ClipperKitty
At fifteen years old, Clair Forester was the definition of a queen bee. With natural blonde hair that fell to her knees, flawless makeup, subtly expensive jewelry, and a wardrobe straight out of a teenage dream, she turned heads in every room she entered. She walked with confidence, every step deliberate, every smile calculated. Clair’s circle of friends was so massive, she used an app to sort and categorize them into tiers—best friends, party friends, school friends, and so on.
Everything about Clair’s life was curated, from her appearance to her carefully crafted reputation. But none of it was what she truly wanted.
The Forester family was practically royalty in their town. Her father, Michael, was a respected and well-paid financial advisor. Her mother, Nina, was a high-profile socialite known for her charity galas and her impeccable sense of fashion. From the moment Clair was born, she was groomed to be Nina’s mirror image. Dolls, ballet, pink everything, etiquette lessons, and designer clothes—Clair’s world was shaped by her mother’s expectations.
But behind the designer facade was a girl quietly rebelling.
Clair’s secret escape was the city mall, far from the judging eyes of her school and her parents. She’d sneak out wearing a hoodie and swap her heels for sneakers, wandering into stores like Hot Topic and Spencer’s—places Nina despised. There, surrounded by black eyeliner, spiked collars, and punk music, Clair felt alive. She even kept a stash of clothes, fake piercings, and wigs hidden in her father’s study, taking advantage of how often he traveled for work.
It was on one of these clandestine trips that Clair met Morgan.
Morgan was everything Clair wished she could be—authentic, bold, and unapologetically herself. She had short, choppy hair dyed a different color every month, multiple piercings, and a sleeve of tattoos-in-progress. But it wasn’t just Morgan’s appearance that Clair admired—it was her freedom. Her parents accepted her. Her friends embraced her weirdness. And she didn’t have to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.
The two girls clicked instantly.
As their friendship grew, they swapped stories from their opposite worlds. Clair talked about extravagant parties, forced etiquette classes, and overwhelming family expectations. Morgan shared tales of underground raves, her tight-knit crew, and her passion for cosmetology and body mods. Slowly, Morgan helped Clair push the boundaries she’d been boxed into for so long.
On Morgan’s birthday, her parents helped her buy a car. That night, she picked up Clair and drove her to her very first rave. It was a rush of lights, music, and freedom—a world so different from anything Clair had ever known.
There, Clair met Morgan’s inner circle.
Emily was tiny—barely four foot nine—but made up for it with her loud, bubbly energy. She was the group’s social battery, always dancing, always talking. Savannah was the oldest, a thrill-seeker with a chaotic streak. She’d spent more than a few nights in jail for giving tattoos to her underage friends. Now that she was seventeen, she’d become more selective, but the edge hadn’t dulled. Then there was Mark, Savannah’s boyfriend. He had dropped out of school at sixteen to work in his father’s auto shop, and while he didn’t say much, he always showed up when it mattered.
For the first time in her life, Clair felt like she belonged—not because she fit the mold, but because she didn’t.
That night, more than a little tipsy, Clair turned to Savannah with a bold request.
“I want a memento,” she slurred. “Something small… to remember this night.”
Savannah grinned. “Say less.”
When Clair woke up the next morning, her head pounding and mouth dry, something felt… off. Her ankle throbbed. It felt like it was wrapped in plastic. Groggily, she lifted the blanket and froze.
A tattoo.
A small skull, black-inked and sharp, glared up at her from behind a sheet of cling wrap.
Panic exploded in her chest.
What did I do? How do I hide this? What is my mom going to think?!
She shot up from the couch. These weren’t her clothes. This wasn’t her house. Where the hell am I?
Before she could spiral further, Morgan walked in holding a mug of coffee and a plate of bacon. “Morning, sunshine. Fun night, huh? I see Savannah got a new canvas. What’s Queen Bitch gonna think?”
Clair screamed, “WHERE AM I, MORGAN?! I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HOME LAST NIGHT!”
Morgan blinked, taken aback. “Dude, you told us you didn’t need to be. We never would’ve let you get wasted if we thought—”
Clair dropped back onto the couch, tears welling in her eyes. The memories were starting to come back in blurry fragments—the rave, the drinks, the tattoo.
Morgan crouched beside her. “Hey. Breathe. Worst case, you get one of your little clones to help you cover it up.”
Clair sat up, panic still tightening around her chest. “Where’s my phone? I need to make a plan.”
Morgan’s eyes widened. “Oh, shit. Right. I plugged it in last night—hold on.”
A minute passed before she returned, dread on her face.
“Clair… you’re not gonna like this.”
Clair snatched the phone from her hand, unlocking it with shaky fingers. Her stomach dropped.
132 texts. 52 missed calls. All from Nina.
After hours of frantic planning, a few hundred dollars in bribes, and a painfully long car ride, Clair stood at the door of her mother’s bedroom, dreading what was to come.
The air was thick with tension—so thick it could be sliced with a knife.
She stepped in slowly, expecting yelling, threats, or worse… silence.
Instead, her mother was smiling.
Clair blinked in confusion.
On the bed were neatly packed bags—one from a camping supply store, one from Sally’s Beauty, and multiple from a high-end ballet boutique.
Before she could speak, Nina turned to her, beaming.
“Darling, I have the most wonderful news. You’ve been accepted into a very exclusive summer program. It’s called Camp Francis.”
Clair’s stomach turned.
“It’s a finishing school,” Nina continued. “For refined young ladies. You’ll learn how to cook, clean, present yourself properly, and prepare for your future as a wife. Three whole months of structure, discipline, and transformation.”
Clair said nothing. She couldn’t. Her worst nightmare had just walked through the door, kissed her on the cheek, and layed itself on her mothers bed.
For the next four weeks, Clair clung to Morgan like a lifeline.
She didn’t tell her about the camp. She couldn’t.
What if Morgan thought she was weak? What if she pulled away?
So she lied, smiled, and soaked in every last moment—late-night drives, fast food in the park, music blaring in the car. As her departure date loomed, her mother doubled down. Clothes were packed. Her hair was bleached lighter. Anything not “appropriate” was tossed.
Then, the day came.
Six hours on a bus. No phone. No distractions. Just dread.
When she arrived at Camp Francis, she was herded into a building with a peeling sign that read:
PREP ROOM
The line moved slowly, and the girls whispered horror stories to each other. Crying. Screaming. Uniform haircuts. Forced vaccinations. But Clair didn’t want to believe it. This was just a scare tactic. Right?
The line moved.
She stood at the front now, staring at a heavy white door. Behind it, muffled sobs.
Then the door opened.
She was pulled in.
A row of stools stretched before her. Girls sat in each one, faces blotchy from crying, makeup smeared, hair falling to the ground in blonde, brown, and black clumps. They were being stripped down—hair chopped , faces wiped clean, sleeves rolled up for injections.
Before she could take a step back, a firm grip grabbed her shoulders and forced her into the last empty seat. A cape was snapped around her neck. A tall woman with expressionless eyes stood in front of her.
“Do not move. Do not speak,” she said, coldly. “Your hair will be cut to uniform standard. Your makeup will be removed. You will receive a series of vaccines. Then, you will begin your training.”
Clair didn’t move. She couldn’t.
The sound of scissors filled the room. The tears started before the first snip.
Her transformation was no longer in her hands.
The woman slipped a pair of shears from her pocket—old, iron ones, the kind that creak when they open too wide—and stepped behind Clair. The air seemed to thicken. Clair’s hands clenched under the cape, her fingers slick with sweat.
A lock of her pale hair was lifted, cool against her neck. Then came the first sound—schick—a clean slice that sent a shiver racing down Clair’s spine.
The rhythm started slow. Schick. Schick. Schick. Metal scraping metal, strands whispering as they fell. Each snip felt closer, more deliberate, as though the woman were carving something invisible into her scalp. Clair’s breath caught in her throat; she wanted to speak, to ask what was happening, but her voice wouldn’t obey.
Hair brushed her shoulders, slid down the cape, and gathered in her lap like shed skin. The faint, sweet scent of bleach mingled with the copper tang of metal and the woman’s perfume—something floral, almost cloying.
Time blurred. Minutes or hours—it didn’t matter. The scissors stopped at last. The woman stepped around, eyes glinting with amusement. She held up a severed length of hair, nearly half a foot long, and let it drop into Clair’s lap with a thud softer than it should have been.
“You really bleached your hair for this?” she said, laughing. “How vain can you be?”
Clair stared down at the pile of blonde strands, her stomach twisting. They looked foreign—like they’d belonged to someone else.
The woman moved back into view, tugging a rag and a spray bottle from her back pockets. The cold mist hit Clair’s face without warning, sharp and chemical. Her skin prickled, then burned. The rag followed—rough, merciless—scraping away layers of foundation, powder, mascara. Clair’s face screamed beneath it, raw and exposed.
When the woman was done, she tore away the cape and rolled up Clair’s sleeve. Two others entered—women in scrubs, silent as ghosts. Each held a syringe that caught the light like a knife.
Without a word, they took her arms. Twin stings bloomed, sharp and deep. Whatever they injected spread heat through her veins, dulling everything except the lingering sting on her scalp and the faint tickle of stray hairs still clinging to her neck.
When they finally led her out of the prep room, Clair could barely walk straight. Her head felt lighter, her body heavier. She thanked God—half-conscious—that the torment was over, that she could finally sleep.
They took her to a narrow cabin. A bed waited, sheets too white, her bags already placed neatly at the foot. Clair fell onto the mattress, exhausted.
From the bunk beside her, a quiet voice whispered through the dark.
“Sleep while you can,” the girl said. “It only gets worse.”
