Haircutgirl
The morning light spilled through the tall, arched windows of the rehearsal hall, casting a golden haze over the polished wooden floors. Alessandra stood at the center of the room, her long, flaxen hair cascading down her back like a river of sunlight. She was humming softly, her voice a rich, velvety contralto that seemed to resonate with the very walls around her. Around her, the other singers chattered nervously, their voices blending into a symphony of excitement and anxiety. Tonight was the recital, and everyone was on edge.
“Have you heard?” one of the sopranos said, her voice tinged with urgency. “Henri Léon is coming tonight.”
Alessandra’s heart skipped a beat. The Henri Léon? The famed impresario known for discovering some of the greatest opera stars of their time? She set her brush down carefully and turned to the group.
“Why would he be here?” Alessandra asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“He’s casting Octavian for his next production,” another woman replied, her dark curls bouncing as she turned. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”
The excitement in the room was palpable, but Alessandra’s stomach churned. Octavian was a trouser role, one of the most coveted parts for a mezzo-soprano. It was a chance to shine, to prove oneself as both a singer and an actor. Alessandra’s heart leapt. She had always dreamed of playing Octavian—the young, impetuous nobleman who navigates love and intrigue with equal parts charm and vulnerability. But as she glanced around the room, she noticed the determined looks on the faces of the other women. They wanted it just as badly as she did.
The door creaked open, and Madame Rousseau swept in, her presence commanding immediate attention. Her sharp eyes scanned the room before landing on Alessandra.
“Alessandra,” she said with a mix of sternness and affection, “It’s your moment. You’re perfect for the part.”
Alessandra blinked, her fingers instinctively twisting a lock of her hair. “You think I could do it?”
“You could more than do it,” Madame Rousseau replied, stepping closer. “But you must be bold. Henri Léon appreciates commitment. He’ll be looking for someone who embodies the role, not just sings it.”
“What are you saying?” Alessandra asked, a pit forming in her stomach.
Madame Rousseau’s gaze shifted to Alessandra’s hair, and her meaning became clear. “You need to cut it. Short. Boyish. Let him see Octavian the moment you walk onstage.”
The room erupted in whispers and gasps.
“Cut my hair?” Alessandra repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. She reached up, touching the golden waves that had been her pride for as long as she could remember. “I… I don’t know.”
Alessandra felt like the ground had shifted beneath her. Her long hair was more than just a feature; it was a shield, a connection to her femininity in a world where she often felt out of place. She had always been aware of the way she carried herself, slightly more grounded, slightly less delicate than other women. But to cut her hair—it would feel like giving in, like admitting to the world what she’d always felt deep down, and yet it called to her, like a siren’s song.
The other women exchanged incredulous looks, their hands instinctively reaching up to protect their own hair.
“She’s joking, right?” one of them scoffed, tossing her chestnut curls over her shoulder. “I mean… I get it, but that’s a huge risk, What if you don’t get the part?”
“Definitely a risk,” Madame Rousseau shot back. She turned back to Alessandra, her voice softening. “But not for you, Alessandra, this is your moment. You’re afraid because you know it’s the right choice. Trust me—he’ll see you and know you’re Octavian. You have the voice, the presence. All you need is the look.”
The other singers whispered among themselves, their skepticism palpable. She looked around at the other women, their mocking smiles thinly veiling their nervous jealousy. They wouldn’t dare make such a sacrifice. But could she?
“I don’t know if I can do it,” Alessandra said finally, her voice trembling.
Madame Rousseau crouched beside her, taking her hands. “You’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life. Don’t let vanity hold you back.”
Alessandra stared at herself in the mirror. If she did this, there was no going back. No hiding behind soft waves. No pretending to be someone she wasn’t. And the thought—what if I actually like it?—both terrified and tempted her. With a deep, shuddering breath, she nodded. “Where do I go?”
A triumphant smile flickered across Madame Rousseau’s lips.
“The barbershop,” she said. “Let’s not waste any time.”
The Barbershop
The barber draped a cloth over her shoulders, his movements gentle but efficient. “So,” he said, his voice casual, as though this were just another haircut. “What are we thinking?”
Madame Rousseau stepped forward, her tone firm. “Short. Very short. A masculine cut—something boyish, but elegant.”
The barber raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to Alessandra in the mirror. “”You’re sure?” he asked, eyes flicking to her long, golden hair “This is quite a change.”
Alessandra’s throat tightened, her hands clenching into fists in her lap. She wanted to say no, to bolt from the chair and run as far away as she could. But she didn’t. Instead, she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes. Do it.”
The barber gave a slow, dubious nod. “Shame,” he muttered. “It’s beautiful.” And with that, he turned her away from the mirror.
The barber’s fingers combed through her hair, gathering thick, golden locks. For a fleeting moment, his hand hesitated—then with a decisive shhk, the scissors sliced through. Alessandra felt it before she saw it—nothing dramatic, no sharp pain, only an eerie lightness as her hair fell away. A cold rush of air kissed the back of her neck. Alessandra inhaled sharply, eyes burning. Each snip echoed in Alessandra’s ears as strands fell, a cascade of light and loss. She whimpered softly, her grip on the arms of the chair tightening until she could feel her nails digging in.
*What if I like it?*
The thought struck her with more force than the cutting itself. She had always resisted this part of herself—the height, the sharp jaw, the way her presence never seemed soft enough. She had spent so many years *compensating*, letting her hair be the thing that made her beautiful. And now it was—
Another snip. The barber did not stop.
More cuts, more snipping, the rhythmic slice of steel against silk. Locks of hair tumbled into her lap, slid down her shoulders, pooled onto the floor. Her fingers itched to reach up, to stop him, to gather what was left and cling to it. But it was too late. The long, soft waves were gone in minutes. Then came the clippers—there was no warning, only the sudden electric hum, the vibration against her nape.
Alessandra’s heart sank at the sound. She clenched her fists under the cape, willing herself not to cry, though her throat burned with the effort. The barber worked quickly, efficiently, and with no small amount of enjoyment.
“Almost done,” the barber said after what felt like an eternity. He tousled the remaining hair on top of her head, shaping it with his hands, some product and the occasional snip of the scissors. The barber gave her one last, careful look—then, with a small, satisfied nod, he turned her back to the mirror.
Alessandra almost didn’t want to look.
But she did.
And there she was.
Short on the sides, longer and tousled at the top—boyish, undeniably so. Her jaw looked sharper, her cheekbones higher. The vulnerability of it struck her like a physical thing.
She hated it.
And she could not stop looking at it.
It was as though something had been unearthed. She had spent years fighting against this part of herself— this androgynous undercurrent she could never quite suppress. And now, here it was, staring back at her in the mirror. She couldn’t deny that it suited her. There was a certain charm to it, a spark of something new and daring. She looked… cute. Boyish. Perfect for the part. But it was a far cry from the glamorous opera singer she had always imagined herself to be.
Still, as she reached up and tentatively ran her fingers through the short strands, she couldn’t ignore the ache inside her. She thought of her recital dress, hanging in her dressing room, its delicate fabric and elegant lines. How would she look in it now, with this boyish haircut? She felt a pang of loss, a deep, aching sorrow for the part of herself she had sacrificed. But beneath that sorrow, there was something else—a flicker of excitement, of anticipation. She had gained something, too. Something sparkling and new. Something that had been waiting for her.
Recital Night
When she entered the dressing room that night, the other women turned to look at her, their eyes widening in surprise. For a moment, there was silence. Then, one of them let out a laugh—a bright, musical sound that broke the tension. The others joined in, their laughter filling the room. Alessandra felt her cheeks flush, her hands instinctively reaching up to touch her hair. But then she realized their laughter wasn’t cruel. It was friendly, almost admiring.
“Oh, Alessandra,” one of the sopranos breathed, eyes wide as she pressed a hand to her own thick curls. “You really did it.” Another singer reached up and clutched her hair protectively, as if Alessandra’s boldness alone could make it vanish.
Alessandra felt her cheeks flush as she crossed to her vanity. She felt awkward, out of place. She envied the other women’s effortless beauty, their grace, their long, shining hair that framed their faces so perfectly.
But beneath the awkwardness, a spark of pride began to flicker. Some of them had wanted the role just as much. But none of them had gone through with it.
She ran a hand through her cropped hair, the gesture still new, still strange, but somehow… right. The fear hadn’t left her—it pulsed in her chest like a second heartbeat—but it was quieter now, tempered by something else. Something daring.
As Alessandra stood backstage, waiting for her cue, she could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her. She smoothed her hands over her gown—soft, flowing, elegant. It was everything she had always loved, and yet, with her newly shorn hair, it suddenly felt absurd.
A wave of self-consciousness surged through her as she stepped onto the stage. The lights were blinding, the audience a sea of expectant faces. Then, in a split-second decision, she chose to own it.
With a sudden, impish grin, she lifted the hem of her gown in an exaggerated curtsy, her movements too delicate, too poised, almost mocking. Then, in a swift, deliberate motion, she straightened, planting her feet wide like a cocky young man. She ran a hand through her cropped hair, her smirk widening as she tilted her head, as if to say, *Look at me. Look at what I’ve done.* The audience erupted into laughter, a warm, appreciative sound that washed over her like a wave. Even Léon chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement.
But as the laughter faded and she began her aria, her voice rich and resonant, she felt a pang of loss so sharp it nearly brought her to tears. But she sang—pouring into each note not only the heartbreak of the aria but her own ache, her own loss, her own reluctant, thrilling, terrifying transformation. The music soared, and she with it. When she finished, there was silence. A heartbeat of stillness—then the explosion of applause.
Alessandra stood in the center of it, breathless, burning.
After the performance, Alessandra retreated to her dressing room, her mind still swirling with emotions. The knock on the door startled her, and before she could answer, it burst open. The door burst open, and Claire—the brilliant costume designer and trusted friend—appeared in a flurry of energy and silk. Her dark curls framed a face flushed with both urgency and delight, and she clutched a garment bag close to her chest.
“Alessandra! I’m so sorry I’m late,” Claire exclaimed, breathless. “Madame Rousseau said you might need something special for the reception.”
Alessandra’s confusion gave way to wonder as Claire unzipped the bag to reveal a stunning suit—a masterpiece of tailoring, featuring a crisp white shirt, a sleek black jacket, and trousers that seemed made just for her.
Alessandra’s throat tightened. She reached out to touch the suit, her fingers brushing against the fine fabric, shimmering softly in the dressing room light. It was beautiful, but the thought of wearing it filled her with a strange, almost paralyzing fear.
She had never wanted this, had she?
But beneath the fear, beneath the disorientation, there was something else, something dangerous and intoxicating, like the first taste of forbidden wine. She had spent her whole life resisting this part of herself, fighting against the boyishness, the androgyny lurking beneath the surface.
Alessandra swallowed hard, her eyes meeting Claire’s in the mirror. Slowly, she nodded. With Claire’s help, she slipped into the suit, the fabric cool against her skin. It fit her perfectly, hugging her frame in a way that felt both foreign and exhilarating. Claire tied the bow tie for her, her fingers deft and sure, and stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Look at you,” Claire said, her voice filled with awe. “You’re stunning.”
Alessandra turned to the mirror, her breath catching in her throat. The suit accentuated her strong jaw, her broad shoulders, her boyish charm. She looked powerful, confident, and undeniably herself.
The Reception
The reception was in full swing when Alessandra arrived, the room buzzing with laughter and conversation. She paused at the entrance, her hand instinctively reaching up to touch her hair. With a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders, fixed a rakish grin on her face, and stepped into the room.
Heads turned as she made her way through the crowd, her presence commanding attention. She moved with a swagger, her boyish charm on full display, her suit a statement of defiance and self-assurance. Henri Léon spotted her almost immediately, his eyes narrowing with interest as he watched her approach. He wasted no time in requesting a private meeting, impressed by her performance and her ability to embody Octavian’s boyish charm so naturally.
Leon gave her a knowing nod and moved on, leaving Alessandra standing there, caught between triumph and something deeper—something reckless and electric that coursed through her veins.
She turned, exhaling, and that was when she saw *her.*
Francesca, with her dark, cascading hair and effortless glamour, was someone Alessandra had admired from afar but never dared to think would notice her.
“Alessandra,” Francesca purred, stepping close, the scent of jasmine and something deeper—something *dangerous*—filling the space between them. “You look… different.”
Alessandra’s heart fluttered, a mixture of surprise and something far more electric stirring within her. “Is that a good thing?” she asked, trying to steady her voice.
“Very,” Francesca replied with a knowing smile, her eyes dark and inviting.
The air between them crackled. Alessandra had been flirted with before—admired, even—but this was something else. This was a game she had never been invited to play. But before she could gather herself, Francesca had already leaned in, let her fingers ghost against Alessandra’s sleeve, and whispered, “I’ll be seeing you.”
Their conversation was as brief as it was charged—a few heated words and a lingering glance that promised more. Francesca melted back into the crowd, leaving Alessandra standing alone amid the revelry, her heart pounding with the possibilities of what was to come.
