From Glam to Gone

Sana stood in the middle of her living room, wiping her brow as she surveyed the aftermath of an entire day spent cleaning. Her house, once neat and orderly, was now pristine, but the work had left her exhausted. The floor sparkled, the windows were spotless, and every corner had been meticulously dusted. But as she glanced at herself in the hallway mirror, her reflection told a different story.

Her long, knee-length hair was now tangled and disheveled from all the scrubbing and bending. Sweat clung to her forehead, and her skin, usually soft and glowing, appeared tired, dull. Her eyebrows, normally well-groomed, were thick and unruly, and a faint shadow of stubble had begun to show on her upper lip. She sighed deeply, her shoulders slumping in exhaustion. The day had drained her, but the mess that she had become was worse than the house she’d just cleaned.

It was at that moment her husband, Arif, walked through the door, fresh from the office, his shirt still crisp, his tie neatly knotted. He paused at the entrance, raising an eyebrow as he took in the sight of his wife standing in the middle of the spotless house.

Arif (teasing): “Well, look at you! You’ve made the house shine, but I’m afraid the real cleaning is still left to do,” he said with a playful grin, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Sana’s cheeks flushed, her heart sinking as she looked at him. His playful jab stung, but she knew he meant no harm. He always had a teasing way about him, but the words hit a little too close to home. She glanced back at her reflection, noticing how the frizzy strands of hair framed her face like a messy halo. Her face felt too tired, her makeup smudged from the sweat.

Sana (weak smile): “I know, I know… I guess I really let myself go today.”

Arif, stepping closer, ruffled her hair affectionately.

Arif (smiling softly): “No worries. You look fine. But you know… a little touch-up wouldn’t hurt.”

His tone was lighthearted, but the words seemed to echo in her head. A little touch-up wouldn’t hurt… Sana realized that, despite her best efforts, she had been so caught up in taking care of the house that she had neglected herself. She needed some time to focus on herself, to feel like she once did—clean, put-together, refreshed.

Sana (sighing softly): “You’re right. I’m a mess.”

As Arif prepared to head out for work, he shot her a playful wink.

Arif (teasing again): “Well, just don’t let the cleaning overwhelm you. I think you deserve a little pampering, don’t you?”

She watched him leave, the door clicking softly behind him. Her thoughts wandered back to his words, and as they echoed in her mind, she felt a strong pull to do something for herself.

She needed to get out of this slump—both physically and mentally. It was time to take care of herself, to feel fresh and rejuvenated. She walked over to the nearby desk, where her phone lay charging, and began scrolling through local salons, hoping to find something that would give her the boost she desperately needed. Her fingers hovered over a few listings before her eyes landed on a deal that seemed too good to pass up—an affordable salon with an all-inclusive facial, polish, and a haircut.

Sana (thinking to herself): This is exactly what I need… and it’s within my budget. Just a quick refresh, nothing too extreme…

She quickly clicked on the link to book an appointment. The idea of being pampered, of having someone else take care of her for once, made her feel a bit lighter. It was a small step toward reclaiming herself from the overwhelming task of daily life.

The moment she confirmed her appointment, a clock seemed to start ticking in her mind.

Sana (murmuring to herself): “Only an hour… I need to hurry.”

She darted into the bathroom without wasting a second. The air was warm and heavy, but the cool splash of water as she stepped into the shower brought immediate relief. She scrubbed thoroughly—her arms, her neck, her back—working to rid herself of the lingering scent of sweat and detergent. The steam began to rise around her, and for a moment, it felt like a soft cocoon, rinsing away not just the physical grime but the heaviness of the past few days.

When she emerged, her skin slightly flushed from the heat, she towel-dried quickly and slipped into a fresh pair of soft, cotton undergarments and a long, comfortable inner slip. Her modesty was always second nature, even within the privacy of her own home.

In front of the mirror, she began to comb through her hair—those thick, knee-length black tresses that had become both her pride and her burden. Tugging gently with the wide-toothed comb, she worked from the bottom up, untangling strands that had clumped and knotted during the day. Once smooth, she gathered it into a long, neat braid, tying the end tightly with a thin black elastic.

Her face, now clean, still bore the signs of fatigue—dark circles under her eyes, dry patches across her cheeks, and a few tiny blemishes that peeked through. But there was no time for makeup or fixes now.

She stepped into her abaya, the fabric flowing over her figure in clean black folds. Then she reached for her hijab, wrapping it carefully around her head, making sure not a strand of hair was visible. Finally, she pulled on her niqab, fastening the cloth securely behind her head. Only her eyes remained exposed now—calm, determined, and slightly rushed.

Grabbing her purse, she glanced at the time—forty-five minutes to go. She could have called a rickshaw, but the idea of walking felt right somehow. The salon wasn’t far, just a thirty-minute walk from her house. The sun was high and ruthless in the sky, but something about that heat felt almost cleansing—like she was preparing herself for something important.

The roads shimmered under the afternoon sun as she stepped out, the pavement radiating warmth that pressed through her shoes. The black of her abaya soaked in the heat, clinging lightly to her arms and back, but she walked briskly, her bag swinging lightly at her side.

Cars passed, their engines humming, people glanced her way as she walked—but Sana kept her gaze forward, her steps steady. The braid beneath her hijab swayed against her back, heavy and slightly damp from the earlier wash.

Sana (thinking): Just a trim… a face polish… nothing drastic.

The salon name glowed in her mind like a distant oasis. She didn’t know what to expect exactly, but it felt like a well-earned reward. She was going to come out feeling fresh, pretty, confident again.

With each step on the sun-scorched road, Sana’s thoughts wandered further from the heat and sweat and more toward the sweet possibilities of the day.

Sana (thinking): It’s going to be a lovely, quiet day. A little pampering, a gentle trim, a polished glow…

She imagined the cool touch of fingers cleansing her face, the gentle hum of clippers trimming the ends of her long, heavy braid. The thought made her smile beneath her niqab.

And more than that, she imagined how she’d look afterward—refreshed, radiant. Not like the tired housewife Arif had teased earlier, but like the girl he first fell for—soft, graceful, glowing. She pictured his surprise when he returned home.

Sana (thinking): He won’t expect this. He’ll walk in and just stare at me. Maybe say something sweet… maybe even speechless for once.

The thought made her heart flutter with a strange mix of nervousness and excitement.

And then—there it was.

The signage was elegant, minimal, and etched in soft gold on a glass board that shimmered under the sunlight. It read:
“The Velvet Touch – Beauty Redefined”

Sana paused for a moment, standing at the threshold, looking up at the name. The smile under her niqab widened. Without a second thought, she walked toward the entrance.

The cool blast of air-conditioning hit her immediately as she stepped inside. It smelled faintly of roses and vanilla—refined, expensive. Her sandals clicked softly on the marble floor. The contrast from the dusty heat outside was so sudden, it made her pause.

The reception area was dimly lit but glowing—tastefully designed with elegant tones of beige, champagne gold, and soft blush. The couches were velvet, the lighting warm and soothing. A large, carved wooden door stood at the back, polished to a mirror-like sheen, inlaid with frosted glass panels and ornate golden steelwork. It was closed, hiding what lay beyond. Only the low hum of faint music and the distant, rhythmic buzz of tools hinted that anything was happening past it.

For a moment, Sana hesitated. The space looked… luxurious. Far more upscale than she had expected, especially for the price she had seen online. She felt the weight of her modest clothes, the simplicity of her sandals, and the long braid tucked securely under her hijab. A flicker of doubt brushed through her.

Sana (thinking): I hope I’m not in the wrong place. It looks too fancy…

Just then, from behind the sleek reception counter, a young woman rose to her feet with a practiced, welcoming smile. She wore a sleek, modern uniform—white and blush pink with golden embroidery at the collar and cuffs. Her hair was slicked back in a flawless high bun, her makeup dewy and professional.

Receptionist (brightly): “Assalamu Alaikum, welcome to The Velvet Touch. My name is Alina. You must be Sana?”

Sana nodded gently, her voice soft behind the niqab.

Sana: “Wa Alaikum Salaam… Yes, I have an appointment. Just a basic facial polish and a haircut.”

Alina nodded gracefully, tapping something into the digital tablet on her desk, her fingers moving swiftly.

Alina (smiling): “Of course, we have you in. Right on time. We’re so glad to have you here, Sana. Please, make yourself comfortable for just a moment—someone will escort you inside shortly.”

She gestured toward one of the cushioned chairs by the wall. Sana thanked her and sat down carefully, folding her hands in her lap. Her eyes, the only visible part of her face, wandered back to the wooden door. There was something about it—beautiful, yes, but also oddly imposing.

What lay behind it was still a mystery.

And yet, somewhere inside her… a soft, naive trust told her this would all go just as she imagined.

Sana sat quietly, hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes drifting across the soft patterns etched into the reception wall. The salon was silent, almost eerily so—no chatter, no rushing footsteps—only the soft melody of instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers.

Alina, the receptionist, picked up the phone on her desk and dialed an extension. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper, polite and barely audible.

Alina (into the receiver): “Yes… she’s here. Appointment confirmed. Mhm… all set.”

The call lasted no more than a few seconds. She then set the receiver back in place with practiced elegance and turned to Sana with a warm, composed smile.

Alina: “Would you like anything while you wait, dear? Tea, coffee… perhaps a chilled juice? It must’ve been hot outside.”

Sana, still feeling the warmth clinging to her abaya from the long walk under the punishing sun, gave a soft nod.

Sana: “Juice would be perfect, thank you.”

Alina nodded and picked up the phone again, dialing another number, this time speaking even more briefly than before.

Sana gently lifted her hand toward her niqab but paused halfway, her fingers curling with a touch of hesitation. Her eyes shifted to the receptionist.

Sana (softly): “Umm… is this… a ladies-only salon? I mean… nowadays there are so many unisex salons opening, I just…”

Alina’s smile didn’t falter.

Alina (reassuringly): “Completely ladies-only, ma’am. You’re in good hands.”

Sana let out a subtle breath of relief. With that, she untied the niqab from behind her head and gently folded the fabric down, revealing her soft features, slightly flushed from the sun and exertion. The air-conditioning kissed her face like a gentle breeze. She sighed quietly, adjusting her hijab to ensure the braid beneath remained hidden but comfortable.

Moments later, a young girl entered through a side passage—dressed in a classic serving uniform, soft grey with white trim, and a neat apron around her waist. She approached Sana gracefully, holding a tray with a tall, frosted glass of mango juice. Thin slices of ice floated lazily at the top.

Serving Girl (smiling politely): “For you, ma’am.”

Sana: “JazakAllah…”

She accepted the glass with a grateful smile and took a sip, the sweetness of the chilled mango washing over her parched throat. It was refreshing, like biting into fruit after a long fast.

Just as she placed the glass gently on the nearby side table, the ornate wooden door finally clicked and began to open. The golden accents gleamed subtly under the lights, and through it stepped a tall, elegant woman in a tailored slate-grey suit—formal, graceful, and quietly commanding.

Her hair was styled in a sharp bob, her makeup immaculate, her walk confident without being aggressive. She held a slim tablet in one hand, and her expression softened into a smile as her eyes met Sana’s.

Consultant (pleasantly): “Good afternoon, Sana. Welcome to The Velvet Touch. My name is Miss Noreen—I’m your personal beauty consultant today. I’ll be guiding you through the services and helping you choose what suits you best.”

Sana blinked once, surprised by the warmth and professionalism in the woman’s voice. She felt, for a moment, as if she were a VIP guest at some luxurious retreat. She sat up a little straighter, the chill of the air around her now mixing with a flutter of nervous anticipation.

Sana (smiling faintly): “Shukriya… that’s very kind of you.”

Miss Noreen (gesturing gracefully): “Shall we begin? We’ll just have a quick consultation in our private assessment room, and once we finalize your selections, we’ll begin your treatments. Please, follow me.”

As she turned and began walking back toward the ornate door, Sana stood slowly, a little nervous but mostly excited.

Miss Noreen held the door open with graceful ease, her free hand subtly guiding Sana forward. As Sana stepped inside, her breath caught in her throat.

The sight before her was nothing like the modest neighborhood salons she was accustomed to. This was a palace of pampering—a shimmering kingdom designed exclusively for women.

A vast, high-ceilinged hall stretched out before her, grand and glowing under rows of recessed golden lighting. The air carried a delicate fragrance—somewhere between rosewater, lavender, and sandalwood. Every step Sana took echoed softly against the polished marble floor, so spotless it seemed untouched by time.

Salon chairs lined both sides of the hall in perfect symmetry—each an elegant throne upholstered in soft blush velvet, fitted with headrests and golden-trimmed arms. Some were empty, while others were occupied by women mid-treatment, draped in sleek salon gowns as teams of specialists worked on them in unison. Hair being styled, feet being massaged, masks applied with feather-light strokes—every movement so synchronized it felt choreographed.

What struck Sana the most wasn’t just the luxury—it was the scale.

Each station had not one, but several staff members working with silent coordination. And every worker wore a distinct, beautifully tailored uniform. Some in white coats—clearly dermatologists or facial experts. Others in pastel pinks and lavender—likely hairstylists and attendants. There were girls in crisp grey with trays of tools, and others in black with silver belts, likely senior stylists or supervisors.

There was no shouting, no loud music—only gentle conversation and a sense of total order. It felt like walking into a temple of transformation.

Miss Noreen, noticing Sana’s awe, turned with a knowing smile.

Miss Noreen (softly): “We try to create a world where our clients can feel like royalty… even if just for a few hours.”

Sana nodded silently, still mesmerized. Then Noreen gently gestured toward a side alcove, where a quiet housekeeping girl in a soft peach uniform stood waiting.

Miss Noreen: “If you’d kindly remove your abaya and hijab, dear. You can hand them over to our staff for safe keeping. Everything will be returned neatly pressed before you leave.”

Sana hesitated for the briefest second, then nodded. She untied her hijab, carefully folding it and placing it atop her abaya before handing them to the girl, who accepted them with a respectful bow and quietly stepped away.

Now dressed in a simple kurta and her long braid hanging down her back, Sana followed Miss Noreen into a consultation room. It was softly lit and intimate, with a single salon chair in the center. The chair looked identical to those in the main hall—plush, wide, and inviting.

Noreen gestured for her to sit.

Miss Noreen: “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

As Sana settled into the chair, she felt herself sink just enough to relax her shoulders. It felt strangely… safe. Calm.

Noreen stepped behind her, fingers moving with quiet efficiency. She unclasped the braid’s tie, letting Sana’s knee-length black hair spill free like a silken waterfall. It shone in the soft light, still slightly damp from the bath, but smooth and well-combed.

For a few minutes, Noreen worked in silence. Her fingers combed through the thick strands, checking the roots, the tips. She stepped around to inspect Sana’s face, gently lifting her chin, brushing a finger over her jawline, tapping her tablet with quick notes.

Finally, Noreen stepped back in front of her, tucking the tablet under one arm with a graceful motion, and smiled.

Miss Noreen (warmly): “Sana… you’ve selected our Allure Package, which includes a customized haircut, maintenance of facial hair and eyebrows, and our premium Deep Facial Cleansing Therapy.”

Sana blinked, surprised by how official it all sounded. Still, it was exactly what she’d wanted.

Sana (quietly): “Yes… that sounds right.”

Miss Noreen’s smile deepened, just a little.

Miss Noreen: “Wonderful. We’ll begin right away. Everything has been designed to help you relax and let go. You’re in our hands now.”

Noreen’s fingers moved swiftly and precisely over the tablet as she asked a series of detailed questions. Her tone was warm but professional—each query delivered with a gentle smile that made Sana feel genuinely seen and cared for.

Miss Noreen: “How would you like your eyebrows shaped, dear? Do you prefer them high and arched… or kept soft and natural?”

Sana (softly): “Um… natural… but neat.”

Miss Noreen: “How thin? Just a light clean-up or more defined?”

Sana: “Just a clean-up. Not too thin.”

Miss Noreen: “Threading or waxing?”

Sana (a bit shy): “Threading… it hurts less, I think.”

Noreen gave a knowing chuckle as her stylus tapped away on the screen.

Miss Noreen: “Mmhmm, got it. Now, any allergies? Sensitive to certain products or ingredients?”

Sana: “No… not that I know of. My skin does get a little dry sometimes, though. And it turns red if something’s too strong.”

Miss Noreen: “Good to know. And any ongoing skin issues we should be aware of?”

Sana: “No. Nothing serious.”

With a final nod, Noreen set the tablet down and gently reached for Sana’s hair again. She held out the long braid like an offering before gently unraveling it down to its lush, silky end.

Miss Noreen: “Now, let’s talk about your haircut.”

Sana: “Just a trim, please… the ends maybe.”

Noreen smiled kindly, but with a slight tilt of the head that hinted at concern.

Miss Noreen: “Hmm… may I show you something?”

She moved around and held a small section of the ends up to the light.

Miss Noreen: “See these split ends? They go up nearly 10 to 12 inches. Trimming just a bit won’t help. If you really want healthy hair, I’d recommend cutting at least 12 inches. It’ll still be long… and will fall beautifully—straight, even, and clean.”

Sana hesitated. Twelve inches. That was a lot. She looked at the thick cascade that reached all the way to her knees.

Sana: “That’s… a lot. I’ve never…”

Miss Noreen (softly): “I understand. But think of it as a new beginning. It’s still long. And honestly? With your face shape… it will frame your features perfectly.”

There was a silence between them, soft and thoughtful.

Finally, Sana nodded.

Sana: “Alright… just a straight cut then. Twelve inches.”

Miss Noreen: “Perfect.”

She typed it in with a soft click, then tucked the tablet aside. Sana hesitated again, finally giving voice to the question that had been on her mind since she saw the space outside.

Sana: “Um… Miss? Can I ask something?”

Miss Noreen (pleasantly): “Of course.”

Sana: “How… how does a place like this offer services at such low prices? I mean… everything here looks like it belongs in a five-star hotel.”

Noreen chuckled softly, amused by Sana’s innocent curiosity.

Miss Noreen: “It’s a fair question. We’re running promotional deals, sweetheart. We only opened last week—so we’re offering premium packages at introductory prices. But… once the promotion ends, the rates will return to standard.”

Sana’s eyes widened slightly, then softened.

Sana: “Oh… then I guess I came in just in time.”

Miss Noreen (smiling warmly): “You did. And no matter where you come from, or how often you can visit, today… you deserve every second of this, Sana.”

Sana smiled shyly, touched by the words.

Then Noreen picked up her tablet again, this time switching to a new tab.

Miss Noreen: “Now, let me explain your Premium Deep Facial Cleansing Therapy in detail. We call it—Total Immersion Detox & Rejuvenation. It lasts about three to three and a half hours. You’ll feel like you’ve left your skin behind and stepped into someone else’s.”

Sana leaned forward slightly, listening.

Total Immersion Detox & Rejuvenation

Step 1: Consultation & Relaxation (10 minutes)
“You’ll begin on a soft treatment bed. We’ll start with a brief consultation about your skin needs, and place a cooling eye mask—cucumber or gel-based—over your eyes. Once that’s on, your eyes will remain closed the whole time, to help you relax deeply. The room will be dim, soft music playing, and essential oils diffused around you.”

Step 2: Deep Cleansing & Makeup Removal (15 minutes)
“We’ll use an oil-based cleanser followed by a foam cleanser, removing everything gently. The warm cotton pads will feel like silk on your skin.”

Step 3: Steam Treatment (15 minutes)
“A soft towel soaked in lavender-infused water will be placed on your face, allowing the pores to open. The eye mask stays on—so all you’ll experience is warmth, scent, and stillness.”

Step 4: Exfoliation (15-20 minutes)
“Depending on your skin, we’ll use an enzyme exfoliator or a gentle scrub. Nothing harsh—just enough to refresh your skin, all while your eyes stay covered.”

Step 5: Deep Pore Extraction (20-25 minutes)
“We’ll gently extract impurities with sterile tools. Aromas in the room will help you stay in a calm state—even during extractions.”

Step 6: Hydrating Gel Mask (20-30 minutes)
“A cooling gel mask—likely aloe or cucumber—will hydrate and calm your skin.”

Step 7: Brightening & Whitening Mask (20-25 minutes)
“A Vitamin C-based mask will reduce dullness and enhance your natural glow.”

Step 8: Aromatherapy Facial Massage (20-30 minutes)
“This will probably be your favorite part. A slow, rhythmic massage with essential oils while your mind drifts into a quiet, meditative state.”

Step 9: Firming or Anti-Aging Mask (20-25 minutes)
“While you’re relaxed, we’ll apply a collagen-based mask to lift and tighten your skin.”

Step 10: Eye & Lip Treatment (10 minutes)
“We’ll treat the delicate skin around your eyes and lips to leave them smooth and nourished.”

Step 11: Final Moisturizing & SPF (10 minutes)
“We’ll finish with a moisturizer and SPF to lock everything in.”

Miss Noreen (gently): “Throughout the entire therapy, you won’t be able to open your eyes. It’s not just a facial—it’s a full sensory experience. While you’re immersed, one of our professionals will brush your hair gently… slow, soothing strokes to help you relax even more. And when the time is right, your haircut will be done as well—softly, carefully, without ever disturbing your peace.”

Sana’s lips parted in surprise. It felt more like a ceremony than a service. She wasn’t sure if she should feel nervous… or excited.

Miss Noreen (with a calming smile): “You won’t feel a thing except comfort, warmth, and renewal. When you open your eyes… you’ll be completely transformed.”

Once all the details of the therapy had been thoroughly explained and Sana had no more questions, she offered a polite smile, clearly a mix of nervousness and anticipation in her eyes. Noreen, noticing her calm acceptance, gave a pleased nod and gently pressed a small silver bell button on her sleek desk. A faint chime rang out.

Moments later, a soft knock came at the door.

“Yes, come in,” Noreen said, her voice smooth as always.

The door opened to reveal a young housekeeping girl, dressed neatly in a pale peach uniform with a matching headband. She stood quietly just inside the doorway, her hands folded respectfully.

Noreen picked up a crisp sheet of paper from a tray beside her and handed it over. “Please guide Miss Sana to chair number four, under Miss Hiba’s care. These are her services,” she said, handing the paper to the girl.

Then, turning to Sana with a warm, customer-ready smile, she added, “If you feel hungry or thirsty at any point, do let the housekeeping staff know. It’s all complementary for our guests.”

Sana nodded with a shy smile. “Thank you.”

The housekeeping girl smiled and gestured politely. “If you’ll follow me, ma’am.”

Sana gave one final glance at Noreen, then stood up and followed the girl out through a softly lit hallway. The scent of lavender and vanilla lingered in the air, and each step brought her deeper into the opulent, serene heart of the salon. Elegant mirrors and shelves filled with high-end products gleamed on either side as they walked past.

Soon, she was led to a large, plush chair in a more secluded area of the salon. Waiting by the chair was a young woman dressed entirely in white—her uniform pristine, her demeanor calm and composed. She looked barely into her mid-twenties, but her posture and gentle tone exuded a quiet confidence.

“Hello, Miss Sana,” the girl greeted with a polite nod and a soothing voice. “I’ll be conducting your Premium Deep Facial Cleansing Therapy today and will also be taking care of your facial hair.”

Sana smiled nervously as she sat down.

As Hiba began adjusting the chair—first raising it higher, then slowly reclining it back for comfort—she subtly lifted her hand and made a small signal.

A second girl approached, equally well-groomed and professional, and greeted Sana with a friendly but focused expression. “I’ll be doing your eyebrows, ma’am,” she said, her tone equally courteous.

Sana gave a tiny, bashful nod, the reclining position already making her feel like she was surrendering control, like she was part of something far more elaborate and indulgent than she’d ever experienced.

The ambient music played softly in the background as the chair finally eased into a fully reclined, spa-like position. The lighting was dim, warm, and welcoming, and the faint scent of chamomile filled the air now.

For the first time since she entered the salon, Sana let herself fully exhale and surrender to whatever came next.

Within moments of settling into the chair, Sana began to feel a sense of calm wash over her. The firm yet cushioned seat beneath her body felt like it was designed to cradle every inch of tension away. Miss Hiba, moving with elegant precision, picked up a large, snow-white treatment sheet. With a practiced flick, she unfolded and spread it over Sana’s body, draping it gently from her shoulders down to the floor, cocooning her in a smooth, soft shield that separated her completely from the outside world.

Then came the hair.

With fingers so fluid they felt like water, the girl reached behind Sana’s head and began to spread out her thick, knee-length braid. Carefully, she loosened it—each twist unraveling like a delicate ritual. Slowly, lovingly, she guided Sana’s silky black tresses down the back of the chair, letting them fall in a beautiful dark cascade, the ends hovering just an inch above the polished marble floor. It was a striking contrast—her flowing locks against the pale backdrop of the sheet—and yet Sana couldn’t even see it. But she felt it, every shift and movement, every moment of care, and it made her heartbeat slow with surrender.

Then came the coolness.

A cooling gel eye mask was gently placed over her eyes, sealing them shut in the most tranquil way. A faint, refreshing tingle crept over her lids and temples, and her eyelashes fluttered once before resting still beneath it. Just then, Hiba’s voice came softly, almost like a whisper, as she began to talk about Sana’s skin—its delicate texture, the mild dryness around the cheeks, and the areas that needed deep hydration. She spoke calmly, not just to inform, but to lull.

Meanwhile, the second girl, silent and focused, stepped in closer. With the lightest touch and tools so precise they felt like feathers, she began to shape Sana’s eyebrows. Sana barely noticed it happening. There was no sting, no twinge of pain. Just a feather-light rhythm and the occasional soft brush of fingers. The girl worked like an artist—and Sana, blissfully unaware of the progress, found her thoughts drifting gently.

Once the eyebrows were done, the second girl gave a tiny pat on Sana’s shoulder and quietly stepped away.

Then Hiba took over fully.

She began with slow, circular motions—soft hands caressing Sana’s face with cleansing balm, tracing her jawline, lifting from her chin to her temples. There was no rush, only grace. Her touch was warm, confident, like she knew exactly where Sana carried her tension and how to unravel it thread by thread.

The lights dimmed further.

The world narrowed.

Sana noticed that the sounds of the busy salon were gone—replaced by the gentle swell of ambient music that filled the air like a cloud. She could still hear Hiba’s voice if she spoke, but everything else—scissors snipping, blow dryers buzzing, chatter between clients—faded into nothing.

The therapy had truly begun, and Sana was no longer in a salon.

She was floating in the luxurious pampered life.

As the Hiba continued her delicate dance across Sana’s face, her fingers gliding with clinical grace and luxurious softness, the world around Sana was growing quieter, dimmer, slower—an oasis carved into time. The faint scent of lavender and tea tree clung to the air. Her hair lay like a black river beneath her, untouched but expectant, waiting its turn in the silent ceremony.

Meanwhile, beyond the comforting cocoon of dim lights and serene music, Noreen’s mind was racing.

Back at her desk, she frowned slightly as she tapped the screen of her tablet, checking the stylist schedule again. Chair 4—assigned to a specialist for Sana’s haircut—remained ominously vacant. No sign-in. No message. No ETA. And now, with Sana already immersed in the second step of the therapy, time was slipping away like sand between polished fingers.

This could not happen. Not on her watch. Not in their first promotional week.

Noreen straightened, lifted her phone, and pressed a button with precise urgency. “Reception, I need a favor. Check with the temp list—see if anyone’s close by. We might have a no-show, and I can’t afford that gap right now. It’s for the client in Chair 4.”

The receptionist’s voice was calm but cautious. “I’ll do my best, ma’am. I’ll start calling now.”

Noreen thanked her and hung up—but the tension in her shoulders didn’t ease.

She couldn’t wait in her office. Not today.

With the authority of a woman who ran this place like a perfectly tuned instrument, she left her room and walked directly into the main salon area. Stylists were busy, some weaving foils into hair, others massaging shampoo into scalps, several blow dryers humming in rhythmic bursts. The energy was professional but alive.

She approached a trio of stylists and lowered her voice with a tone that was both commanding and courteous. “Ladies, I know everyone’s stacked today—but I need one of you to sync briefly with Miss Hiba. It’s just a straight cut—twelve inches, clean, no layers. It’s for Chair 4. The girl’s already in therapy. She won’t even know when it’s done.”

One stylist looked up, her gloved hands already coated in color paste. “I’ve got a balayage and a root touch-up—won’t be free until three.”

Another sighed. “I just started a full-volume blowout. That’s gonna be a while.”

But then, from the far end, a voice called out. “I can do it.”

It was Iram—mid-twenties, sharp bob haircut, dressed in crisp whites with pink nails that always matched her lipstick. She was confident, reliable, and today her calendar was packed only with hair colorings—most of which had processing breaks.

“I’ve got a deep burgundy setting in right now, and the next one’s a pastel peach. I can squeeze in the straight cut between them,” she offered with a professional nod.

Noreen gave her a grateful smile. “Perfect. Connect with Miss Hiba. I want it seamless. We don’t want our client disturbed.”

“I’ve got this,” Iram replied, already turning toward the prep station. “Tell me what she’s getting again?”

“Just a straight cut. Twelve inches. Her hair’s already brushed and sectioned. It’s thick, black, and long—so it needs confident hands.”

Iram smirked lightly. “Confident hands are my specialty.”

And with that, she walked with poise and purpose, already syncing with Hiba, the floater assistant, to ensure everything was prepped in silence.

Back at Chair 4, Sana was lost in the gentlest paradise—blissfully unaware of the quiet storm her hair had nearly caused. Her skin glowed under Hiba’s attentive care. Her breath was slow. Her world had shrunk to warm hands, cooling gels, and the ambient sigh of spa music as the lights held her in a warm, hushed embrace.

With the faintest rustle, Hiba gently lifted the gel eye mask from Sana’s face. The subtle shift in temperature and the delicate scent of eucalyptus clinging to the mask brought Sana’s senses back into a haze of awareness. Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes remained closed—too relaxed to truly return to the waking world.

“Comfortable?” Hiba’s voice was barely above a whisper, the kind of tone used around sleeping infants or sacred spaces.

Sana, wrapped in the stillness of her own slowed breath, gave a soft, dreamy hum in response. Her lips curved slightly, as if her mind was somewhere far from the chair—perhaps in the memory of a breeze through jasmine trees or the quiet serenity of a dimly lit room with no demands, no chores.

“Good,” Hiba whispered, as though soothing a spell rather than a client. She reached for the cool cucumber slices sitting in a crystal dish nearby, placing them with practiced care over Sana’s closed eyes. The chilled touch against her warm skin sent a pleasant shiver through Sana’s spine.

Then came the soft whir of movement as Hiba rolled the steamer into position. It hovered just above Sana’s face like a gentle guardian. A small switch was flipped, and the steam began to hiss and rise—warm, fragrant clouds of vapor cascading downward, opening Sana’s pores, softening her skin, and sinking her deeper into her half-sleep trance.

But then Hiba did something else.

With a small press of a hidden button on the side of the salon chair, a low mechanical hum stirred beneath Sana’s body. The built-in massager came alive. Gentle vibrations spread across her lower back, then rolled upward in calming waves—kneading her shoulders, cradling her spine, coaxing every bit of exhaustion from her bones. After a week of endless scrubbing, mopping, dusting—of her fingers stiff and her back sore—this was more than luxury. It was a descent into silence, a surrender.

Her limbs went limp. Her breathing slowed. If anyone had whispered her name, she wouldn’t have answered—not out of rudeness, but because the name “Sana” didn’t seem to belong to her anymore.

Hiba, satisfied with the setup, turned away from the chair.

Just then, the stylist—poised and ready, hair pinned into a sleek bun, scissors glinting under the overhead lights—stepped over. “She’s ready?” she asked softly, eyeing Sana with the respectful quiet one might give a sleeping guest at a temple.

Hiba nodded, glancing back at the chair. “More than ready,” she murmured. “She’s deep in it now. If you wait any longer, she might startle. Some of them do—once they get too relaxed, the sound of scissors can feel sharp in more ways than one.”

The stylist smiled knowingly. “Then now’s perfect. Just a straight twelve-inch cut, yes?”

“Yes. Thick, black, waist-length. She won’t feel a thing.”

And with that, the stylist walked with fluid grace to the back of the chair, where Sana’s glistening, jet-black hair flowed like spilled ink. Already brushed, already draped neatly behind the chair, it awaited its fate in silence.

The stylist approached the chair like a whisper on silk—deliberate, respectful, and composed. Her fingers found the comb, long and ivory, its teeth gliding through Sana’s thick, cascading hair with practiced ease. The strands flowed like oil, impossibly dark and soft, slipping between her fingers with each gentle stroke. There was no rush, only a calming rhythm—each pass of the comb sending a subtle signal to Sana’s senses, coaxing her into an even deeper drift.

Sana’s breathing slowed further, her chest rising and falling in a calm cadence, lulled by the softness of the steam, the hum of the massage, and the delicate tug of each comb stroke. She was warm beneath the cape, wrapped like a secret, far away from the world she knew.

Then came the moment.

The stylist, steady as moonlight, positioned her fingers with precise care—gathering the dark curtain of hair between them, measuring exactly twelve inches. There was no fanfare, no pause for thought. Just a steady breath, and then—snip.

The first lock fell like a feather, curling slightly as it landed on the smooth floor behind the chair.

Another snip. Then another. The sound was subtle, rhythmic, like scissors dancing in hushed tones. Piece by piece, Sana’s length was trimmed away, each cut smooth and final. Yet her face remained still beneath the cucumber slices, lips faintly parted, lost in a dream that knew nothing of the change unfolding behind her.

Once the final strand had been freed, the stylist took a moment to smooth down the freshly cut ends, adjusting a few uneven edges with sharp precision. Her hands moved like an artist inspecting her canvas, making sure every inch was symmetrical, every layer falling just as intended. It was elegant. Clean. Quiet perfection.

She stepped back and gave a small nod of approval.

With a discreet glance, she signaled the housekeeping girl, who appeared almost like a shadow. Without a word, she began sweeping up the thick, dark locks with the utmost care, as if gathering something sacred. Each strand was collected swiftly, silently, vanishing into a neat dustpan so quickly that not even a whisper of evidence remained.

The floor returned to its pristine state just as Hiba reappeared.

She moved toward the chair with soft steps, her expression calm and composed, as if this entire process had been planned to the second. Her hand reached for the dial on the steamer, and with a smooth twist, the soft hiss returned—steam rising once more, warm and fragrant, bathing Sana’s skin like a gentle cloud.

Sana stirred only slightly, the heat caressing her cheeks, the massage still humming beneath her, her mind unaware that she was now shorter by a foot of hair.

For now, all that mattered was the stillness and the silence.

As the warm steam rolled over Sana’s face, curling like invisible silk across her skin, Hiba watched the timer with an attentive gaze. The soft light above bathed everything in a muted golden hue, and the gentle instrumental music played like a lullaby in the background—timeless, slow, and comforting.

After several minutes, Hiba moved again, precise and soundless. With practiced fingers, she gently peeled away the now-moist cucumber slices, revealing Sana’s relaxed, slightly dewy skin beneath. There was a peacefulness in Sana’s expression—eyebrows shaped to elegant softness, lips parted ever so slightly, her face glowing under the layered effects of rest and warmth.

Hiba lowered the steamer and wiped her hands on a fresh white towel before speaking, her voice low, close to a whisper meant not to disturb but guide.

“We’re moving to the exfoliation now, just let yourself stay relaxed,” she murmured, though she wasn’t entirely sure if Sana was even consciously listening anymore.

Hiba reached for a small bowl from her station, filled with a fine-grain herbal exfoliant mixed into a smooth cream. The scent was subtle—green tea and aloe, soothing and faintly sweet. Dipping her fingers into the bowl, she began massaging the cream onto Sana’s face in slow, circular motions, starting from the cheeks and gliding upward along the temples.

The granules worked softly against Sana’s skin—never harsh, only enough to awaken the pores beneath and stir the hidden layers of tiredness from her long week. Hiba’s hands moved in a rhythm that was more like a meditation than a treatment. Her thumbs worked gently along the brow bone, around the nose, and then down to the jawline, tracing the delicate contours of Sana’s face as if memorizing them.

As she worked, she didn’t rush. Every motion was intentional, every circle a silent act of care. She used the pads of her fingers, feather-light in pressure, yet firm enough to draw out the dullness and leave behind a revived glow. The soft grit of the exfoliant mixed with the warmth of the earlier steam began to open up Sana’s skin fully now, preparing it for the nourishment that would follow.

Hiba dipped a cloth into warm water and delicately wiped the exfoliant away, again and again, until Sana’s skin was bare and clean—rosy with circulation, soft as the underside of a petal.

Next came a toner, misted from a fine glass bottle with a short puff of hydrating coolness across her cheeks and forehead. Sana twitched slightly at the sensation, but didn’t open her eyes—too deep in comfort to stir fully. Her hair, now a precise, freshly cut curtain, framed her gently like a shawl, ends just brushing the cape wrapped around her.

Hiba gave a small nod to herself. Sana was ready for the next step: the mask.

She turned toward her tray again, selecting a smooth, pale-green clay mask known for tightening and brightening. With a soft fan brush, she painted it over Sana’s face in strokes like wind on water—starting from the center and blending outward, layer by delicate layer. The mask cooled on contact, refreshing against the lingering heat of the steam, creating a contrast that deepened the spell of relaxation around Sana’s body.

With the mask in place, Hiba stepped back and checked the timer once again.

The room had quieted even more, as if respecting the sacred moment. The soft massage of the chair still pulsed gently against Sana’s back, and all around her, the world of the salon moved at a distance—like a dream she’d yet to awaken from.

While the room stayed hushed in the tranquil embrace of steam and soft music, events were gently shifting beyond the gentle veil wrapped around Sana’s awareness.

At the front desk, the receptionist’s phone rang. She picked it up with a practiced tone, her face brightening slightly. “Ma’am, I found someone. One of our temporary stylists said she can be here in thirty minutes.”

Noreen, back in her office, exhaled a breath of relief. But instinctively, she turned toward the monitor showing the salon’s live feed. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she scanned the view—Sana’s chair still dimly lit, the girl motionless beneath the clay mask and draped sheet, the soft pulsation of the massage chair subtly visible in the footage.

“She still hasn’t been attended,” Noreen said to herself, frowning. Without a second thought, she replied sharply into the phone, “Call the stylist in right away. We can’t afford to leave a walk-in unattended, even if it’s just a trim. Image matters.”

The call had barely ended when the front door gently opened again, this time not the expected temporary stylist, but a familiar figure—tall, poised, her stride casual but confident. The receptionist blinked in surprise. “Rimsha? Oh, Noreen was just asking about you!”

Rimsha—Chair 4’s permanent stylist—raised a single brow as she walked in, her ponytail swinging behind her. “Really? Why?” she asked coolly, pausing at the counter.

“There’s a walk-in for a cut,” the receptionist replied. “Noreen thought you weren’t coming. Said there was no one available.”

“I submitted my leave slip,” Rimsha said, eyes scanning the room. “I didn’t have any appointments today. I’m just here to grab a couple things from my drawer.” She motioned with her hand and began walking deeper into the salon, heading for her usual station.

As she stepped into the serene chamber-like ambiance of the treatment area, her eyes instinctively swept over to her usual chair—and froze.

There, under the soft golden lighting, laid Sana. Masked, quiet, her newly cut hair draped like a dark velvet curtain over the chair’s cape. Rimsha immediately recognized the neatness of the line—whoever had trimmed it had done a fine job—but she also noticed something else.

The air conditioning vent above the chair was humming gently, blowing a cool current that she could feel across her arms. And yet—there was no towel placed over Sana’s head.

Rimsha’s gaze narrowed, and she clicked her tongue softly.

“How many times do I have to remind Hiba about this?” she muttered to herself under her breath, careful not to disturb the dreamy stillness. “You never let them sit with damp roots in air conditioning…”

Slipping her personal pouch of essentials into her bag, she hovered a moment longer. The cut wasn’t complicated—it was just a straight 12-inch trim, the kind she could do in her sleep. And here the girl was, already in position, relaxed and unaware. She hated leaving jobs half-done… especially when her name might still be associated with the chair.

Quietly, almost reverently, she stepped toward Sana. Her hands moved with the gentleness of a ritual, reaching for the comb and scissors from her own drawer.

She began to comb Sana’s hair again—not because it needed straightening, but because she wanted it to be perfect. Each stroke was feather-light, slow, rhythmic. Sana didn’t stir, only breathed in deeper, lulled further into that gentle fog between sleep and awareness. The room, cloaked in its warm light and ambient hush, seemed to sigh with her.

Rimsha knelt slightly, tilting her head to examine the length, then lifted her scissors. She worked with surgical quiet—no sudden snips, no breaks in the soft rhythm. Her scissors were sharp, honed to glide through strands like silk. Each snip was nearly inaudible, an art in silence.

Within moments, the task was complete. Rimsha took a moment to inspect the line again—crisp, symmetrical, flawless.

She set the scissors and comb back down, reached for a thick, plush towel from the shelf, and with a kind of quiet grace, draped it over Sana’s head. Tucking the ends gently around the base of her skull, she made sure no strand was exposed to the cold. It was a small touch, but an important one. A touch of care. Of professionalism.

Turning to leave, Rimsha whispered to the nearby housekeeping girl, “Clean up the hair, and don’t make a sound. She’s in deep rest.”

And then, just like that, Rimsha was gone—her silhouette disappearing around the corner with the same silence in which she arrived, leaving behind only the faint scent of jasmine from her perfume and the lingering perfection of a job done right.

Sana, oblivious to it all, laid beneath the clay mask, her breath even, her heart light. The towel around her head kept her warmth in, and the massage chair continued its gentle hum—like the rhythm of a cradle rocking her in a secret dream.

As the last strands of hair were swept silently into the dustpan and the floor regained its pristine polish, the housekeeping girl disappeared just as quietly as she had come, leaving no trace of the transformation that had just taken place.

From the staff hallway, Hiba re-entered with her soft, practiced gait, carrying a small bowl filled with freshly mixed creams and serums. Her eyes, calm and focused, glanced over to the chair where Sana still lay reclined under the pale spa lighting, a portrait of peace and surrender. The gentle weight of the towel rested over her head, giving her a cocooned look—warm, protected.

Hiba paused briefly, noticing the towel. Someone must have finally listened to her about the AC, she thought, pleased. She didn’t question it further. The salon often had assistants who helped prep between phases, especially when the client was dozing. And besides, the towel looked perfectly in place, tucked with a care that matched the salon’s standards.

She set the bowl down on the side tray, her fingers brushing along the rows of labeled products she’d arranged earlier. Then she checked the temperature of the steamer, which had been humming quietly, dispersing fine, warm mist around Sana’s cheeks and nose, opening her pores with just the right touch.

With practiced grace, Hiba lifted the chilled cucumber slices off Sana’s eyes, gently setting them aside.

“Miss Sana…” she whispered sweetly, leaning slightly forward, her voice a soothing murmur. “We’re beginning the rejuvenation mask now. You’re doing wonderful.”

Sana, nestled so deeply in her state of half-sleep and post-cleaning bliss, only offered a faint sigh, her lips parted in tranquil breath. The massage chair continued its quiet rhythm beneath her body, vibrating softly through her spine and shoulders.

Hiba dipped two fingers into the bowl and began to apply the rich, golden cream across Sana’s face in smooth, upward strokes. The mask had a subtle herbal scent—neem and saffron—mixed with a floral note of rose. It was one of the salon’s signature treatments, known to leave skin glowing and bright.

With slow, rhythmic circles, she massaged the cream into Sana’s temples, her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose. Her touch was featherlight but deliberate, sculpting every motion to follow the contours of the face, allowing the active ingredients to soak in.

As she moved to the jawline and under the chin, she leaned in closer, whispering again, “Your skin’s responding beautifully. Just relax.”

The cream settled into a dewy layer, and Hiba stood back for a moment, checking the overall effect. With her skin glistening under the warm lights, Sana looked like a resting sculpture—ethereal, untouched, unaware.

Behind the chair, still snug and untouched, the towel sat nestled atop her now dramatically shortened hair. Neither Hiba nor anyone else in the room realized that the glossy, floor-length river of black that once flowed behind this modest girl had already vanished—twice.

Meanwhile, outside the treatment area, Rimsha gave a quick nod to the receptionist, who was still on a call, and slipped out of the salon with practiced ease, not waiting for a farewell.

The air remained calm, still. The mask would need ten minutes to set before Hiba could begin the final rinsing and toning phase.

And beneath that towel… lay a secret no one had noticed yet.

The salon floor remained bathed in soft lighting and serene music, the kind that draped over the senses like velvet. Hiba, always diligent, had stayed for the entire facial—cleansing, exfoliating, toning, massaging, nourishing—her hands never once leaving Sana’s skin unattended. The pampering was so thorough, so precise, it almost felt ceremonial.

Now, as the sixth and final step approached, Hiba returned with a fresh, chilled gel mask—opaque, with only delicate openings for the nose and mouth. The mask itself looked like polished jade, cool and sculpted to contour the face perfectly.

“This is the final step, Miss Sana,” she said in a soft tone, lowering the mask gently over Sana’s cheeks and pressing it into place. “Just breathe slowly. This will refresh your skin deeply. It needs about thirty minutes to do its work.”

Sana, her voice soaked in comfort and gratitude, gave a quiet hum of agreement, her words barely forming as she whispered, “Thank you… you’ve been so kind…”

Hiba smiled warmly. “You’ve been lovely. I’ll be just outside having lunch. If you need anything, just press the service button.”

She turned off the chair’s massage function, leaving it reclined, and then padded quietly out of the treatment area. Sana, meanwhile, lay perfectly still beneath the mask, breathing softly through the tiny slits, unaware of just how many silent hands had already worked on her, and how many more might still come.

At the front desk, the glass doors parted again with a soft chime. The temporary stylist stepped in—a confident figure with a crisp air of efficiency. She wore fitted black pants and a slate-blue shirt, her shoulder-length honey-brown hair tucked behind one ear. Her name was Arwa.

The receptionist greeted her warmly. “Hey, thank you so much for coming in last-minute.”

Arwa gave a small smile. “No problem. What’s the situation?”

The receptionist lowered her voice, quickly explaining the walk-in client’s request for a simple 12-inch haircut, the missing stylist, and the backup plan.

Arwa nodded thoughtfully. “So it’s just a straight cut, twelve inches. Should be easy.”

She adjusted her apron as she made her way to the assigned chair, pushing the treatment room door gently open. The moment she stepped inside, she paused.

There was the girl—still reclined, a glossy mask covering her face, arms resting calmly at her sides, completely unaware of her surroundings. Arwa approached slowly and reached for the towel draped over her head, lifting it carefully to assess the hair.

Arwa stood beside the treatment chair, quietly stunned as she lifted the towel from the client’s head. Beneath it, she found not the long, flowing locks she’d expected—but barely shoulder-length strands, freshly and evenly cut to around twelve inches. She blinked, confused.

Something didn’t add up.

She walked briskly back to the reception desk, where the receptionist was organizing appointment slips. Arwa leaned in, speaking just above a whisper, her voice laced with uncertainty.

“Hey… this girl—Sana, right? Her hair is already only twelve inches long. Are you sure she actually wants it cut now?”

The receptionist raised her brows in surprise. “Wait… what? That can’t be right. I was told it was a twelve-inch straight cut.”

“Exactly,” Arwa replied, folding her arms. “But if I cut twelve more inches now, she’s going to be bald.”

The receptionist hesitated for a beat, clearly unsure what to make of the situation. She picked up the phone and quickly dialed Noreen’s internal extension.

From her office, Noreen answered swiftly.

“Yes?”

“Hi ma’am,” the receptionist said politely but cautiously. “About the client in chair four—Sana—um, the stylist says the girl only has twelve inches of hair right now. Should we still go through with the haircut?”

Noreen, still under the impression that Sana had her usual long, flowing hair, didn’t hesitate. Her tone was brisk.

“Yes, I know it’s a big transformation. But she agreed to it herself. It’s a complete look overhaul. Just proceed.”

Before the receptionist could question her further, Noreen had already disconnected—likely swept back into her day’s workload.

The receptionist looked back at Arwa and nodded slowly. “She agreed to it, apparently. That’s what Noreen said.”

Arwa gave a small shrug, exhaling. “Alright then. If she really wants it…” She turned and headed back to the treatment area, calm and composed despite the lingering doubt.

As per salon protocol, she maintained her poised professionalism, moving gently so as not to disturb the spa-like atmosphere. Sana lay reclined, her eyes still covered with the cooling gel mask, unaware of anything that had just transpired.

Arwa leaned closer, her voice low and respectful. “Hi there, Miss Sana. It’s time for your haircut now. Once we’re done, your facial will continue.”

Sana, completely relaxed and trusting after the pampering she had received, gave a soft hum and nodded. “Oh… okay.” She started to sit up.

But Arwa gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “No need to sit up. I can take care of it just like this. You just relax.”

Sana smiled faintly under the mask and sank back into the chair, lulled by the warm steam and soft music.

Arwa stepped around her, pulled on gloves, and picked up the clippers. She examined them for a moment, then flicked the switch with a gentle hum—the sound of the blades crackling to life. Following salon standards for ultra-short transformations, she used them without a guard.

Sana, in her blissful state, thought nothing of the sound—maybe it was a finishing tool or a neck trimmer. She expected a quick trim, maybe just a neatening.

Then—

Buzz.
Without warning, Arwa placed the clippers directly at the center of Sana’s forehead hairline and drove them back with steady pressure.

A long, deep path of scalp was instantly exposed.

Sana jolted in horror.

Her hands shot up, and she ripped off the gel mask, blinking against the salon lights. She gasped, then screamed.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” she shrieked, sitting bolt upright in the chair. Her wide, terrified eyes searched for a mirror.

Arwa stepped back, frozen mid-motion.

Sana, now sobbing, covered her face with her hands. “Who told you to shave my head?! I said I wanted a twelve-inch cut—not to go bald!”

Her voice broke, equal parts shock, confusion, and heartbreak.

Arwa stood in silence, scissors and clippers still in hand, unsure of what storm she had just walked into.

And outside the door, the calm of the salon continued—unaware that inside chair four, something irreversible had just begun.

The sharp, panicked voice of Sana echoed through the salon like a fire alarm. Her furious scolding cut through the tranquil hum of soft music and muted conversations, jarring the peaceful rhythm into chaos.

Every head turned. Stylists froze mid-trim. Clients stared over their shoulders, some half-risen from their chairs, startled. The entire energy of the salon shattered in an instant.

Sana was sitting upright now, tears streaming down her flushed face, her voice loud, trembling, and relentless.

“How dare you?! Who said I wanted to be shaved? I said twelve inches! What kind of place is this?! You just—you just put clippers on my head without even asking!”

Arwa stood silently beside the chair, clippers still in hand, visibly stunned and unable to get a word in.

From the back of the salon, Hiba rushed out first, alarmed by the commotion. Just seconds later, Noreen emerged from her office, her face tight with concern. Both of them pushed through the staff doors and quickly approached Sana’s chair.

“Sana?” Hiba asked softly, seeing her in tears. “What happened?”

Noreen’s eyes darted from Sana’s expression to the towel on her lap… then to the clippers in Arwa’s hand… and finally to Sana’s head.

Her breath caught.

Right there, in the middle of her crown, a strip of exposed scalp gleamed under the salon light—freshly shaved. The rest of her hair, though once long and flowing, was now cut bluntly to just below the shoulder.

Sana, still shaking, turned to them. “She—she shaved me! This new girl just came in and shaved my head without asking! She didn’t even say a word, just did it!”

“She made a pass—?” Noreen asked, eyes widening in shock.

“No! She made a pass with the clippers!” Sana snapped, gesturing frantically. “She started shaving me bald! Look at this!”

Both Noreen and Hiba stood frozen, speechless, trying to process the scene. Then Noreen turned sharply to Arwa, voice low but firm.

“Arwa… what exactly happened here?”

Arwa finally spoke, calm but shaken. “When I arrived, I was told there was a client waiting for a haircut. I checked her hair—it was already twelve inches long. I double-checked with the receptionist. I asked if this is what she wanted—because cutting more would mean shaving her—and the receptionist said yes. She said she confirmed with you.”

The receptionist, who had approached by now, nodded slowly. “Yes… I did confirm with Noreen. She said to go ahead. I didn’t know—”

Noreen’s eyes narrowed. “Wait. I thought she still had her original hair length. I didn’t know it was already cut.”

A heavy pause settled over the room.

Hiba suddenly stepped forward, her brow furrowing. “But… if her hair was already at twelve inches, then who…?”

The pieces started clicking into place. Hiba looked toward the workstations. “Wait. Earlier, the regular stylist—Rimsha—she came in, right?”

The receptionist nodded. “Yeah, she just stopped by to grab something. Said she wasn’t staying.”

“And we had another stylist before her?” Hiba added. “Someone stepped in while I was prepping the steamer…”

A quiet murmur rippled through the staff. Housekeeping staff exchanged glances. Whispers spread between the stylists on standby.

Then Noreen’s voice cut in, grim.

“Are you saying… three stylists cut her hair today?”

The receptionist looked stunned. “I—I guess… it might’ve happened that way. Each one saw her, assumed it hadn’t been done yet, and just—”

“Oh my god…” Hiba muttered, putting a hand to her head.

Noreen’s expression was a mix of disbelief and dread as she turned back to Sana.

The truth was plain now: each stylist, unaware that the previous one had already cut Sana’s hair, had given her the same 12-inch trim—three separate times.

And now, Arwa, acting on the final instruction, had unknowingly sealed the fate of the last remaining length.

Sana was sobbing again, hugging the towel to her chest, humiliated and broken.

Noreen took a deep breath and stepped closer, kneeling to meet her eyes gently. “Sana… I’m so, so sorry. There’s been a terrible miscommunication. You weren’t supposed to be treated this way. I swear, we’ll make this right.”

But the damage was already done.

And the long strands that had once framed Sana’s modest grace now lay scattered—swept away quietly, piece by piece, by mistake after mistake.

Sana sat upright, wrapped in the towel like a lifeline, her breathing uneven and her voice quivering with rage as she snapped, “You’ve ruined me! Do you even understand what you’ve done?! My hair—my identity—and you people just passed me around like I’m some headless mannequin!”

Noreen stood frozen for a moment, guilt dripping from her face like sweat. “Sana, I swear to you—I didn’t know. I thought your hair was untouched. I was only trying to help by confirming—”

“Help? Help?!” Sana’s voice cracked mid-sentence. “You gave a green signal without even checking on me! How careless can you be? You just assumed everything. Do you have any idea how important my hair was to me?! I’ve never—never—had it this short in my life!”

“I know,” Noreen said softly, her voice fragile. “And I’m so, so sorry. I take full responsibility. This is—this is a disaster. But please, yelling at me won’t fix what’s already happened.”

“I don’t care what you’re sorry for!” Sana yelled back. Her shoulders trembled. “I should file a complaint with the association. I should report your license. I should go to the police. You literally shaved part of my head without my consent!”

The entire salon held its breath.

Noreen took a slow, heavy step closer. “Sana, listen. You’re right. You have every right to be angry. And if you want to report us, no one will stop you. But I want to make this right—whatever it takes.”

Sana gave her a sharp, furious look. “There’s nothing you can do that will undo this.”

“I know,” Noreen whispered. Then, stronger, she added, “But let me offer you this—not out of fear, but because you deserve more than just an apology. Starting now, every service in this salon is free for you. For life. No limits, no expiry. Whatever you need—anytime.”

Sana blinked, stunned.

“In return…” Noreen’s voice dropped to a murmur. “I ask you—please don’t file a complaint. Don’t go to the media. Don’t tell anyone this happened. We’ll protect your privacy. And I swear, we’ll do whatever we can to fix this, or at least give you dignity while we try.”

Sana looked away, her eyes brimming again.

Noreen turned to her staff and called the senior stylists into the back room for an emergency consultation. One by one, the stylists gathered—Hiba, Rimsha, Arwa, and two more. The mood was grim.

Noreen asked bluntly, “What can we do to fix this?”

Rimsha was the first to shake her head. “It’s uneven. There’s already a bald patch. The rest barely grazes her shoulders now.”

Hiba added softly, “Trying to blend it would just butcher what’s left.”

Another stylist sighed. “There’s no way to save it, Noreen. The cleanest, most respectful thing we can do is shave the rest evenly and offer her a professional wig.”

Silence fell. Noreen nodded grimly.

Returning to Sana, she sat across from her this time, the weight of the truth heavy in her eyes.

“Sana… this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say to a client. But I’ve consulted all the top stylists here. The damage is… irreversible. There’s only one thing we can do now.”

Sana stared, eyes wide and wet. Her voice was small. “What…?”

“We shave it all,” Noreen said gently. “We’ll give you the finest wig available—any style, any color, human hair or synthetic, we’ll have it customized just for you. It’ll look natural, and no one will ever know.”

Sana clutched the towel tighter.

“And again,” Noreen added, her voice cracking ever so slightly, “you’ll never have to pay for a single thing here. Not a trim, not a facial, not a spa service—not ever again. Just… please, Sana, let us make it right this way. Let us fix it privately. Please don’t file a complaint or speak about this outside.”

Sana didn’t speak right away. Her breath hitched. Her eyes welled up again, not in rage this time, but in heartbreak.

And in the silence that followed, the sound of a buzzing clipper being turned off somewhere in the background felt like a closing curtain—final, irreversible.

There was a long pause in the air, thick with tension, as Sana wiped her damp cheeks with trembling fingers. Her breath was shaky. Every eye in the salon was on her—expecting a storm, another outburst, maybe even a scene with the police.

But instead… Sana inhaled slowly, her eyes red and tired, her voice low and cracked.
“Fine… I’ll accept the offer. Just… just get it over with.”

A collective exhale swept through the room.

Noreen quickly turned to the receptionist. “Let Arwa know. And remind her—Sana gets only the best. We cannot afford another mistake.”

Arwa was still lingering near the workstations, clutching the clippers like a crime weapon. When the receptionist relayed the message, she nodded firmly. There was guilt on her face, but professionalism in her posture. She knew what was at stake now—not just a girl’s hair, but the salon’s entire reputation.

The Head Shave – Phase One

Arwa gently approached Sana, who now sat upright with the same defeated poise as someone awaiting a verdict. Her breathing was slow, trying to stay composed. Her hair—what remained of it—barely skimmed her shoulders now, with a harsh bald strip down the middle.

“Miss Sana,” Arwa said softly, respectfully, “May I begin?”

Sana didn’t answer at first. Then she gave a small nod.

Arwa pressed the chair’s lever, bringing it to a fully upright position. She picked up a fresh, buttery-soft ivory cape from the sanitized shelf and snapped it open with elegance. Gently, she draped it over Sana, tucking it snugly around her neck with the faintest brush of her fingers—tender, as if wrapping her in an apology.

With the chair adjusted, Arwa combed the remaining hair one last time, not out of necessity, but reverence. Then she reached for the clippers—this time making sure Sana could see them.

They were stainless, sleek, whisper-quiet. Arwa removed the guard entirely.
“Ready?” she asked, voice barely a whisper.

Sana closed her eyes.
“Just… do it.”

The first pass came with a low hum. Arwa placed the vibrating blade right against Sana’s temple, letting it kiss the scalp before she pushed it upward, carving away the remaining hair in thick, soft strokes. The strands fell into the cape like ribbons of surrender.

There was no rush. Each pass was deliberate. Clean. Final.

Sana remained still. But tears welled up again—this time silent. Her fingers twitched under the cape, gripping the armrest as the reality of her transformation settled in. With every swipe, more of her identity slid down her shoulders and vanished into the growing pile of hair.

Arwa moved to the back, tilting Sana’s head slightly forward, making smooth arcs from the nape up to the crown. She used the edge of the blade for precision, careful not to tug, press, or jerk. It was silent. Sacred. Like a ritual.

When the final tuft slipped free and the last pass glided over her crown, Arwa gently set the clippers aside and looked at the bare, vulnerable scalp before her. It wasn’t clean-shaven yet—but the silhouette was already hauntingly beautiful.

She folded a soft, steamy towel and wrapped it tenderly around Sana’s head, letting the warmth soak in.
“I’ll continue after your facial step, Miss. The warm towel will keep your skin soft before the final shave.”

Sana didn’t respond. Her jaw trembled slightly, but she nodded.

Hiba returned just then, having heard the update. She gave a small apologetic nod to Sana as she gently reclined the chair again, making sure the towel stayed warm and firm.

“Miss Sana,” Hiba said gently, “We’re starting the seventh step now. Please close your eyes… I’ll be extra gentle.”

The gel mask had done its part earlier. Now came a cooling serum infused with botanical extracts, applied with feather-soft brushes. Hiba’s hands moved with precision—massaging with intent, soft strokes across the cheeks, jawline, temples, and under the eyes.

Sana slowly melted into the chair once more. Her shoulders softened slightly. The combination of heat on her scalp and the cooling massage on her skin created a strange calm—a lull in the middle of the storm.

For the next twenty minutes, Hiba didn’t speak. She let her fingers do the talking.

When the timer chimed, the towel was unwrapped with ceremonial delicacy. Sana’s bare scalp shimmered with heat, the stubble soft and ready.

Arwa returned, this time with a shaving brush and the richest, creamiest lather in the salon. She dipped the brush and gently began applying the foam over Sana’s entire scalp, covering it with thick, pillowy swirls. The sensation made Sana shiver—unfamiliar, strange, but oddly satisfying.

Then came the razor—a vintage-style straight blade, polished and gleaming.

Arwa pulled the skin taut, shaving in short, silent strokes. From front to back, she shaved with the grain and then against it—making sure every inch was smooth as porcelain. Her hands never faltered. The room was so quiet that the soft scrape of the blade over skin was all that could be heard.

Sana breathed slowly. There was no more crying. Just stillness. Acceptance. Maybe even peace.

Once the shave was done and her head was wiped clean, Hiba resumed the eighth and final step of the facial. This time, the hydrating serum wasn’t just for the face.

With new gloves, she massaged the balm over Sana’s freshly shaved head as well—tender circles over the crown, temples, behind the ears. The shine that followed wasn’t just from the lotion—it was from care.

Sana’s eyes remained closed. Her face now calm. Her head smooth, gleaming under the soft salon lights.

After a heavy silence hung in the air, Sana let out a quiet sigh. Her voice was barely above a whisper, tired and wounded.
“Fine… I’ll accept the offer. Just get it over with.”

The tension slowly melted, but not the guilt. Noreen gave a quick nod, and with a firm yet hushed tone told the receptionist to inform Arwa. “And remind her,” she added sternly, “Sana is to be treated like royalty. Every step. No excuses.”

Arwa, still standing awkwardly with the clippers in hand, straightened her posture. She acknowledged the instructions with a composed nod, though her eyes betrayed the weight she felt. She approached Sana softly now, her steps careful, reverent. Sana sat still, wrapped in a rumpled cape, eyes red, lips pressed tightly together. Her once-iconic braid was no more—just uneven tufts of hair falling barely below her shoulders, and a harsh bald strip carved down the middle of her scalp like a scar of miscommunication.

“Miss Sana,” Arwa said gently, her voice warm but subdued, “May I proceed?”

Sana gave a slow nod without looking up.

Arwa adjusted the chair to an upright position and fetched a fresh, creamy white cape—plush and smooth to the touch. She opened it with a soft flourish, draping it delicately over Sana’s shoulders, tucking it neatly and securely at the nape of her neck. Her hands barely grazed Sana’s skin—light, respectful, almost apologetic.

She combed through the remaining strands briefly, just to align them for removal, even though they wouldn’t be there for long. The clippers were brought forward again—sleek, quiet, guardless. Arwa held them up, pausing one last time in front of Sana.

“Are you ready?”

Sana didn’t respond with words. She closed her eyes and gave a slight nod, as if giving permission to the moment, not the machine.

The clippers came to life with a low, soft hum. Arwa brought them gently to Sana’s temple. There was no hesitation now. The buzzing edge made contact, and with a single smooth stroke, a thick swath of hair glided off the scalp and landed soundlessly on the cape. Sana flinched—barely, just enough to be noticed—but she didn’t open her eyes. She was trying to detach herself from what was happening.

Another pass. Then another. Hair tumbled with each motion. The buzz of the clippers filled the quiet room, rhythmic and hypnotic. Arwa moved around her with the precision of an artist and the care of someone making amends—removing what little remained with steady, fluid movements. Every handful of hair fell like a broken piece of identity, of choice.

Sana’s fingers clenched slightly beneath the cape. Her eyes remained closed, lips trembling. She didn’t cry, but her silence said more than tears ever could.

Arwa gently tilted her head forward and worked at the back, smoothing down the nape, removing the soft, final tufts. It was almost over.

When it was done, Arwa clicked the clippers off and set them aside with an audible finality. She folded a warm, freshly steamed towel and tenderly wrapped it around Sana’s scalp, letting the heat embrace the newly exposed skin.

“I’ll continue the shave after the next facial step,” she whispered. “This will help soften everything.”

Sana barely nodded.

Hiba returned and quietly took her place beside the chair. Without a word, she reclined the seat gently, her hands adjusting everything with such attentiveness it felt like a ritual. Her expression was serious, focused—not with pressure, but with deep care.

“We’ll begin now,” Hiba said softly. “Please close your eyes, Sana. I’ll be extra gentle.”

The seventh step of the facial began with a cool botanical serum, applied with brushes that barely touched the skin. Every movement was slow, circular, nurturing. Hiba’s fingers worked around the contours of Sana’s face—her jaw, cheekbones, temples—with the kind of softness meant to soothe more than just the skin.

Sana’s breathing began to ease. Her hands unclenched. Something about the sensation—of being cared for so precisely after such an overwhelming moment—began to pull her out of her shock.

The warm towel remained on her head, cocooning her, keeping the skin ready.

Time passed in a blur of soft motions and whispered reassurances. And then, finally, the facial timer chimed again.

Arwa returned with quiet grace. She unwrapped the towel slowly, revealing the scalp—now bare, save for the softest stubble.

She brought out a bowl of lather and a fine shaving brush. With a smooth swirling motion, she whipped the cream into a thick foam and began to brush it over Sana’s scalp in rich, generous strokes. The sensation made Sana shiver. It was foreign. Exposing. But not harsh.

Once the entire head was coated in the creamy lather, Arwa picked up a shining straight razor. She worked slowly, pulling the skin taut with one hand, and gliding the blade carefully with the other. Shaving front to back. Then side to side. Inch by inch.

Each stroke revealed gleaming skin beneath, smooth and pale and perfect. She was deliberate, almost meditative. Not a single nick. Not a single missed patch. Her respect showed in every drag of the blade.

When she was done, she wiped the head clean, revealing the final result—bare, polished, glowing.

Hiba stepped in again, now beginning the eighth and final step. A rich hydrating serum meant to lock in all the benefits of the facial. But this time, it wasn’t just her face.

Sana remained reclined, eyes still closed, as Hiba worked the cool serum into her newly shaved scalp—massaging it gently across the crown, behind the ears, down the back of the head. The touch was soft, reverent. Every motion was meant to tell her: you’re still beautiful.

And for the first time in a while… Sana believed it. Even if just a little.

Once the final step of the facial ended, a quiet unease passed over Hiba’s face. She leaned in closer, observing the way the light hit Sana’s freshly treated skin. Her scalp, newly shaved and buffed to a smooth glow, radiated a clean brilliance—but her face, despite the intensive treatment, looked dull in comparison. It wasn’t that the facial had failed; the contrast was simply too stark now. If anything looked incomplete now—if Sana walked out with her head gleaming and her face looking shadowed—it would only make her feel worse. Hiba knew it instinctively.

And after everything the poor girl had endured, Hiba couldn’t let this be the final impression. Not tonight.

Without saying much, Hiba adjusted the chair once more, gently inclining it so that Sana wasn’t flat but also not sitting upright—somewhere in between, a soft cradle of comfort. Sana didn’t resist. She lay still, eyes closed, shoulders slightly slumped under the smooth weight of the salon cape. Her silence spoke of surrender, of numbness.

Hiba carefully tucked a soft towel into the cape under Sana’s chin, the way one would do for a cherished guest. She fetched a bowl of warm water, dipped her hands into it, and slowly began to massage Sana’s face with careful palms—rinsing away any remaining product, warming up the skin once more. Her touch was tender. Almost sisterly.

Then, she reached for the brush and shaving cream again.

She didn’t announce it. She just began, quietly and calmly, lathering the cream onto Sana’s face—cheeks, jawline, above the lips, chin, every edge of her face, down to the neck where the cape opened. Her hands worked like whispers, never rushing, never pressing too hard.

Once the foam was just right, Hiba picked up the straight razor and began to shave Sana’s face with the same care she had used on her head. Each stroke was deliberate. Gentle. She moved in slow arcs, smoothing the skin with practiced precision. Sana didn’t flinch. She barely moved. Her face was like stone—not from fear, but from grief.

She’d lost more than just hair.

When the final strip was shaved and every trace of fuzz or facial hair had been cleared, Hiba reached once more for a warm towel and pressed it gently over Sana’s face. Holding it there for a moment, letting the heat soothe the rawness beneath.

She removed the towel, folded it, and set it aside.

“Sana,” she said gently, “Are you ready to have a look?”

Sana opened her eyes, unfocused at first, then slowly nodded. Not because she cared what she looked like now—but because it seemed like the right thing to do. She tilted her head toward the mirror as it was revealed.

She stared for a long moment. Her skin, now smooth and glowing, flawless from brow to chin. Her head, bare and freshly shaven, soft and perfect in its bareness. It didn’t look ugly. It didn’t look wrong. It just didn’t look like her.

She gave a faint nod. “Okay,” she whispered. Nothing more.

Hiba stepped back and began unfastening the cape, slowly peeling it away from her like it was something sacred. Then the towel around her shoulders. As the layers were removed, Sana sat there, small and quiet in the chair, still cloaked in a silence far heavier than fabric.

Just then, Noreen approached, her expression measured, voice tender.

“Sana, listen… I’ve spoken to a specialist,” she said. “They’ll be here tomorrow to custom-make your wig. It’ll be seamless. Real hair. You’ll be able to wear it comfortably, even with a scarf or niqab. No one will be able to tell. I promise.”

Sana didn’t respond. She simply looked at the floor.

The housemaid arrived with Sana’s abaya, hijab, and niqab. Sana took them silently, draping herself piece by piece in familiar layers. Her hands moved automatically, as if on instinct—covering the very identity that had just been peeled away inside.

She stood up slowly. Noreen tried to walk with her, gently saying, “Let me drop you home, please—just this once.”

But Sana shook her head, eyes still averted. She didn’t say a word. Just walked away.

Out of the salon.
Into the evening.
Alone.

The warm, quiet breeze brushed against her freshly shaved scalp, still sensitive and tingling beneath the fabric. The air touched her like a stranger. Everything felt different now.

As she walked the dim streets back toward home, the world felt quieter—every sound muffled, every breath heavier.

She thought of her husband. How she had come here so full of excitement. Wanting to look her most beautiful. Her fingers had trembled with joy when she stepped into the salon that morning, imagining the surprise on his face, the spark in his eyes.

But now?

How would she face him like this?

How could she stand in front of him, pull down her niqab, and show him a bare scalp?

Would he be disgusted? Would he pity her? Would he still love her the same?

The weight of that question clung to her heavier than her scarf. And she walked on…
Not sure whether the wind was drying her eyes—or if she had just run out of tears to cry.