Finding Fiona

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The coffee tasted like regret.

I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the latest campaign briefs, the words blurring into a fog of corporate jargon.
Synergy.
Disruptive.
Authentic engagement.

God, kill me.

I closed the file and rubbed my temples. Another Friday in a long line of Fridays, each one sliding into the next like the world’s slowest car crash.

It had been two months since Eric and I broke up — not that anyone at the firm knew. In advertising, appearances were everything. You kept your lipstick bright, your smile brighter, and your breakdowns reserved for bathroom stalls and Uber rides home.

Across the open office, I spotted Lauren from accounting giggling at something on her phone. Probably another engagement announcement. Everyone was pairing off like it was some kind of Noah’s Ark situation, and I was the sad giraffe wandering around alone.

I shook the thought away. Work. Focus on work.

A knock on the side of my cubicle pulled me from my spiral. It was Jared, one of the project managers, holding two coffees.

“Morning, Fiona,” he said, grinning like he wanted a gold star for remembering my name. “Big meeting in fifteen. Client’s bringing their new marketing lead.”

I forced a smile. “Thanks, Jared.”

After he left, I stared at my reflection in the dark screen of my laptop. Same chestnut-brown hair falling past my shoulders. Same neutral makeup. Same safe navy blouse.
When did I get so… boring?

Fifteen minutes later, I was perched at the long conference table, fake-smiling through introductions. Most of it was a blur — until he walked in.

Chris.

He didn’t look like a marketing lead. No stiff suit or rehearsed power pose. He wore dark jeans and a leather jacket, like he’d just stepped off a movie set. His hair was a little messy in a way that had to be intentional, and his smile — easy, crooked — hit me like a punch.

When he caught me looking, he smiled wider, and damn it, I blushed like I was fifteen.

The meeting went on, words swirling around me — demographics, ad buys, budget breakdowns — but all I could focus on was Chris’s voice. Warm. Unhurried. Like he had nothing to prove.

Afterward, while everyone gathered their notes and laptops, he made his way over to me.

“You’re Fiona, right?” he said.

“Fi,” I corrected without thinking. “Everyone calls me Fi.”

He grinned. “Fi. Nice to meet you. Chris.” He offered his hand, and when I shook it, his touch was firm but not aggressive.
Confident.
Unapologetic.
Exactly what I said I liked.

“You free for dinner?” he asked, just like that.

I blinked. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” he said, casually as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You seem like you have good stories.”

I laughed, surprised by the suddenness of it — and by how much I wanted to say yes.

“Sure,” I said. “Dinner sounds great.”

The rest of the afternoon dragged like a slow bleed. I tried to lose myself in project timelines and budget spreadsheets, but my mind kept drifting — to the way Chris’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, to the low hum of his voice when he said my name.
Every new email felt like static noise. Every meeting was just another obstacle between me and tonight.
I wasn’t nervous, exactly.
I was… humming. Like something electric was coiled tight inside me, waiting to spark.

By the time five o’clock finally limped around, I was practically vibrating out of my chair.
I slammed my laptop shut with unnecessary force, grabbed my bag, and booked it toward the elevator like my life depended on it.

The second I stepped onto the sidewalk, I pulled out my phone and called Sabrina. It was muscle memory at this point — we talked almost every day, even if it was just about what kind of cereal we were eating or which subway line was ruining our lives.

She picked up on the first ring. “Hey, nerd.”

“Hey yourself,” I said, weaving through the rush hour crowd.

“Survived Friday?”

“Technically, yes. Mentally? Jury’s still out.”

She laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Tell me something good.”

I hesitated, then said, “I have a dinner date.”

There was a beat of silence — then an exaggerated gasp. “Is he human? Does he have a face? Are you being catfished?”

I snorted. “Relax. He’s real. New client at work. Chris. Super normal. At least, he seemed that way in the conference room.”

“Fi,” she said in her faux-serious voice, “you must be vigilant. You know the rule: all single men are presumed weirdos until proven otherwise.”

I laughed, dodging a guy on a scooter. “That’s rich coming from you. You married a man who owns three swords.”

“Decorative swords,” she corrected primly. “Very different.”

I grinned. “Well, just for the record, I am also a single weirdo. So it should even out.”

“True,” she said, with mock gravity. “You’re a dangerous cocktail of bad puns, emotional availability, and terrible taste in reality TV.”

“Hey,” I protested, but I was laughing too hard to sound convincing.

“So where’s dinner?”

“Some Italian place he picked. Small, cute. Doesn’t seem like a serial killer vibe.”

“Good,” Sabrina said. “Text me if you need a ‘get out’ excuse. I can fake a dramatic medical emergency in thirty seconds flat.”

“I’ll put you on standby,” I said, smiling as I climbed the stairs to my walk-up.

Inside my apartment, I tossed my keys into the bowl by the door and dropped onto the couch, phone still pressed to my ear.

“Okay,” I said. “Real talk. What do I wear?”

“Sexy but approachable,” Sabrina said immediately. “Like… ‘Oops, I didn’t try too hard but I still look amazing.’”

I groaned. “You know that’s an unattainable myth, right?”

“Believe in yourself,” she said, and hung up before I could argue.

I sat there for a moment, staring at my closet like it was a portal to another universe.
Sexy but approachable.
No pressure.

I finally dragged myself up and started flipping through hangers. Black dress? Too formal. Jeans and a T-shirt? Too casual. Flowy blouse with leather jacket?
Maybe.

I held it up in front of the mirror, tilting my head.
Not bad.
Confident. Easy. A little bold — but still me.

I smiled at my reflection, nerves and excitement twisting together in my stomach.
Okay, Fi, I thought. Let’s see what happens.

The subway car rattled and groaned, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead like they were on their last legs. I clutched the metal pole with one hand, my phone in the other, pretending to scroll but mostly just trying not to spiral.

It’s just dinner, I told myself. Just a conversation with a guy who smiles at you like you’re the most interesting thing he’s seen all day. No big deal.

But it felt like a big deal. Maybe because it had been so long since I’d felt that first-spark crackle. Maybe because I was tired of being so safe all the time — safe hair, safe job, safe everything. Maybe because when Chris looked at me, I didn’t feel boring. I felt… electric.

The train lurched to a stop. My stop.

I climbed the stairs to street level, the spring night air cool against my cheeks. The restaurant was just up ahead, tucked on the corner like a secret waiting to be found.

New Fi, I thought, adjusting my jacket. At least for tonight.

The place was small and cozy, all brick walls and soft lighting. Chris was already there when I arrived, leaning casually against the hostess stand. When he saw me, he straightened up, smiling wide.

“Fi,” he said, like he was genuinely happy to see me.

“Hey,” I said, feeling that stupid, giddy warmth bloom in my chest.

The restaurant buzzed with the low hum of conversation, forks clinking softly against plates. Chris and I had been there barely twenty minutes, but it already felt like we were in our own little world, laughing so hard over bad-date horror stories that I had to wipe mascara from the corner of my eye.

“So let me get this straight,” Chris said, grinning as he leaned in, “this guy told you he lived with his ex-wife… and then asked if you wanted to ‘meet the dog’?”

I groaned. “It was a hostage situation. I barely escaped.”

Chris laughed, head thrown back, and for a second I just watched him — easy, genuine, nothing polished or rehearsed about him. He made you want to stay in conversations longer than you meant to.

“Okay,” he said once he caught his breath. “Your turn. What’s your red flag?”

I smirked. “Well, I have an unhealthy relationship with caffeine, I talk to my plants like they’re coworkers, and I’m dangerously competitive at board games.”

Chris placed a hand over his heart. “You’re speaking my love language.”

I laughed, shaking my head, feeling that warm, giddy buzz building again — not from the wine, but from him.

After a beat, I asked, a little more seriously, “So… what about you? What do you look for in a woman?”

He hesitated, twirling his glass by the stem. “Honestly? It’s a little unconventional.”

I lifted an eyebrow, teasing. “You’re not about to say ‘a pulse’ or ‘great credit score,’ are you?”

He chuckled. “No. It’s… a look thing. I’ve always been drawn to women with short hair.”

I blinked, surprised. “Short hair?”

He nodded, seeming more comfortable now. “Yeah. There’s something about it — confidence, maybe. It just feels… bold.”

I chewed on that, intrigued. I had never heard a man say that before — not like that. Most guys I’d dated practically worshiped long hair, like it was some kind of feminine requirement.

“So, like, how short are we talking?” I asked, playful but genuinely curious. “Bob cut? Pixie?”

“All of it,” he said easily. “I think it’s beautiful.”

I laughed. “Even a shaggy little crop?”

He grinned. “Sexy.”

“A shaved nape?”

“Even better.”

I squinted at him across the table. “A buzz cut?”

Chris froze for a half-second, the tips of his ears turning pink. It was adorable.

I gasped, delighted. “Oh my God. You like buzz cuts, don’t you?”

He shrugged, sheepish but smiling. “Yeah. I do.”

I bit back a smile. “Alright, Chris. But what about no hair at all? Like, smooth. Bald.”

He paused — not long, but just enough that I caught it. His smile turned a little sheepish.

“I mean,” he said carefully, “if she was happy, if it was her thing… I think that’s incredibly beautiful.”

I watched him, feeling that small, secret thrill again. He wasn’t some creep fetishizing it — he was just honest. Careful, but not fake. And the way he looked at me right then — like I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t flinch — sent a shiver right down my spine.

I sat back, twirling the straw in my drink. “Huh,” I said, keeping my tone light. “So you’re telling me… if I showed up tomorrow with a shaved head, you wouldn’t run for the hills?”

Chris leaned in slightly, resting his elbows on the table.
“I think,” he said, voice low and steady, “you’d still be the most beautiful woman in the room.”

My cheeks flushed, and this time it had nothing to do with the wine.

Dinner lingered longer than either of us planned.
We wandered through appetizers and pastas, sipping wine, trading stories that got gradually less guarded, more real.
I loved the way Chris listened — not just waiting for his turn to talk, but actually listening, like my words meant something.

When the check finally came, neither of us moved right away. It felt like a bubble had formed around our booth, warm and golden, like stepping outside of regular life.

Outside the restaurant, we lingered by the curb.

“This was… really great,” I said, hating how clumsy the words sounded.

Chris smiled, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “It was.”

For a heartbeat, I thought he might kiss me. I wasn’t sure if I wanted him to — or if I would just melt into the sidewalk.

But he only brushed his knuckles lightly against mine, a barely-there touch that somehow felt more intimate.

“Get home safe, Fi,” he said, voice low.

“You too,” I managed, feeling like my bones had been replaced with helium.

I watched him walk away, my heart hammering like it hadn’t in a long, long time.
By the time I stumbled into my apartment, I was absolutely swimming — floating somewhere between giddy, stunned, and a little terrified.

What was happening to me?

I flopped onto the couch, my jacket still half-on, staring up at the cracked ceiling like it might offer answers.

My phone buzzed about twenty minutes later.
Chris: Home safe?

I smiled so hard it almost hurt.

Fi: Yep. Thanks for an amazing night. Seriously. I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun.

A few seconds later:
Chris: You’re trouble, you know that?

I bit my lip, heart flipping.
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard for a second before I typed:

Fi: Trouble? Me?
I’m an angel. A perfectly innocent angel.
…who may or may not have a hair appointment tomorrow.

I hit send before I could second-guess myself, immediately feeling the adrenaline rush through my veins.

The typing dots appeared almost instantly.

Chris: Now you’re just trying to kill me.

I laughed out loud, tossing my phone onto the couch beside me.
Somewhere deep inside, I felt a tiny, electric spark ignite — not just attraction, not just curiosity — but something sharper.
Possibility.

I wasn’t sure where this was going.
But for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t scared.
I was excited.

I was still grinning at my phone when it buzzed again — this time, Sabrina’s name lighting up the screen.

I answered immediately, flopping back against the couch cushions. “Hey, Sab.”

“Hey, you!” her voice crackled through, bright and teasing. “Just calling to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped by a serial killer.”

I snorted. “Nope. Still fully intact.”

“Phew. So?” she prompted, dragging the word out. “How’d it go? Do we like him? Should I start planning the wedding?”

I laughed, pulling a throw blanket over my lap. “It was… amazing, actually.”

“Oooh,” she said approvingly. “Details. Spill.”

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to corral my thoughts. “We just… clicked. It wasn’t forced or awkward. We talked for, like, hours — bad date stories, board games, plants, caffeine addictions… all the essentials.”

“Sounds promising,” Sabrina said. “And he wasn’t a weirdo?”

“Well,” I said, hesitating just enough for her to pick up on it.

“Well?” she echoed, suspicious.

I chewed my lip, feeling suddenly shy. “We got on this topic about what we’re attracted to. He said he’s really into women with short hair.”

There was a beat of silence on the line. Then:

“That’s it?” Sabrina said, incredulous. “You had me ready for a human taxidermy collection or something.”

I laughed, relief flooding through me. “I know! It’s just… different. I’ve never met a guy who preferred short hair.”

“Fi, that’s not weird,” she said warmly. “That’s refreshing. At least he’s not like every other dude who thinks a woman’s worth is measured in inches of hair.”

I smiled, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “Yeah. I guess.”

“And?” Sabrina pressed. “You clearly haven’t told me everything yet.”

I sighed, a little sheepish. “I might’ve… told him I have a hair appointment tomorrow.”

There was a beat, and then Sabrina burst out laughing. “You little minx. Torturing the poor boy already.”

“I didn’t mean to!” I protested, though I was grinning like an idiot. “It just… slipped out.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, clearly not buying it. “So? Are you actually thinking about it?”

I hesitated, staring at the ceiling again.
Was I?
Part of me was tempted — not just for Chris, but for myself. Something about the idea of shedding the past — literally — felt intoxicating.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Maybe? Something shorter, at least.”

Sabrina hummed thoughtfully. “Well, whatever you decide… just make sure you’re doing it for you, okay? Not for some guy — no matter how dreamy he is.”

“I know,” I said, smiling. “I will.”

“Good. Now go to bed, Cinderella,” she teased.

I laughed, feeling lighter than I had in months. “Night, Sab. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

I hung up and sank deeper into the couch, phone clutched loosely in my hand.
Tomorrow was going to be interesting.

I shuffled through my tiny apartment, peeling off the day like an old skin — jacket on the chair, earrings dropped onto the counter, heels kicked off without ceremony.

In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth, staring at my reflection through a fog of exhaustion and adrenaline.
The same long, wavy brown hair stared back at me — familiar, safe.

I tried to imagine it shorter.
A blunt bob, maybe. Or a messy pixie cut.
I squinted, angling my head to the side. Could I pull it off?
Would I even recognize myself?

I rinsed and padded back to my bedroom, climbing into bed and cocooning myself under the comforter.
The glow of my phone lit up the dark room as I pulled up my browser without even thinking.

Short hairstyles for women.

An endless scroll of edgy cuts filled the screen — chic bobs, artfully tousled pixies, fierce undercuts.
Each one made my heart skip, but I didn’t stop there.

My thumb hovered over the search bar.
Curious, a little breathless, I typed:

Women with buzz cuts.

The results flooded in instantly — photo after photo of stunning women, faces bright and fierce, their hair cropped close to the scalp or almost nonexistent.
There was something raw and electric about them — a kind of beauty that didn’t hide behind anything.

I bit my lip, my heart thudding faster.
Before I could stop myself, I changed the search:

Beautiful bald women.

Hundreds of images appeared.
Elegant, radiant, powerful.
Smooth, shining heads — bare, vulnerable, and somehow… stronger for it.

I found myself staring, caught in something bigger than simple admiration.
It wasn’t just about attraction or even about Chris.
It was about possibility.
About shedding the weight of expectation — about choosing to be something new.

Sabrina’s voice echoed in my mind, warm and steady: Just make sure you’re doing it for you.

I stared at the screen a long moment, my thumb resting lightly against the edge of the phone.

Maybe… maybe this wasn’t about impressing anyone.
Maybe it was about finally letting myself be anyone I wanted.

I set the phone down gently on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and curled deeper into the covers, the images still flickering behind my closed eyes.

Tomorrow, everything could change.
If I wanted it to.

The next morning, sunlight sliced through the blinds and landed squarely on my face, dragging me out of a restless sleep.

I stretched, yawned, and rolled out of bed, my heart already thudding a little faster than usual.

Today was… well, maybe today was going to be different.

I shuffled into the kitchen, too jittery for anything complicated, and settled for coffee and a piece of toast.
I sat cross-legged at the counter, scrolling through my phone as I nibbled half-heartedly.
The screen was still filled with haircuts — bobs, pixies, buzz cuts, smooth-shaven scalps gleaming under professional lighting.

I found myself lingering over the buzz cuts longer than I meant to.
Something about them felt raw and free, like a deep breath after holding it in too long.

I caught a glimpse of the clock and jumped up, cramming the rest of the toast into my mouth.
I threw on a pair of jeans, a simple t-shirt, and my trusty Yankees cap, tugging my ponytail through the back strap.
One last look in the mirror: nervous, slightly disheveled, but determined.

I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.

The salon wasn’t far — a fifteen-minute walk that gave me a little too much time to second-guess myself.

By the time I pushed through the glass door, the tiny brass bell overhead chiming merrily, my palms were damp.

“Fi!” Allyson grinned from her station, waving me over.
Her blonde hair was twisted into a messy bun, and she wore ripped jeans and a worn leather jacket — effortlessly cool, as always.

I smiled back, feeling the tension loosen slightly in my chest.

“Morning, Al,” I said, sliding into the chair.

“So,” she said, tossing a cape over me and fastening it at the neck. “The usual today? Trim, shampoo, minor life reassessment?”

I laughed, fiddling with the edge of the cape. “Actually… I was thinking of doing something different.”

Ally paused, one eyebrow arching. “Different how?”

I hesitated, chewing my lip. “I met someone.”

Her face lit up immediately. “Ohhh. Tell me everything.”

I gave her the condensed version — dinner, laughter, and the part about Chris’s attraction to short hair.

Ally leaned against her counter, arms crossed, grinning like a cat who just caught a mouse. “And now you’re sitting in my chair, contemplating big changes. Interesting.”

“It’s not just about him,” I said quickly.
“I mean, yeah, he kind of got me thinking about it… but I’ve been feeling stuck lately, you know? Like it might be time to shake things up.”

Ally nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough. So, did you bring ideas? Or are we just winging it and praying to the hair gods?”

I pulled out my phone and opened my Pinterest board, handing it over.

She scrolled, pausing occasionally at a sleek bob or an edgy pixie. “Cute. Cute. Oh, this one’s fierce—”

She scrolled further.
And then her eyebrows shot up.

Because there they were.
Buzz cuts. Lots of them.

She kept scrolling — and then came the bald women.
Shining, beautiful, unapologetically bold.

Ally let out a low whistle. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about wanting a change.”

I laughed nervously, tucking a stray piece of hair behind my ear.
The ponytail made the movement awkward — heavy.

Ally handed the phone back and met my gaze in the mirror.

“So, where are we going today, Fi?” she asked gently, no pressure in her voice, only curiosity.
“Big chop? Buzz? Clean slate?”

I stared at my reflection, feeling the weight of the moment settle around me.
I could still back out.
I could ask for a trim and walk away safe, unchanged.

Or I could jump.

And suddenly, I wanted to jump more than anything.

I took a breath, feeling my heart rattle against my ribs.

“Can we start with a buzzcut,” I said, voice surprisingly steady.
“See how it feels?”

Ally’s grin widened — not mocking, just genuinely excited for me. “You got it, Fi.”

Without hesitation, she pulled a drawer open and grabbed her scissors — the heavy-duty kind — and gave my ponytail a little tug.

“You ready?” she asked, scissors poised.

I nodded before I could talk myself out of it.

Snip.

The first cut felt loud, louder than it should have, like something being torn away.
Another quick slice, and my head felt suddenly lighter, freer.

Ally held up the thick, heavy ponytail, giving it a little bounce before dropping it neatly into my lap.

I stared down at it, almost in disbelief.
There it was — years of careful maintenance, of curling and straightening and agonizing — now just a severed rope across my thighs.

It was heavier than I thought it would be.
A real, physical weight.

I blinked a few times, then — before the moment could slip away — fished my phone out from under the cape.

I snapped a quick picture: the ponytail, messy and glorious, lying there like a surrendered flag.

I hesitated for just a second, then tapped Chris’ name.

Fi: Guess what I did today?

I attached the photo and hit send before I could second-guess myself.

Ally was grinning at me in the mirror.
“Feeling okay?” she asked, reaching for the clippers now, her hand steady.

I smiled, heart hammering in my chest.

“Better than okay,” I said.

The clippers roared to life, and the vibration against my scalp made me shiver.

There was no turning back now.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t want to.

The clippers buzzed against my scalp, a steady, relentless hum.

Ally worked quickly, her hands sure and gentle as she guided the clippers over my crown.
Tufts of dark brown hair rained down around me, sliding down the cape like fallen leaves.
In the mirror, I watched as my familiar shape shifted, softened, sharpened — all at once.

It was mesmerizing.
Liberating.
A little terrifying.

Every pass of the clippers peeled away another layer of who I used to be.

The long ponytail in my lap was only the beginning — now I could see it, feel it, the lightness growing with every sweep.

The thick mass of my hair became stubble, a soft, even pelt that caught the light like velvet.
Ally moved methodically around my head, adjusting the angle, tapering the back and sides tighter so there was a clean, deliberate fade.
She edged the nape of my neck with delicate precision, shaping the buzzcut to fit me like it had always belonged there.

I shivered — not from cold, but from some electric thrill crawling up my spine.

I barely heard the ding of my phone over the buzz of the clippers.

Ally paused just long enough for me to peek at the screen.

Chris.

Chris: Is that real?!

A quick grin spread across my face. I flipped the camera around, snapped a picture of myself mid-buzz — little hairs sticking to my forehead, the clippers still vibrating in Ally’s hand.

I sent it without a word.

For a beat, nothing.
Then my phone lit up again.

Chris: You are absolutely incredible.

Heat rose up my cheeks, but it wasn’t embarrassment — it was pure, giddy exhilaration.

“You’ve got a fan already,” Ally teased, catching the exchange over my shoulder.

“Maybe just a little,” I murmured, feeling giddy and powerful all at once.

Ally flicked the clippers off and set them aside, dusting loose hairs from my shoulders with a practiced hand.

“There,” she said, spinning me slightly toward the mirror.

I stared.

The reflection looking back at me was still me — the same green eyes, the same small smile — but different.
Sharper. Stronger.
Freer.

I reached up, fingers tentative at first, then bolder, brushing over the short, soft bristles.
It felt incredible — a tactile whisper under my fingertips, a sensation both delicate and fierce.

“God,” I whispered. “I love it.”

Ally beamed. “You look like a badass, Fi.”

I pulled my phone back out and grinned at her.
“Can you take a proper picture? I need to memorialize this.”

She laughed and obliged, snapping a few quick shots — head tilted, grinning over my shoulder, a faux-serious model pose that made us both crack up.

I picked the best one — the one where my smile was small but real — and sent it off to Chris.

Fi: What do you think?

It didn’t take long.

Chris: Stunning.

One word. Simple. True. And it made my heart thud painfully against my ribs.

I was still admiring the latest photo when Ally cleared her throat behind me, her voice casual but sly.

“So,” she said, leaning against her counter, “do you want to finish the cut?”

I blinked at her in the mirror.
“Finish…?”

And then it clicked.

The final step.
The clean shave.
No stubble. No fuzz.
Nothing.

Just skin, smooth and bare, shining under the lights.

My stomach flipped.

Was I ready for that?

Was I really ready to let it all go?

I twisted a little in the chair, facing Ally properly now.
“Finish the cut?” I echoed, pretending not to know what she meant.

Ally crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at me. “You know… take it all the way. Smooth. No fuzz.”

I laughed nervously, running my palm over the soft bristle on my head again.
It felt so good — like velvet, like freedom — but bald?

“Bald bald?” I teased. “Like… newborn baby, Mr. Clean, cue ball bald?”

Ally smirked. “Exactly. But way hotter.”

I chewed my bottom lip, glancing back at the mirror.
My buzzcut was already a statement. Bold. Fierce.
But the idea of nothing at all — the starkness of it — sent a jolt of adrenaline rushing through me.

“You think I can pull it off?” I asked, half-joking but suddenly craving her honesty.

Ally didn’t hesitate. “Fi, you could rock it. You’ve got the face for it — sharp jawline, big eyes. Honestly? Going all the way would make you look like an absolute goddess.”

I huffed a breath, half a laugh, half terror.
“A bald goddess?”

“The baldest,” Ally said solemnly, and we both cracked up.

The tension broke a little, and when it settled, all that was left was a humming excitement.

I rubbed the stubble at my temple again, feeling the last traces of what had been there.

“What’s it even feel like?” I asked softly.

Ally smiled, reaching behind her to grab a towel and a small bowl. “You wanna find out?”

I hesitated — just for a second — then nodded.

Ally moved with the same easy confidence she always had, wetting a towel with warm water and gently pressing it against my scalp.
The heat seeped into my skin, loosening the tiny hairs, making my whole head feel weightless and drowsy.

I closed my eyes, letting it happen.

She massaged a rich, silky shaving cream over my scalp, her fingers slow and careful, working it in with almost ritualistic tenderness.
It smelled faintly of eucalyptus — fresh and clean, like starting over.

Then came the blade.

The first sweep of the straight razor made me shiver — a soft, whispering sound as it glided across my skin, leaving a trail of perfect smoothness behind.

It wasn’t scary.
It was… exquisite.

Ally worked methodically, tipping my head this way and that, her touch sure and respectful.
I felt each stroke erase another layer, felt the cool air kiss my newly bared skin.

The scraping sound, the faint tug, the way the razor caught the light — it was all hypnotic.

Little by little, my stubble was stripped away, revealing nothing but smooth, bare scalp.

When Ally finished, she wiped my head clean with another warm towel, then smoothed a silky balm over it — something cooling and slightly tingly, sending another shiver down my spine.

“There,” she said, softly now. “All done.”

I opened my eyes.

The woman in the mirror wasn’t someone I recognized — not at first.
No hair. No armor.
Just me.

Raw. Bold. Beautiful.

I lifted a hand and touched my scalp, fingertips gliding over the impossibly smooth skin.
It felt incredible — soft, cool, real.

I laughed, sudden and breathless.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “I actually did it.”

Ally grinned behind me. “And you look like a goddamn queen.”

After Ally finished brushing stray hairs from my shoulders, she handed me the straight razor, still gleaming from my shave.

I turned it over in my hands, the weight of it somehow perfect for the moment.

Instead of snapping a photo of myself, I positioned the razor against the marble counter, the salon lights glinting off the blade, and took a picture.

Simple. Suggestive.
A secret between us.

I hit send.

For a few seconds, nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.

Chris: Are you free for coffee? I have to see you.

A grin curled at my mouth.
Cool as ever, I slid my Yankees cap onto my freshly bald head, threading the strap low across my nape.

I tucked my phone into my pocket and turned to Ally.
“Time for a coffee date.”

She winked at me. “Knock him dead, gorgeous.”

The coffee shop was just a few blocks away, a familiar spot tucked between a bookstore and a record shop.

As I walked, the early afternoon breeze kissed my scalp in little, electric bursts under the cap, making me acutely aware of every step, every movement.
I felt… alive. Vibrant. Dangerous.

When I pushed open the door, Chris was already there, standing by the counter, scanning the entrance.

His eyes found mine immediately.

For a beat, he just stared.

Then his gaze dropped to the hint of scalp peeking out from beneath the cap, and his mouth parted slightly, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

“Fi,” he breathed, almost reverently.

I sauntered toward him, calm and collected, heart pounding in my ears.

“Hey, Chris,” I said, as casually as if we’d just bumped into each other on the street.

He looked dazed. Awestruck.

“You… you really did it,” he said, voice low and thick with something that made my stomach flutter.

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Told you I had an appointment.”

Chris laughed under his breath, still not taking his eyes off me.

“You’re…” He shook his head, searching for the word. “You’re unbelievable.”

I cocked my head. “In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

We barely touched our coffee.
Every glance, every smile was a silent conversation we weren’t ready to put into words yet.

Chris leaned in, his fingers brushing my hand where it rested on the table, just the barest touch.
I felt it like a jolt.

“You wanna get out of here?” he asked, voice low, intimate.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” I said, standing so quickly my chair scraped the floor.

Outside, he guided me gently by the small of my back, like he couldn’t help himself.
I could feel the heat of his palm through my t-shirt.

His apartment was close — a clean, cozy place with big windows and messy bookshelves.

The second the door clicked shut behind us, something shifted.

Chris turned to face me, his hands hesitating in the air between us, like he was asking permission without words.

I stepped into him.

His fingers found the edge of my cap, hesitated, then slowly lifted it away, revealing the full gleaming curve of my head.

He let out a soft, ragged breath, almost a groan.

“Jesus, Fi,” he whispered, like he was seeing something holy.

His hands came up, tentative, reverent, palms cupping my bare scalp, thumbs stroking the smoothness.

The touch was electric.
Sensual.
Intimate in a way I hadn’t expected.

I tilted my face up to his, heart hammering, and he kissed me.

Slow. Deep.
A kiss that said everything neither of us had been able to yet.

His fingers mapped my head like he was memorizing every inch.
I melted against him, the last of my nerves dissolving in the heat between us.

Whatever this was, whatever it was becoming — it felt right.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t second-guessing it.

I was just… here.

Alive.
Wanted.
Free.