hollywoodcold
[testing ai stories. turned out pretty well so sharing here]
Liam had always been proud of his hair. It cascaded down to his shoulders in waves that he’d spent two years growing out, the kind of shaggy, effortless look that he thought made him look like a musician or an artist—someone interesting. So when Paige texted the group chat that Thursday night, he should have known better than to respond.
Paige: salon day tomorrow!! who’s in?? 💇♀️✨
Kerry: yesss I need a trim so bad
Eleanor: I’m down! What time?
Paige: 2pm at Bella’s on Main Street
Then, because the universe apparently had a sense of humor:
Paige: Liam you should come
Paige: that hair is getting OUT OF CONTROL
Paige: you literally look like a sheepdog
Kerry: LMAOOO
Kerry: he does though
Eleanor: when was the last time you even got it cut??
Liam stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. He could feel his hair brushing against his shoulders as he shifted on his dorm bed. It wasn’t that long. Was it?
Liam: my hair is fine
Paige: Liam. Buddy. Friend. It’s down to your SHOULDERS
Paige: come with us it’ll be fun!!
Kerry: yeah come on, don’t be scared 😏
Liam: I’m not scared
Eleanor: then come!
And that’s how Liam found himself walking down Main Street the next afternoon, flanked by three of his closest friends, all of whom seemed far too excited about this expedition. The autumn air was crisp, and the street was busy with the usual Friday afternoon crowd—students, professionals on lunch breaks, families window shopping.
“There it is!” Paige announced, pointing ahead.
Liam’s stomach dropped.
Bella’s Hair Studio was not what he’d expected. The storefront was painted a soft pink, with elegant gold lettering across the window. Through the massive plate-glass window that took up most of the front wall, he could see inside: plush pink chairs, gleaming mirrors with ornate frames, and what appeared to be crystal chandeliers. Everything sparkled. Everything was feminine.
“Uh,” Liam said, stopping in his tracks. “This is where we’re going?”
“Yes!” Kerry grabbed his arm and pulled him forward. “Come on, don’t chicken out now.”
“I thought we were going to like… a regular barbershop or something.”
“A barbershop?” Paige laughed. “Liam, we’re getting styled, not buzzed. Come on, it’ll be good for you. Expand your horizons.”
The bell chimed as they entered, and immediately Liam felt every eye in the salon turn toward him. The space was even more overwhelming from the inside—the air smelled of hairspray and some kind of floral shampoo, pop music played from hidden speakers, and the salon was busy. Every station seemed occupied, women in various stages of transformation, all draped in capes, all looking at him.
A woman at the reception desk—her own hair an impressive tower of platinum curls—smiled broadly. “Welcome to Bella’s! You must be the two o’clock appointment?”
“That’s us!” Paige said cheerfully. “Party of four.”
The receptionist’s eyes lingered on Liam for a moment, her smile widening with what looked like amusement. “Wonderful. Let me get your stylists. You can hang your coats over there.”
Liam wanted to sink into the floor. He could feel the stares, could hear the whispers. A teenage girl getting highlights two chairs over was openly giggling, whispering something to her mother. An older woman under a hooded dryer had lowered her magazine to get a better look at him.
“I should go,” Liam muttered.
“Too late!” Eleanor sang out. “They’re coming.”
Four stylists approached, all smiles and professional enthusiasm. Liam’s stylist was a woman named Tiffany with bright red lipstick and hair cut in a severe bob. She looked him up and down with an appraising eye.
“Well hello there,” she said. “Aren’t you a special one. Come on, honey, let’s get you set up.”
The four of them were led to adjacent stations, positioned so they could all see each other in the mirrors. Liam found himself in the second chair from the left, with Kerry on one side and Paige on the other. Eleanor was at the far end. The mirrors reflected the entire salon behind them, including that massive front window and the busy street beyond.
“Alright, sweetheart,” Tiffany said, and before Liam could protest, she was unfurling a cape with a dramatic flourish.
It was pink. Bright, unmistakable, Pepto-Bismol pink.
“Oh no,” Liam said. “No, no, no—”
But Tiffany was already wrapping it around him, snapping it closed at the back of his neck. The cape was enormous, swallowing his entire body, covering him from shoulders to ankles. Only his head stuck out, his long hair spilling over the shiny pink fabric.
Liam caught his reflection in the mirror and wanted to die.
He looked absolutely ridiculous. The pink cape made his face look pale, and his shaggy hair—which he’d always thought looked cool—suddenly looked unkempt and silly against all that pink. He looked like a child playing dress-up, or worse, like he’d lost a bet.
“Oh my god,” Kerry said from beside him, and he turned to see that she too was now caped—though hers was a more dignified black. She was trying not to laugh. “Liam, you look—”
“Don’t,” he warned.
But Paige, now also caped in black, was already losing it. “I’m sorry,” she gasped between giggles. “I’m sorry, but the pink—”
“Why is mine pink?” Liam demanded, looking up at Tiffany.
“It’s the only one we have left in the large size, honey,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “You’ve got a lot of hair here. We need the coverage.”
Eleanor, caped and grinning, caught his eye in the mirror. “You look adorable.”
“I hate all of you,” Liam muttered.
The salon seemed even busier now, and Liam was acutely aware of how visible they were. The mirrors showed everything—the other customers, the stylists moving between stations, and worst of all, that huge window. People walking by could see right in. He watched in horror as a group of students from campus passed by, one of them doing a double-take when they spotted him.
“So,” Tiffany said, still running her hands through his hair, lifting sections and letting them fall. “What are we doing today?”
“Just a trim,” Liam said quickly. “Like, barely anything. Just—”
“Oh, come on,” Paige interrupted, swiveling in her chair to face him. “Liam, be honest. When was the last time you actually got this cut?”
“I don’t know, like… a while ago.”
“Two years,” Kerry supplied helpfully. “He told me he’s been growing it out for two years.”
Tiffany’s eyebrows rose. “Two years? Honey, you need more than a trim.”
“No, I really don’t—”
“You know what,” Paige said, and Liam recognized that tone. It was her I’m-about-to-cause-trouble tone. “I think Liam would look really cute with short hair.”
“No,” Liam said.
“Like, actually short,” Paige continued, warming to her theme. “Not this shaggy thing. Something clean and neat.”
“Absolutely not.”
Tiffany was nodding, her fingers still in his hair. “You know, she’s right. You’ve got a great face shape for a shorter cut. Strong jawline, good cheekbones. This length is hiding all that.”
“I like this length,” Liam protested, but his voice sounded weak even to his own ears.
“Come on, Liam,” Kerry chimed in. “Live a little. It’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”
“Exactly,” Tiffany said. “And I promise you’ll look so much more polished. More mature. Trust me, I’ve been doing this for fifteen years.”
Liam looked at his reflection, at the ridiculous pink cape, at his friends all watching him with encouraging smiles. He felt trapped, vulnerable, like he’d somehow lost control of the situation the moment he’d walked through that door.
“I don’t know…”
“Tell you what,” Tiffany said, already reaching for her scissors. “Let’s just start taking some length off, and we’ll see how you feel. If you want to stop, we’ll stop.”
That should have been Liam’s first warning that this was a lie.
The scissors made a sharp snick sound as they closed, and Liam watched in the mirror as a thick lock of his hair—hair he’d spent two years growing—fell onto the pink cape.
“Wait—” he started.
Snick. Snick. Snick.
More hair fell. Tiffany was moving quickly now, working her way around his head, and chunks of brown hair were sliding down the cape, piling up in his lap. Liam felt his throat tighten.
“That’s a lot,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “That’s… that’s a lot of hair.”
“We’re just getting started, honey,” Tiffany said cheerfully.
Around him, his friends’ haircuts had begun too. Kerry was getting a simple trim, her stylist carefully evening out her ends. Paige was getting more taken off, nodding enthusiastically as her stylist explained something about face-framing.
And then there was Eleanor.
Eleanor’s stylist was a tall woman named Diane with severe features and an even more severe demeanor. She’d barely spoken to Eleanor before wrapping the black cape around her and snapping it tight—uncomfortably tight—at the back of her neck.
“Bob cut,” Diane said flatly, not asking, just stating.
“Um, yes,” Eleanor said. “But I was thinking maybe shoulder-length? Not too short—”
“I know what I’m doing,” Diane interrupted, already sectioning Eleanor’s hair with rough, impatient movements. The clips dug into Eleanor’s scalp.
Liam tried to focus on his own reflection, but he kept glancing over at Eleanor in the mirror. Something about her stylist’s energy was… off. Aggressive.
Snick. Snick. Snick.
His eyes were burning. He blinked rapidly, trying to hold it back, but he could feel the tears building. This was a nightmare. He was sitting in a pink cape in a feminine salon, surrounded by strangers, visible through a massive window to anyone who walked by, and his hair—his hair that he’d loved, that he’d been proud of—was disappearing.
Liam’s hair continued to fall, but now he was watching both transformations—his own and Eleanor’s. Diane had started cutting, and she wasn’t gentle about it. She grabbed sections of Eleanor’s hair and pulled them taut, her scissors moving with sharp, decisive cuts.
“Head down,” Diane commanded.
Eleanor tilted her head forward slightly.
“I said down,” Diane snapped, and suddenly her hand was on the back of Eleanor’s head, pushing it forward forcefully. Eleanor’s face was shoved down toward her chest, her neck exposed and vulnerable.
“Ow,” Eleanor said quietly.
Diane didn’t respond. She positioned her scissors at the nape of Eleanor’s neck and began cutting, the blades cold against Eleanor’s skin. Eleanor’s hands gripped the armrests of her chair, her knuckles white beneath the cape.
Liam felt his own tears building as more of his hair fell away, but he couldn’t stop watching Eleanor. Something was wrong over there.
“Stop,” Liam said to his own stylist, but it came out as barely a whisper.
Snick. Snick. Snick.
Meanwhile, Diane stepped back from Eleanor and frowned at her work. “The angle’s not right,” she muttered.
Before Eleanor could ask what that meant, Diane’s foot hit the hydraulic lever on the chair and pumped it. Hard. Once, twice, three times.
Eleanor’s chair shot upward with each pump, rising higher and higher until she was suspended what felt like several feet off the ground. Her feet dangled uselessly, no longer touching the footrest. She looked like she was floating, perched precariously in the air.
“Um,” Eleanor said, her voice tight with anxiety. “Is this—is this necessary?”
“I need the line to be perfect,” Diane said, circling around her like a predator. “Can’t have an uneven bob. Stay still.”
Eleanor gripped the armrests harder. From her elevated position, she could see the entire salon spread out below her—all the other customers, the stylists, the front window with people passing by. She felt exposed, ridiculous, like she was on display. Her stomach churned with anxiety.
And something else.
She needed to use the bathroom. She’d needed to go before they’d even arrived at the salon, but she’d thought she could wait until after the haircut. Now, suspended in the air with Diane cutting around her head with mechanical precision, the pressure in her bladder was becoming urgent.
A tear rolled down Liam’s cheek.
“Oh, honey,” Tiffany said, noticing. “Don’t cry! You’re going to look so handsome!”
But that just made it worse. Now everyone was looking at him—the crying college boy in the pink cape. He could see other customers glancing over, could see his friends’ concerned faces in the mirror.
“Liam?” Kerry said softly. “You okay?”
He couldn’t answer. Another tear fell, then another. His shoulders shook slightly under the cape.
Tiffany kept cutting.
Diane kept cutting too, working her way around Eleanor’s head with ruthless efficiency. The hair fell in thick chunks, much shorter than Eleanor had wanted. She watched in the mirror as her hair—which had been past her shoulders—was reduced to chin-length, then shorter still.
“Wait,” Eleanor said. “That’s shorter than I wanted. I said shoulder-length—”
“This is a bob,” Diane said curtly. “This is how bobs are cut.”
“But—”
“Head. Down.” Diane’s hand was on Eleanor’s head again, pushing it forward roughly. Eleanor felt tears prick at her eyes, but she blinked them back. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t.
But she really, really needed to use the bathroom.
“Excuse me,” Eleanor said, her voice small. “I need to—I need to use the restroom.”
“Not yet,” Diane said. “We’re not done.”
“But I really need to—”
“I said not yet.” Diane’s tone left no room for argument. “You move now, you’ll ruin the line. You want an uneven bob?”
Eleanor swallowed hard. “No, but—”
“Then sit still.”
The worst part was that Liam could see it all happening in the mirror. Could watch as Tiffany worked her way around his head, cutting and cutting, his hair getting shorter with each snip. The pile of hair in his lap grew larger. His neck felt cold and exposed.
But he could also see Eleanor, trapped in her elevated chair, her face pale, her body rigid with tension. He could see the way her hands trembled slightly under the cape.
“Almost done,” Tiffany said, and Liam didn’t know if that made him feel better or worse.
Diane, however, was far from done with Eleanor.
“Now for the finishing touches,” she announced, and Eleanor heard a sound that made her blood run cold.
Bzzzzzz.
Clippers.
“Wait, what are you—” Eleanor started.
“Cleaning up the nape,” Diane said, and suddenly the clippers were at the back of Eleanor’s neck, buzzing against her skin.
Eleanor flinched. The vibration was intense, almost violent, and Diane was not gentle. She pressed the clippers hard against Eleanor’s neck, running them up and down, up and down, the sound filling Eleanor’s ears. Hair—tiny, prickly pieces—fell down the back of her neck, sliding under the cape, making her skin itch.
“Please,” Eleanor said, and she wasn’t sure if she was talking about the clippers or the bathroom or just everything. “Please, I really need to—”
“Almost done,” Diane said, but she kept buzzing. Up and down, up and down. The clippers felt like they were taking off more and more hair, going higher up Eleanor’s neck than seemed necessary.
Eleanor’s eyes were watering now. The pressure in her bladder was becoming painful. She was suspended in the air, trapped under a cape, with clippers buzzing against her neck and a stylist who wouldn’t listen to her. She felt humiliated, vulnerable, completely powerless.
Bzzzzzz.
The clippers kept going. Eleanor could see people in the salon staring at her—at the girl in the elevated chair, tears streaming down her face, while her stylist aggressively buzzed her neck. Through the front window, someone walked by and did a double-take, pointing.
“Please,” Eleanor whispered again. “Please, I have to go to the bathroom.”
Finally—finally—Diane switched off the clippers.
“Fine,” she said, sounding annoyed. “Go. But be quick. We still need to style it.”
Diane hit the lever and Eleanor’s chair dropped rapidly, making her stomach lurch. The moment her feet touched the ground, she was scrambling out of the chair, still wrapped in the black cape.
“The cape—” Diane started.
But Eleanor was already moving, half-running toward the back of the salon where she’d seen the restroom sign. She didn’t care that she was still caped, didn’t care that people were staring. She just needed to get away.
The bathroom was a single-stall room, and Eleanor locked the door behind her with shaking hands. She stood there for a moment, breathing hard, looking at herself in the mirror.
Her hair was so short. Too short. It barely reached her chin, cut in a severe, blunt line that made her face look harsh. The back of her neck felt naked, exposed, prickly with tiny hairs from the clippers.
She looked like a different person.
Eleanor used the bathroom, then stood at the sink, washing her hands slowly, stalling. The cape was still fastened around her neck, the black fabric hanging down around her like a shroud.
She could leave right now.
The thought came suddenly, urgently. She could just… walk out. She was already in the bathroom, away from Diane, away from that chair. She could unfasten the cape, leave it here, and walk out the back exit. She’d seen one near the restroom. She could just go.
But her friends were still out there. Her purse was still at the styling station. And Diane would probably charge her credit card anyway.
And—god, this was the worst part—she had to go back. The cut wasn’t even finished. Diane still needed to “style” it, whatever that meant. Eleanor would have to walk back out there, sit back down in that chair, and let her tormentor finish what she’d started.
Eleanor looked at her reflection one more time—at her too-short hair, her red eyes, her pale face—and took a deep breath.
Then she opened the door and walked back into the salon.
The walk back to Diane’s station felt like a walk of shame. Everyone watched her—the girl in the cape, returning to her punishment. Liam caught her eye in the mirror and gave her a sympathetic look, but he was crying too, his own hair disaster unfolding in real-time.
“About time,” Diane said when Eleanor reached the chair. “Sit.”
Eleanor sat.
Diane pumped the chair back up—not quite as high this time, but still uncomfortably elevated—and began running her fingers through Eleanor’s short hair. “See?” she said. “Perfect bob. Very chic.”
It wasn’t perfect. It was too short, too severe, too much. But Eleanor didn’t say anything. She just sat there, trapped in the cape, and let Diane finish.
By the time Diane finally stepped back, declaring the cut complete, Eleanor’s face was wet with silent tears. She looked at herself in the mirror—at the stranger with the harsh bob and the buzzed nape—and felt something break inside her.
“What do you think?” Diane asked, though her tone suggested she didn’t actually care.
Eleanor couldn’t speak. She just shook her head slightly, more tears falling.
Across from her, Liam was having his own breakdown, his terrible bowl cut complete, his face blotchy and red from crying.
They looked at each other in the mirror—two friends, both looking like eggs in their huge capes, both devastated by their shearing.
And it wasn’t over yet.
Finally—finally—she stepped back, scissors lowering.
“There!” she announced. “Let’s take a look.”
Liam raised his eyes to the mirror and felt his stomach drop to his feet.
It was a bowl cut.
An actual, honest-to-god bowl cut, like someone had put a bowl on his head and cut around it. The hair was all one length, forming a perfect semicircle around his head, with blunt bangs across his forehead. It looked like something from a 1990s school photo, or like a haircut a mom would give her five-year-old son in the kitchen.
It looked terrible.
“Oh my god,” Liam whispered.
“What do you think?” Tiffany asked brightly, holding up a hand mirror to show him the back, which somehow looked even worse.
Liam couldn’t speak. Fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. In the mirror, he could see Paige’s eyes go wide. Kerry had her hand over her mouth. Even Eleanor looked shocked.
“It’s…” Tiffany’s smile faltered slightly. “It’s very… classic?”
Liam let out a choked sob.
“Okay, okay,” Tiffany said quickly. “Let’s get you washed up. Sometimes it looks different after we style it.”
Liam stood up on shaky legs, hair falling off his cape onto the floor. He had to walk across the salon to the washing stations, and he’d never felt more exposed in his life. The long pink cape swished and he walked and every eye followed him. The teenage girl from earlier was definitely taking a picture. An older woman whispered something to her friend, both of them staring.
Through the front window, Liam saw someone he recognized from his English class walking by. They stopped, looked in, and their jaw dropped. They pulled out their phone.
“This is hell,” Liam muttered. “This is actual hell.”
At the washing station, he had to lean back in the chair while Tiffany shampooed his hair—what was left of it. The water was too hot, and she scrubbed too hard, and Liam just closed his eyes and tried to pretend he was anywhere else.
When they returned to the styling station, Tiffany began rolling his hair in curlers.
“What are you doing?” Liam asked in alarm.
“Just adding some volume and shape,” she said. “Trust me.”
“I don’t trust you,” Liam said, but she was already pinning the curlers in place.
Ten minutes later, Liam found himself being led to a row of hooded dryers against the back wall. The curlers were tight against his scalp, pulling uncomfortably. Tiffany lowered a large dome-shaped dryer over his head and turned it on. Hot air blasted his face.
He looked like an old lady at a retirement home getting her weekly perm.
“Liam?”
He turned his head—carefully, because the dryer was heavy—and saw Eleanor being seated in the dryer next to him. Her hair was also in curlers, but unlike Liam, she was supposed to be here. This was normal for her.
Except she was crying. Really crying—her whole body shaking with sobs.
“Eleanor?” Liam said, having to raise his voice over the sound of the dryers. “What’s wrong?”
“She was so cruel,” Eleanor said, her voice breaking. “That stylist—Diane—she just… she didn’t listen to anything I said. She pushed my head down so hard I thought my neck would break, and then she kept raising the chair higher and higher until I was floating in the air like some kind of circus act. And I needed to use the bathroom so badly but she wouldn’t let me go, and then she used the clippers on my neck and just kept buzzing and buzzing while I was sitting there desperate and humiliated…”
Eleanor’s hands trembled under the cape as fresh tears streamed down her face.
“And she cut it way too short,” Eleanor continued, her voice barely a whisper. “I said shoulder-length and she cut it to my chin. But it’s not just that—it’s how she did it. Like she enjoyed making me feel small and powerless. I look like a boy., and I feel like I’ve been through a war
Despite his own misery, Liam felt a pang of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”
“We look ridiculous,” Eleanor said, gesturing at the two of them under the dryers.
She wasn’t wrong. Liam caught their reflection in the mirror across from them—two people under vintage-looking hair dryers, both with curlers in their hair, both crying. It would have been funny if it wasn’t so awful.
Then Kerry sat down on Liam’s other side, her own hair now in curlers.
“Don’t say anything,” she warned, but she was trying not to smile.
“This is insane,” Liam said.
A moment later, Paige joined them, completing the row. Her hair was also rolled up, though she seemed far less distressed about it than the rest of them.
“Well,” she said, looking at their reflections. “This is a moment.”
“This is a nightmare,” Liam corrected.
“You have to admit, it’s kind of funny,” Paige said. “I mean, look at us.”
Liam looked. Four college students sitting in a row under hair dryers, all with curlers in their hair, two of them crying, all of them looking absolutely absurd. Through the salon window, he could see people walking by, some of them glancing in. A couple of guys from his dorm passed by and stopped, pointing and laughing.
“I’m never leaving my room again,” Liam said.
“Oh, come on,” Paige said. “It’s character building!”
“I have enough character,” Liam said. “I don’t need any more character.”
They sat under the dryers for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. The heat made Liam’s scalp sweat. The curlers pulled at his hair. He could feel his face getting red and blotchy from crying. This was, without question, the worst day of his life.
Finally—finally—Tiffany came to retrieve him. She led him back to the styling station and began removing the curlers. Liam watched in the mirror as his hair was revealed, now dried and curled into tight ringlets that made the bowl cut look even more ridiculous.
“Perfect!” Tiffany said, running her fingers through the curls to loosen them slightly. “See? Much better with some volume.”
It was not better. If anything, it was worse. Liam now looked like a medieval pageboy, or like someone from a Renaissance fair. The curls emphasized the blunt, bowl-like shape of the cut.
“I look like Lord Farquaad,” Liam said miserably.
“Who?”
“From Shrek.”
Tiffany frowned. “I don’t see it.”
“I do,” Kerry said from the next chair over, where her stylist was finishing up. “I’m sorry, Liam, but I totally see it.”
Liam dropped his head into his hands.
Twenty minutes later, after Tiffany had finished “styling” his hair (which mostly involved spraying it with so much hairspray that it felt crunchy), Liam was finally released from the chair. His friends were also done, all of them gathering near the reception desk to pay.
Eleanor’s hair was devastatingly short—cut into a severe, chin-length bob that was far shorter than she’d wanted. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying, and she kept touching the back of her neck where Diane had buzzed it, her face pale and miserable. Kerry’s trim had turned out fine—she looked exactly the same as before, just neater. Paige’s new layers framed her face nicely, and she seemed pleased with the result. But Eleanor stood apart from them, visibly traumatized, her jaw clenched as she stared at her reflection with barely concealed devastation.
And then there was Liam, with his bowl cut and his crunchy curls and his red, puffy eyes from crying.
“That’ll be sixty-five dollars,” the receptionist said to him, still with that amused smile.
Sixty-five dollars. He’d paid sixty-five dollars to look like this.
Liam handed over his credit card in silence.
As they walked toward the door, he caught one last glimpse of himself in the salon’s many mirrors. The bowl cut looked even worse in the natural light streaming through the window. His hair formed a perfect, ridiculous semicircle around his head, the curls making it puff out slightly. He looked like a mushroom. Or a helmet. Or a very sad medieval squire.
The bell chimed as they stepped out onto the street, and Liam immediately pulled up his hood, trying to hide his hair.
“Liam,” Paige said gently. “You can’t wear a hood forever.”
“Watch me,” Liam muttered.
They walked down Main Street in silence for a moment, the autumn air feeling especially cold on Liam’s newly exposed neck. Students and shoppers passed by, and Liam kept his head down, hood up, trying to be invisible.
“For what it’s worth,” Eleanor said quietly, “I think we all learned something today.”
“What’s that?” Liam asked.
“Never let Paige pick the salon,” Eleanor said, and despite everything, Liam felt a small smile tug at his lips.
“Hey!” Paige protested. “How was I supposed to know they’d give him a bowl cut?”
“You literally convinced him to cut it short,” Kerry pointed out.
“I said short, not… that.”
They reached the corner where they’d normally split up to head back to their respective dorms. Liam stopped, looking at his three friends—Eleanor with her too-short bob, still dabbing at her eyes; Kerry with her sensible trim; and Paige with her new layers, looking far too pleased with herself.
“I’m never doing this again,” Liam announced.
“Never doing what?” Paige asked. “Getting a haircut?”
“Listening to you,” Liam clarified. “Any of you. About anything. Ever.”
“That seems extreme,” Kerry said.
“Does it?” Liam pulled his hood down just enough to point at his hair. “Does it really?”
Eleanor started laughing first, then Kerry, and finally even Liam felt a reluctant chuckle escape. It was either laugh or cry, and he’d already done enough crying for one day.
“Come on,” Paige said, linking her arm through his. “Let’s go get ice cream. My treat.”
“Ice cream isn’t going to fix this,” Liam said, but he let her pull him along.
“No,” Paige agreed. “But it might make you feel better. And hey, look on the bright side.”
“There’s a bright side?”
“It’ll grow back,” Paige said. “In like… two years.”
Liam groaned, but he kept walking, flanked by his friends, his terrible bowl cut hidden under his hood, already planning how he could avoid being seen by anyone he knew for the foreseeable future.
Behind them, through the big window of Bella’s Hair Studio, Tiffany was already sweeping up the mountain of Liam’s hair, probably already forgetting about the crying boy in the pink cape.
But Liam wouldn’t forget. He’d remember this day for the rest of his life—the day he learned that sometimes, the worst decisions are made in the name of friendship, and that a bad haircut can feel like the end of the world, even when you know, logically, that it isn’t.
His phone buzzed. He pulled it out to find a text in the group chat.
Paige: same time next month? 💇♀️✨
Liam didn’t even dignify that with a response.
