Haircutgirl
Stand Alone but also a second part to Alessandra’s Chance: A Trouser Role
Rehearsals began the next week, and Alessandra’s heart pounded as she stepped into the hall. She had spent days preparing for Octavian, but nothing could have prepared her for seeing Francesca—her Sophie—again. Francesca looked up from her sheet music, a knowing smile playing on her lips, her long waves swept into a loose bun.
From the first rehearsal, the chemistry crackled. Alessandra’s transformation hadn’t ended with the haircut—it was in the way she moved, the way she was. The cropped hair, the androgynous appeal—it was effortless, natural, something that had always been in her, waiting to be uncovered. To stay true to Octavian, she kept the look, visiting the barber every two weeks. The clippers still sent a pang of embarrassment through her, but it was worth it.
She and Francesca flirted shamelessly, their voices blending in perfect harmony. By opening night, they were inseparable, both on and off stage. When she stepped onstage as Octavian, the transformation was complete. And when the curtain fell, when the applause roared through the opera house like a storm, she knew. She could never go back.
Alessandra wasn’t afraid anymore. She wasn’t afraid to stand out. She wasn’t afraid of her short hair, of the androgyny that had once made her insecure.
Soon, she and Francesca became the opera world’s most talked-about duo, their electric connection captivating audiences and press alike. What once felt like a sacrifice—her short hair, her androgyny—became something she loved. It wasn’t just part of the role. It was part of her.
VACATION
Venice was warm at dusk, the scent of salt and old stone drifting through the open windows of their rented palazzo. Below, the canals shimmered gold with the last light of day. The season had ended triumphantly, and they had earned this break. Alessandra lounged on a chaise, wine in hand, the breeze teasing at her overgrown pixie. It was the longest her hair had been in a while, but she had planned to tidy it up before rehearsals resumed.
Francesca had other ideas.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth on her skin, until she heard the click of clippers behind her.
Alessandra’s eyes snapped open. Francesca leaned against the doorway, barefoot, wearing nothing but one of Alessandra’s button-downs, idly twirling a cord around her fingers. In her other hand—those damn clippers.
Alessandra sat up slowly. “Absolutely not,” she said, setting her wine down.
Francesca smirked, sauntering forward. “It’s getting long,” she murmured, fingers threading into her hair, tugging lightly.
“I like it like this.” Alessandra protested, protectively ruffling her fingers through her hair.
A low laugh, dark and knowing. “Do you?” Francesca tilted her head. “It’s the off-season. No stage, no critics. I think you’d look devastating if I took it just a little shorter.”
“Well, I can’t go too short,” Alessandra hedged, even as Francesca’s nails traced slow, lazy patterns over her scalp, lulling her into something warm, something pliant. “I need it to grow in properly for—”
Francesca flipped the clippers in her hand, tilting them so Alessandra could see. A three. That was—too short. It wasn’t bald, but it was certainly too cropped for the stage.
Francesca trailed a fingertip along her jaw, then tipped her chin up, eyes dark with something heady, something inevitable.
“Francesca,” Alessandra warned.
“Alessandra,” she echoed, teasing. Her fingers curled into Alessandra’s hair, lifting the strands at the nape. “You’ll look devastating,” she murmured.
Alessandra’s breath hitched, her pulse thrumming in her throat. She could stop this, snatch the clippers from her hand and run.
Instead, she let herself tilt her head back against the chaise, exhaling. Closing her eyes.
Just for a second.
Francesca took that as permission.
The clippers met her temple, the sensation startling, intimate. Alessandra’s eyes flew open as the first locks tumbled down her shoulder.
“Francesca—” she gasped, jerking forward, but Francesca was faster. She slid onto Alessandra’s lap, straddling her thighs, holding her in place with nothing but the pressure of her body.
“Hush.”
Alessandra shuddered, half in shock, half in a dark thrill. Her body betrayed her, breath uneven as Francesca settled over her, pressing their bodies flush, lips slightly parted, something dark and pleased in her expression. The sensation of losing control was intoxicating and terrifying all at once.
Francesca worked methodically, her fingers following the clippers, brushing away loose strands, tracing the new shape of Alessandra’s head. It was unbearably intimate—the way Francesca’s breath fanned against her cheek as she worked.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Francesca murmured, pressing a kiss to the newly bared skin just behind her ear.
Alessandra whimpered. “It’s too short.”
Francesca only laughed, tracing the soft new fuzz at her nape. “Maybe.” Another pass of the clippers, another tumble of golden-brown strands to the floor.
She took her time, buzzing Alessandra’s hair down in soft, even strokes, as if she had all the patience in the world. The sound of it—the quiet hum of the clippers, the gentle scrape against her scalp—sent shivers down Alessandra’s spine.
By the time Francesca finally pulled back, grinning like the cat that got the cream, Alessandra was trembling. She lifted tentative fingers to her head, brushing over the velvety stubble. A shiver ran down her spine.
Then, she turned to the mirror.
Oh.
It was so short. Practically stubble. It would take months to grow back to a respectable stage. Her face, stripped of all softness, was laid utterly bare. No tousled pixie to soften the angles, no artful fringe to frame her high cheekbones.
She sucked in a breath, staring at Francesca in dismay. “You buzzed me.”
Her lover beamed, entirely unapologetic, entirely satisfied. “You look delicious,” she teased, plucking up her wine glass and taking a slow sip.
Alessandra exhaled sharply, “I should kill you,” she muttered as she buried her face in her hands.
Francesca only winked, setting down the glass. “But you won’t.” She leaned in, lips grazing the fine new bristle at her temple. “You’ll just have to be scandalous this season.”
Alessandra swallowed, pulse fluttering. It was scandalous—too bold, too much. And yet, the thrill coiled in her stomach, undeniable. She turned her head slightly, watching the light catch on the fine buzz, accentuating the effortless androgyny she had spent years tempering. It suited her.
Francesca stretched, satisfied, as if she hadn’t just changed Alessandra’s entire image on a whim.
She flicked Francesca’s forehead. “I’m getting you back for this.”
Francesca just smirked, utterly unapologetic. “I look forward to it.”
The audacity. The sheer arrogance.
Francesca was still laughing, still so damn pleased with herself, and Alessandra had enough. She didn’t even think—her body moved before her mind caught up.
With one swift motion, she seized the scissors from the table and fisted a thick handful of Francesca’s dark tresses, twisting them tightly around her fingers. A brutal tug at the roots sent a tremor through Francesca’s body, her laughter faltering, turning into something much darker, something deliciously taut with tension.
Alessandra leaned in, her freshly shorn head tilting just slightly, her voice a low murmur. “Still so smug, cara?”
Francesca swallowed hard, but she didn’t pull away.
Their eyes locked, and for one charged moment, the world stopped. Then, Francesca lunged—but Alessandra was faster, twisting Francesca’s arm and guiding her down into the chair, pressing her firmly into place.
The power shifted like a crashing wave, inevitable, undeniable.
Francesca’s lips parted, a protest forming, but Alessandra simply smoothed a hand through her thick, silken locks. Too long, Alessandra thought absently, far too long for someone as reckless as her. Her fingers tightened, grabbing the thick strands at the nape of Francesca’s neck, pulling her head back just enough to make Francesca gasp, her eyes fluttering closed for a split second before snapping open, dark with heat.
“Alessandra,” she said, half-laughing, half-warning. “Put those down.”
Alessandra leaned in close, her breath warm against Francesca’s ear. “No.”
And then she cut.
The sound was delicious—metal slicing through thick, silken strands. Francesca sucked in a sharp breath, her body going rigid.
A long lock of dark brown hair tumbled to the tiled floor.
Francesca’s eyes went wide, furious. “Alessandra, don’t you dare—”
Snip.
Another lock fell.
Alessandra’s hands were steady now, her pulse thrumming with something hot, electric. She wasn’t just cutting—she was taking. Francesca’s heart pounded, fury warring with something else—something she couldn’t name, something humiliating and electric. She wanted to claw at Alessandra’s arms, to wrestle the scissors away, but she sat still, mesmerized. She was furious, yes—but helpless.
Because Alessandra—wild, vengeful, breathtaking Alessandra—was standing over her, claiming her in the same way Francesca had just claimed her, cutting away the long, beautiful locks she’d always been so proud of. The raw power in her buzzed silhouette, the way the harsh light played over her bare nape, the way she owned the moment—Alessandra was captivating.
The power shift was intoxicating. Francesca’s breath came fast, her pupils dark and dilated, lips slightly parted—not in protest, but something far more dangerous. Francesca swallowed hard. The humiliation, the helplessness—it burned. Her thighs clenched together, her fingers gripped the arms of the chair, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.
Alessandra tilted her head, studying her, then slowly, deliberately, let the last of Francesca’s long locks fall from her fingers. Francesca exhaled shakily, rage and desire twisting into something unbearable.
But then she licked her lips, gaze flickering over Alessandra’s buzzed head, her sharp jaw, the way she held the scissors so possessively.
“I hate you,” she breathed.
Alessandra smirked, tossing the scissors onto the table.
She leaned down, brushing her lips against the delicate shell of Francesca’s ear. “No, you don’t.”
Alessandra grabbed Francesca’s wrist, tugging her up from the chair, ignoring the stunned silence between them. Francesca didn’t resist—she let Alessandra pull her across the room, still breathless, still dazed from what had just happened.
Alessandra stopped in front of the mirror, standing behind her, their reflections staring back at them.
Francesca’s breath hitched.
Her long, elegant waves—gone. What was left now barely brushed her shoulders, choppy and uneven from Alessandra’s heated, impulsive cutting. Francesca’s fingers trembled as they lifted, running through her newly shortened hair. It felt foreign, strange. Wrong.
She gripped the edge of the vanity, her heart hammering, her pulse racing at the sight of Alessandra standing behind her, chin lifted, gaze gleaming with something wild, something untamed. Alessandra had done this to her. Francesca exhaled sharply, her chest tight, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she turned to face her. Without a word, she captured Alessandra’s mouth with her own, their kiss urgent, desperate, an unspoken acknowledgment of everything that had unraveled between them.
Of power. Of surrender. Of the undeniable pull they had been fighting for so long.
Alessandra leaned into the kiss, her hands sliding down to Francesca’s waist, possessive, teasing. Their gazes met in the mirror, and Alessandra smirked, satisfied, utterly unbothered.
“Still mad?” she murmured, her fingers tracing the nape of Francesca’s neck.
Francesca shuddered.
She wanted to hate it. Wanted to hate Alessandra.
But standing there, mane hacked off, body still thrumming with adrenaline and something else—something fat hotter, deeper—she knew she was lost.
MORNING
The morning light filtered through the slats of the shuttered windows, casting golden lines across the tangle of sheets and limbs. Alessandra stirred first, stretching lazily, the soft bristle of her freshly buzzed head grazing against Francesca’s bare shoulder. She smirked at the contrast—her own even fuzz and Francesca’s jagged, uneven waves against the pillow.
Francesca groaned, rolling onto her side, and Alessandra watched with amusement as realization dawned in her dark eyes. A hand flew to her hair, fingers threading through the hacked strands, her expression shifting from groggy confusion to horror.
She sat up abruptly, even strands falling forward. Alessandra bit back a laugh as Francesca swung her legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards. She scanned the room in frantic dismay—her long, luxurious locks lay in pitiful piles on the floor, a stark reminder of last night’s reckless indulgence.
Francesca huffed, but her lips twitched upward. “Oh god.”
Alessandra traced a lazy hand down Francesca’s bare arm, her voice low with amusement. “Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”
Francesca laughed breathlessly, still in disbelief. “The hair people are going to kill me.”
“You can wear wigs,” she said, voice thick with sleep and satisfaction.
Francesca huffed, but her fingers curled around a handful of her strewn hair as if contemplating taking it with her, some desperate tribute to what once was. “I should give it to them,” she mused. “They could use it.”
Alessandra chuckled, watching as Francesca toyed with the cut ends, still half in shock, half in disbelief.
Francesca sighed, running a hand through the choppy layers. “I have to fix it.”
Alessandra was already up, already retrieving the scissors from where she’d left them the night before. “Let me,” she said smoothly, standing behind Francesca. Their reflections met in the mirror—Alessandra, with her sharp, androgynous silhouette, exuding confidence, and Francesca, softer even in her fury, her newly shortened crop giving her an unfamiliar, raw beauty.
Francesca hesitated, biting her lip. “You? You’ve already done enough damage.”
“Last night was fun, wasn’t it? I’ll just clean it up,” Alessandra crooned, snipping the first clean line into the uneven length.
Francesca exhaled, relaxing slightly as the sharp snips filled the quiet air. It wasn’t so bad, letting Alessandra touch her like this, shape her. Alessandra was steady, precise. Despite the night’s reckless indulgence, she handled Francesca’s hair with a surprising tenderness, evening out the rough, jagged layers with smooth, deliberate strokes.
“There,” Alessandra murmured, running her fingers through Francesca’s waves, watching how the long bob framed her high cheekbones.
Francesca lifted her chin, tilting her head this way and that. “It’s not awful,” she admitted begrudgingly.
Alessandra’s eyes gleamed. “Something’s missing.”
Francesca stiffened. “No.”
“Bangs.” She teased.
“Absolutely not,” Francesca said, twisting to move away, but Alessandra was faster. Like a predator, she caught her chin between her fingers, tilting her face back up toward the mirror. Alessandra’s grip was steady, her thumb brushing idly along Francesca’s jaw as she leaned in, so close that Francesca could feel the warmth of her breath.
“I think you’ll like it.” Alessandra smirked, sensing the surrender before it even happened. With one hand, she cradled Francesca’s chin, holding her still. With the other, she brought the scissors up, the sharp gleam catching the morning light.
Francesca’s lips parted, something uncertain flickering behind her eyes. She swallowed. “Yes, but—”
Alessandra’s smirk deepened as she lifted the scissors with her free hand. “Hold still,”
Francesca exhaled, slow and shaky, as the first snip echoed in the quiet room.
A soft lock of hair floated down, landing in Francesca’s lap. Francesca eyes flashed with indignation, but Alessandra’s grip on her chin was firm. She couldn’t move, couldn’t even think—trapped in the steady, teasing dominance of Alessandra’s gaze.
Francesca’s whole body tensed. “Alessandra!”
Another sharp snip, another strand falling to her lap.
She swallowed hard, forced to stare into those piercing blue eyes as the feathery fringe took shape across her forehead.
The final snip came, soft and sure. Alessandra brushed the fresh-cut bangs with her fingers, inspecting her work. Then, without warning, she leaned in and pressed a quick, feather-light kiss to Francesca’s lips.
Alessandra grinned, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as she ran a hand over her own buzzed head. “Perfect.”
Francesca exhaled shakily, still caught in the aftershock of the kiss, her pulse unsteady as Alessandra’s fingers carded through her newly trimmed bangs. It softened her, made her look impossibly young, impossibly endearing. A bit of gamine mischief replacing her usual polished elegance. But there was something else—an energy in the air, a charged anticipation humming between them.
And then—snip.
Another lock of hair fell.
Francesca blinked. “Alessandra?”
She was singing now, something low and indulgent, as if this were some leisurely task instead of the unrelenting destruction of Francesca’s once wild, unrestrained locks.
Her heart started to race. “Alessandra, enough—”
“Shh, darling,” Alessandra murmured, tilting Francesca’s chin ever so slightly, keeping her still. “I’m not done yet.”
More hair fell.
Francesca’s eyes widened as she watched in the mirror, watched the way her choppy, shoulder-length cut was disappearing—was being taken—into something entirely new.
She swallowed hard. “It’s getting—”
“Short?” Alessandra finished for her, that devilish grin never faltering. She smoothed a hand over Francesca’s head, ruffling the freshly cut strands, delighting in the way their weightless. “Mmm. I know.”
She was starting to look like a choir boy. Like some chaste, sculpted angel, all sharp lines and purity. It was nothing like the wild, untamed beauty she had worn so effortlessly before. She knew. She knew what she was doing to her.
The blades whispered again, sending another sheet of dark hair tumbling into Francesca’s lap. More and more, each soft snip tightening the shape of her hair, drawing it closer to her head, reshaping her.
Alessandra set the scissors down with an air of finality, hands gliding over the fresh cut, inspecting her work.
Francesca barely recognized herself.
Her wild mane, the loose waves that had once framed her face with effortless seduction, had been obliterated under Alessandra’s playful but unyielding hand. In their place was something impossibly soft, yet stark. She looked innocent. The short bob barely brushed her cheekbones, rounded, a smooth curve just shy of a bowl cut. It was nothing like the wild, untamed beauty she had worn so effortlessly before.
Francesca’s breath shuddered out of her as she stared at her reflection. She ran an unsteady hand through what was left, feeling the blunt edges of the bob.
“Perfect,” Alessandra murmured, as her fingers curled under Francesca’s chin, tilting her up to meet her gaze.
Francesca should have been furious. She should have leapt from the chair, demanded how could you do this to me—but she couldn’t.
Instead, yearning curled in her stomach at the way Alessandra smirked behind her, proud and utterly unrepentant. She was too far gone, too caught up in the quiet, intoxicating pull of Alessandra’s presence.
So, she let herself pout, her lips pressing into a small, indignant line, playing at discontent even as she warmed beneath Alessandra’s touch.
Alessandra only chuckled, eyes gleaming. “Oh, don’t look at me like that.”
Francesca huffed, feigning wounded pride. “It’s too short.” she muttered.
“For an ingenue?” Alessandra’s thumb stroked the line of her jaw, as if measuring her, savoring the change. “Maybe. But look at you, Francesca. You’re stunning.”
Francesca scoffed, turning her head—but Alessandra’s fingers held firm, guiding her back.
“And you like it,” Alessandra murmured, voice low, teasing.
Francesca exhaled sharply, lips parted, an instinctive retort on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitated. It was too short. It was reckless. Unforgivable. But it thrilled her.
Damn her. She was right.
Instead of answering, she met Alessandra’s gaze in the mirror, dark eyes smoldering. Then, slow and deliberate, she leaned back into Alessandra’s touch, tilting her chin ever so slightly—silent permission, an unspoken surrender.
Alessandra chuckled, pressing her lips just below Francesca’s ear. “That’s what I thought.”
