CutLover
I hold the small cardboard raffle ticket up between two fingers, tapping it lightly against the glass of the mirror so the sharp click-click echoes through the quiet barbershop.
“Number seven.”
I turn around slowly, crossing my arms over my chest as I look down at you sitting in the vintage leather chair, taking in the thick, glossy black hair pouring all the way down past your shoulders to your waist.
“You didn’t read the sign on the door, did you? ‘Free mystery cut. Pull a number, sit in the chair, no backing out.’ Twenty numbers in that bowl, and you somehow managed to pull the single one nobody ever wants to see. Lucky number seven.”
You look up at me, already shifting nervously in the leather seat, your voice trembling as you start to protest.
“Wait—what is number seven? Actually, you know what, I changed my mind, I don’t even want a free haircut, I can just pay for a trim—”
I let out a low, dark laugh, shaking my head as I step forward and snap open a crisp, oversized white nylon cape with a loud crack that cuts your sentence right off.
“Too late for your wallet, sweetheart. The second you sat in my chair with that ticket in your hand, you belonged to the house rules. And number seven means I take every last hair off your head. Full chrome dome. Smooth and shiny.”
Your eyes go wide with panic. You start to push up off the armrests, pleading frantically.
“No, no, please! Not bald! Look how long my hair is, it took me years to grow this—please, just take a couple inches off, I’m begging you, don’t shave my head!”
Without a word, I push your shoulders straight back down into the leather cushion and throw the heavy white cape over you. I pull the collar tight around your neck, wrapping a fresh paper neck strip snugly against your skin and locking the metal snaps shut.
Before you can pull your arms free, I grab a thick roll of black barber’s strap from the side cart, wrap it swiftly around your torso and the back of the chair—pinning your arms securely beneath the white cape—and pull the buckle tight.
“There,” I murmur, leaning down right beside your ear as you struggle against the strap. “I told you—no backing out. Squirm all you want, you’re locked in.”
I step on the heavy iron foot pedal at the base of the chair.
Hiss. Clank. Hiss. Clank.
Pump after heavy pump, I elevate the chair high off the floor until your feet are dangling in midair and you’re completely at my mercy.
“Please! Let me up, I’m serious, please don’t do this!” you plead again, your voice rising in panic as you twist against the strap.
I sigh, reaching onto the station drawer and pulling out a roll of wide white medical tape. I tear off a long strip with a sharp riiiip.
“I warned you about pleading,” I say, my voice dropping into a low, dominant command as I tilt your chin up with my thumb and press the tape firmly across your lips. “Now you get to sit quietly and watch.”
Your muffled protests vibrate uselessly behind the tape as I pick up a pair of long, razor-sharp steel shears. I step right in front of you, opening and closing the blades—shhhk-clack, shhhk-clack—just inches from your wide, terrified eyes.
“Let’s see… where should we start?” I taunt, gathering a thick handful of your waist-length black hair in my fist and sliding the open blades over the very ends. “Just a little trim at the bottom? Make you think maybe I’m going easy on you?”
You shake your head frantically, muffling a desperate plea behind the tape as I slide my hand higher—straight up to your chest. I press the cold steel blades flat against your collarbone.
“How about chest length? Still pretty. Still plenty of hair to hide behind.”
CRUNCH.
Without warning, I slice straight through the heavy black curtain of hair. Over a foot of thick, silky locks drops heavily onto the white cape in your lap. You let out a muffled shriek, thrashing against the strap around your chest, only for me to grab the other side and chop it off to match.
“Shhh. Hold still,” I mock, spinning the chair sharply to the side. “You’re making a mess. Look at your lap already—half of it’s gone and we haven’t even gotten to the fun part. Swallow hard, sweetheart.”
You gulp down audibly, tears welling in your eyes as I grip your hair right at your shoulders. Before you can even brace yourself, I slide the shears higher still—right up to your jawline.
Snip. Snip. Snip. Snip.
I work fast and ruthlessly, carving away massive chunks from around your ears and the back of your neck. Thick curtains of black hair cascade down onto the white cape until your entire lap is buried under a heavy blanket of discarded locks. I grab the remaining short hair at your crown, tilting your head back so you’re forced to look straight into the mirror.
“Look at that. A cute little bob. Most girls would be sobbing right now just losing this much. Too bad number seven doesn’t stop at a bob.”
I drop the shears onto the counter with a loud clatter and pick up the heavy, solid-metal professional clippers. I flick the power switch.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
The aggressive roar of the motor vibrates through the air. You freeze completely, your breathing rapid and shallow through your nose as you stare at the bare, zero-gapped metal teeth in my hand.
“Hear that?” I tease, stepping directly behind your chair so you can’t see me coming. “That’s the sound of number seven.”
I bring the humming, vibrating blade right up to your ear, hovering a fraction of an inch from your skin, slowly tracing the hot metal edge down behind your earlobe and along the side of your neck just to feel you shudder and squirm against the strap.
“Don’t move a muscle,” I whisper darkly right beside your ear. “If you flinch, I’m not responsible for how messy this gets.”
I splay my wide palm flat over the crown of your head and press down firmly—forcing your chin straight down toward your chest, pinning your head completely motionless.
“Look down at all that hair in your lap. Say goodbye to the rest of it.”
I plant the roaring metal teeth flat against the center of your forehead, right at your hairline, and shove the clippers straight back over the top of your skull in one brutal, continuous pass.
CRRRRRRRRRR-BZZZZZZ!
A wide, naked stripe of pale scalp splits right down the middle of your head as the remaining hair falls away in a shower of short black clippings. A muffled sob escapes behind the tape as you tremble under my heavy hand.
“Oh, look how clean that is,” I murmur, keeping my palm locked onto your skull so you can’t lift your head an inch. “No turning back now.”
Pass after merciless pass, I mow down the sides and the back of your head, reducing every single millimeter of your waist-length hair to fine black dust on the floor. I click the clippers off, leaving your ears ringing in the sudden silence, and brush the loose clippings roughly off your bare, stubbly scalp with a towel.
“Almost done,” I say, tapping the top of your newly buzzed head. “Number seven says chrome dome. That means smooth as glass.”
I whip up a rich, steaming lather in a heavy ceramic bowl and slap a thick dollop of hot white foam right onto the crown of your bare head, spreading it briskly all over your scalp, behind your ears, and down your neck until your entire head is coated in thick white lather.
I pick up a gleaming straight razor, flicking the blade open with a sharp metallic snap right in front of your eyes.
“Keep still,” I order, planting one heavy hand firmly on your forehead to hold your head back against the headrest.
With smooth, practiced, and utterly dominant strokes, I draw the cold steel edge down through the white lather—ssshhhk, ssshhhk—stripping away every microscopic trace of stubble until your scalp is completely bare, polished, and shining under the overhead shop lights.
I wipe your head clean with a hot, damp towel, unbuckle the strap holding you to the chair, and peel the white tape slowly off your lips.
I step on the pedal, letting the chair hiss all the way back down to the floor, and pull the hair-covered white cape off with a sharp tug, dumping piles of your black hair onto the floor around your feet.
I lean down, resting both hands on the armrests on either side of you, boxing you in as I smirk at your wide-eyed reflection in the mirror.
“Look at that shine. Not a single hair left on your head. Tell me, sweetheart… have you got anything left to plead about now?”
