HairByRi
It was around midday as Ben and I left music school for the day. The sun’s rays fell low and golden over the parking lot, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked asphalt. I could feel the weight of the day’s heat lingering in the air, thick and almost tangible, pressing down on everything. It had that late-summer heaviness to it, the kind that clings to you and makes every movement feel sluggish, almost like you’re wading through syrup. Even my violin case felt heavier on my shoulder as we ambled toward the curb.
Ben gave a lazy stretch beside me, his dark hair flopped over his forehead, mussed from the afternoon heat, and his grin was as easy as ever. “Not bad today, right?” he said, giving me a nudge.. “I swear I almost got that last section. Close enough, anyway.”
I smiled back at him, feeling a little bit of the tension from class ease off my shoulders. He’d been in the same music class since grade school. The sort of friend where we didn’t have to fill the space with constant talk, which I liked. We’d fall into the same rhythm easily enough, talking about whatever happened in class or whatever came up that day, but it never went deeper than that. It was a steady kind of friendship, simple, and I liked that it didn’t demand anything extra from me. With Ben, I could just be myself – employing no facade to please or entertain even no that we were past our teens.
I watched him as he glanced around the mostly empty parking lot, hands shoved in his pockets and his eyes following a few classmates who were still milling around their cars, laughing and chatting. I normally wouldn’t pay them much attention, but today, watching the little clusters of people in the warm light, I felt the slightest twinge of envy. They were part of something familiar, going about their regular routines. I wasn’t exactly sure why, but I felt unsettled, like I’d been thrown off my own routine somehow.
And then I remembered why.
“Shoot,” I mumbled under my breath as I pulled my phone from my pocket to check the last message from my mom. Work had kept her late again, so she wouldn’t be able to pick me up after class. Instead, she’d texted me saying she’d asked Mr. Foster—Ben’s dad—to give me a ride. I looked over at Ben, who had already started walking toward the curb, and I wondered if he’d known ahead of time. Probably. I mean, I was practically part of their family by now. His parents had been giving me lifts to and from practices and competitions for years.
Right on cue, I heard the hum of a car engine approaching, and I glanced up to see Mr. Foster’s car pull up beside us. The sun glinted off the windshield as he leaned out the window, smiling that familiar, easy smile – so genuinely welcoming.
“Hey, you two!” he called out, waving at us. “Need a lift?”
Ben shot me a look, his mouth quirking up in a half-smile, and he gave me the tiniest nod that said, Come on, let’s go.
I felt myself relax a bit as I stuffed my phone back into my pocket and followed Ben over to the car. Climbing into the backseat, I let out a long breath as the air conditioning hit me, relieving me off the sweltering heat as my neck felt sticky. I leaned back, letting the chilled air wash over me as I flipped out my hair. It was such a relief after the heavy warmth outside, slouching a little deeper into the seat, trying to let go of the day’s leftover tension.
Mr. Foster glanced at us briefly, “So, how’d it go today? Any musical breakthroughs?”
Ben snorted, sliding into the seat beside me. “Breakthroughs? I don’t know about that. But I didn’t completely embarrass myself on that last piece, so I’ll take that as a win.” He gave a casual shrug, like it was no big deal, but I could tell he was proud of himself in that low-key way he had. That was Ben—never one to make a fuss.
I smiled, nodding along. “He’s actually getting it,” I said, nudging him. “He just doesn’t want to admit it.”
Ben gave me a mock glare, but his grin ruined it. “Yeah, well, you didn’t trip over any notes, which is more than I can say for myself. I think you’ve officially got that piece down.”
He said it like it was a fact, like it was something he’d known all along. I could feel my cheeks warm a little, and I looked down, brushing an invisible piece of lint off my jeans. Compliments from Ben weren’t rare, but they were always straightforward and honest, which made them stick.
Mr. Foster chuckled, his voice easy. “Looks like you two are just about ready to take on the world then,” he said. “Or at least that Bach piece.” He grinned, tapping his fingers lightly on the steering wheel as he waited for an opening in traffic.
I glanced back out the window, letting my eyes wander over the familiar city streets as we pulled out of the lot. The quiet hum of the engine filled the space, amalgamating with the muffled sounds of cars over the rustling of leaves in the breeze. I appreciated these moments, the comfortable silences between people you knew well enough that you didn’t need to fill the space with words.
Ben’s tummy started to grumble loud which prompted Mr. Foster spoke up again, almost offhandedly. “You guys hungry?” he asked, glancing at us in the mirror. “Figured we could stop for something quick before Ben’s haircut at the barbershop.”
The word barbershop seemed to hover in the air, and I felt a small twinge of discomfort tugging at my stomach. It wasn’t a big deal—just a regular stop for Ben. But for me, it felt foreign, strange. I’d been to plenty of salons, but the idea of going into a barbershop, even just to wait, felt different somehow. Like I’d be stepping into someone else’s world. It wasn’t even the haircut part that bothered me; it was the place itself—the hum of clippers, the casual, loud banter. It was such a Ben thing, not mine.
Beside me, Ben stretched out, leaning back into the seat as he threw his dad a grin. “Wendy’s?” he asked, clearly set on it.
“Wendy’s it is,” Mr. Foster replied with a nod. He shot a quick look at me in the mirror. “What about you, kid? Sound good?”
I hesitated, the automatic answer, Yeah, sure, sitting on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it right away. The thought of hanging around in a barbershop, especially as the only girl, felt strange. But I didn’t want to make a fuss, especially when Ben and his dad were both so casual about it. So instead, I nodded, trying to sound more relaxed than I felt.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I said softly, giving a small smile.
He nodded in response, as I felt the car ease away from the curb, and I watched the scenery drift past as I tried to let go of my unease. I could feel the tension creeping back, though, like a low hum beneath the surface, lingering despite the calm around me.
Beside me, Ben was already absorbed in his phone, probably queuing up a playlist or checking his messages, but he looked up just long enough to give me one of his smirking side glances. “You were killing it on that solo today,” he said, his voice casual, almost nonchalant. “I’m telling you, you’ve got that part down way better than I do. I swear, I’m still tripping over the notes.”
He was being his usual self, brushing off his own skills while lifting mine up, but there was something genuine in his tone. I felt myself soften a bit, grateful for his words. It was nice, feeling like I’d done something right, even if I didn’t say it out loud. I offered him a small, appreciative smile.
“Thanks,” I murmured, my eyes drifting to the road ahead. But the barbershop was still there in my mind, lurking in the background like an unwelcome guest.
I wondered if I should say something—ask if Mr. Foster could drop me off before they headed to the shop—but Ben’s voice interrupted my thoughts again, bringing me back to the moment.
“So, you getting anything done while we’re there?” he asked, glancing at me with a teasing glint in his eyes. “I mean, come on, you’ve had the same hair forever. Sandra would love to work some magic on that.”
The idea made my stomach flip, and I let out a short laugh, trying to brush it off. The thought of Sandra—the barber I’d heard Ben’s dad talk about so many times—coming anywhere near my hair felt surreal, impossible even.
“Sandra’s a wizard, that’s for sure,” he said, his tone warm as he turned down a familiar street. “She’s not just about clippers and fades, either. She knows how to work with long hair too. You’d be in good hands.”
The thought of her working with long hair didn’t sit well with me, and I felt myself tense slightly. They didn’t know, of course—they couldn’t know—that the thought of being in that unfamiliar chair, under those bright lights, with the buzzing clippers nearby, felt strangely vulnerable. Though they were both so casual about it, like it was trivial. I sank a little further into my seat, trying to remind myself that I wasn’t actually doing anything. I’d just wait for Ben, and that would be it.
“Wendy’s it is, then,” Mr. Foster said, pulling the car into the parking lot as we came up on the familiar red-and-yellow sign. He parked smoothly, throwing a glance back at both of us. “Alright, food break before the trim. What’s everyone having?”
Ben stretched out his legs, still grinning. “You know me, I’m going for the usual.”
The thought of fast food wasn’t exactly appealing. I’d always tried to avoid it when I could, partly because I liked the feeling of eating healthy and partly because I knew my mom would be less than thrilled to see me indulging in burgers and fries. But I didn’t want to make a fuss, so I nodded. “Just some fries, I guess.”
Mr. Foster raised an eyebrow, but his smile didn’t waver. “Fries it is,” he said with a chuckle, clearly not reading too much into it as he opened the door and led us inside.
The moment we stepped into Wendy’s, the cool blast of air conditioning hit me, a stark contrast to the humid warmth outside. I glanced around, noticing the familiar mix of neon signs and the steady flow of people drifting in and out. The smell of fried food filled the air—greasy, salty, strangely comforting—and though I wasn’t exactly hungry, there was something about it that made me want to linger, just a little, before facing whatever came next.
Ben moved quickly, heading straight to the counter and rattling off his order to the cashier with his usual laid-back confidence. I found myself standing awkwardly to the side, feeling out of place for no real reason. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been here a million times before, but something about the whole day felt slightly off-kilter. Mr. Foster joined Ben at the counter, scanning the menu with a furrowed brow as he debated his own choice.
“Hmm, classic burger it is,” he said after a moment, ordering with a casual, familiar ease. He didn’t glance my way, so I stepped up and gave a small nod, saying, “Just a side of fries, please.”
The cashier blinked at me like she was surprised by the minimal order, but I forced a polite smile, hoping she wouldn’t question it. I wasn’t big on fast-food. Mom had always advocated healthy eating, and I’d grown used to thinking of food as fuel and nourishment, especially for my hair and skin. Although, today felt like it called for a break in the rules, if only for the comfort of a small serving of sea-salted fries.
We gathered our trays and found a booth near the back. Ben slid into his seat across from me, laying down his tray with a contented sigh, while Mr. Foster settled beside him. Ben wasted no time unwrapping his burger, taking a huge bite with an exaggerated, satisfied grin. I rolled my eyes, half-laughing as he gorged away, shooting me a teasing look.
“So,” he said, mouth half-full. “Think you’d get a cut with me at the barbershop? I mean, I’m telling you, Sandra would be thrilled to get her hands on your hair.” He gave me an exaggerated wink, clearly amused by the idea.
My stomach tightened just a little, but I forced a laugh, trying to brush it off as nothing. “I don’t think my mom would be too thrilled about that, honestly. I’ve… I’ve kind of always gone to the same salon. It’s just easier that way.”
Mr. Foster chuckled, shaking his head as he took a sip of his soda. “Sandra’s great,” he said, with the kind of calm confidence that came from years of loyalty. “She’s not just clippers and fades—she’s got a knack for any kind of hair. She’s been cutting mine for what, ten years now?” He gave Ben a sideways glance, and Ben nodded, a fry poised mid-air as he nodded emphatically.
“Trust me,” he said, smirking. “I mean, look at this work of art.” He gestured to his hair, messy as always, like he’d just rolled out of bed. “One of these days, you should really just give it a shot. Sandra could do wonders with that glossy mane of yours.”
It was all playful teasing, but the idea of Sandra—who seemed to have a reputation for her no-nonsense cuts and powerful clippers—doing anything to my hair felt nerve-wracking. I could picture it so vividly: me sitting in that high-backed, intimidating barber’s chair with the loud buzzing of clippers nearby. I took a long sip of water, trying to negate the thought. “Yeah, maybe one day,” I mumbled, not caring much.
Ben laughed, clearly unconvinced by my noncommittal answer. “Alright, alright, I’m just saying… Switch it up already – a little change never hurt anybody.”
I poked at my fries, feeling the conversation shift around me even as they moved on to other things. Ben and his dad started talking about their weekend plans, but I felt my thoughts drifting back to the barbershop, even though I kept trying to remind myself that I wasn’t the one getting anything done. Still, it felt like a line was being drawn between Ben’s world and mine, a difference I hadn’t really thought about before. He was at ease with this casual approach to haircuts, to change, while I… I wasn’t. And the more I thought about it, the clearer it became – it wasn’t just the idea of a haircut that unsettled me, but the thought of it being done in a barbershop.
When we finished our food, the sun had dipped lower, casting long, golden shadows across the parking lot as we headed back to the car. I tried to shake off my nerves, but they lingered like a dull hum, low in my stomach.
As Mr. Foster started the engine, I caught sight of my reflection in the window, my hair falling in loose waves past my shoulders. It was funny how something as simple as a hairstyle could feel like a shield, something that had always been mine, a way I’d been able to hold on to my own little routine, my own comfort zone. The idea of Sandra even getting close to it with those sharp scissors or her loud clippers made me feel strangely exposed, like I’d be giving something away.
I glanced at Ben, who was back on his phone, seemingly nonchalant. Noticing me stare, he raised an eyebrow – “What?” he growled, smiling that familiar teasing smile. “You sure you don’t want anything done? Could be fun.”
I forced a smile, trying to match his easy tone. “I think I’ll just sit back and watch the magic happen on you,” I replied, my voice as light as I could make it.
Mr. Foster chuckled, glancing over at me as he drove. “Sandra’s probably gonna want to take a look at that hair of yours whether you want it or not,” he joked. “She’s never met a head of hair she didn’t want to work on.”
As we pulled up to the barbershop, my nerves resurfaced, sharper now that we were actually here. The bright sign in the window was lit up, and through the glass, I could see the buzz of activity inside—barbers moving in quick, precise motions, the hum of clippers filling the air, and clients chatting away as they waited their turn. It was a world that felt completely foreign to me, and I felt myself instinctively step back as Ben opened the car door and hopped out.
“Let’s go see what magic Sandra can work on Ben here,” Mr. Foster said, a twinkle in his eye as he threw a glance my way. “And hey, if you change your mind…” He left the rest unsaid, but the possibility hung there, unspoken.
I took a slow breath and followed them inside, feeling the cool rush of air as the glass door swung shut behind me. The smell of aftershave and hair products filled the space, strong and sharp. The room had a certain energy, more lively and bustling than any salon I’d ever been to. Men of all ages filled the chairs, barbers working efficiently as they shaped and trimmed hair with the hum of clippers filling the air. My stomach tightened again as I took it all in.
As we walked in, Sandra glanced up from her chair, her eyes lighting up noticing Ben. “Well, look who it is!” she called out, waving him over. “You’re right on time. Go on, grab a seat—I’ll be with you in a minute.”
Her gaze flickered to me briefly, her eyes lingering on my long, wavy hair. It felt as if she already plotting what to do with it if she got her hands on it. I tried not to shrink back, keeping my shoulders square as I offered a small smile, but the discomfort was hard to ignore.
Ben smirked, passing me. “See? No big deal,” he said, grinning as he made his way to the waiting area. I followed, feeling like an outsider tagging along in a place I didn’t belong.
We found seats by the wall, with Mr. Foster settling in beside me, already flipping through a sports magazine. He was doom-scrolling again, nonchalantly. Conversely, I fidgeted, twirling a lock of my hair around my finger as I tried to ignore the unwelcome stares from some of the other patrons. It felt odd being one of the only women in the room—especially a woman with hair that seemed to catch Sandra’s eye every time she glanced our way. I could feel her steel gaze on me momentarily, and it made me uneasy.
I tried to distract myself by scrolling through my own phone, keeping my head down as I waited for Ben’s name to be called. Eventually, Sandra finished up with her current client and called out for him, her voice cutting through the steady hum of conversation and clippers. Ben was too engrossed in his phone to notice, so I reached over, giving his shoulder a light tap. He looked up, following my nod toward Sandra, who was waiting with a warm smile.
Ben shot me a grateful grin, slipping his phone back into his pocket as he stood up. “Guess it’s my turn,” he said, feigning reluctance even though he clearly enjoyed the ritual. He threw a playful look my way, the teasing glint back in his eyes. “Alright, Amy, ready to see some real magic?”
“Sure thing,” I replied, my voice light but a bit strained. “Let’s see if Sandra can work wonders on that mess of yours.”
Ben laughed, shaking his head as he made his way over to her chair. Sandra motioned for him to sit, her smile widening as she draped the cape around his shoulders. She glanced my way again, her eyes lingering on my hair with a look that seemed almost speculative.
“You sure you don’t want to hop in next?” she asked, her tone casual but laced with a hint of mischief. “I’ve got plenty of time today.”
I felt a flush creep up my neck, shaking my head quickly. “No thanks… I’m good,” I said, hoping that would be the end of it.
Sandra chuckled, turning her attention back to Ben as she began to comb through his hair, her fingers moving deftly. But I could still feel the faint weight of her suggestion hanging in the air, as if she hadn’t entirely given up on the idea.
The seconds ticked by slowly as I settled back into my seat, doing my best to focus on my phone, but the barbershop’s energy was relentless, buzzing around me with a strange intensity. I glanced up occasionally, watching Sandra work on Ben’s hair. She moved with complete confidence, her hands steady, her expression focused as she cut with precise, easy snips. I wouldn’t be surprised if she could do it in her sleep.
I couldn’t ignore the stray glances she cast my way now and then. Sandra clearly had ideas about my hair, and that alone made my stomach twist a little. I felt oddly exposed, like the whole room could see my hesitation—see how I felt out of place here. The way she’d looked at my hair was different from the usual admiring glance; it was more like she’d already started planning a new style for me in her head.
“You okay?” Mr. Foster’s voice broke through my thoughts, warm but slightly concerned.
“Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” I tried to smile, though I wasn’t sure if it looked convincing.
He smiled back, with some sense of underlying empathy. “You don’t have to worry, you know. Sandra’s great with hair. If you ever wanted to try something new…” His words trailed off, gentle but clearly still leaning in the same direction Ben and Sandra seemed so eager about.
I forced another small smile, hoping my hesitation wasn’t too obvious. “Thanks, Mr. Foster,” I murmured, glancing away.
Ben’s laughter pulled my attention back. He was making faces in the mirror, lifting a hand over to run his fingers through his freshly trimmed hair, from what I could describe was now shorter and cleaner-looking. Sandra was grinning, pleased with her work. She brushed off the loose hair from his shoulders, then stepped back with her hands on her hips, admiring the final result like a painter stepping back from a finished canvas.
“Not bad, huh?” Sandra asked, giving Ben a playful nudge as she unfastened the cape from around his neck.
Ben grinned with a satisfied nod, “Looks good, as always,”. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head before grinning over at me with a tease. “Alright, Amy, your turn,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
I shook my head quickly, the same knot of nerves tightening in my stomach. “No way. I’m just here for moral support,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light, though I felt my heart beating a little faster.
Sandra chuckled, her gaze falling on me once again. “You’ve got great hair,” she said, almost to herself, but I could feel her eyes really looking this time, like she was already imagining a transformation. “Wouldn’t take much to clean it up a bit. What do you say?”
The room seemed to get just a little quieter, the buzz of conversation fading as I felt the weight of Sandra’s suggestion linger in the air. I shook my head, trying to keep it casual, hoping the attention would fade. “No thanks… I’m good,” I said softly, sinking back into my seat.
Sandra only shrugged, but there was a gleam in her eye that told me this wasn’t over. “Alright, alright,” she said with a warm smile. “But let me know if you ever change your mind.” She tossed the towel over her shoulder and turned to clean up her station, but I felt the pull of her suggestion still hanging in the air, as if she’d left the invitation open.
As Sandra went back to work, I hoped things would settle back to normal. But then the waiting area started to fill up. More patrons entered, taking the empty seats beside me, chatting in low voices. The barbers were moving at full speed, chairs filling up as fast as they emptied. A slightly older patron beside me let out an impatient sigh, tapping his foot as he glanced around the room. “Thought I’d be up next,” he muttered under his breath.
A few seats over, another man looked at his watch, nodding in agreement as he flipped through a magazine, his expression growing more annoyed with each passing minute. I tried to ignore it, focusing on the stream of pictures and posts on my phone, but the low, restless hum around me made it hard to concentrate.
Sandra glanced over, noticing the subtle tension building up in the room as more people waited. Her eyes flickered to me again, her expression thoughtful, like she’d just had a premonition.
“You know,” she said casually, her voice carrying just enough weight to catch my attention, “if we don’t get you in now, I’m going to be pretty booked up with all these guys waiting.” She motioned to the growing line of patrons. “Wouldn’t take long—just a little cleanup, something quick.”
The man next to me perked up, clearly hoping I’d take her up on the offer. “She’s right,” he said with a grin. “If you’re not doing anything, you could jump ahead and save some time. Sandra’s quick, and it might beat sitting here for another hour.”
Another man beside him chimed in, “Yeah, why not? You’ll be out in no time.” He sounded almost eager, like he was more than ready to push me toward the chair so he could have his turn.
Their voices started to blend together, and before I knew it, I felt the subtle weight of their reasoning pulling me forward. It made sense, I supposed. It wasn’t like I’d lose anything from just a quick cleanup. And maybe it would get me out of here faster. The logical part of me knew I could still say no, but Sandra was looking at me with that friendly, encouraging smile, her expression calm and reassuring. The way she held the cape open seemed almost like an invitation, like she was offering something more than just a haircut.
I felt my mouth go dry, my hands tightening into small fists as I tried to think of a way to decline. But the words wouldn’t come, and instead, I heard myself mumbling, “Uhh… okay,” so softly I almost didn’t recognize my own voice.
Sandra’s smile widened, a mix of satisfaction and warmth lighting up her face. She gestured for me to come on over, holding the cape in one hand to look more inviting with the chair turned toward me. My flight sense was beginning to act up. But my feet moved on their own, each step feeling heavier than the last as I made my way toward her chair. My legs felt wobbly, almost like I wasn’t walking on solid ground, I walked slowly, feeling a deep sense of imminent defeat and when I finally reached the chair, I sank into it with a kind of reluctant surrender.
Sandra moved with practiced efficiency, draping the cape around my shoulders and securing it at the neck. The fabric felt heavy, pressing down on me as though it were a kind of commitment I couldn’t take back. Everything around me seemed to grow louder, the buzzing of clippers, the rustle of hair falling, even the soft snip of scissors from the other chairs. Sandra’s gentle, calming presence seemed to surround me, and I tried to tell myself it was just a haircut. Nothing more.
She began by pulling my hair back, her fingers combing through the long strands with care. “Alright,” she said, her voice gentle, “we’re going to start with a nice shampoo, get all that product out, and get your hair nice and clean before we straighten it out.” She motioned for me to lean back toward the small sink behind the chair, and I did, feeling the cool leather press against my neck as I settled into the unfamiliar position.
The warm water hit my scalp, washing over me like a soft, steady wave, and for a moment, the tension began to ease. Sandra’s hands moved expertly, massaging the shampoo into my hair with gentle, rhythmic motions. I closed my eyes, letting myself drift into the sensation of the warm water, the calming pressure of her hands as she worked through each strand. It was almost soothing, a brief escape from the strange mix of excitement and nerves building up inside me.
“Your hair’s got such a beautiful texture,” Sandra murmured, almost to herself, as she worked the shampoo into a lather. “We’ll get it sleek and smooth, and I promise you’ll love how it feels when we’re done.”
I gave a small, hesitant nod, letting her words sink in as she rinsed the shampoo away. The warm water flowed over me again, washing away the lather and the day’s stress, if only for a moment. With the shampoo session concluding, she wrapped my hair in a towel motioning me to sit up, I felt my anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface. Maybe, just maybe, I’d like the end result more than I’d expected.
Once the towel was unwrapped, Sandra began combing through my damp hair, her movements precise and efficient as she sectioned off the strands. She picked up a round brush and a blow dryer, and the familiar sound filled the air, a kind of white noise that seemed to ground me as she worked. She moved the brush through each section slowly, carefully pulling out the natural wave in my hair, leaving behind straight, glossy strands that shimmered under the barbershop’s bright lights.
My reflection was unfamiliar, almost surreal, as I watched my hair transform. With each stroke of the brush, the waves disappeared, replaced by sleek, perfectly straight strands that seemed to cascade down, reaching farther down my back than I’d realized. It was strange seeing myself this way, almost like looking at a different person, but I couldn’t deny that the sleek style looked… good.
Sandra stepped back for a moment, admiring her work as she ran her fingers through the now-straightened length. “There we go,” she murmured, smiling with satisfaction. “Already looks incredible.”
I glanced in the mirror, taking in the way my hair seemed to shine, almost too perfect, like it belonged to someone else. My mouth went dry as I found myself at a loss for words.
“It does… thank you,” I managed to mumble, my voice barely above a whisper.
Sandra’s eyes lit up as she looked at me, her smile widening as she gently draped the cape around me again. “Now,” she said, her tone light but filled with a sense of purpose, “you’ve got a great base here, but I think we can refine it a bit more. How about a nice, clean cut to show off that shine even better?”
Her words hung in the air, casual but with an undeniable pull. She spoke as if it were the most natural next step, the obvious conclusion to the work she’d already started. I hesitated, glancing at her in the mirror, unsure what to say.
Sandra’s eyes met mine in the glass, calm and reassuring. “Trust me,” she said softly, her fingers brushing through the sleek length of my hair again, measuring the way it fell over my shoulders. “Just a trim to sharpen the ends and make it all line up. It’ll look even better, I promise.”
She didn’t wait for me to respond, her movements already decisive and careful. With the comb, she separated a section, then picked up her scissors, giving them a test snip in the air. The quick metallic sound of the blades clicking together sent a chill through me, but I forced myself to sit still, gripping the arms of the chair as if that would anchor me to the spot.
Sandra began with gentle, precise snips, cutting a little at a time. It was just the ends, I reminded myself, watching as small pieces of hair floated down onto the cape in front of me. Each cut was controlled and efficient, and with every snip, the blunt line of my hair grew cleaner, neater.
“There we go,” she murmured, almost to herself, as if absorbed by the work. Her focus was unbreakable, like a painter’s who could see the end result in their mind before they’d even finished. I had to admit, watching her work made me feel a strange trust, even if I didn’t quite know where she was going with it.
Sandra’s hands moved with practiced rhythm as she continued to shape the length, and though I tried to relax, my thoughts kept drifting to the other patrons who had urged me forward, to Ben and Mr. Foster still talking casually in the background. They seemed so at ease with these transformations, like it was just another part of the day. But for me, every cut felt weightier, more final. This wasn’t just a trim in a salon where I felt at home—it was a change that seemed almost surreal.
Then, just as I felt myself beginning to settle, I noticed her gaze shift back to my reflection, her hand pausing mid-cut. There was a spark of thought in her eyes, something speculative. She stepped back, tilting her head as she surveyed her work, the expression on her face suggesting she wasn’t quite done yet.
“You know,” Sandra began, her voice taking on that same persuasive tone, “I have an idea that would really make this shine.” She lowered her scissors and gave me a gentle, almost conspiratorial smile. “With hair like yours, we could try something classic—like a pageboy cut. It’s timeless. I think it would look perfect on you.”
The suggestion hit me like a wave. A pageboy? My eyes met hers in the mirror, wide with uncertainty. I barely even knew what that was.
Sandra didn’t wait for a full answer; her voice softened, persuasive. “It’s still a blunt, clean look, like you have now,” she said, sectioning my hair with a thoughtful expression, already visualizing it. “But it would sit just at your jawline, with the ends curving inward. It’s the kind of style that frames the face beautifully, draws out the cheekbones.”
I could see her enthusiasm bubbling over, the way she spoke as though the decision were already made. Her fingers traced along the imaginary line just at my jaw, mimicking where the cut would fall, and I could feel my heart picking up speed. “It’s not too short,” she continued, meeting my eyes in the mirror, “just enough to really bring out the natural shine we’ve got going here. I can even add some soft bangs to frame your face, nothing too drastic.”
I swallowed hard, feeling the pressure of the moment wrap around me, Sandra’s confidence making it hard to refuse. Part of me wanted to get up and walk away, keep what little control I still felt I had over my hair. But the other part, the part that had walked into the barbershop with Ben, was strangely compelled to stay. The way Sandra spoke made it sound like something new, something exciting.
She was already parting my hair, her scissors poised, ready to create the new style she had in mind. Her calm, assured movements felt like a comfort, as though I could simply close my eyes and trust her. Maybe this was how Ben felt every time he came here—easy, relaxed, letting someone else take control. The feeling was unexplainable, as if I felt it were easier if I just let it happen.
“Alright,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
Sandra’s smile softened, and she patted my shoulder with a reassuring hand. “You’re going to love it,” she murmured, and with that, she began sectioning off the hair at the back of my head.
I held my breath, my pulse loud in my ears as I watched her steady hands work. She started at the back, cutting carefully, each snip of the scissors close to my neck. The weight of my hair lifted with every pass, and soon, I could feel the back of my neck cooling as the length disappeared. The hair that had once hung long past my shoulders was now being cut to a precise line, one that curved inward, just like she’d promised.
I watched as Sandra’s movements remained calm and focused, her gaze entirely fixed on her work. My reflection was changing bit by bit, the once long, familiar waves now replaced with sleek lines that framed my face in a way I’d never seen before. It felt strange, unsettling, but at the same time… liberating.
When she was done with the back, she moved to the sides, cutting them with the same careful precision, bringing the length up to match the back. I could see the shape forming—a strong, clean line that hit right at my jaw. Sandra combed through each section, her hands never faltering as she created the curve that would give the pageboy its distinctive look.
Finally, she moved to the front, her fingers pulling the last section of my hair forward, just above my eyebrows. She measured the length with a practiced eye, the scissors poised just above my forehead as she spoke softly.
“These bangs will complete the look,” she said, her tone light. “Just enough to add softness, but still keeping that strong, classic line.”
With a few swift snips, a thick fringe fell into place, sitting slightly above my eyebrows, softening the look just as she’d said. I stared at my reflection,not being able to recognize the person staring back at me. My long, wavy hair was gone, replaced by a sleek, sophisticated cut that made my features stand out in a way I’d never seen before.
Sandra stepped back, letting her scissors fall to her side as she examined the final result, a satisfied smile lighting up her face. “There,” she said, her voice warm with approval. “Perfect.”
I sat frozen, taking in the sight before me. The pageboy cut framed my face with a kind of elegance I hadn’t expected, the bangs adding a softness that balanced the bold, clean lines. It felt sophisticated, polished, but so drastically different from anything I’d ever worn.
“Wow,” I murmured, the word slipping out without thought. It was different, and as I looked at my reflection, I couldn’t quite tell if I was nervous or thrilled.
Sandra chuckled softly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “It suits you,” she said gently. “You look amazing.”
I felt a smile start to form, my heart finally slowing as I took it in, my new self. Sandra was right—it was drastic, but it felt like a change I could grow into.
As she dusted off the cape, I watched the remnants of my final clippings of hair fall to the floor. I took a deep breath, my nerves settling into something warmer, more hopeful now that this was all over.
Sandra’s gentle touch on my shoulder brought me back to the present, grounding me in this new look, this new feeling. The smile on her face was one of pure satisfaction, as though she’d just sculpted a marvelous statue.
“You look great hun,” she said, her voice warm. “And trust me, this style is timeless. You’re going to love how it feels darlin’”
I managed a small, tentative smile back at her, still feeling the strangeness of my reflection. The cut, which I think was called a pageboy was sleek, sharp, and entirely different from my usual waves. It framed my face in a clean, polished line that felt almost daring. My cheeks looked somehow higher, my eyes brighter; the bangs softened the shape, adding a certain refinement that I never would have imagined on my own.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice quiet but sincere. There was something in me that felt… relieved. Something I couldn’t quite define—a weight lifted, or maybe the curiosity I’d felt earlier finally quieted.
Sandra gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and stepped away, unclipping the cape and dusting off the last bits of hair. “You’re all set,” she said, her tone as light and easy as ever. She reached for a small mirror and held it up to show me the back, and I could see how the hair at my nape had been carefully shaped, the clean line curving inward to emphasize the cut’s structure.
A strange, almost tentative excitement began to rise in me as I took in the style, realizing that while it was unlike anything I’d ever worn, it somehow suited me. The way the hair swung lightly when I turned my head gave me a sense of freedom I hadn’t anticipated, a crispness in each movement.
As Sandra handed me back my phone, I took it with a mumbled thank you, still adjusting to the unfamiliar lightness around my head. I caught a glimpse of Ben and his dad in the waiting area, and, to my relief, they hadn’t noticed the weight of the moment—or how nerve-wracking it had felt. Ben, ever casual, just grinned as he looked up.
“Wow, like- !” he called with an amused smirk. “That actually looks good!”
Mr. Foster’s eyes were warm, approving. “Sandra’s work never disappoints. You look sharp, Amy,” he said, giving me an encouraging nod, as though he’d been expecting this all along. But to me, the whole moment felt strangely surreal, as if I’d crossed some line I hadn’t even known existed.
I barely recognize myself in the reflection, and yet, I knew that this was me. Somehow, Sandra’s quiet confidence and her gentle, persuasive words had led me here, to this sharp and unexpected transformation.
“Ready to go?” Mr. Foster asked, gathering his things and glancing over to make sure we were all set. I nodded quickly, suddenly eager to be out of the chair, out of the barber shop, and back in the open air.
As we walked to the car, I couldn’t help but reach up, my fingers brushing lightly over the short, clean line at my jaw. The cut felt crisp and freeing. And though the thought of facing my mother’s reaction still weighed on my mind, I found a small spark of something new—a sense of quiet courage that surprised me.
Once we were all settled in the car, Ben grinned, nudging me playfully. “See, it wasn’t so bad, was it?” His tone was teasing but kind, and for once, I found myself smiling back without the usual nervousness.
“No,” I replied, my voice steady as I looked at him, “I guess it wasn’t.” The words felt honest, though I’d beg to differ and as the car rolled down the street, I found myself thinking that maybe, just maybe, this change was exactly what I’d needed.
Although, all that was left to face now was my mother, the moment I dearly dreaded as I walked home – feeling lighter and slightly confident.
