Kenneth
The humidity of Kuala Lumpur didn’t just hang in the air; it grabbed Bettany by the throat the second she stepped out of the arrivals terminal. Coming from the crisp, damp chill of the UK, she was utterly unprepared for South East Asia’s tropical fury.
Illustration photo :
https://imgur.com/a/TF9utUY
Her crowning glory—a thick, cascading mane of waist-length blonde hair—had instantly transformed from a glamorous asset into a heavy, suffocating wool blanket. Within three days of sightseeing around the capital, her scalp felt like a permanent sauna. Every time a stray breeze tried to cool her neck, it was blocked by the damp, matted mass of gold. She couldn’t tie it up high enough, and no amount of anti-frizz serum could combat the 90% humidity. It was driving her mad.
“I can’t do this for three more weeks,” she muttered to herself, tugging at the heavy locks plastering themselves to her sweaty shoulders.
Decision made. She needed a haircut. Not a trim—a rescue mission.
The Sanctuary on the Corner
As she walked down a bustling street in the Bukit Bintang district, the blinding glare of the afternoon sun and the roar of traffic became too much. And then, like a mirage, she saw it: a sleek, minimalist salon with frosted glass windows.
The moment she pushed the glass door open, a wave of pristine, ice-cold air conditioning washed over her. Bettany gasped in pure relief. The contrast was intoxicating. The salon smelled of eucalyptus, lemongrass, and expensive shampoo.
A stylist approached her with a wide, serene smile. He was impeccably dressed in an oversized black linen shirt, his own hair a gravity-defying, asymmetrical silver masterpiece.
“Selamat datang. Welcome,” he said, his voice smooth and soothing. “I am Raymond. You look like the Malaysian heat has claimed another victim.”
“You have no idea,” Bettany laughed nervously, lifting the heavy weight of her blonde hair off her neck. “I need help. Desperately.”
“Sit, sit. Please,” Raymond said, gesturing to a plush, oversized leather chair in front of a massive, illuminated mirror. “Before we even look at the hair, we must cool your spirit. You are too tense from the heat.”
He disappeared for a moment and returned with a small, beautifully crafted ceramic cup. A gentle steam drifted from it, carrying an exotic, sweet aroma.
“A traditional local blend,” Raymond explained, placing it in her hands. “Lemongrass, ginger, and a special local honey. Drink. It will ground you.”
Bettany took a sip. It was delicious—sweet, slightly spicy, and deeply warming, paradoxically making the air-conditioned room feel even more heavenly. She drank the whole cup quickly. Within minutes, a profound wave of relaxation washed over her. The frantic buzzing in her mind from traveling faded into a soft, hazy hum. Her limbs felt heavy, but incredibly comfortable. The stress of the bustling city outside dissolved entirely.
The Consultation
Raymond stood behind her, running his long, slender fingers through her thick blonde hair. He lifted it, letting it drop, analyzing the texture.
“Beautiful color. Exceptional density,” he murmured, almost to himself. “But so heavy for our weather. What are we thinking, my dear?”
Bettany blinked, her eyes feeling delightfully sleepy from the tea. She looked at her reflection. She wanted to look chic, but she still wanted to feel like herself.
“A shoulder-length bob,” Bettany said, using her hands to frame her collarbones. “Just a classic, shoulder-length bob. Loose, airy, but enough to tie back into a small ponytail if I get hot. You know? Just clean it up, take the weight off, but keep it around the shoulders.”
Raymond smiled warmly in the mirror, nodding with absolute certainty. “Ah, a bob. Yes, yes. I know exactly what to do. Leave it to me. Relax, close your eyes if you like. Trust Raymond.”
Bettany smiled back, letting her eyelids flutter shut. The tea had made her so wonderfully detached. She felt the chair recline as an assistant guided her back to the shampoo bowl. The hair washing was an absolute dream—a scalp massage so intense and blissful that Bettany lost all track of time. She was floating.
When she was guided back to the main chair, a large black cape was fastened tightly around her neck. Her wet blonde hair was combed straight down, reaching far past her shoulder blades.
Raymond stood beside her, a pair of long, silver shears glinting under the salon lights. He snipped them in the air twice. Snip. Snip. The sound was crisp, sharp, and authoritative.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Bettany murmured, a lazy smile on her face.
The Point of No Return
Raymond didn’t section the hair carefully. He didn’t start at the bottom. With the terrifying confidence of a man possessed by a vision, his left hand gathered the massive, thick rope of Bettany’s wet blonde hair at the very nape of her neck.
CHOMP.
The sound was heavy and wet. Bettany’s eyes snapped open.
Through the haze of the tea, she watched in the mirror as Raymond lifted a massive, solid, fourteen-inch chunk of her golden hair and tossed it carelessly onto the side table. It landed with a soft thud.
Bettany’s heart skipped a beat. A cold jolt of adrenaline fought against the warm lethargy in her veins. Wait, she thought, her mind struggling to process the visual. That… that was way higher than my shoulders.
Illustration :
https://imgur.com/X47xTMI
Before she could open her mouth to speak, Raymond was already moving. He was a whirlwind of motion, his shears dancing through the air like silver lightning.
Snip, snip, snip, slice.
“Raymond, wait—” Bettany started, her voice sounding strangely distant to her own ears.
“Shh, let the master work,” Raymond said, his eyes wide and locked onto her reflection. He wasn’t just cutting; he was erasing her hair. Huge sections of wet blonde locks were raining down onto the black cape, sliding off her lap, and carpeting the floor.
Slice, slice, snip.
He combed her hair straight up and cut three inches off the top. Then he did it again. Bettany watched, frozen in a state of sheer, paralyzed disbelief. She wanted to scream, to grab his wrists, to storm out of the salon. But her body was too relaxed from the tea, and her brain was trapped in a loop of utter shock.
The shoulder-length bob she had envisioned was completely gone. In fact, her ears were already entirely exposed. Raymond was humming a cheerful local tune, completely oblivious—or completely indifferent—to the silent panic erupting in his client’s eyes. He was entirely “scissor happy,” caught up in the pure, unadulterated joy of chopping.
The Climax of the Chop
“Just adding a little texture,” Raymond chirped, his scissors now vertical, chunking out massive amounts of weight from what little hair she had left.
“Raymond, it’s… it’s really short,” Bettany managed to choke out, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the armrests beneath the cape.
“It will be beautiful! Very couture! Very KL fashion!” he proclaimed.
Then, he dropped the scissors. Bettany let out a sigh of relief, thinking the nightmare was over. But her relief was violently shattered when Raymond reached into his drawer and pulled out a heavy, matte-black pair of electric clippers.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
The loud, aggressive mechanical hum echoed through the quiet salon.
“Wait, no! No clippers!” Bettany cried out, finally finding her voice.
“Trust the process, darling!” Raymond said with a brilliant flash of teeth.
He stepped behind her, tilted her head forward so her chin touched her chest, and pressed the cold metal blade directly against the base of her skull.
Bzzzzzz.
Bettany felt the vibration shake her entire jawline. She felt the cool air of the AC hit a patch of skin that had hadn’t seen the light of day since she was a toddler. Raymond ran the clippers up the back of her head, completely shaving her nape into a severe, ultra-high, buzzed undercut.
Large clumps of short, fine blonde fuzz fell down the back of her neck. He moved the clippers around her ears, tapering the sides down into nothingness. The sheer speed of it was breathless. He was a man operating on pure instinct, and Bettany was just the canvas.
Illustration :
https://imgur.com/ni4mbre
An undercut? That’s drastic… Bettany thought, her heart hammering against her ribs. Okay, breathe. I can handle this. It’s a very high undercut, but it’s fine. I can just hide the shaved section below my bob until it grows out. No one has to know.
She waited for Raymond to drop the cape. But he did not stop there.
His eyes had a manic, artistic gleam. He grabbed his long silver shears and stepped directly in front of her. At this point, the remaining hair on the top section of her head was still hanging down to her jawline—the last remaining safety blanket of her identity.
Raymond combed that heavy blonde top section straight forward, over her eyes.
“Let us bring out those cheekbones,” he whispered.
Snip.
A thick, solid curtain of blonde fell into her lap. Bettany now had bangs sitting a full inch above her eyebrows.
“Raymond—” she began, her voice cracking.
But he was already gone, swept up in a whirlwind of pure momentum. He didn’t just cut; he attacked the hair. His fingers flew through the top section, pulling it upward at lightning speed as his scissors snapped shut with terrifying precision.
Snip. Snip. Slice.
How short is he going? Bettany wondered, panic clawed at her throat. I hope he leaves enough length for me to tie my hair into a ponytail. Just a tiny one. Please.
She felt the cold steel of the scissors getting closer and closer to her scalp. She could feel the skin of his knuckles brushing directly against her bare head with every stroke. He wasn’t just trimming. He was erasing.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Huge clumps of wet gold rained down on her lap, sliding off the slick cape and pooling onto the floor. Raymond’s hands moved higher and higher, pulling the hair straight up toward the ceiling and cutting it off almost at the root. He proceeded to reduce the entire length at the top to a uniform, microscopic five centimeters.
It was at this exact moment that the brutal reality smashed through her state of shock. There would be no bob. There would be no ponytail. She watched her identity fall to the floor in pieces, realizing with absolute, horrific certainty that she was going home shorn like a sheep.
The Reveal
Raymond grabbed a blow dryer, blasting a final gust of cool air to scatter the stray hairs from her face and neck. He took a round brush, swept a tiny, feathered fringe across her forehead, and rubbed a dollop of matte pomade between his palms, aggressively tousling the top.
He stepped back, crossing his arms, looking utterly triumphant.
“Perfect,” he whispered. “A masterpiece.”
Bettany sat frozen. The lethargy of the tea had finally worn off, replaced by a cold, raw, chest-tightening sensation of absolute shock. She stared into the mirror, her eyes wide, her breath shallow.
The girl looking back at her was a stranger.
Her long, thick, romantic blonde hair was entirely gone. In its place was a super-short, ultra-edgy pixie cut. The sides were cropped tightly against her skull, and when she tilted her head forward, she could see the stark reality in the mirror: her nape was completely shaved, a clean, bare canvas of pale skin fading into a buzzed shadow.
It wasn’t a bob. It wasn’t even close to a bob. It was a punk-rock, high-fashion, dramatic pixie.
Raymond handed her a hand mirror to show her the back. Bettany took it with a trembling hand. She looked at the reflection of the back of her head. It was completely exposed. She ran her hand up her neck and gasped. The texture felt like sandpaper—prickly, short, and entirely bare.
“Do you love it?” Raymond asked, beaming, clearly expecting praise for his artistic genius.
Bettany opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She stared at her naked neck, her completely exposed ears, and the radical spikes of blonde on top of her head. The shock was so profound that it transcended anger. It was a total system shock.
She looked at the floor, which looked like a golden retriever had been sheared, and then back at the mirror.
Illustration :
https://imgur.com/S1bGnQ3
Suddenly, a strange sensation washed over her. She felt the ice-cold air from the AC hit the completely bare back of her head. It felt… incredible. There was no sweat. No heavy, damp wool blanket pulling her head back. She felt light. Weightless.
She stared at the reflection again. It was shocking, yes. It was a complete violation of her instructions, absolutely. But as she shook her head, feeling the tiny fringe effortlessly dance across her forehead, she realized something else.
She looked incredibly chic.
“It’s…” Bettany swallowed, a bewildered, breathless laugh escaping her lips. “It’s definitely not a shoulder-length bob, Raymond.”
“Bobs are boring,” Raymond said with a wave of his hand. “This is soul. This is freedom.”
Bettany touched her shaved nape one more time, a smirk slowly breaking through her mask of shock. “Well… I definitely won’t be hot anymore.”
Illustration :
https://imgur.com/UXVu9Wk
Ps : if anyone knows how to directly insert photos into the text, I will happily take the advice for future stories
