BarberBrad
It had been six months since Liz rolled past that little barbershop, misread the “1 ALL OVER FOR $10” sign, and accidentally buzzed her shoulder-length hair into oblivion. The vintage shop crew had crowned her “Buzzcut Bandit” that very week, and the name stuck like glue. At first, she’d loved the bold, bristly look—how it made her feel fierce and unapologetic, especially with her thrift-store hoop earrings swinging against her bare neck. But hair grows, and by October, her once-stubbly scalp had sprouted into a shaggy pixie cut. The dark strands curled messily around her ears and grazed her jawline, a far cry from the sleek, no-nonsense buzz she’d accidentally fallen for.
Liz caught herself missing it—the cool, prickly feel of her scalp under her fingertips, the way the breeze hit her head like a wake-up call. The pixie was cute, sure, but it felt tame, like she’d lost her edge. She’d been scraping by on tips and her meager manager’s wage, so splurging on a salon was still out of the question. Then one chilly afternoon, driving home from a shift with her hair flopping into her eyes, she spotted that familiar red-and-white barber pole spinning lazily in the distance. Gus’s shop. Her heart gave a little jump. Ten bucks was still all she could swing, and if anyone could bring back that buzzcut magic, it was him.
She pulled into the cracked lot, her hatchback rattling as she parked. Inside, the shop was the same as before—smelling of aftershave and time, with Gus hunched over his magazine. He glanced up as the bell jingled, giving her a nod. “Back again, huh?”
“Yeah,” Liz said, plopping into the chair. “The buzz grew out, and I miss it. But I don’t know—maybe not just the same old thing. What do you recommend?” She figured Gus, with his decades of clipper wisdom, might have something up his sleeve.
Gus set the magazine down, eyeing her grown-out pixie. “How about a flattop? Short sides, flat on top, real sharp. I’ll throw in a landing strip down the middle—give it some style. Ten bucks, same as always.”
Liz grinned, intrigued. “A flattop? Like, military vibes? Let’s do it.” She pictured something cool and structured, a fresh twist on her bandit persona. Gus draped the cape over her, grabbed his clippers, and got to work. The buzz hummed to life, shearing the sides down to a #1—tight and crisp. Then he switched to a comb and scissors, leveling the top into a perfect plateau. Finally, with a steady hand, he carved a thin, faded stripe down the center—a “landing strip” that gave it a punky, retro flair. When he spun her around to the mirror, Liz’s eyes lit up.
“Holy crap, Gus, this is awesome!” She ran her hand along the flat top, feeling the stiff bristles against her palm. The sides hugged her head, the top stood proud, and that stripe added just the right kick. She felt like a badass again—maybe even more than with the buzzcut.
“Glad you like it,” Gus said, brushing off her neck. “Suits your spunk.”
Liz strutted out of the shop, head high, loving the sharp lines and the way the wind skimmed her scalp. At work, Sophie and the crew went wild—Sophie dubbed it “Buzzcut Bandit: The Sequel,” and customers kept asking where she got the guts for such a bold cut. For a few days, Liz was on top of the world, snapping selfies and rocking her vintage jackets with swagger.
But then the doubts crept in. She’d catch her reflection in a shop window and pause—did she look too masculine? The flattop was so boxy, so severe, especially with that stripe slicing through it. One jerk at the gas station even called her “sir,” and though she laughed it off, it stung. By the end of the week, she was dodging mirrors, tugging at her hoodie to soften the look, and feeling less like a bandit and more like a miscast extra in a bootcamp movie. She loved the cut at first, but now it felt like it wasn’t her.
That night, after a long shift, Liz stood in her cramped bathroom, staring at herself under the flickering light. The flattop glared back, all angles and attitude, but she couldn’t shake the embarrassment gnawing at her. She wanted her confidence back—her real self, not this awkward in-between. On impulse, she grabbed Brad’s clippers from under the sink, the same ones that had started this whole saga. “Screw it,” she muttered, flicking them on. She didn’t bother with a guard—just ran them straight over the top, watching the flattop crumble into a pile of dark clippings. The landing strip vanished, then the sides, until her head was a smooth, even fuzz, shorter than Gus’s #1. She kept going, chasing every last bit, until her scalp gleamed bare under the bulb.
When she switched off the clippers, silence settled in. Liz reached up, running both hands over her head—slowly at first, then faster, mesmerized by the velvety texture. It was smoother than ever, cooler, rawer. She couldn’t stop rubbing it, a grin spreading across her face as the embarrassment melted away. This wasn’t just a buzzcut—this was her, stripped down and fearless. She turned her head side to side in the mirror, laughing at how ridiculous and perfect it felt.
Brad poked his head in, bleary-eyed from the couch. “Whoa, Liz—what happened to the flattop? You bald now?”
“Yep,” she said, still rubbing her head. “Flattop wasn’t me. This is. Couldn’t help it—I love this feeling.”
He stepped closer, running his hand over her scalp with a smirk. “You’re nuts, but it’s hot. Buzzcut Bandit strikes again.”
Liz laughed, leaning into his touch. She didn’t care about the ten bucks or the missteps anymore. The flattop had been a detour, but this—this bare, bold head—was home. And as she lay in bed that night, still tracing her fingers over her smooth scalp, she knew she’d never let it grow out too far again. The bandit was back, and she wasn’t hiding from anyone.
