Cut for Camp

The car’s engine hummed monotonously as the trees blurred past. Lena sat in the passenger seat, her fingers twisting nervously through the long, dark locks that cascaded down her back. The sun was high, and the air felt thick with humidity, but it was the silence in the car that made her feel more suffocated than the sweltering heat.

Her stepfather, Greg, had been talking about the camping trip for weeks. A summer in the wilderness. “It’ll be good for you,” he’d said. “A change of scenery. You’ve been cooped up here long enough.” But she hadn’t agreed to come home for the summer for the trip. She had come back because her college apartment was too expensive, and her internship didn’t start until fall. There was no escaping this now.

Lena stared out the window, fingers still knotted in her hair, trying to distract herself from the inevitable. A few months. That’s how long she had to survive under the same roof as Greg, her mother and two stepbrothers, who had spent the better part of a year convincing Lena it would be good for her, too. But there was one thing Lena hadn’t expected.

The haircut.

“I’ve been thinking,” Greg had said that morning, his voice tight and commanding, “about how you’re going to handle your hair while we’re camping. You’re going to need something more manageable.” He’d been speaking with a firm tone—no room for disagreement. “It’s getting out of control. It’s too much. We don’t need to worry about it the whole trip.”

Lena had stared at him in disbelief. Her fingers twitched in her hair, reflexively tightening the strands. Her hair—her long, thick, beautiful hair—was her one source of pride. The only thing that had ever made her feel truly unique.

“You’re cutting it,” Greg had said, without leaving room for discussion. “You’re coming with me to the barber. It’s a few months, you’ll survive.”

Lena clenched her jaw as she turned her gaze to Greg. His profile was fixed on the road ahead, his eyes unblinking as if this was nothing more than another task to check off the list. Lena wanted to scream. She had tried to argue, but it was useless. Greg’s voice had been calm, calculated, like a doctor giving a diagnosis: “This is what’s happening, deal with it.”

The car pulled into the parking lot of the barbershop. Lena’s breath hitched.

“You’re gonna look great, trust me,” Greg said, the words meant to reassure, but they only made her stomach churn. The thought of sitting in that chair, the cold scissors snipping through her hair, made her want to run.

But there was no running now. She opened the door, the scent of motor oil and stale cigarettes in the air. The barber’s shop was small and dimly lit, with the hum of clippers in the background. The barber, an older man with thinning hair and thick glasses, looked up from a magazine as they entered. His expression was neutral, but there was a coldness in his eyes that sent a shiver down Lena’s spine.

“Greg,” the barber said in a gravelly voice, nodding at her stepfather. “Ready for the big chop?”

“Lena’s ready,” Greg replied, his voice louder, more confident now that they were here. “Get her sorted.”

Lena’s throat tightened as she walked to the chair, her hair falling heavily behind her as she turned. She felt the weight of it, its soft strands that had always framed her face like a black silk. She wasn’t ready to lose it—not yet.

The barber didn’t waste time. He pointed to the chair and grunted, “Sit.”

Lena slowly sank into the worn chair, gripping the armrests with white knuckles. She could feel Greg standing over her, the way he watched her, as if this was some lesson she had to learn.

The barber moved around her, and she flinched as he tied a heavy cape tightly around her neck. She felt his hands touched her hair, pulling it roughly into a ponytail. She held her breath. The scissors were in his hands now. She could hear the dull click of them opening and closing, the sound growing louder with each passing second.

“Ready?” the barber asked, as though it was some casual remark. His eyes barely flickered toward her face, already accustomed to the way the young women in his chair reacted.

Lena’s voice caught in her throat. “Please,” she whispered, her eyes filling with panic. “Please don’t do this.”

The barber only smirked, a quick flicker of disdain crossing his features. “You’ll thank me later. Now sit still.”

Without further delay, the first snip came. The scissors bit into the base of her hair, severing a thick, heavy strand.

Lena gasped, her hand flying to her scalp as if she could pull the hair back together.

“No—please!” Her voice cracked, louder now, desperate. Her heart raced in her chest as the barber continued, his hands moving like a machine, working through her hair with practiced precision.

Another chunk fell, and another. The weight of her hair, her identity, was slipping away with each ruthless snip.

Greg was still standing over her, watching her struggle, his arms crossed as if he were simply watching a process unfold. He spoke nothing, said nothing, as if this was the way things were meant to be. She wasn’t sure if he saw the pain in her eyes or if he even cared.

Lena’s breath was shallow, panicked now. “Please, no! Not this—this is mine—I—”

“Stop whining,” the barber muttered, his voice cold and dismissive. He grabbed her hair again, tugging it harshly to pull the next section into place. His scissors cut with a violent *snip,* and a long wave of hair fell to the floor. It felt like pieces of her soul were falling with it. Her chest tightened, her voice trembling as the weight she had carried for so long was literally removed, piece by piece.

She fought against the tears, but they came anyway, sliding down her cheeks as she sobbed quietly. Her hands were gripping the armrests so tightly now that her fingers ached.

“You need to stop acting like this,” Greg finally said, his voice stern, almost condescending. “This is for your own good. You’ll see. You’ll feel better.”

The snipping continued, faster now, the barber working with a force that made Lena feel even more vulnerable, as though her hair wasn’t the only thing being stripped from her. Every cut felt like a violation—like a piece of herself was being stolen, and she couldn’t do anything to stop it. She could feel his fingers pressed against her scalp as he snipped more and more of her hair off.

Finally, the barber stepped back, looking down at the pile of dark hair on the floor. Lena stared at the reflection in the mirror, her eyes swollen and red. Her face looked pale, her cheeks hollowed, as if a part of her had just disappeared.

The boyish cut was too short for her liking, a couple of inches long at most on top and sides cut short. The cut was masculine, something she could never have imagined for herself. The long locks she had cherished were gone, reduced to an unrecognizable shape.

Greg was nodding approvingly behind her. “There. That looks much better. More practical.”

Lena swallowed hard, the tears blurring her vision. She was a stranger in her own reflection now. What was left was someone who wasn’t her.

The barber stood behind Lena, hands resting on her shoulders as he examined her new haircut. His expression was indifferent, his gaze cold and clinical. His fingers sifted through the remaining strands of hair, tugging and adjusting, as if searching for something else to cut, something more to remove.

Lena winced under his touch, but the barber barely acknowledged her discomfort. He grunted, his fingers digging into her scalp a little too roughly.

“Hm,” he muttered, taking a step back and surveying the short strands that was now the shell of her former beauty. The ends brushed the tips of of ears and the back of her neck, too short to hold any of the grace she had once worn.

Greg was standing just behind Lena, arms crossed, his face a mask of impatience.

The barber turned to him with a nod. “This will probably grow out fast,” he said, examining the back of her head with a raised eyebrow. “In a couple of weeks, it’ll start to get in the way. She’s going to be fidgeting with it every other minute, especially in the heat and the dirt of that camping trip. You want to keep her comfortable, don’t you?”

Greg didn’t respond right away. He stared at Lena for a moment, considering the barber’s words. Lena’s heart thudded louder as she glanced at him in the mirror, but her eyes caught only the cold gleam of his face. She was already so uncomfortable, so out of herself, that she couldn’t bring herself to ask what he meant. But the terror in her chest only grew, knotting tighter with each passing second.

Greg seemed to think for a moment before replying, his voice steady and dismissive. “Yeah, that makes sense. So what do you suggest?”

Lena’s stomach dropped as she watched the barber turn back to the counter, wiping his hands on a towel and collecting his tools again. The low hum of the clippers came to life once more, vibrating through the air with a mechanical certainty that made Lena’s heart race.

The barber grunted, his voice lower now, “Your boys already stopped by earlier, I got them sorted real quick. She might as well get the same haircut, no fuss.”

Lena’s mind raced. She hadn’t seen her stepbrothers in weeks. She had no idea what had been done to them. What did he mean by the same haircut? Her breath caught as dread sunk deeper into her gut.

Before she could ask, Greg nodded again. “Right. Same as the boys. She’ll adjust.” He looked at Lena in the mirror, his face almost expressionless, as if she were no more than a task to be checked off the list. “It’ll be fine, Lena. Don’t be difficult.”

She swallowed hard, her pulse thumping in her ears. The barber was already positioning himself behind her again, his gaze calculating as he looked over her new cut like a sculptor deciding where to make his next incision.

“Alright, then,” the barber said gruffly, a sharp edge to his tone. “Time for something more… manageable.”

Lena’s chest tightened in alarm.

“What?” she tried, her voice barely a whisper. “What are you doing? Please, I don’t—”

But before she could finish, Greg’s hand was on her shoulder again, firm, almost possessive. “Don’t argue, Lena. I told you, it’s for the trip. This is what’s best.”

Lena opened her mouth to protest, to beg for mercy, but the barber was already clicking the clippers on, stepping toward her with that same cold indifference. She could only watch as he adjusted the blades, the loud buzzing filling the air like a warning.

His hands took her hair in thick handfuls, pulling it roughly into place, prepping for the next stage of this cruel transformation.

He didn’t care for softness. He didn’t care about comfort. The first pass of the clippers was abrupt, unceremonious, and unrelenting. They buzzed to life with a fierce whir, slicing down the sides of her head. Lena’s breath caught in her throat as the cold metal scraped against her scalp. It felt invasive—harsh—as if the clippers weren’t cutting just her hair but also the very skin beneath. Her scalp tingled and stung, raw with each pass. She could feel the hair being taken, but it wasn’t the cut itself that made her wince. It was the sensation of her identity being peeled away, strand by strand.

“Relax,” the barber snorted, pulling the clippers up her sideburns. She couldn’t. How could she relax when her entire sense of self was being removed in front of her, without permission?

Lena’s eyes welled up again, spilling over despite her best efforts. She had no voice left to argue with—only the hollow, gnawing sensation of being violated. The clippers buzzed in a low hum, then an intense, vibrating whine as they shaved off the last of the length on her left side. She felt it all. The shorn strands sliding off her skull, the smooth, exposed skin beneath—vulnerable, raw. Her head felt cooler than she had ever felt before.

Her hands, tight on the armrests, felt as though they might crack from the pressure. But the barber didn’t stop. He pressed on, methodical, as though working to a preordained schedule, his hands grasping and tugging as though she were no more than a mannequin.

The next pass felt even more brutal. The barber took the clippers and scraped them upward, against the grain of her hair, forcing the sharp metal across her scalp until every last sign of her once-beautiful hair was gone. Each cut, each buzz, was a reminder that there was nothing she could do to stop this. The sharp sounds of the clippers were deafening in the small room, drowning out any sense of agency she might have had left. She was being reduced—reduced to a shell, a thing that was no longer her own.

But it wasn’t just the buzz. It was the touch. The roughness. The way his hands tugged at the back of her head, angling her neck to expose more of her skin to the blade. It hurt. It was invasive. She felt each scrape of the clippers on her skin, each tug pulling away not only hair, but part of her dignity, part of her identity.

She couldn’t stop it.

When the barber was finished with the clippers, he set them down and wiped his hands on a cloth. Lena’s sides had been completely shaved, smooth, bare. The sides of her head glistened, a sickening shine reflecting off the stark, exposed skin. He ran his hand over the shaved patches like a mechanic inspecting a part of a machine—cold, indifferent, calculating. She shivered at the feeling of his hand on her newly-bared scalp.

Greg stepped forward, nodding in approval. “That looks good. Real clean.”

Lena felt cold. Her neck tingled where the bare skin was now exposed to the world, and the silence hung heavy around her. The top of her hair, a bit longer than the sides, had been cut straight across, the length now the only thing that remained.

The barber’s eyes flicked down at the hairline of her nape, his lips twisting into something that resembled a smirk. “You’re gonna want to clean it up. Make it sharp. This’ll grow fast—need something that’s ready for a military inspection.”

Lena’s stomach dropped.

She didn’t even know what the term meant, but the way the barber spoke—like she was an object being shaped—made her skin crawl. She could only imagine what was coming next.

Without waiting for permission, the barber grabbed a razor and walked over to the shaving cream dispenser.

Lena’s heart skipped a beat.

The cold shaving cream met her scalp in a soft, chilled layer that seemed to intensify the discomfort. It was like the world had turned against her, and this was the final humiliation. Her skin tingled as the barber gently spread the cream over her head, working it into a thick, cold layer. His hands were careful, bending her ears to make sure it was smeared in every crevice.

Lena’s breath hitched he picked up a razor, glinting in the light. The razor came down, its cold edge scraping against the tender skin on her left side. The scrape was unmistakable. It felt too close to her scalp, as if he was peeling away more than just the hair, but something much deeper.

The razor worked its way up, inch by inch, the blade scraping against her exposed skin with a sharp, unforgiving noise. The feel of it—the sharpness against her raw scalp—made her wince with every stroke. It was methodical, a surgeon’s precision, and yet it was painful. It hurt in ways she couldn’t explain.

The barber didn’t speak as he shaved, just methodically working his way around her head, making sure each section of her scalp was bare, smooth, and perfect. The razor scraped high, at least an inch or two above her ears. When he was done, he stepped back, inspecting the work with an air of finality.

Lena was left staring at the reflection in the mirror. The image that stared back at her was unrecognizable. The top of her head was now cropped close, an even, clean flattop that stuck out just enough to give it definition, but not enough to be seen as “hair.” The sides were completely bare, the skin glistening and smooth, like someone who had been groomed for an army inspection. It was sharp, harsh, military. No softness, no grace. Just structure. Just order. Her ears stuck out awkwardly, her face red from the humiliation.

Greg stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture that felt too heavy, too controlling. “Now that’s something you’ll be able to manage. That’s the look we need for the trip.”

Lena swallowed hard. Her throat was tight, constricted. She couldn’t speak. She didn’t know how to process what had just happened.

The silence in the room felt suffocating. The barber cleaned up his station in the background, the quiet clink of metal tools echoing in her mind like a final sentence.

Lena sat frozen, staring at her now alien image. With the sides shaved so clean and sharp, her face looked sharper too—more angular, more exposed. The thick, dark once-unnoticeable peach fuzz that covered her face now stood out starkly against her olive skin. It felt like every inch of her body was laid bare for scrutiny.

Greg’s gaze shifted from Lena to the barber, who was wiping his hands on a rag.

“Looks good,” Greg said, though his voice held the same detachment, as if it were just another task completed.

The barber looked over at Lena, eyes lingering a moment too long on her face. Then, with a slight sneer, he muttered, “You know, that short haircut’s not doing her any favors.”

Lena’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at him through the mirror, her mind reeling, but before she could react, the barber continued.

“See that?” He pointed to the dark peach fuzz along the sides of her jawline and upper lip. “With the sides this short, it really makes the fuzz stand out. Makes her look a bit… masculine, don’t you think?”

Lena’s stomach dropped. She had never been self-conscious about her face, but now, with the sides shaved so completely and the contrast so stark, her reflection seemed almost alien. The fuzz on her cheeks, which she had barely noticed before, now felt like a glaring flaw. She rubbed at her jaw instinctively, feeling the soft, fine hair. It was a reminder of who she was—who she had been—but it seemed so much more noticeable now.

Greg glanced at her face, then at the barber, and after a brief moment of consideration, nodded curtly. “Yeah. Just finish her off. If you think it’ll make it better. Do whatever you need to do.”

Lena’s heart skipped a beat. Her throat constricted, but she could barely speak. Her voice had been stolen already—along with so much more.

The barber’s lips twisted into something resembling satisfaction. “I can give her the full “barber special” while I’m at it. It’ll clean her up real nice.”

Greg nodded again. “Do it.”

Lena’s pulse quickened as her gaze locked on Greg in the mirror. “Wait—what are you—?”

But the words were cut off as the barber’s rough hands retied the cape tightly around her neck. He grabbed a towel from the counter and ran it under warm water before draping it over her face, pressing it against her skin with a deliberate firmness. The heat seeped through, and for a moment, it was almost comforting—but then the towel was removed, leaving her skin sensitive and raw, still stinging from the shave.

The barber returned to the counter, reaching for the dispenser of shaving cream. The cold foam shot into his palm with a snap, and he began spreading it over her face with smooth, confident strokes, coating her entire jawline, upper lip, and the soft fuzz along her cheeks and chin. The scent of the cream was sharp, almost antiseptic, and it made Lena’s nose wrinkle in discomfort.

“There,” the barber muttered, looking at her with satisfaction. “Now we can clean it all up.”

Lena’s stomach turned. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the sharp, cold blade of the razor meet the shaving cream on her upper lip. The barber took his time, methodically gliding the blade over her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. He shaved her jaw, the sides of her face, and the small patch under her chin, moving as though he had all the time in the world. Each stroke was a reminder of how exposed she was—how powerless she felt in this chair.

The razor scraped against her skin with a hiss, taking away the peach fuzz in a single, smooth pass. She could feel it—feel the blade skimming over her soft skin, scraping off everything. Each sweep of the razor was another layer of her former self being stripped away. It felt intimate in a way she couldn’t bear. The cool cream left her skin raw, vulnerable.

“Much better,” the barber murmured as he moved from one side of her face to the other. His hands were steady, and Lena could see his reflection in the mirror as he worked—his eyes cool, calculating, as though he were finishing a routine job, nothing personal.

When the razor had finished, he wiped her face down with the warm towel and ran his hand over the smooth skin, checking his work.

“That’s better,” he said gruffly. “That fuzz makes you look like a man—makes you look soft. Now, you look clean… even if you don’t have much of a chin.” He chuckled under his breath. Lena’s face flushed, but she couldn’t even respond. She felt like she was fading away with each passing second.

The barber then turned his attention to her eyebrows. Lena’s eyes widened in the mirror, but she couldn’t speak. She could only watch as he moved closer, holding a pair of clippers in his hand, their metallic teeth clicking as he adjusted the guard.

“Those brows of yours—too thick. They’ll stand out with this new look. Gotta clean them up.” He grabbed her left eyebrow and ran the clippers through it, trimming away the thick, natural hair until it was practically stubble above her eyes. He didn’t take his time with it, just buzzing away with mechanical precision.

Lena’s heart pounded as she fought the urge to scream. Her face felt cold, exposed, violated. She could feel the short stubble of her brows falling on her cheeks, each pass of the clippers taking away more of her features, more of the person she had been.

Then, without warning, he pulled a small pair of scissors from his pocket and brought them close to her face, his hand shaking slightly as he held her lashes still.

“These lashes—too long. They don’t match the rest of your face now,” he muttered. She squeezed her eyes shut on instinct as he moved in, snipping the long strands one by one. The small blades clicked with a soft snip as they cut through her lashes, reducing their length to barely a fraction of what they had been. She wanted to pull away but fear rooted her in place, unable to move as the scissors worked through her delicate lashes. Each trim felt like a final removal of some piece of her femininity, something she had once thought of as beautiful.

When he was done, he stepped back, his eyes scanning her face like a professional artist examining a canvas. Lena’s heart sank into the pit of her stomach. She was completely unrecognizable now.

The barber stepped away, satisfied with his work. He gave one last glance at her reflection and said, “There you go. Much better.”

Lena’s lips trembled. She couldn’t bring herself to speak. She couldn’t even find the words to describe how she felt. Her head was bare, her face smoother than it had ever been, but it was all wrong.

Greg, standing behind her, clapped his hands together in a gesture that was supposed to be congratulatory but only made Lena feel smaller.

“You look great,” he said, his voice too warm, too casual, as if nothing significant had just occurred.

Lena stared at her reflection—bald-headed, bare-faced, her features sharper, colder. She had no identity left. No softness. No grace. What had once made her feel like herself was gone, and there was nothing left but the harsh, flat, military-precision version of a girl who didn’t even recognize herself anymore.

The barber handed Greg the bill, and Lena couldn’t even look at him. She just sat there, frozen, staring at the person in the mirror who was no longer her.

The silence was thick, and as they left the shop, the world outside felt colder than it had ever been.

Lena walked out of the barbershop, her head spinning, trying to hold on to some shred of the person she used to be. But she knew that no matter how hard she tried, that person was gone now—shaved away, piece by piece.

Greg guided out to the parking lot, walking bristly towards the car.

“We have one more stop to make before we head back home,” he said calmly, as if Lena’s entire world hadn’t been upturned within the span of an hour.

She said nothing as she got in the car and he started to drive towards the local Walmart.

_________________________________

The fluorescent lights of the store buzzed above them as Greg guided Lena down the aisles. She walked a few paces behind him, the weight of her new appearance pressing down on her with each step. The sharpness of the clippers’ work still lingered in her mind, the memory of the razor’s cold scrape against her skin still fresh. She could feel her face burning—raw, exposed—like she was walking around without any protection from the world. It wasn’t just her scalp anymore. It was her entire body, every part of her being. She felt naked, even when dressed.

Greg moved ahead of her, as though his mind were already on the next task. “Let’s get you set up for the trip,” he said, not bothering to look back. “You’re going to need something other than what you brought.”

Lena didn’t answer. What could she say? The words were trapped somewhere deep inside her—too thick to get out, suffocated by the fear and discomfort that held her tightly in place. She had never been to this store before, but it didn’t matter. It felt like a place she didn’t belong now, like a world that had never been hers.

They reached the clothing section, and Lena instinctively looked towards the women’s side. The dresses and soft fabrics called to her, a reminder of the person she used to be. She thought to herself, I’ll feel better in something like this. I can be me again.

But Greg’s voice cut through her thoughts, harsh and firm.

“No,” he said, already pulling her towards the other side of the aisle. “You’re not shopping in the women’s section, Lena. It’s not practical for the camping trip.”

Lena’s heart skipped a beat, and her chest tightened. “But… I want—”

“No,” Greg repeated, his hand on her arm tightening just enough to remind her that this wasn’t a discussion. “You’re getting boys’ clothes. They’ll be more comfortable. You’ll care less about how you look when you’re out in the woods.”

Lena recoiled, as if she’d been slapped. The words stung. The thought of wearing clothes meant for boys—clothes that had never been hers—was a betrayal. She didn’t want to be pushed into something she wasn’t, didn’t want to lose even more of herself.

“But I’m not a… a boy,” she whispered, her voice barely above a tremble. She wanted to scream, to cry, to fight back—but something inside her, something raw and defeated, kept her silent.

Greg didn’t look back, already searching the racks. “Doesn’t matter. You’re going camping. You need to stop worrying about looking pretty.”

Lena felt a chill run through her, deeper than the cold air of the store. Pretty. That was all she had been to him, wasn’t it? Something to be shaped, something to be molded, something to be made “acceptable.”

Lena’s fingers brushed against the rough fabric of the boys’ clothes on the racks. The colors were muted—dull greens, browns, and dark blues. No soft pastels. No skirts. Just functional, utilitarian clothes, meant to be thrown on and forgotten. There was nothing feminine about them—nothing that even resembled who she had been.

Greg picked out a few shirts, tossing them into the cart without a second glance. He didn’t care about her preferences. He didn’t care about who she was before. All that mattered was his idea of what she needed, what he thought was best.

She didn’t argue. It felt pointless. All she could do was walk with him, the weight of her new self—her new body, her new look—dragging her down with every step.

The store wasn’t busy at first. But as they passed through the aisles, Lena began to notice the stares. People glanced at her quickly, then quickly looked away, as if afraid to hold her gaze for too long. The snickers started quietly at first—just a low murmur, a whisper behind her back. Lena’s heart pounded louder, faster, as she tried to avoid looking around. She didn’t want to see the judgment in their eyes, the way they *knew* something was wrong. She could feel the weight of their stares on her back, like invisible hands poking and prodding at her.

But it wasn’t just the stares that hurt—it was the laughter, the quiet chuckles that seemed to follow her wherever she went.

She caught a glimpse of herself in a full-length mirror near the boys’ section. She barely recognized the person staring back at her. The short, harsh haircut that clung too tightly to her skull, the bare, smooth face that was too clean, too sharp. She was practically a stranger in her own reflection.

Was this really who she had become?

“Lena!” A voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. It was a voice she knew. She turned around quickly, her heart lurching.

There, standing a few feet away, was Marissa, an her old best friend from high school. Her eyes widened in shock as she took in Lena’s appearance. Marissa blinked, her lips parting as she tried to process what she was seeing. “Lena? Is that… you?”

Lena froze, caught in Marissa’s wide-eyed gaze. She wanted to turn away, to hide. But the laughter, the whispers, the judgment—it was everywhere now.

“What happened to you?” Marissa continued, her voice loud enough that a few people nearby stopped to look. Lena felt the heat rise in her cheeks. She tried to force a smile, but it came out as a grimace.

“I—” Lena stuttered, but her voice was too thin, too weak to explain. What could she say? That her stepfather had decided she needed to change? That he had her hair shaved off and her face cleaned just to go camping?

Marissa looked at her, then glanced at Greg, who was still pushing the cart ahead. “Oh my God, what did you do to her?” She laughed nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. The laughter seemed to echo in Lena’s mind, like a cruel melody she couldn’t escape.

Lena’s stomach churned as Marissa’s eyes flicked to the boys’ clothes she was holding. “This… this doesn’t even look like you. What is this, some kind of joke?”

Lena felt the tears welling up behind her eyes, but she blinked them away quickly. She couldn’t cry in front of Marissa. She couldn’t show any weakness.

“Leave it, Marissa,” Greg’s voice interrupted, cold and dismissive. “We’re just shopping. None of your business.”

Lena watched as Marissa, still unsure how to respond, simply nodded awkwardly before quickly walking off, glancing back one last time. Lena could feel the sting of her gaze, the judgment, as if Marissa was seeing her for the first time—and hating what she saw.

Another laugh. This time from a group of teenage boys nearby. Lena’s heart felt like it was caving in. She tried to shrink into herself, but it didn’t help. Everywhere she went, people stared. They whispered. They laughed. They noticed.

Greg pushed the cart forward, seemingly oblivious to the way people were looking at Lena, to the way she felt like she was disintegrating under their gazes.

“Come on,” he snapped, “Quit standing there looking like a deer in headlights. You’re fine.”

Lena walked faster, her throat tightening with each step, feeling like the eyes of the world were on her, judging her, erasing her.

Every inch of her felt wrong. Every step, every glance, was a reminder that the girl she had once been—the girl she was—was no longer there. She was somebody else now, somebody people laughed at, stared at, whispered about.

And it didn’t matter how much she tried to convince herself she was still Lena—still herself—because nothing about this felt like it. Not the clothes, not the haircut, not even the empty stare she saw in the mirror.

Greg paused by the changing room stalls, bringing Lena to a halt. He gestured towards the door.

“Try them on,” he said shortly, not giving room for argument. Lena moved slowly towards into the room, locking the door behind her.

The changing room was cold, and Lena’s skin prickled with goosebumps as she stood in front of the mirror. She peeled off her dress and reluctantly pulled on the t-shirt and shorts he had pulled out for her. The harsh fluorescent lights overhead made her look even paler than she felt. Her reflection was a stranger—a body she barely recognized, encased in boys’ clothes that hung awkwardly from her thin frame. The t-shirt sagged at her shoulders, and the shorts were too long, making her legs look awkward. The entire ensemble felt wrong.

Lena reached for the hem of the t-shirt, tugging it down self-consciously, but it did nothing to change the too-short sleeves or the way it clung to her body. She swallowed hard, trying not to look too closely at the face that stared back at her.

The mirror showed a shadow of the person she used to be, someone softer, more comfortable in her own skin. But the face that reflected back at her now was stripped of everything that had once defined her. The short, blunt cut of her hair—now even more stark and unnatural against the oversized boys’ clothes—made her feel like an imposter, someone pretending to be something they weren’t.

There was a bang on the door to the changing room. Lena jumped, startled, before unlocking the door.

Greg stepped in without so much as a pause, a scowl fixed on his face as he looked her up and down. “Well? How’s it look?”

Lena didn’t know how to respond. There was nothing she could say to make this feel right. “I… I don’t think it fits right,” she mumbled, pulling at the waistband of the shorts. “It’s too big.”

Greg eyed her critically, then shook his head. “It’ll do. It’s not about looking good, Lena. It’s about being comfortable and practical. You’re not going to care what you look like when you’re out in the woods.” His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, like this wasn’t up for discussion.

Lena wanted to argue, wanted to scream that she didn’t want to look like this, that this wasn’t who she was. But the words died in her throat. She had no fight left. She’d learned that by now.

Greg stepped forward, inspecting her once more before nodding. “You’re not bothering with that dress again. You’ll just keep this on. Saves time. Let’s go.”

Before she could protest, he grabbed the tags off the clothes with one swift motion, ripping them from the seams in a way that made Lena flinch. She stared at him, her chest tight, but Greg was already moving, heading for the door.

“No,” she whispered, instinctively reaching for the dress she had left in the corner of the room, trying to tug it back on over the boys’ clothes. “I’m going to change back—”

But Greg’s voice stopped her before she could finish. “No. Just leave it. You’re fine. Quit wasting time. We’re not buying the dress.”

Lena’s breath caught. “But I—”

“No,” he snapped, cutting her off, his voice louder now. “This is what you’re wearing. Deal with it.”

He reached over and snatched the dress out of her hand. With that, he turned, his boots clicking on the tiled floor as he headed out of the changing room, leaving Lena standing alone, feeling smaller and smaller by the second.

She stood frozen for a moment, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and shame. She felt exposed, out of place, her body an awkward shell that she didn’t even know how to inhabit anymore. She was just… nothing. The clothes didn’t belong to her, the identity didn’t belong to her, and yet it was the only thing left.

Reluctantly, Lena exited the changing room.

When she rejoined Greg, he was already at the checkout counter, his eyes scanning over the various items in his hands with impatience. He barely looked at Lena as she approached.

“Good to go?” he asked, his voice flat and uninterested.

Lena nodded meekly, too exhausted to fight him anymore. She could feel the eyes of the other shoppers on her as she followed him toward the register, her new clothes making her feel more exposed than ever. It was as if everyone could see what had happened to her, as if they could sense how wrong this all was.

As they neared the register, Lena caught a glimpse of a stranger standing in line next to them. The man looked at her, then quickly did a double-take. His gaze lingered for a second too long, and Lena felt her stomach churn. The man raised an eyebrow and leaned toward Greg, smiling politely.

“How old’s your son, buddy?” he asked, his voice jovial.

Lena’s heart dropped. Son?

She blinked, stunned, and then looked up at Greg, her face flushing with humiliation. He didn’t even seem to register the mistake.

“Hmm?” Greg looked at the stranger, his expression flat, before glancing at Lena. “Oh.” He gave a small, dismissive shrug. “Yeah, my son. He’s, uh, about fourteen. He’s getting a little too big for his age, though, so I’m trying to make sure he doesn’t outgrow his clothes too fast.”

Lena’s blood ran cold. Her throat closed up, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She could feel the man’s gaze shift back to her, looking her up and down, clearly confused but still smiling politely. The words stung as if the man had slapped her.

Son? She was his son now?

Her eyes blurred, the edges of her vision going dark, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away. She stared down at the floor, her stomach twisting in knots as she fought to keep herself together.

The man nodded, still smiling. “Ah, yeah, I can tell. Good job keeping him looking sharp.”

Lena’s chest tightened. She didn’t know how long they stood there, but it felt like an eternity. Eventually, the man moved away, chuckling to himself. The awkwardness in the air clung to Lena like a second skin, suffocating her.

Greg, as if nothing had happened, turned to the register and handed over the clothes. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest by the mistake, didn’t even glance back at Lena as she stood frozen, her heart racing in her chest.

“Just relax,” Greg said, his voice casual, as if they were going about a normal shopping trip. “You’ll get used to it. Let’s go.”

The cashier rang up the items with robotic efficiency, but Lena couldn’t hear the sound of the register, couldn’t focus on anything but the word som, echoing in her mind. It rang through her skull, over and over, and she couldn’t shake it. Son.

When the cashier handed Greg the bag, he grabbed it without a word and turned to leave, calling over his shoulder for Lena to follow. She didn’t move immediately. She stood there for a moment, staring at the ground. The words son—so casual, so natural—were still echoing in her head, reverberating through her chest. It was as if that stranger’s words had cemented everything she had feared.

When she finally caught up to Greg at the door, her feet felt like lead, each step a slow march into a life she no longer recognized. The world outside seemed even more foreign than it had been before, the faces of people like mirrors reflecting someone who wasn’t her.

She wasn’t a daughter. She wasn’t a girl. She wasn’t even sure who she was anymore.

And the worst part? It felt like no one cared.

Greg didn’t look back.