Harley Quinn Remade

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The rain fell on Gotham City like liquid lead, smearing the neon reflections of neon strip clubs and dilapidated bodegas into long, weeping ribbons of light against the asphalt.

Inside the sleek, roaring cabin of his customized purple supercar, The Joker tapped his gloved fingers against the leather steering wheel. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. The rhythm was frantic, erratic, born of a deep and toxic boredom that had settled over him like a damp shroud. Standard bank heists were dreary. Gas attacks were getting derivative. Kidnapping the Police Commissioner was practically a chore at this point. He needed a fresh spark, a new thrill, something exquisitely personal—a masterpiece of petty, malicious art carved directly out of the night.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Harley Quinn was practically bouncing. She adjusted her side-mirror, preening at her reflection. She smoothed down her iconic twin pigtails—painstakingly bleached, impeccably soft, tipped with dip-dyed shades of soft crimson and cobalt blue. She wore her bright, heart-shaped cheek tattoo with pride, humming a jaunty tune under her breath.

“Oh, Puddin’!” Harley cooed, leaning over to kiss his chalk-white jawline. “I just knowed you had a romantic streak somewhere under that purple suit! A night drive, just the two of us? No henchmen, no big bombs, no big lug in a bat suit ruin’ the mood? It’s like a real date!”

Joker didn’t turn his head. His crimson-painted lips stretched into a thin, tight wire. His yellowed eyes flicked toward her, zeroing in on the bright, bouncy pigtails floating near her shoulders. They looked so cheerful. So distinct. So… independent.

A terrible, brilliant idea sparked behind his pale eyes.

“A date, Harley-girl?” Joker purred, his voice dropping an octave into a smooth, dangerous silk. “Why, yes. You could call it that. A grand unveiling. A little night of… personal refinement.”

He slammed his foot on the accelerator, sending the engine into a deafening scream as they careened around a slick corner into the heart of Otisburg.

He pulled up to the curb outside an old, shuttered establishment. A faded neon sign hummed weakly above the fogged display windows: SAL’S BARBER & SHEARS.

Harley blinked, peering out into the downpour. “A barbershop, Puddin’? What are we doin’ here? Is this a front for a mob boss? Are we gonna blow up the barber?”

Joker killed the engine, turned off the headlights, and smiled. It was a wide, terrifying grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hop out, pumpkin. The master artist has found his studio.”

Before Harley could ask another question, Joker was out of the car. He kicked through the shop’s glass front door with a single, sharp burst of violence. Chimes jingled merrily as shattered glass rained onto the tiled floor inside. Joker strolled in like he owned the place, hitting the light switch. A pair of buzzing, flickering fluorescent tubes overhead flickered to life, bathing the dingy, forgotten shop in a harsh, cold white glare.

The shop smelled of stale Barbicide, rusted steel, old leather, and floor wax.

Harley stepped over the broken glass, her high-heeled boots clicking against the tiles. She gave a nervous, high-pitched giggle, trying to laugh off the sudden chill settling in her stomach. “Gee, Mr. J, it’s a bit dusty in here. You need a trim or somethin’?”

Joker spun around, grabbing her firmly by the wrist. His grip was like a vice of cold iron. He dragged her toward the heavy, antique hydraulic barber chair sitting in the center of the room.

“Me? Oh no, my sweet, loyal pet,” Joker chuckled, forcing her down into the crackled black leather seat with a sudden, forceful push. “This isn’t about me. This is about you. Look at you!” He gestured wildly at her face, her outfit, her hair. “You’re getting comfortable. You’ve got your own little look, haven’t you? Your own little identity! It’s derivative, Harley! It lacks… cohesion.”

Harley tried to shift in the chair, her blue eyes wide with rising panic. The romantic illusion evaporated instantly, leaving behind the icy reality of who she was sitting with. “Puddin’… I—I like my hair. You said you liked my hair! You said the red and blue was cute!”

“I lied!” Joker barked, bursting into a brief, hysterical fit of laughter that ended as abruptly as it began.

He grabbed the heavy, plastic-coated salon cape hanging from a nearby peg and snapped it open. With a swift flick of his wrists, he wrapped it around her neck, pulling the clasp tight—a little too tight, pressing against her windpipe.

“Stay still, now,” he whispered softly into her ear, leaning down so close she could smell the sour scent of copper and cheap chemical grease on his breath. “Or the lines won’t be straight.”

Harley’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She stared into the large, oval mirror mounted on the wall before her. In the reflection, she saw Joker standing behind her, his face twisted in a dark, feverish glee. Behind his maniacal grin, she saw her own pale face, her lipsticked mouth trembling.

Keep smiling, she told herself desperately. If you smile, he won’t get mad. If you smile, it’s just a game.

She forced her lips to stretch into a bright, brittle grin, even as her hands clutched the armrests so hard her knuckles turned white under her gloves. “A—anything you say, Mr. J! Just a little off the ends, right?”

Joker ignored her. He reached into a glass jar filled with blue disinfectant solution and pulled out a heavy pair of stainless steel shears. They caught the harsh fluorescent light, gleaming with cruel precision.

He didn’t comb her hair. He didn’t section it. He grabbed her right pigtail—the blue-tipped one—in his fist, pulling it taut.

Harley’s breath hitched. “Puddin’, wait—”

The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet shop. The heavy blades of the shears crunched through the thick mass of blonde hair near the root.

Harley flinched as the weight suddenly disappeared from the right side of her head. Joker held the severed pigtail up like a hunter displaying a trophy, snickering as he tossed it carelessly onto the dirty floor, where it landed in a heap of dust and broken glass.

“One!” Joker cheered, dancing around the chair.

“Puddin’, please…” Harley choked out, tears finally welling in her eyes, threatening to ruin her white powder. “Not the other one… I spent months growing it out…”

“And I’m spending seconds freeing you from it!” Joker roared with delight.

He stepped to her left side, grabbed the crimson-tipped pigtail, and jammed the steel blades right against her scalp.

The second pigtail thudded onto the linoleum.

Harley stared into the mirror, horrified. Her signature look was gone. In its place were two jagged, uneven tufts of bleached blonde hair sticking out randomly around her ears. She felt light, stripped, exposed. A tear escaped her left eye, trailing down her cheek, but she clamped her jaw shut, maintaining her forced, manic smile.

“Look at that!” Joker crowed, admiring his work. “Already an improvement! But art, my dear Harley, is not merely subtraction. It is transformation!”

He reached down to the barber’s counter and picked up a pair of heavy, professional electric clippers. He flipped the power switch.

The loud, aggressive mechanical hum filled the small shop, vibrating through the air. Harley’s breath came in fast, shallow hitches.

“Now,” Joker murmured, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Let’s get rid of all that messy structure.”

He grabbed her forehead with his gloved palm, shoving her head back against the leather headrest. Harley could only watch the ceiling as the icy metal guard of the clippers pressed directly against her right temple.

The machine bit in.

Harley felt the harsh, intense vibration rattle straight through her skull. Locks of fine blonde hair began to rain down around her face like pale snow, landing on her nose, her eyelashes, her lap. Joker pushed the clippers upward, stripping the hair on the side of her head down to a rough, shadowy stubble.

He worked with wild, chaotic energy, dragging the blade up from her nape, buzzing away the soft hair at the base of her neck.

“Hold still, hold still!” he giggled, digging the metal teeth a bit deeper whenever she flinched. “Can’t have a shaky canvas!”

“I’m still, Mr. J! I’m good! I’m bein’ a good girl!” Harley whimpered, her voice cracking under the loud drone of the motor.

Joker pulled the clippers away from her right side, leaving a harsh, high undercut that exposed the bare skin of her scalp. He moved to the top of her head. Instead of buzzing it clean, he swapped the clippers for a long, straight razor.

With jagged, violent strokes, he hacked at the remaining hair on top, carving it into a messy, uneven, jagged mop. Long strands hung over her eyes, while short, blunt chunks stuck straight up in the air. Symmetry was destroyed. Elegance was murdered. He wasn’t styling her; he was unraveling her.

He turned off the clippers. The sudden silence in the shop was deafening, broken only by Harley’s ragged breathing and the steady pit-pat of rain on the roof.

Harley peeked into the mirror. The woman looking back at her didn’t look like Harley Quinn anymore. She looked fragmented, wild, ruined. Her head felt icy cold where the hair had been buzzed away.

“You like it?” Joker asked, leaning over her shoulder, his red lips resting inches from her cheek. “Tell me you love it, Harley.”

Harley swallowed hard, her throat raw. She looked at her reflection, then up at his dark, expectant eyes.

“I… I love it, Puddin’,” she lied, her voice a hollow whisper. “It’s… it’s very modern.”

“Oh, we’re not done yet!” Joker cackled, clapping his hands together. “A crown isn’t complete without its jewels! And you, my dear… need your color.”

Joker rummaged through the lower cabinets of the barbershop, tearing through old boxes until he found what he was looking for: a heavy industrial tub of hair bleach powder, a bottle of high-volume developer, and a thick, squeeze-bottle of vivid, semi-permanent hair dye.

It wasn’t red. It wasn’t blue.

It was a brilliant, chemical, acid green—the exact, terrifying shade of Joker’s own hair.

He mixed the concoctions in a plastic bowl, using a wooden spatula with frantic speed. The sharp, pungent stench of ammonia instantly filled the room, making Harley’s eyes burn and water.

“Puddin’, wait, ammonia burns on fresh-shaved skin—”

Before she could finish, Joker dumped the thick, icy mixture directly onto the top of her head.

Harley gasped aloud. The chemical paste sank into her freshly razor-scraped scalp, instantly igniting into a white-hot, searing burn. It felt like liquid fire being rubbed into open scratches.

Joker didn’t use a brush. He used his gloved hands, digging his fingers brutally into her short, jagged hair, smearing the toxic green paste from her scalp to the tips of her ruined fringe. He rubbed it in with rough, grinding motions, laughing maniacally as she squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face.

“Work it in! Paint the town!” he sang out cheerfully. “Matching sets, Harley! Imagine the tabloids! ‘The Clown Prince and His Mini-Me!’ Oh, the Batman is going to laugh his cowl off!”

He dragged her out of the chair by her cape, hauling her toward the back of the shop where a rusted porcelain washing sink sat against the wall. He shoved her head down into the basin with zero gentleness.

He slammed the tap on. Ice-cold water blasted over her head, washing the stinging chemicals down the drain, but the freezing water hitting her inflamed scalp sent a sharp shock through her system. Joker scrubbed her hair vigorously under the spray, his claws digging in, rinsing away the excess dye until the water running into the drain turned a bright, sickening lime color.

“Up we go!” he yelled, yanked her up by her wet hair.

He threw a scratchy, thin towel over her head, rubbing her hair dry with aggressive, jerking motions that made her neck snap back and forth.

Finally, he dragged her back to the main chair, spun her around, and kicked the hydraulic lever, elevating her so she was forced to look directly into the bright mirror.

Joker pulled out a portable hair dryer, switching it to high heat. The hot air blasted against her damp head, fluffing up the jagged, hacked-up locks.

When he finally turned the dryer off and stepped back, Harley stared at the reflection in the glass.

Her pigtails were gone. Her soft, feminine style was entirely erased.

In its place was a jagged, messy, punk-style crop. The sides of her head were buzzed down to a pale, shadowy fade, while the choppy, uneven spikes on top stuck up in wild, chaotic directions. And the color—it wasn’t the sweet, playful pink and blue she had spent hours perfecting.

It was a violent, fluorescent, blinding toxic green.

She looked like him. She was a living, breathing extension of his own madness. He had taken her identity, chopped it up, smashed it, and painted his own coat of arms over her head.

Joker leaned over her shoulder, placing his hands on her bare, trembling shoulders. He stared at her reflection with an expression of pure, unadulterated triumph.

“Magnificent,” Joker whispered, his voice trembling with dark satisfaction. “A masterpiece. Now… you truly belong to the show.”

Harley stared at her own eyes in the mirror. The tears were drying, leaving black tracks of mascara running down her pale, painted cheeks. She looked at her green hair—his hair. She looked at her buzzed scalp.

She felt a strange, cold numbness bloom inside her chest, washing away the terror, leaving behind only the deep, hollow void of her obsession.

Slowly, her trembling lips began to curl upward. The forced, terrified smile vanished, replaced by a real, unhinged grin. A sharp, ragged giggle escaped her throat. Then another.

“Look at me, Puddin’,” Harley hissed, her voice sounding different—sharper, wilder, unglued. She ran her gloved hand through the messy, neon-green spikes, feeling the raw, buzzed skin at her temples. “I look… just like you.”

Joker threw his head back and roared with laughter, his loud, echoing cackle bouncing off the cracked walls of the barbershop.

“That’s my girl!” Joker laughed, tossing the shears into the sink. “Come on, greenie. Night’s still young, and we’ve got a city to burn!”

Harley stepped out of the barber chair, ignoring the piles of her blonde pigtails scattered like dead leaves across the floor. She took Joker’s arm, pressing her head against his shoulder, her neon-green hair blending seamlessly with his own as they stepped out into the pouring Gotham rain.