finally, Kate tied the bonnet under his chin. He was completely defeated.

As he stood there, dressed in the floral monstrosity, Belinda clapped her hands together. "Perfect! Now, off you go!"

He shuffled towards the door, his face burning with shame. As he reached for the handle, he felt a hand on his arm.

It was Jane. She was still wearing her blue hooded mac. "I'll walk with you," she said, her voice surprisingly gentle. "You shouldn't have to do this alone."

He looked at her, surprised. "Really?"

She nodded. "Come on."

Arm in arm, they walked out of the salon and into the late afternoon sunshine. The streets were bustling with people, who stared and giggled as they passed. Mark wanted to disappear. But Jane held his arm firmly, her presence a small but significant comfort.

They walked in silence for a while, the only sound the rhythmic squelch of Mark’s wellington boots. Finally, Jane spoke. "You know," she said, "it's not that bad. You actually look… kind of cute."

Mark groaned.

"Okay, maybe not cute," Jane conceded, "but definitely… memorable."

They reached Mark’s street. Jane stopped. "Well, this is me," she said.

He looked at her, gratitude in his eyes. "Thank you, Jane," he said. "For… everything."

She smiled. "Anytime, Mark. And… if you ever need a touch-up, you know where to find us." She winked. "And you're always welcome to come back to the salon."

He watched her walk away, then turned and trudged towards his house, the floral rain mac billowing in the breeze. He knew he'd never live this down. But somehow, thanks to Jane's kindness, it didn't seem quite so bad. Maybe, just maybe, he'd even find a way to laugh about it one day. But not today.

[mason]

That's one of the most imaginative stories I've read for a while. Good stuff!

But what was the bet though?