TheInvisibleMan
“The secret to my success, Joe, is that I don’t believe anything is impossible — I just do it.”
After the podcast recording, Andrea had a photoshoot scheduled. In the evening, a gala. In every gap between them, she recorded content. Millions of followers had to keep getting it, constantly.
She got into the car and started filming a reel with her impressions when an incoming call cut her off.
“Ms. Lynn, this is Dr. Murphy. Your test results came back. Unfortunately, you’ve been diagnosed with a form of cancer. I’d like you to come to the clinic urgently — ideally today. Better yet, right now.”
Andrea hung up. Cancer at twenty-nine. In my prime. Just when I’d achieved everything I’d been working toward. She didn’t cry. The terrifying news simply became a new challenge for her.
“Steven. Cancel the photoshoot and tonight’s event.”
They’ll run a whole battery of tests and won’t let me leave until tonight.
“Driver, we’re going to the clinic.”
Andrea sat in Dr. Murphy’s office, not quite understanding why she still hadn’t broken down in tears.
“I’m sorry to say the prognosis is unfavorable. You have acute myeloid leukemia with an extremely unfavorable molecular profile. The disease is progressing very fast. Based on the trajectory, we’re not even talking weeks — we’re talking days. We need to start chemotherapy immediately. All your projects will have to stop. We’ll have to give you very high doses. You’ll be extremely weak, you’ll have trouble eating, and you’ll lose all your hair almost right away.”
“All right, Dr. Murphy. Prepare a room and start treatment tonight. I’ll check in.”
Leaving his office, she made a call.
“Steven, I’ve been diagnosed with cancer. Treatment starts tonight. We’re launching a campaign. Come up with a strategy. Get the photographer back for the shoot and send a stylist. We’re shaving my head and filming all of it. Why? Sometimes you can be remarkably dense. My hair’s going to fall out anyway — I want it to be perfect. Yes, we’re sacrificing my hair. Build the strategy around that image.”
When she walked into the studio, everything was ready. The photographer and stylist were waiting, the shooting and makeup areas were set, the lighting was arranged, cameras on tripods were ready to record video segments and live streams.
An assistant rushed up with a tablet.
“Strategy for approval. Hashtag #UnbreakabAL. We start the livestream, post fragments as we go. When they cut your hair, we lean into hair donation for cancer patients, give out foundation addresses. A couple of intermediate short cuts, we lean into feminism and girl-power. You shave with the clippers yourself, we run the GI Jane track, rights are cleared. We sent a request to Demi Moore for a possible message of support, awaiting a response. End result: full clean shave, maximum brutal, sexy image. Only after that do we push the hashtag and announce the diagnosis. The statement text is recorded, the team’s working on the visuals for it.”
“Approved, all of it.”
Andrea was already in the makeup artist’s chair, who was working on the first, feminine look. The costume designer had her outfit ready for the shoot. A dress — maximum femininity. Then the photographer’s work: graceful poses, soft curves, warmth and comfort. All the while she suppressed her nerves, glancing now and then at the tall chair where, in a few minutes, she would lose all her hair.
As Andrea sat down, her outward composure was betrayed only by a racing heart. She let her hair down. Long, heavy, perfectly styled chestnut strands fell below her shoulder blades. She ran her palm over them once — slowly, almost tenderly — and let go.
The stylist prepared the bag; her hair was secured with two elastic bands, one as close to the scalp as possible, the second five centimeters below it. For the sake of preserving the donated hair, it would have been better to cut small ponytails off one at a time, but that wouldn’t have looked nearly as dramatic.
“Cut it!”
The heavy-duty clippers roared to life. Andrea shut her eyes for a second. The clippers bit into the hair between the two bands with an even louder noise. The camera caught a close-up. It looked less like clippers cutting hair than a chainsaw felling an ancient tree. One pass, another. The huge ponytail came free and stayed in the stylist’s hand.
Everyone on camera performed delight. Andrea clapped her hands, laughing, though a tear was visible at the corner of her eye. The smiling stylist sealed the hair into a clear bag, showing it to the camera. Hair for the children’s cancer foundation.
What was left of Andrea’s hairstyle, ragged from the elastic bands, lay uneven. A few more shots, a live segment. Laughter, her head now light, hands running through what remained. She sat back down in front of the mirror; a cape was draped over her, and the stylist got down to the real work.
With quick, decisive movements she measured out the length, scissors cutting strands to build a look of playful, chaotic ease. Clippers with a long guard passed several times over the back of her neck. Andrea looked at herself with a short pixie cut and barely recognized her own reflection.The chosen outfit matched the look: sensual femininity gave way to youthful boldness and innocence. Another live segment, another round with the photographer.
Social media exploded. The unexpected new look drew attention — some praised it, some raged, one fan wrote she’d already booked a salon appointment — but this was only the beginning.
Once they’d shot the final frame of that look, the costume designer was already dressing her in edgy military-style clothes. A couple more minutes; the cameras were rolling, and “The Homecoming” started playing.
Andrea walked over to the table, looked down, and picked up the clippers lying there. She turned them over in her hands for a moment, looked in the mirror. She raised the clippers to her forehead, switched them on, and drew them in one decisive motion from her hairline to the back of her neck, leaving a strip of short stubble behind.
She went over the crown of her head again and again. Then she shaved the sides and finished with a pass over the nape. She set the clippers down, ran a hand over her stubble, smiled, and dashed out of frame, nearly colliding with the costume designer on her way out.
Before the shoot, the stylist quickly evened out a few rough patches. The session was shot in the pseudo-military outfit; she even tried on a helmet. Social media was in an uproar. Theories flew, criticism mixed with awe, girls who’d already booked haircuts didn’t know what to do now. The livestream came back on.
Andrea sat obediently under the cape once more. A pair of hands began working shaving foam into her scalp, massaging it in. She rolled her eyes. A straight razor touched her lathered head. A sensitive microphone picked up the crackle of stubble being shaved, turning the stream into ASMR. Centimeter by centimeter, Andrea Lynn’s head became completely smooth. Hands ran over her scalp, searching for missed spots, and the razor dealt with them at once. Then came the lotion and the oil rubbed into her skin.
When the cape was pulled away, underneath it was an aggressive, sexual look. Black latex and leather, a smooth, gleaming head, predator’s makeup, the look of a huntress on the hunt. Andrea barely resembled the woman from the first shoot a few hours earlier. Her poses grew far more explicit, as if she wanted to surrender herself entirely.
The internet exploded — she was everywhere; some were still catching up on the earlier looks, already far behind; some sat in stunned silence. The final livestream ended. Across all her social channels, the video UnbreakabAL appeared simultaneously. In a confident but faintly sentimental voice, Andrea admitted she was battling cancer, that the coming months would be a hard fight, and that although she’d be posting less, she would absolutely keep her followers updated on her treatment.
Utterly drained, she got into the car now heading for the clinic. Andrea ran her hand over her completely smooth head once more, and for the first time that day, the emotion caught up with her. She wept, unable to stop.
Want to find out what happened next? The continuation of the story is already waiting for you on my Patreon. But be warned: things become very different from what they seem at first. Even the genre of the story itself may surprise you.
