She reined him in, and he snorted, his neck lathered with sweat.

"That's enough for today," she said, patting his neck affectionately. Samphire turned his broad chestnut head around and nuzzled her leg in return.

With the reins hanging in loops loose on Samphire’s neck, they walked back to the stable block.  Annabel felt a bit naughty, letting Samphire have his fun jumping.  There was the risk he might have injured himself before Saturday, when they would compete in the most prestigious turnout event of the season.

Turnout events didn't include jumping, which was Samphire’s favorite thing. They were essentially showing events, where horse and rider had to perform a display including figure eights at the canter. But the most important thing was the turnout of horse and rider:  you had to be perfect.  The horse's mane and tail had to be pulled and plaited immaculately, his coat glossy and his saddle and bridle polished to a gleam. The rider's clothing, hair and makeup also had to be without reproach. Competitors spent a fortune on turnout classes – the correct boots, hats and coats cost a bomb, and, like in the day to day world, fashions changed.  Riding jackets had altered in length this year. Annabel had just spent most of her last pay packet buying a new, intensely black coat that was so sexy she was tempted to wear it outside the show ring as well. She was aware that she was a bit of a trendsetter in the show ring. Although she was just twenty one, younger riders had already started to copy the way she wore her hair under her hat, and were buying vests, stocks and coats in the same color and style as Annabel’s own.

Her rival, Natasha Bennings, hung over the stable door, mane comb in hand. Her horse, India, flattened his ears as Annabel dismounted and led Samphire past.

"So he's still in one piece then?" Natasha sneered. Her bright green eyes suited her jealous nature perfectly; they were small, close set eyes under a dyed gold fringe.

"Of course he is!" Annabel replied.  "Sam's a faultless jumper." She stroked her horse's nose.  Undoing the chin strap, she pulled off her helmet, loosened the scrunchy on her long, nut brown hair and shook it free with relief, running one hand through it.

Annabel hosed Samphire down and put him in his stable, combing out his mane and tail while he pulled eagerly at a hay net.  She assessed his coat.  His fetlock hair needed trimming, as did the little bit of mane behind his ears and also where his saddle sat on his withers. She'd do that with the battery powered clippers on the morning of the show so it was fresh and neat.

Finally she rugged him and gave him his evening feed. She'd have to give her show saddle one last polish tonight, then get an early night tomorrow in preparation for the show.

"Bye, Sam!" Annabel patted him one last time and walked to her car.

The next day she arrived at the stables tired after a hard day at the office.  A gentle hour on Samphire’s back would be heaven – fresh air after all the office politics!

She gasped when she saw him. Someone – and she'd bet every penny she had it was Natasha – had cut off his entire mane!  It lay on the sawdust floor of his stable. What was left had been harvested neatly to an eighth of an inch all down his neck. In horsy circles this was known as a hogged mane; fine for everyday, OK for jumping, but a no-no for turnout classes.

Sam turned an inquiring eye when he heard her wail of despair, and Annabel wailed even louder when she saw his forelock had been shaved off as well. He looked most peculiar!

Annabel burst into tears. No way could she compete in the turnout event now!  She may have been able to compete with the hogged mane, even though she'd lose points, but a shorn forelock – never! She'd get close to zero points, if not disqualified!

Wild, wicked thoughts flooded Annabel’s head. As if possessed, she headed for her locker in the tack room, and grabbed her cordless clippers.  They'd been charged up ready for the show, but Annabel had a new use for them.

Her heart thudding, she went past Samphire’s stable, ignoring his pleading whinny, and into India's.

India flattened his black ears at her as usual, but she ignored him. She simply hooked the lead rope to his head collar and tied him up tightly so he couldn't bite her.

He was wearing a light rug, which Annabel swiftly stripped off him to reveal his beautiful, shiny black coat.

Annabel took a deep breath. Then she turned the clippers on and placed them on the horse's shoulder.  India quivered and lashed out mildly with his back leg.

Annabel moved them up his coat, forming the letter B. The clippers shrieked as they shaved the horse's coat off to his skin. India snorted. Then Annabel shaved an I next to it, then a T. Tufts of black hair fell to the stable floor. Ignoring India's snorts of protest and cow kicks as it tickled his ribs and flanks, she sheared a C and finally an H, finishing on the side of his rump.  India now had BITCH carved into his side in foot high letters, thus ruining his chances in the turnout class too.

Satisfied, Annabel flicked off the clippers. The stable was very silent now. India, relieved the tickling session was over, dug his now freed head into the manger.

Annabel was surveying her handiwork when she felt, rather than heard, a movement behind her.

As she turned to see Natasha’s golden bob flap around her long face, something hit her on the back of the head. Her last conscious thought was that at least she was falling onto sawdust, and the stables had been mucked out that morning.

Annabel came to feeling extremely groggy. Her sense of smell returned to her first, and her nostrils were assaulted by the pleasant, familiar smells of leather, hay and molasses. She was aware that her hands and feet had been bound tight, and when she opened her eyes she found herself in the little unused shed that was adjacent to the feed room. It was dimly lit, with shafts of sunlight edging in through holes in the wooden walls.

"Wakey wakey," mocked Natasha, leaning against the opposite wall with an extremely sly expression on her face.

Annabel groaned. She had a suspicion she had a lump the size of a hen's egg on the back of her head.

"Now you're awake, it's time for you to find out how India felt when you shaved his hair off. To say nothing of your precious Samphire.  It's YOUR turn to have a hogged mane!"  Natasha held up a hand and in the semi darkness Annabel saw the other girl was holding her own cordless clippers.

Annabel tried to scream NO, but she'd effectively been gagged with heavy tape across her mouth.  Instead she tried to roll over, but discovered she'd been anchored securely to the heavy upright post in the middle of the shed.

Natasha knelt beside her, and grabbed a handful of hair – beautiful, healthy, shiny hair – at the back of Annabel’s head. Annabel winced.

"Hold still!" Natasha hissed, flicking the clippers into life.

Annabel cringed as she saw her own clippers come closer and closer to her forehead.  Then she felt them bite into her hair. 

Natasha had her head in a death grip, and Annabel was powerless to stop the blades chewing through her mane.  She felt them buzz along the top of her head, the blades warm and vibrating against her skin.

Annabel bit back tears. If she cried, she'd choke.  She had no option but to suffer her hair being cut off to her scalp.

"How's THAT feel then?" sneered Natasha, running a finger along the path she'd shorn.  

Annabel shook her head as hard as she could, but Natasha only tightened her grip and dove the clippers into the other girl's hair again, shaving a path next to the first.  She picked up a clump of clippered hair and dumped it onto Annabel’s trembling legs.

"Never realized it was so long before, did you?" said Natasha conversationally.  "It looks a lot longer all cut off."  With that she buzzed the top of Annabel’s head once more, sending more silky hair raining to the ground.

Natasha pushed Annabel’s head to one side, and shaved up in front of her ears. The shorn clumps tumbled onto Annabel’s shoulder and legs.

Annabel shuddered as she felt the clippers nuzzle behind her ears. It was a most peculiar sensation, all tickly and tight where the hair had been shorn. She submitted herself to her fate; struggling was useless, and Natasha had done so much damage that a total head shave was inevitable.

She felt the clippers run all the way to the top of her head, rendering one side of her scalp bald.

Then Natasha pushed her head forward roughly. Annabel gave a muffled cry – her head HURT where she'd been hit!

The clippers trembled against her nape, then were pushed up into her hair, gobbling it and shearing it to extinction. Natasha was breathing heavily as she clipped the other girl's head as professionally as a barber; years of trimming horses meant she was confident with the clippers.

Annabel felt the blades at her neck again, howling as they met the thick sheaves of hair.  Up and up the back of her head they went, to the crown, meeting the shorn scalp on top of her head.  Natasha didn't slacken off over the bruised part, either, simply set the clippers against the skin very firmly and pushed them through Annabel’s locks.

Roughly Natasha pushed Annabel’s head to the side to buzz up behind her other ear. The rasping hum of the clippers was the loudest sound in Annabel’s universe at the moment, louder than her muffled cries, louder than Natasha’s spiteful laugh as she wielded the shears.

Natasha was still holding her head with one hand. Natasha’s hand felt hot on the naked skin on top of Annabel’s head. She felt the little prickles of hair she had left get brushed briefly by Natasha’s palm, and quivered.

There was only one long lock of hair left, and Natasha paused, eyeing it with relish.

"Say good-bye to it, Annabel!" hissed Natasha, and slowly, exquisitely slowly, brought the clippers against Annabel’s cheek and nosed them up into her hair.  Out of the corner of her eye Annabel saw the last of her hair rain down onto her knees. The clippers shrieked up the side of her head until there was no hair left to cut. Her scalp suddenly felt quite cold without its thick, silky covering.

Natasha ran expert hands over Annabel’s head, making sure no stray hairs had survived. She made a few more cursory passes with the clippers, sending minute clippings flying through the air like dust motes.

"Let's see you win the turnout contest NOW!" jeered Natasha, turning off the clippers. The silence was deafening.  Annabel’s ears still rang from the buzzing sound; a sound she'd never, ever forget.

Natasha ripped the tape from Annabel’s mouth so roughly the other girl shrieked in pain; tears sprang, unbidden, to her eyes.

Gasping for breath, Annabel managed to hiss: "You bitch!  I’ll get you for this!"

"Oh, I don't think so," Natasha said in a sing song voice.  "You've beaten me in every turnout competition for the last two years. I think this makes us even."

"I think you're mad," said Annabel, more defiantly. "Samphire and I won those competitions fair and square."

"Have fun tomorrow," mocked Natasha as she opened the door, "Watching the competition from the grandstands."

Then she left Annabel alone, still tied to the post.

Annabel yelled for fifteen minutes until one of the teenagers who helped at the stables heard her pleas.

"Oh, God," gasped the girl, Juliet.  "What happened to your hair?"  She knelt beside Annabel and, with clumsy fingers, untangled the lead reins which bound Annabel’s limbs.

"Not much," said Annabel shortly. This was private, between her and Natasha. 

"But you've been tied up," pointed out Juliet. "Shouldn't we call the police?"

"No. I lost a bet," lied Annabel. "No police needed."  She dusted off her shaking legs and pulled herself to her feet. Her hands, freed of their bindings, went automatically to her head to feel the damage.

Annabel went cold all over. Not a hair left on her head!  Just prickly, tiny stubble, like when she hadn't shaved her legs for two days.  She bolted to her car before she burst into tears.

After an almost sleepless night, Annabel decided to go to the horse show after all.  Her puffy eyed, bald reflection in the mirror made her wince, but after a shower – and the water pounding on her shaved scalp was very erotic, she found – she felt better, and after applying some makeup, she felt almost normal. She covered her head with a baseball cap, hitched the horse trailer to her car and headed for the stables.

Four hours later, Annabel rode into the turnout class with the rest of the competitors. Samphire’s coat was as glossy as ever; Annabel had combed a checkerboard pattern into the hairs on his rump.  His maneless neck drew a few raised eyebrows from other competitors.

Annabel still had a slight headache from Natasha’s thump the day before, and she'd had to stuff socks into the lining of her bowler hat. Without her thick hair, the hat was tipping forward and back on her head.

There were twenty competitors in the class, and each had to ride a specified display, including cantering two figure eights, one with a flying change. Annabel was the third competitor to perform, and Samphire behaved impeccably, reining back – walking backwards – when asked, and finishing his display with a controlled gallop. Annabel knew she'd scored good points for it, but was prepared for the worst when it came to the judges’ examination of her horse and herself.

"Hogged mane," snorted one judge, a tweedy, bosomy woman with a face suspiciously like that of a horse's, as she patted Samphire’s hot neck.

"Where's YOUR hair?" queried the other judge, walking in a circle around Annabel and noting that her boots, coat, hat and other parts of the accepted showing uniform were immaculate.

Annabel took her bowler hat off, feeling the sunshine immediately hot on her sweaty, shorn scalp.

The judges, and the other competitors, gasped.

Annabel saw looks of horror pass between the other girls waiting for their display. If Annabel was setting a trend of a shaved head, would they all follow? There were plenty of grimaces and shaken heads, and a couple of grins.

The judges made no further comment, simply scribbled notes on their clipboard. Annabel wasn't surprised when, half an hour later, she was not one of the competitors asked to stay back for the judging of the final five.

"But at least I had the courage to do it," she said to Samphire, patting his neck as she dismounted and led him back to the trailer.  She gave him a bucket of water and tied him up under a tree.

Annabel plonked her baseball cap back on her head and hung her new black jacket in the car. She was boiling – time to find a cold drink and an ice cream!

She wandered in the direction of the fast food outlets, but found paydirt lying contentedly asleep in the sun on the ground – Natasha!

Annabel rushed back to her trailer, and grabbed the cordless clippers she'd brought with her to touch up Samphire’s legs.  Silently she crept towards her rival. She'd only get one small chance before Natasha woke up, but hopefully she'd do enough damage so the rest of Natasha’s hair was doomed, too.

With one swift motion she flicked the clippers into life and dove them into Natasha’s fringe, pulling them back against the other girl's skin.  The hair was peeled away, leaving a shorn trail down the middle of Natasha’s scalp. Annabel flicked it onto the ground in satisfaction. She even managed to buzz a second path alongside the first, her heart thudding as she watched the hair get shorn to nothing. At that point Natasha murmured, then her eyes opened in horror as she realized what was happening, and saw Annabel leaning over her, clippers in hand.

Annabel grinned.  The competition would be nothing this year if not interesting!
 

The end

Copyright Sabrina S, 1999.