TheInvisibleMan
Miranda’s fingers drifted slowly over the shortened side of Jane’s head, nails grazing the exposed skin near her ear while the long side still spilled thickly over one shoulder like the last stubborn reminder of who she had been an hour ago. She tilted Jane’s chin toward the mirror and smiled faintly. “There,” she murmured. “That’s the interesting part.” One hand slipped through the long hair with exaggerated care. “This side still thinks she’s special. Pretty. The sort of girl people protect.” Then she let the hair fall and lightly tapped the shortened side with the cold edge of the scissors. “But this?” Her smile widened slightly. “This already looks less like a princess and more like a slut who let someone ruin her for fun.”
Jane’s face burned.
Because the humiliating part was not hearing it.
The humiliating part was looking in the mirror and not entirely hating how true it suddenly felt.
Miranda seemed to notice the silence settling in. “Oh, don’t worry,” she said softly, gathering the remaining heavy side into her fist. “We’re not finished yet. Right now you still look undecided.” Somewhere beside the chair came a soft mechanical click. Then the low electric hum.
Jane’s stomach dropped.
Miranda lifted the clippers into view and rested the buzzing teeth lightly against Jane’s temple.
“Let’s make sure,” she murmured, “nobody mistakes you for a good girl again.”
***
John heard a knock at the door and quickly closed his laptop. Jane stood in the doorway, grocery bags in both hands.
“Sorry, hands full.”
“It’s okay, let me help.” He took the bags from her. “You’re late today.”
“Stopped by the hairdresser.”
“Yeah…”
John looked closer.
Her hair was a little shorter now. It no longer touched her shoulders, though it still sat comfortably below her ears.
“You could’ve gone shorter,” he said. “At least lifted the nape a bit, or—”
“John, don’t start again.” Jane sighed, though not unkindly. “I’m perfectly fine with your fetish, but it’s not becoming mine. Watch your videos, look at pictures, write and read your little stories. I’ll wear whatever haircut is comfortable for me.”
“Okay, okay. How was work?”
“We finished the anthology. Spent forever arguing over one story with the editorial group — whether the author used AI and how much. The boss killed it anyway.”
“At least I never use AI.”
“You also have nothing to do with literature,” she said, as always without malice, offering him a small smile.
“More people read me than the print run of your anthology. And they praise me!”
“Yeah, yeah. You all praise each other over there.” She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “Help me cook.”
They had dinner, watched a show, had sex.
Jane had a beautiful body. Velvet-soft skin. A long neck. Firm breasts. Ass…
Hair.
What would she look like with her ears exposed? Shorter in the back. A little shorter at the nape. No, more. A short nape. Fingers brushing roughness. The sides — careful at first, then higher. The top shorter too. Much shorter. Clippers. The hum, close now. Pale skin, suddenly too exposed. Foam. Razor. Smooth—
He came.
Jane was already asleep.
He kept writing.
***
Jane looked at herself for a long moment and felt the humiliation arrive properly. There was barely any hair left now. The sides had been shaved close enough to expose every line of her ears and neck, while what remained on top sat cropped brutally short, stripped of softness and shape. Her beautiful chestnut hair — the hair she had spent years protecting — lay ruined across the floor in careless piles, no different from swept-up mess.
Miranda stood behind her, fingers idly brushing over the roughness at Jane’s nape with unmistakable satisfaction. “Much better,” she murmured. “You don’t look like one of those careful girls anymore.”
Jane hated how warm her face became.
Because she understood.
An hour ago she had looked expensive. Untouchable. The sort of woman people admired and left alone. Now she looked like somebody who had been handled. Somebody people would stare at. Somebody easier to imagine embarrassing.
Miranda’s hand settled more firmly against the back of her neck. “Tell me,” she said softly, watching Jane through the mirror. “What do you think people see now?”
Jane swallowed hard. She should have hated the answer.
Instead she lowered her eyes.
“A slut, probably,” she said quietly. “Your obedient little slut.”
Miranda smiled. “Good girl,” she murmured, fingertips grazing the shortened hair once more. “I was hoping you’d finally stop pretending.”
***
John finished the story with a quick reminder to subscribe to his Patreon and went to bed.
The next morning, somewhere between brushing his teeth and breakfast, he checked the site. Overnight, the story had already picked up thirty-seven likes, and two people had become paid subscribers.
The success went straight to his head.
“Maybe I really am a kind of writer after all.”
The look on Jane’s face made it immediately clear what mistake he had just made.
“John,” she said, “I studied this. I’ve been published. Critics have praised my work, and I’m not a writer. You’re pushing your luck again. Show me.”
“No, Jane, don’t.”
She grabbed the laptop.
“This is an invasion of privacy!”
“Oh, so the heroine is Jane again. Let me guess — beautiful hair?” She scrolled. “Wonderful. Same as always. Humiliation, submission, ‘my obedient little slut.’ Very sweet. And he’s talking about privacy…”
“Jane, I didn’t mean—”
“Who are these women?”
“What?”
“Your heroines. Who are they?”
“Well… Jane has beautiful hair, she moved here…”
“I’m not asking for functions. Who are these people?”
“Well…”
“What do they love? What are they afraid of? How do they talk? Why do they do the things they do?”
John said nothing.
“One of them is a shell, the other’s a caricature,” Jane said more calmly now. “These aren’t people. If your ‘Mistress’ at least did macramé…”
She closed the laptop.
“And don’t call this literature. Ever. Please.”
Jane left for a meeting with a writer about copyright issues. John worked from home. He tried not to check the site during work hours, but today that felt especially difficult.
Okay, maybe not me. But there are thousands of stories. Hundreds of authors. AI keeps getting better. Surely there has to be literature somewhere on this site.
And all I need to do is add macramé…
Jane came home tired and irritated. She always said writers were difficult people, and apparently one of them had proved her right today. This was probably not the moment to bother her.
John did it anyway.
“Jane, I’ve been thinking. Books can be all kinds of things. There are so many stories on this site — there has to be something you’d actually like.”
She yawned.
“Your stories have a different purpose,” she said. “They don’t need to be literature, so nobody tries very hard. Maybe I might like something. But not the editorial group. I’d bet we wouldn’t publish a single story from your site.”
John’s eyes lit up.
“What are we betting?”
“Whatever you want…” She sighed. “Oh right. We both know what you want.”
She shifted under the blanket.
“Fine. If you find a story the editorial group would actually approve, you take me to the salon and finally act out your fantasies. If you lose, you pay, and we spend six months going to literary seminars. We’re starting with In Search of Lost Time. Then Ulysses…”
Jane turned her back to him, lowered her head onto the pillow, and fell asleep almost instantly.
John stayed awake all night.
His dream suddenly felt within reach.
He searched the most popular stories. Likes. Views. The ones he personally thought were good. He even asked ChatGPT, though depending on the prompt it either praised a story or gave it a score below 2/10.
By morning he had narrowed it down to five candidates.
He waited for Jane to wake up.
“I found worthy contenders.”
“Oh God,” Jane groaned. “You didn’t sleep?”
She rubbed her eyes.
“Fine. Literary seminars won’t pay for themselves. Three days. Five stories a day. Already published. From your category. And if somebody secretly uploaded Salinger under a haircut title, it doesn’t count.”
“Perfect. I already have five.”
“You’re not even going to let me drink coffee first, are you?” She sighed. “Fine. First one. Lots of likes. Long. Make me coffee.”
John watched her hopefully.
“See, this proves my point,” she said after a while. “It has everything your audience wants: escalation, irreversibility, gradual transformation. It solves a practical problem. In a way, it’s like instructions for a device — written down, functional, useful. But not literature.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Formulaic plot doesn’t count against it — Campbell forbids me.” She waved a hand. “But again, no real people. Just functions dragging cardboard scenery down narrative rails.”
She yawned.
“And here’s a simple test: no accidents, no mistakes, no weird details, not a single joke.”
She looked up at him.
“Actually — if you ever find a joke in one of these stories, bring it straight to the editorial board. Your chances go up dramatically.”
“So?”
“No.”
“What about this one?”
“Well, at least it’s shorter…” She scrolled. “Oh, this author had what they thought was a fresh, modern idea and then completely forgot execution. Decent setup. Then plot rails again. Conspiracy. Bad.”
“And this one? AI liked it.”
“Oh, the great metal critic.” She skimmed the page. “Can I stop reading already? It likes it because it wrote it.”
She handed the laptop back.
“And honestly, this isn’t even a story.”
“What is it then?”
“A mood wandering around a room asking to be cut shorter.”
“Yeah…” John sighed. “Maybe I’ll save the last two for tonight.”
“You should start clearing your calendar for seminars.”
Jane left again, and John stayed home to work.
He stared at the list of tabs with stories for a moment.
Then opened a new one.
***
Friends, I need help.
I made a bet with my girlfriend that I can find real literature on our favorite site.
She’s a literary critic. Extremely picky.
If I win, I finally get to give her the haircut(s) I want.
If we win, I promise an update — and photos. Happy to discuss possible stages along the way.
But first, we need to find an already published story that would actually pass their standards.
Not the best for us.
The best for them.
Suggestions in the comments.
BitShorter.
