Kevin
The Christmas Eve Shear-acle
Check out the comic version in deviantart
Christmas Eve in the city was usually a magical affair, a blur of fairy lights, frosted breaths, and the frantic, joyful energy of last-minute shoppers. For Mia, Luna, and Sophie, three sixteen-year-olds whose friendship had survived middle school drama and high school exams, it was meant to be a night of separate traditions before reuniting for their annual late-night cocoa.
They met at midday near the central plaza’s towering Christmas tree, their breaths pluming in the frigid air. They were a striking trio, defined largely by their magnificent hair. Mia’s black curtain shimmered against her white winter coat; Luna’s vibrant purple spikes poked aggressively through a loosely knitted beanie; and Sophie’s enormous pink drills bounced heavily against the back of her knees.
“Okay, team,” Luna said, striking a dramatic pose, her purple hair catching the winter sun like neon. “Curtain up in five hours. If I don’t nail this lead elf role, Christmas is officially canceled.”
Mia adjusted her scarf, her long black hair cascading over her shoulder. “Just try not to improvise too much, Luna. I have the candlelight processional tonight. It requires absolute focus and serenity.”
Sophie shivered, pulling her coat tighter, her massive pigtails swaying. “I’m just going to the mall to buy your presents. I hope it’s not too crowded.”
“Don’t let anyone push you around, Soph,” Luna warned, poking Sophie gently on the forehead. “And don’t you dare cut those drills. They’re iconic.”
Mia smiled gently. “We’ll see you at The Daily Grind at ten. With all our hair intact.”
They parted ways, three girls defined by their long, distinctive locks, blissfully unaware that the spirit of Christmas Eve had a very different, very sharp pair of scissors waiting for them.
Act I: The Serenity of Fire
St. Jude’s Cathedral was a masterpiece of stone and stained glass, and on Christmas Eve, it was packed. Mia stood in the vestry, surrounded by the hushed murmurs of fifty other choir members in flowing white and red robes. The air smelled of beeswax, ancient incense, and nervous anticipation.
Mia ran a hand down her sleek black hair one last time, ensuring it was perfectly smooth. It was her shield, her perfection. The choir director handed out the long, slender taper candles for the processional.
“Remember,” the director whispered harshly. “Walk slowly. Keep the flame upright. Do not—I repeat, do not—set the person in front of you on fire.”
The organ groaned the opening notes of “O Come, All Ye Faithful.” The heavy oak doors swung open, and the procession began.
Mia was near the front, her voice soaring clear and soprano into the vaulted ceiling. The atmosphere was transcendental. She felt elevated, perfect. She held her candle carefully, mesmerized by the dancing flame.
The trouble started during the second verse. A draft from a side door caught the person in front of Mia off guard. They stumbled, just a fraction of an inch backward.
It happened in slow motion. Mia gasped, instinctively jerking her hand back to avoid the other person. In doing so, the tip of her own candle dipped backward, just for a second.
A second was all it took.
There was a distinct fwoomp sound, followed immediately by the acrid, unmistakable stench of burning keratin.
Mia froze. Heat bloomed intensely near her left ear.
“Mia! Your hair!” someone hissed from behind her.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced her serenity. She dropped the candle and began frantically batting at the left side of her head. The flames were small, feasting on the hairspray she’d used to keep her look sleek, but they were terrifyingly close to her face.
A deacon rushed over with a pitcher of water meant for the poinsettias, dousing the left side of her head. The fire sputtered and died, leaving behind a soggy, charred ruin.
Mia was ushered quickly back into the vestry, trembling. The entire left side of her magnificent, waist-length black hair was a fused, melted, reeking mess up to her cheekbone.
“Oh honey,” the choir director said, her face pale. “We can’t send you back out there like that. It smells dreadful, and it looks… dangerous.”
“Fix it,” Mia whispered, tears welling in her eyes. “Just fix it. Please.”
The director grabbed the emergency sewing scissors from a drawer. “There’s only one way to make this look intentional before the Hallelujah Chorus.”
Mia squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the cold metal against the nape of her neck. The sound of the scissors was deafening—a thick, crunchy shhhhk as massive amounts of damaged hair were severed.
It took ten minutes. When Mia finally opened her eyes and looked into the small, cracked mirror in the vestry, she didn’t recognize herself.
The damage meant the back had to be taken high—buzz-cut short against her neck. To blend the unburned right side with the decimated left, the director had created a severe, steep angle. Her hair now swung sharply forward, ending in points at her chin. The front pieces that had been singed near her forehead were gone entirely, replaced by super-short, blunt “microbangs” high above her eyebrows.
It was a sharp, aggressive, inverted bob. It was chic, yes, but it was severe. Her neck felt impossibly cold. The weight was gone. The flowing elegance was replaced by a stark, exposed vulnerability.
Mia touched the bristly nape of her neck and let out a shaky sob.
Act II: The Tragedy of the Adhesive
While Mia was facing trial by fire, Luna was facing trial by epoxy.
The community center backstage was chaos. Props were flying, children dressed as snowflakes were crying, and the director, Mr. Henderson, was screaming about lighting cues. Luna, however, was in her element. She was dressed in a green velvet tunic and striped tights, her purple hair teased into an impressive, spiky halo.
“Five minutes to curtain! Where is my Lead Elf?” Henderson bellowed.
“I’m here, I’m here!” Luna bounded over. “Just need my pointed ears glued on!”
They were using a new, industrial-strength spirit gum that Henderson had bought cheap online. Luna tilted her head as the makeup artist applied the adhesive behind her ears.
“Careful,” the artist muttered. “This stuff is runny.”
Too runny. A large glob of the potent glue dripped from the applicator, landing squarely in the thickest part of Luna’s violet hair on the right side, just above the ear.
“Oops,” the artist said.
“Oops? What do you mean, oops?” Luna tried to wipe it away, but her chaotic spiking only mashed the glue deeper into the mass of purple hair. Within seconds, the industrial adhesive began to set. It didn’t just dry; it hardened into a rock-solid, opaque clump, matting half her hair to the side of her head.
“Are you kidding me?!” Luna shrieked, tugging at the mass. It didn’t budge. It looked like a diseased growth on the side of her head.
Mr. Henderson stormed over. “What is the hold-up? We open in two minutes!” He saw the glue-matted disaster. “Absolutely not. You look ridiculous. You cannot go out there like that.”
“It won’t come out!” Luna cried, real panic setting in. “It’s like cement!”
Henderson looked at his watch, then at Luna, then at a pair of heavy-duty fabric shears on the prop table.
“We don’t have time for solvent,” Henderson growled, grabbing the shears. “Hold still.”
“Wait, what are you—NO!”
Henderson didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the glued mass and hacked into it. The sound was violent—thick, tearing crunches as the shears fought through the matted purple locks. He didn’t stop at the glue. To make it match, he grabbed the left side of her beloved spikes and hacked those off too.
He worked with the manic energy of a man terrified of a late curtain. Purple hair rained down on Luna’s elf shoes. When he was done, he used his hands to roughly ruffle what was left.
Luna stared into the dressing room mirror. Her trademark wild purple mane was gone. In its place was a brutally short, heavily textured “elf crop.” The sides were scissor-cut tight against her skull, wispy bits around the ears. The top was maybe two inches long, choppy and uneven, sticking up in confused little tufts.
It was boyish, raw, and incredibly short.
“Curtain!” Henderson yelled, shoving her toward the stage.
Luna stumbled onto the stage, the bright lights blinding her. She felt lightheaded. The air rushing past her nearly bare scalp was alien. She channeled her shock into manic energy, performing the entire first act in a daze, constantly reaching up to touch purple spikes that were no longer there.
Act III: The Platinum Sacrifice
Sophie hated the mall on Christmas Eve. It was loud, aggressive, and overwhelming. She clutched her shopping bags tight, her massive pink twin-drills acting as a comforting barrier between her and the crushing crowd.
She was trying to skirt around the center court stage, where a loud charity event was taking place. A charismatic host in a shimmering red suit was shouting into a microphone.
“WE ARE SO CLOSE TO OUR GOAL, FOLKS! Just a few more donations for the Children’s Wig Foundation, and we hit the Platinum Level! Who’s going to be our Christmas Hero?”
Sophie tried to scurry past, but the host pointed right at her. “YOU! Young lady with the incredible pink pigtails! That’s a lot of hair! Surely you can spare twelve inches for a good cause?”
The spotlight hit her. The giant screen above the stage showed her terrified face, framed by the massive drills. The crowd cheered, pressuring her.
Sophie’s resolve crumbled. She couldn’t say no to charity. She couldn’t say no to a crowd.
“I… I guess twelve inches is okay,” she whispered, stepping onto the stage.
She sat in the barber chair. A stylist in a Santa hat smiled enthusiastically.
“Okay, twelve inches. We’ll just take the bottom half of those drills,” the stylist said, measuring.
“Wait!” the Host yelled. “If she donates all of it, we hit the goal right now! The full clean sweep! What do you say, folks? Doesn’t she want to be a hero?”
The crowd roared. “HERO! HERO! HERO!”
Sophie shrank in the chair. All of it? Her security blanket?
“I… I don’t…”
“Do it for the kids!” someone shouted.
Sophie looked at the banner showing smiling children. Her heart squeezed. She closed her eyes tight. “O-okay. For the kids.”
The stylist didn’t wait. SNIP-K-CHUNK! The shears bit through the thick base of the right pigtail. The weight on that side vanished instantly. Sophie gasped.
SNIP-K-CHUNK! The left one fell onto her lap. It was heavy, like a dead animal. Sophie looked down at her severed pink hair and started to hyperventilate.
“She’s done it! But we promised a CLEAN SWEEP!” the Host yelled.
The stylist pulled out electric clippers. BZZZZZZZT.
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut as the cold metal vibrated against her scalp. The clippers roared over her head, effortlessly mowing down the remaining pink stubble. It felt aggressive and invasive. Tears leaked from her eyes, hot against her cool cheeks.
“And for the Platinum finish!” the Host boomed.
Sophie felt warm foam being slapped onto her head. It smelled like peppermint shaving cream. She opened one red eye, terrified.
The stylist was holding a straight razor.
“Look up, sweetie,” the stylist said gently.
Sophie felt the impossibly sharp blade scrape across her skin. Shhhk. Shhhk. It was a bizarre sensation—cold steel followed by air hitting skin that had never felt a breeze before.
When the stylist wiped her head down with a hot towel and spun the chair toward the mirror, Sophie didn’t scream. She couldn’t make a sound.
A stranger stared back at her. Her head was a pale, perfectly smooth globe. It gleamed under the stage lights. There wasn’t a single follicle of pink hair left. She looked alien, her red eyes enormous in her tiny, exposed face. She reached up with trembling hands and touched her scalp. It was smooth, squeaky, and painfully cold.
She had gone from the girl with the most hair to the girl with none at all.
The Café Climax
At 10:15 PM, The Daily Grind was nearly empty. The snow outside was falling harder, coating the city in silence.
Mia was the first to arrive at their usual corner booth. She was wearing a thick black wool beanie pulled down low over her eyebrows, hiding every strand of hair. She sat slumped, staring miserably into her hot chocolate, dreading the moment Luna and Sophie arrived with their glorious, intact hair. They’re going to laugh, she thought bitterly. I look like a severe French art critic.
Luna arrived next, bursting through the door in a flurry of snow. She wore a colorful striped beanie pulled down just as tightly as Mia’s. She threw herself into the booth opposite Mia, looking manic and exhausted.
“Don’t ask,” Luna snapped, aggressively stirring her drink. “Just don’t ask about the play.”
Mia looked up, surprised by Luna’s tone. “Rough night? Mine too.”
They sat in awkward silence for a moment, both hiding their shame under wool hats.
Finally, the door opened slowly, and Sophie shuffled in. She looked traumatized. She was wearing a massive, fluffy pink beanie with a huge pom-pom on top, pulled down so low it almost covered her eyes. She slid into the booth next to Luna without a word, keeping her head down.
“Hey Soph,” Luna said, her voice lacking its usual punch. “Get your presents?”
Sophie just nodded jerkily at a bag on the floor.
Another silence stretched. The weight of their individual secrets hung heavy in the air. Each girl was convinced she was the only disaster at the table, terrified of the inevitable reveal.
Mia finally sighed, setting her mug down with a clatter. “Look, guys. Something happened at the church. There was an… incident with a candle.”
Luna looked up, her eyes widening slightly. “A candle? You okay?”
“I’m fine,” Mia said grimly. “My hair is not. I can’t hide this all night. Just… promise you won’t scream.”
Mia grabbed the top of her black beanie. She squeezed her eyes shut and yanked it off.
Her severe, sharp inverted bob sprang free. The microbangs sat high on her forehead, the back shaved tight against her neck.
“Oh my god,” Luna gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
Mia flinched. “I know, it’s awful, it’s—”
“It’s SHORT!” Luna yelled. “Mia, your beautiful long hair! It’s gone!”
Sophie peeked up from under her pink hat, her red eyes wide with shock at Mia’s drastic change.
“It had to be done,” Mia said defensively, touching her bristly nape. “But god, look at you two. Still perfect.”
Luna let out a harsh, hysterical laugh. “Perfect? Yeah, right. Henderson used industrial glue on me tonight.”
Mia stared. “What?”
“I said, don’t laugh!” Luna grabbed her striped beanie and ripped it off her head.
Her purple Elf Crop was revealed in all its chaotic, choppy glory. The sides were sheared tight, the top a messy tuft of short violet spikes.
Mia’s jaw dropped. “Luna! You look like a… like a punk rock pixie!”
“He hacked it off with prop shears!” Luna wailed, running her hands over the unfamiliar purple stubble above her ears. “I feel naked!”
The two of them stared at each other, bonding instantly over their shared trauma. The tension in the booth broke into incredulous laughter.
“We’re a disaster,” Mia giggled, feeling lightheaded with relief that she wasn’t alone. “We look like we joined a cult on Christmas Eve.”
They both turned to Sophie, who was somehow shrinking even further into the corner of the booth, clutching her pink pom-pom hat with white-knuckled hands.
“Well, Soph,” Luna grinned, gesturing to her own chopped hair. “At least one of us survived tonight. I bet you’re sweating under that hat with those massive pigtails.”
Mia nodded encouragingly. “Take it off, Sophie. Let us see some normal hair. Remind us what it looks like.”
Sophie was trembling. Tears were leaking out from under the brim of her hat. “I… I can’t.”
“Aw, don’t feel bad just because we look like drowned rats,” Luna said, reaching over to playfully tug at the pom-pom. “Come on, show us the drills!”
“No, stop!” Sophie squeaked, but Luna had already given the hat a friendly yank.
The pink beanie came free.
Mia and Luna recoiled as if physically struck. Their screams of shock harmonized perfectly, echoing through the empty café.
“EEEEEEEEEEH?!”
There were no pigtails. There was no hair.
Sophie sat slumped in the booth, her head completely, perfectly bald. The overhead track lighting gleamed off the smooth, pale curve of her skull. Without the framing of her massive hair, her red eyes looked enormous and watery in her tiny face.
“Sophie!” Mia gasped, her hands over her mouth. “Where is it?!”
“It’s… it’s shiny,” Luna whispered, totally stunned. She slowly reached out a finger and tentatively poked Sophie’s smooth scalp. “It squeaks.”
Sophie burst into tears, burying her smooth face in her hands. “The charity drive! They pressured me! They did a Clean Sweep with a razor!”
The three friends sat in stunned silence for a long moment. Mia with her severe bob, Luna with her wild purple crop, and Sophie, glistening under the lights.
Then, slowly, Luna started to laugh. It started as a chuckle and grew into a full-blown cackle that drew a stare from the sleepy barista.
“Oh my god,” Luna wheezed, wiping a tear away. “We win. We definitely win Christmas disaster bingo.”
Mia looked from Luna’s hacked purple spikes to Sophie’s shining dome, and she couldn’t help it. The absurdity of it washed over her. The elegance of the evening was ruined, but something better had replaced it. She started laughing too.
“We’re the Baldie Bunch,” Mia choked out.
Sophie sniffled, lowering her hands. She looked at her two best friends, both sporting unplanned, drastic haircuts, laughing their heads off. A small, hesitant smile broke through her tears.
She reached up and rubbed her own smooth head. “At least… at least we’ll save money on shampoo next year?”
Mia raised her hot chocolate mug in a toast. “To the Christmas Eve Shear-acle. May our necks never be cold again.”
They clinked mugs, three girls light-headed and exposed, bound together by the sheer, hilarious trauma of the night they all lost their hair, but kept their friendship.
