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At eleven forty-seven on a cold Gotham night, Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy were in the middle of losing an argument with four officers and winning the fight that had grown out of it. Police lights painted the downtown street in alternating waves of red and blue while curious faces watched from distant windows. Harley moved between the officers with theatrical ease, her heavy mallet spinning in her hands and her blonde twin tails flying behind her. “Ladies, ladies! There’s plenty of me to arrest!” she announced as an officer ordered her to show her hands. Ivy sighed at the attention Harley attracted, then raised one hand toward the pavement. Thick green vines erupted from cracks in the asphalt, caught two officers by their ankles and pulled them backward before they could reach her. Harley ducked beneath a swinging baton and grinned at its owner, treating the confrontation like a performance rather than an attempted arrest.
As Harley spun away, her right pigtail swept through the air behind her. Another officer reached out instinctively and caught the loose length. The elastic snapped, flying into the darkness as half of Harley’s blonde hair spilled free. She landed in a crouch with her left pigtail still perfectly intact and the entire right side hanging over her shoulder. For a second, everyone paused. Harley touched the loose hair, slowly looked toward the officer and informed her that the matter had become personal. A moment later, the officer’s baton was sailing across the street beneath a swing of Harley’s mallet. Ivy’s vines restrained the remaining officers, and the confrontation ended with Harley posing proudly beside them despite her lopsided hairstyle. Ivy tried to suppress a smile as she pointed out that half of Harley’s hair had escaped. Harley admitted that she had been hoping they would not discuss it.
They disappeared before more police arrived and stopped several blocks away on the rooftop of an old brick building. Gotham’s towers rose around them beneath a cloudy moon, while a rusted water tank offered Harley an inadequate reflection. She sat on a low ledge and attempted to reconstruct the missing pigtail with her fingers. Every attempt came out crooked, loose or noticeably lower than the other side. Ivy watched her struggle until Harley complained that her hair never sat properly when she styled it without a mirror. Ivy observed that Harley was tying a knot while staring at a water tower and gently took the loose section from her hands. “Sit still. I’ll fix it,” she said. Harley obeyed with exaggerated reluctance, though the speed with which she turned her back toward Ivy suggested that she was relieved to receive help.
Ivy removed the remaining elastic so that all of Harley’s hair fell loose around her shoulders and down her back. Harley declared that she now looked equally terrible on both sides, but Ivy ignored her and found a small brush inside Harley’s bag. Starting at the ends, she patiently worked through the knots created by combat, wind and careless maintenance. Harley winced whenever the brush caught, insisting that she had never realized how tangled her hair had become. Ivy examined several frayed tips and diagnosed split ends. Harley reacted as though she had announced a terminal illness and demanded to know why nobody had warned her. Ivy said that her hair had been trying. With Harley’s nervous permission, she pinched only the damaged ends between her fingers and trimmed them away with two careful snips. When she brushed the lengths again, they felt smoother. Harley ran the ends between her fingers and reluctantly admitted that the difference was pleasant.
Using the pointed end of a comb, Ivy created a precise center part. She gathered one half of Harley’s hair into a high pigtail, secured it and repeated the process on the opposite side. After adjusting both until their height and tension matched, she handed Harley a compact mirror. Harley turned her head left and right, admiring the restored symmetry and the colored tips framing her shoulders. She told Ivy that she had stylist hands. Ivy chose to accept the remark as a compliment, then observed that both of them could probably use a proper hair day. Harley’s face brightened immediately. She asked whether Ivy meant a spa day, then remembered an exclusive salon in an expensive Gotham shopping district. According to Harley, it handled one client at a time, guaranteed complete privacy and catered to heroes, diplomats and wealthy eccentrics. Ivy should have recognized the reckless enthusiasm in Harley’s expression, but after the fight and the rooftop grooming session, a professional wash and blowout sounded genuinely appealing.
The Regent occupied a narrow storefront between two polished boutiques. Dark wood framed its windows, brass letters gleamed above the door and a traditional striped barber pole stood beside frosted glass announcing private barbering and hairdressing by appointment. Harley pressed both hands to the window and peered into the dim interior. Ivy asked how Harley had learned about such an exclusive establishment. Harley claimed that she listened. Through the glass, they could see a single burgundy barber chair, an enormous mirror, dark cabinets and shelves filled with carefully arranged products. Inside, the shop was even more elaborate. There was a porcelain shampoo basin, brass fittings, a hood dryer, towel warmers, colorful perm rods and rows of scissors, straight razors and heavy electric clippers. Harley gazed at the clippers with such fondness that Ivy immediately warned her against developing ideas.
Mr. Bellamy, the salon’s middle-aged proprietor, emerged from the back room wearing a white shirt, dark waistcoat and spotless apron. He began to ask whether they had an appointment, recognized them and replaced the question with an immediate refusal. Harley protested that he had not even heard what they wanted. Bellamy pointed toward the door and ordered them out. She offered to pay double, but his answer remained no. While Harley continued arguing near the counter, Ivy wandered toward the back shelves and glanced at an open supply closet. She pointed toward the floor and asked whether something was leaking. Bellamy turned, muttered in alarm and bent into the closet to inspect the nonexistent problem. Ivy closed the door behind him, and Harley quickly turned the key in the lock. As Bellamy pounded from inside, Harley spread her arms beside the barber chair and congratulated Ivy on becoming the co-owner of a salon. Ivy reminded her that this was not how ownership worked.
Despite the imprisoned proprietor’s objections, Ivy accepted the position of first customer. She settled into the burgundy chair while her extraordinary red hair spilled over the back and nearly touched the floor. Harley fastened a black cape around her neck and announced the opening of the Quinn-Isley Beauty Empire. Ivy established strict conditions before allowing the service to continue: Harley could wash, condition and dry her hair, but she could not cut it, color it or attempt anything experimental. Harley agreed and, to Ivy’s surprise, performed the treatment sincerely. She saturated the massive red lengths at the porcelain basin, worked shampoo through them with both hands and remarked that Ivy possessed enough hair for three people. Ivy reminded her that she was cutting none of it. Harley rinsed carefully, squeezed away the water with towels and blow-dried the hair in sections over a round brush.
When the last section was dry, Ivy’s hair spread around the chair in a smooth, gleaming red curtain. She ran her fingers through it and tried to maintain her usual composure, but the result felt too luxurious to dismiss. She admitted that it felt ridiculously good. Harley smiled and told her that she had known it would. Then Harley dropped dramatically into the chair and demanded equal treatment. Ivy removed both elastics simultaneously, allowing the blonde hair and its colored ends to fall completely loose. She poured a little oil into her palm, smoothed it through the lengths and massaged Harley’s scalp. Harley’s eyes closed almost immediately, and her shoulders relaxed as she accused Ivy of withholding this talent from her. After washing away the oil, Ivy blow-dried Harley’s hair with a paddle brush until it became sleek, glossy and surprisingly elegant. Harley stared into the mirror and said that she looked almost respectable. Ivy emphasized the word almost.
The mood shifted when Harley picked up the barber scissors and held the closed blades beside a section of Ivy’s immense red hair. She asked whether Ivy had ever wondered how she might look with a bob. Ivy pulled the hair away and answered no without hesitation. In response, she picked up the vintage clippers, switched them on beside Harley’s loose blonde hair and suggested a pixie cut. Harley gathered her hair protectively and refused with equal force. They eventually sat together on the reception counter, their freshly groomed hair loose around them. Harley observed that cutting hair sounded fun until the hair belonged to them. Ivy replied that this was because their hair was beautiful. Harley was about to answer when she noticed an open leather appointment ledger on the desk. She pulled it closer and found the next entry: three o’clock, Zatanna Zatara, full hair and facial service.
Harley slowly turned toward Ivy with an enormous grin. Ivy said no before Harley had spoken a full sentence. Harley protested that she had not yet proposed anything, but they both knew the proposal was already forming. Within minutes, Harley and Ivy stood before the salon mirror wearing borrowed vintage stylist uniforms. Harley tucked most of her recognizable blonde hair beneath a cap, leaving only a few colored strands visible. Ivy pinned up her red hair, added glasses and attempted to look calm and professional. Harley asked how she appeared. Ivy said she looked like a lawsuit. They cleared away anything suggesting their earlier visit, straightened the counter and prepared the chair. From the closet, Bellamy resumed pounding and demanding release. Harley turned up the salon music until his voice became indistinct.
At three minutes past three, the front door opened and Zatanna Zatara entered. She wore an elegant black stage outfit beneath a tailored coat, and her signature top hat rested above very long, straight black hair that reached her waist. The hair moved behind her in a glossy sheet as she approached the reception counter. Harley glanced toward Ivy and struggled to suppress a grin. Zatanna greeted them politely, then asked where Mr. Bellamy was. Ivy adopted a composed expression and explained that he had become ill rather suddenly that afternoon, leaving them to cover his remaining appointments. Zatanna looked around the familiar shop and asked why Bellamy had not called her. Harley invented a severe stomach problem and advised her not to request details. Ivy opened the genuine ledger, showed Zatanna her name and booking, and pointed out that the regular service notes were present.
Zatanna remained suspicious, but the shop looked exactly as it always had, and she had already made the journey across Gotham. When Harley professionally confirmed that the booking included a hair treatment, facial, wash and finish, Zatanna agreed to stay. She removed her coat and hat and sat in the antique chair. Her black hair fell over the chair back in a thick, shining sheet. Harley fastened a black salon cape around her neck while Ivy carefully pulled every strand free so that none remained trapped beneath the fabric. Harley asked whether she was comfortable, and Zatanna confirmed that she was. Ivy began brushing from the ends upward, supporting the heavy length in one hand while guiding the brush with the other. She complimented Zatanna on the condition of her hair. Zatanna replied that maintaining it was an occupational requirement for a stage magician whose appearance formed part of every performance.
Ivy sectioned the hair with her fingers and announced that they would begin with a scalp massage. Zatanna initially watched both women in the mirror, still alert for signs of incompetence, but Ivy’s hands worked with such calm precision that her suspicion gradually faded. Ivy massaged her temples and moved through the scalp with slow, even pressure. Zatanna’s shoulders lowered, and her eyes eventually closed. She admitted that the service was surprisingly good. Harley leaned beside the shampoo station and proudly said that she had promised the place was fancy. For several minutes, the appointment felt entirely legitimate. Ivy suggested performing the facial while they treated the hair, and Zatanna agreed. Harley reclined the chair while Ivy placed a warm towel around Zatanna’s shoulders, applied facial cream and covered her eyes with cucumber slices.
Zatanna’s black hair trailed into the porcelain basin while Harley pulled on gloves. Unable to see, Zatanna relaxed and listened to the quiet movement around her. Harley leaned toward Ivy and whispered that they could finally experiment. Ivy quietly warned her, but Harley had already begun shampooing Zatanna’s hair. At first, she performed the wash properly, creating thick foam through the black lengths. Zatanna remarked that the fragrance differed from Bellamy’s usual shampoo. Harley called it a new formula and rinsed everything away. Then, while Ivy watched with widening eyes, Harley mixed pale lightener in a bowl. Ivy whispered that the mixture was not conditioner. Harley smiled and answered that she was correct. Before Ivy could stop her, Harley began painting the lightener through Zatanna’s long black hair.
Harley worked carefully enough that the physical process felt professional. She coated the roots, mid-lengths and ends, then gathered the hair beneath a clear processing cap. Zatanna asked how long the treatment needed to remain. Harley estimated ten minutes. As the chemicals developed, warmth spread across Zatanna’s scalp. She lifted one eyebrow beneath the cucumber slices and mentioned the sensation. Harley rested a reassuring hand on the chair and told her it was completely normal, describing it as the conditioning treatment settling into the hair. Ivy stood behind her with visible concern but said nothing. Nine minutes later, Harley guided Zatanna back to the basin and rinsed the hair thoroughly. Ivy removed the cucumber slices and wiped away the facial cream. Zatanna opened her eyes, sat upright and remarked that she already felt better.
Then she looked into the mirror. Her glossy black hair had become an uneven mass of dirty blonde, orange and dark brown patches. Some sections near the face were golden, the ends were brassy and several broad bands remained almost black. Zatanna stared at her reflection as though it belonged to someone else. Her eyes widened before she asked what had happened to her hair. Harley raised both hands and told her not to panic. Zatanna immediately grabbed the cape and began pulling it loose, announcing that the appointment was over. Ivy stepped beside the chair with her palms raised and asked her to wait. Leaving the hair halfway lifted, she explained, would produce a worse result than completing the correction. Zatanna stood halfway out of the chair and demanded to know what could possibly look worse than the orange disaster reflected before her.
Ivy pointed to the remaining dark sections and explained that they could still be evened out. She proposed one controlled application to the darker bands so that the entire head would match. Harley held up a pale-blonde sample swatch and insisted that an even base had to come before correcting the tone. Zatanna did not trust them, but she understood enough about color to recognize the problem. Walking into Gotham with striped orange-and-black hair was not an acceptable solution. She reluctantly sat back down and authorized one more treatment, warning them that they would stop afterward. Harley divided the hair into four large sections, and Ivy painted lightener only onto the dark bands. Foils and coated sections surrounded Zatanna’s head as she sat rigidly in the chair. When she asked how bad the damage was, Ivy answered that it was fixable. Nobody relaxed during the processing time.
After the next rinse, the hair emerged evenly pale blonde from roots to ends. The color was radically different, but the dark bands and orange patches had disappeared. Zatanna touched a strand and stared at herself, saying that she looked like an entirely different woman. Ivy emphasized that the result was at least even, while Harley declared it progress. Zatanna was still trying to accept the blonde reflection when she noticed Harley mixing another bowl. The liquid inside was an intense, vivid pink. She asked why any corrective product needed to be that color. Harley held up the tint brush and explained that it was toner, adding that such products always appeared stronger in the bowl. Zatanna called it extremely pink. Ivy, already implicated in the previous correction, cautiously agreed that toners could look dramatic before rinsing.
The pale blonde disappeared as Ivy painted pink color onto the roots and Harley worked it through the mid-lengths. Soon every strand was saturated with bright product and gathered beneath a processing cap. Zatanna asked whether they were certain it would rinse lighter. Harley promised that it would. When the processing ended, pink-tinted water streamed into the basin. Harley began blow-drying the first section, and the hair emerged unmistakably vivid pink. Ivy looked at Harley and whispered that the color was not subtle. Harley continued drying until the entire waist-length sheet gleamed like polished neon silk. Zatanna faced the mirror, stared at the transformation and quietly stated, “This is pink.” Harley admitted that it had developed more strongly than expected. Zatanna ordered them to return it to black immediately.
Before Harley could invent another corrective process, Ivy examined the ends and discovered that the repeated lightening had exposed extensive damage. The final inches felt rough and brittle between her fingers. She showed Zatanna the split texture and explained that the damaged portion required trimming. Zatanna pointed firmly at the ends and authorized the removal of only that section. Harley promised on her honor. Ivy combed the pink hair straight down over the cape, and Harley positioned the scissors across the bottom. One firm snip removed several inches. A thick pink lock landed across the black cape. Zatanna looked down at it and observed that Harley had taken considerably more than an inch. Harley claimed that the damaged section had extended farther than expected, then moved to the opposite side to match it.
The second side came out shorter than the first. Ivy held both lengths beside Zatanna’s shoulders and confirmed the difference. To restore symmetry, the longer side had to be shortened again. That correction revealed another uneven section at the back, which required another cut. Hair accumulated across the cape and around the base of the chair. Each adjustment was described as minor, but the pink length climbed steadily upward. By the time Harley stopped, it sat above Zatanna’s shoulders with visibly ragged ends. Zatanna stared at the floor and said that the service had stopped being a trim. Harley responded that it was becoming a style. Zatanna’s expression suggested that this distinction did not comfort her.
Ivy combed down a section at the back so Harley could refine it. Harley cut across the hair much higher than intended, leaving a short ledge near the nape. Zatanna heard the scissors close and immediately asked what had happened. Ivy inspected the section while Harley froze. After an uncomfortable pause, Ivy said that they could blend it. Zatanna replied that she had learned to hate that sentence. To create a deliberate outline, Ivy combed all the upper hair straight down around Zatanna’s head. Harley cut a rounded horizontal perimeter from one side toward the back. The shape formed heavily at ear level, while longer uneven strands remained underneath. Zatanna watched the structure emerge in the mirror and correctly identified it as a bowl cut. Ivy insisted that it was not finished, which Zatanna found even less reassuring.
Harley lifted the heavy upper section, exposing the much shorter patch at the back. Ivy explained that it could not blend naturally with the remaining lower hair. Harley picked up the vintage clippers but kept them switched off as she proposed making the lower section deliberately short. Zatanna used a hand mirror to inspect the patch. She looked exhausted rather than surprised, as though her capacity for disbelief had finally been depleted. She asked how short they intended to go. Ivy answered that it would need to be short enough to appear intentional. Zatanna closed her eyes, took a slow breath and told them to make it even. The reluctant permission was all Harley needed. She lifted the upper bowl section while Ivy switched on the clippers.
The clippers moved upward along the nape, removing the uneven lower strands in neat passes. Ivy continued around the sides, guiding the machine above the ears and blending the remaining stubble into a close, uniform buzz. Short pink clippings fell onto the cape, leaving Zatanna’s sides and back exposed beneath the heavy straight top. Harley studied the result and decided that the upper section needed texture to balance the severity of the undercut. Before Zatanna could object, they dampened the pink hair and wrapped it tightly around rows of small perm rods. Processing solution followed, then neutralizer. When the rods were removed, compact curls sprang into place. Harley shaped them into a rounded cap that sat entirely on top of the head, while the closely shaved temples, sides and nape remained clearly visible.
Zatanna faced the mirror for the final reveal. The waist-length black hair with which she had entered was gone. In its place was a tightly permed bright-pink bowl of curls over nearly shaved sides and back. She turned her head slightly and saw the exposed nape reflected in the hand mirror. Harley and Ivy stood behind her smiling with misplaced pride. Zatanna asked whether this was what they considered fixing the problem. Harley called it memorable. Ivy, studying the startling contrast between pink curls and dark stubble, agreed that it was very memorable. Zatanna demanded a precise list of every product they had used, but the room remained silent. She turned away from the mirror and discovered that both supposed stylists had disappeared.
The salon was empty except for Zatanna, the scattered pink clippings and the evidence of an appointment that had spiraled beyond reason. She called out, receiving no answer. Then pounding erupted from the rear supply closet. A muffled voice asked whether anyone was outside. Zatanna approached, unlocked the door and stepped aside. Mr. Bellamy stumbled into the salon looking disheveled, furious and exhausted. He shouted that two women had tricked him and locked him inside, then finally looked directly at Zatanna. His anger vanished. His eyes moved from the tight pink curls to the closely buzzed side of her head and then toward the abandoned cape covered in hair. After a long silence, he managed to say her name. Zatanna raised one gloved hand and told him not to comment.
Bellamy explained that the intruders had been one blonde woman and one redhead. Zatanna’s confusion hardened into realization. She touched the closely shaved hair above her ear while staring into the mirror and said Harley Quinn’s name. Her fingers moved upward to one of the tight pink curls as she identified Poison Ivy. Every strange moment of the appointment rearranged itself in her memory: Bellamy’s unexplained absence, the borrowed uniforms, the unfamiliar shampoo, the false conditioner, the impossible toner and the sequence of mistakes that had required progressively more drastic solutions. What she had interpreted as incompetence now appeared deliberately chaotic. Whether every accident had truly been planned no longer mattered. Harley and Ivy had taken control of the situation, and Zatanna intended to make them answer for it.
Later that night, Zatanna walked along a Gotham sidewalk beside John Constantine. She had changed out of the cape and into her elegant black stage clothes, but an oversized black hat was pulled low over her head. Constantine noticed the unfamiliar hat immediately and asked whether it was new. Zatanna warned him not to continue. A sudden gust of wind lifted the hat from her head before she could catch it. The bright pink curls appeared beneath the streetlights. Constantine’s eyebrows rose, and he cautiously remarked that the style was new. Zatanna turned to retrieve the hat, revealing the closely buzzed sides and bare nape beneath the rounded curls. Constantine stared for another second before muttering that there was apparently a second act to the haircut. Zatanna’s glare persuaded him that laughter would be hazardous.
Across the city, Harley and Ivy relaxed at their hideout as though the salon incident had been an ordinary afternoon of beauty treatments. Ivy sat behind Harley on a sofa and removed both twin-tail elastics, allowing the blonde hair and colored ends to fall loose. Harley described the salon day as successful. Ivy replied that this was one possible interpretation. As Ivy brushed through Harley’s hair, Harley studied the reflection of Ivy’s enormous red lengths cascading almost to the floor. Her gaze shifted toward a pair of scissors resting on a nearby table. She picked them up by the finger loops and turned them thoughtfully in her hand. Ivy noticed immediately in the mirror. Harley began with the word “hypothetically” and held the closed scissors beside one long red lock without touching it. Ivy answered no before the question could be completed. Harley returned the scissors to the table, still smiling, while Ivy gathered her hair safely over one shoulder. For the moment, at least, the next makeover would have to wait.
