Georgia becomes a model pt. 1

The heavy glass doors of the Vantage Salon swung shut behind Georgia, sealing out the chaotic sounds of the city. The salon was a cathedral of high fashion: polished concrete floors, minimalist steel fixtures, and an air of expensive, chemical-scented sophistication. Georgia’s heart hammered against her ribs. Only a week ago, she had graduated from acting college; now, she was signed to one of the world’s elite modeling agencies. But the contract had been clear: The Artist shall submit to all aesthetic directions required for the debut campaign.
“Georgia! You’re here!”

A girl with a bleach blonde shag cut and intricate tattoos snaking up her neck stepped forward. This was Mary. She was strikingly beautiful in an alternative, edgy way, and her smile was wide and genuine. “I’m Mary. I’ve been looking forward to this all morning. We’re going to transform you.”
​She gestured Georgia over to a heavy, black leather chair. As she sat, her long, honey-blonde waves—her pride and joy—cashed over her shoulders, reaching down to her chest. Mary’s hands were quick and efficient. She gathered Georgia’s hair into a temporary, loose bun to clear her neck, and pulled out a roll of paper. Georgia felt the dry, slightly rough strip being wrapped snugly around her throat, like Mary was silently assertimg her control over the situation. Finally, the cape. It was a vast, heavy sheet of black satin that Mary snapped shut at the collar, tight enough that Georgia felt the pulse in her neck. The fabric draped over her frame, hiding her body and pinning her arms to her sides. Georgia felt small, swaddled, and utterly vulnerable.
​“Please,” Georgia whispered, her voice trembling. “Don’t take too much off? I’ve spent years growing it.”
​Mary stood behind her, invisible in the lack of a mirror, and placed a steadying hand on Georgia’s shoulder. “Trust me, Georgia. You’re a canvas. By the time I’m done, you’re going to look better than ever before.”
Without further warning, Mary pulled the hair ties from the bun and smoothed the blonde mass down Georgia’s back. She gathered it all into a low, tight ponytail at the nape of the neck. Georgia heard the snick-snick of the heavy shears being tested. Then, she felt the cold steel against the back of her neck.
Crunch.
The sound of the blades slicing through the thick ponytail was deafening in Georgia’s ears. She felt the weight of her hair drop instantly.
“No! Please!” Georgia cried out, her eyes flying open, though she could see nothing but the white wall in front of her.
“Relax, honey. It’s done,” Mary said firmly but kindly. She held the severed ponytail—sixteen inches of blonde history—up for Georgia to feel the air where it used to be. Georgia felt the first hot tears spill down her cheeks. She was trapped under the black satin, her identity falling to the floor in golden heaps.
​Mary wasn’t finished. She began sectioning the hair that remained, which now hovered just above Georgia’s shoulders. Using a fine-toothed comb, she drew a precise horizontal line across the back of Georgia’s head, from the centre of one ear to the other. She clipped the top half out of the way.
Georgia turned around in fear to see what Mary was doing, and heard a metallic clack. The low, aggressive hum of electric clippers rang in her ears.
​“Wait—Mary, no! Not clippers! Please!” Georgia begged, her body shaking beneath the cape.
“I’m sorry, Georgia, but this is the look,” Mary said. She placed a firm hand on the crown of Georgia’s head and pushed it forward. Georgia resisted for a second, her neck muscles stiff with terror, but Mary’s grip was insistent. Georgia’s chin was forced down to her chest.
​The clippers touched her skin. The vibration was a violent, buzzing sensation that rattled her skull. She felt the cold metal teeth of the number 4 guard bite in at the base of her hairline and slowly travel upward. Georgia sobbed as she felt the soft, fine hairs of her nape being mown away.
But Mary was unrelenting. She swapped the guards. The hum changed pitch. Georgia felt the even closer bite of a number 2, and once more the cliples ran up the back of her head,with each pass a colder feeling om Georgia’s skin. Finally, Mary removed the guard all together, and began to shave the bottom of her nape clean. The stylist was fading the hair, carving a steep, skin-tight undercut into the back of her head. The cool air of the salon hit her newly exposed skin—a sensation so raw and alien that Georgia felt a wave of vertigo. Her neck felt naked, exposed, and tragically light. She couldn’t believe this was real.

​Mary stepped away to the color station. Georgia sat paralyzed. She didn’t dare reach back to touch the back of her head; she could feel the tiny, prickly bristles of the undercut catching against the blonde strands hanging over them. It felt like a wound.
Mary returned wearing black latex gloves, carrying a plastic bowl filled with a thick, viscous paste that looked like shimmering tar. The smell of ammonia and chemicals filled the air.
“Not black,” Georgia gasped, her eyes fixed on the bowl. “Please, Mary, not jet black. I’m a blonde. I won’t look like me.”
“You’re right,” Mary whispered, dipping a brush into the dark sludge. “You won’t look like you anymore. You’ll look like a supermodel.”
The first stroke of the brush was cold and heavy against Georgia’s scalp. She watched in her mind’s eye as the “ink” saturated her pale hair. Mary worked with surgical precision, painting every strand from root to tip. The weight of the wet dye was immense. Within minutes her hair was coated in the thick black dye. Not a strand of blonde would remain.
Mary gently leaned back Georgia’s chair until she was looking at the ceiling. “close your eyes” she gently requested, and she obliged. Georgia felt her eyelashes grow heavy as Mary applied a specialized tint to her brows, beofre wiping off the paste and begging to pluck them, reshaping them into sharp, aggressive, high-fashion arches. As the black paste set, Georgia felt the transformation becoming permanent. The girl with the beachy blonde waves was being buried under a layer of midnight.
Before long, Mary wheeled Georgia back to the sink, where the warm water washed over her head. She could feel the water dripping down the freshly shave back of her neck, tickling her as it did so. Mary massaged her head gently as she washed out the dye.
​
After the dye was rinsed, Georgia was wheeled back to the station. Her hair was a dark, wet mass.
​The stylist picked up her scissors again. This time, there was no ponytail to hold. She worked at the front, lining the blades up exactly with Georgia’s jawline. She pressed the blades together, and Georgia watched as wet, black ribbons of hair fell onto the black satin cape, almost invisible against the fabric. Mary moved with rhythm, carving a blunt, razor-straight bob that ended exactly at the chin.
Finally, Mary combed the front section over Georgia’s forehead, pulling her now jet black hair directly over Georgia’s eyes for her to see Mary lined up the scissors around the the top of Georgia’s brow, and cut across. A thick, heavy fringe was created, hovering just above her sharpened eyebrows.

Georgia couldn’t cry anymore, she had come to the acceptance that her hair was gone, but she had never had a fringe before and was terrified at the fact she had no idea what she would look like once this ordeal was over.
The blow-dryer roared to life. As Mary used a round brush to smooth the hair, the jet-black color began to glow with a glass-like shine. It wasn’t just black; it was blue-black, reflective and expensive. Georgia’s hair now curled neatly into a straight line at her chin, and hung in a silky, thick frknge across her forehead.
​“Come with me,” Mary said, unsealing the cape.
In the back dressing room, Georgia was handed a garment: a matte black corset bodysuit that nipped her waist and pushed up her chest. She put it on with trembling hands.
“You need some ink to go with this,” Mary joked, looking at Georgia’s pale, flawless skin.
“I think… I think this is enough for today,” Georgia whispered, wiping a final tear away.
Mary led her to a tall mirror covered by a velvet curtain. With a flourish, she pulled it back.
Georgia gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The person in the mirror was a stranger. The jet-black bob was so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. The heavy bangs framed her blue eyes, making them pop with an intensity she’d never seen. The undercut at the back made her neck look long and elegant, and the prominent cheekbones she’d always been shy about were now the stars of the show.
She reached back, her fingers grazing the velvet-soft, buzzed skin of her nape, then sliding up to the blunt edge of the black silk hair. It was shocking. It was radical. It was beautiful.
“I look… powerful,” Georgia murmured, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through.
“You look like a star,” Mary said, hugging her. “And trust me, we’re just getting started.”
Georgia looked at her reflection one last time. The blonde girl was gone, but the woman standing there was ready to take over the world. 

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