Tony
Whitney had always been an inquisitive girl of eighteen, with a spirit that yearned for adventure and a mind that craved the peculiar. This sweltering Summer day was no exception. She wandered onto Main Street of Washington, the heat radiating from the pavement in waves, seeking refuge in any shady spot she could find. Her eyes fell upon an old, red-brick building with a sign that read “The Dominating Clippers.” The barbershop looked like it’d be a good place to go and get out of the heat.
As she pushed open the door, the cool air inside washed over her, bringing immediate relief. The scent of stale aftershave and talcum powder greeted her nostrils, a smell that was strangely comforting in its familiarity. The barbershop was small, with just three chairs and a line of men, all in matching cadet fatigues, waiting patiently. They were sweating, too, but the air conditioning inside made their discomfort slightly more bearable. The walls were adorned with vintage military posters and faded photographs of past patrons.
Whitney took a seat in the last chair in the row, her eyes wide with curiosity. Each man had the same expression of resignation as they watched the barber, Logan, work. Logan was a stern-looking man in his late twenties, with unruly brown hair and a starched white shirt and starched black pants. His movements were precise and practiced as he wielded his clippers, stripping away the hair of his customer with a cold efficiency. She watched the young man emerged from the chair, his head a uniform length of stubble.
As another young man got up took his place in the barber chair, Whitney noticed they ones in the waiting area would move down a seat, the first chair symbolizing who was next.
Whitney’s curiosity grew with each buzz of the clippers. The rhythmic sound was almost hypnotizing as Logan worked his way through the line. Each man that came out of the chair had a look of relief mixed with something else, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was almost as if they had been initiated into some sort of secret club, one that required a very specific kind of haircut.
The room was eerily quiet except for the occasional cough or murmur, the sound of the clippers the only constant. The air was thick with tension and the occasional whisper of the electric fan. She observed the men’s reactions as they sat down, the way their shoulders relaxed or tightened as the cold metal met their scalps. Some looked in the mirror, a silent nod to Logan as if to say ‘yes, this is what I want’. Others stared straight ahead, their faces stoic, as if bracing for something unpleasant but necessary.
The line grew shorter and the room grew warmer as more men emerged from the chair, their heads now shorn, and their uniforms sticking to their damp bodies. Each one walked over to the bus parked outside, and Whitney’s curiosity grew into a burning question. She leaned forward, watching the procession with a furrowed brow. What was happening here? Was this some sort of bizarre military ritual? Or perhaps a local gang initiation?
Her eyes scanned the room, looking for clues, when they landed on a small, laminated sign next to the cash register. It read: “Welcome to The Dominating Clippers. Today is Induction Day for all new cadets!”
The realization dawned on her. This wasn’t just a random group of men getting haircuts. They were military cadets, getting ready to start their training, and they were all receiving the same short, utilitarian cut. The air of tension was not fear, but anticipation of a significant change, a symbolic shedding of their civilian lives.
Whitney watched as the line infront of got down to two, one in the chair and one in the waiting area. As she was watching the young man lose his hair, four more young men in cadet fatigues came in and sat down in the chairs behind her.
“Next!” Logan called out, and the last man in the original line stepped up. His eyes had a mix of excitement and nerves in them. He sat down, and was caped quickly, before Logan mowed the clippers down the middle of his head, like he did the last.
Whitney told his previous spot at the first chair and watched as the young man joined the others before him with a Induction haircut of his own.
Her heart raced as she thought about the implications of this place. She’d stumbled into a private moment, a sacred rite of passage for these young men. A part of her felt like she should leave, but another part was glued to her seat, fascinated by the transformation happening before her eyes.
Four more cadets came into the shop and sat down in the chairs after her. She smiled kindly to them, though they didn’t respond.
Whitney was about to ask a question to the one next to her, when she heard the clippers turn off, the rustling of the cape being removed, and the young man in the chair getting up and heading out of the shop, before the unmistakable. “Next!”
Her eyes widened as she realized she was the next in line. She looked around the room, her heart pounding in her chest. The men in line behind her remained stoic, not seeming to notice her hesitation.
Logan looked at her sternly. “Come on miss, I don’t have a day!” He ordered to her.
Whitney swallowed hard, feeling the heat of the day press down on her. She had no intention of getting a haircut, but the situation had spiraled in a way she couldn’t have anticipated. She stood up, her legs wobbly, and took the steps toward the chair. The barber’s eyes met hers, as he turned the chair to face her.
Whitney sank into the chair awkwardly. She had only came in to escape the heat, and now she was sitting in the same barber chair as all those men before her. “Umm can I get a trim?” She asked nervously.
Logan turned the chair back to the mirror, and she saw the smirk on his face as he said, “didn’t you read the sign outside, miss? Today’s Induction Day.”
Her stomach dropped. She hadn’t read the sign; she had just walked in, seeking refuge from the heat. “But, I’m not a cadet,” she protested weakly, her voice cracking.
“Everyone who enters gets an Induction haircut today. Doesn’t matter if your enlisted or not.” He told her throwing the cape over her and securing it snugly around her neck. He picked up his clippers and they came to life with a flick of there switch.
He ran a hand through her dark brown curls, feeling their silky and thickness, and he smirk grew. “Well you’ll be cooler after this for sure.” He told her laughing.
Whitney felt a cold sweat break out on her forehead. This was not what she had in mind when she wandered in.
“But, I’m just here to get out of the heat,” she protested again, trying to stand up from the chair.
“I’m sorry miss,” said Logan firmly, his hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down into the chair. “But you entered the shop on Induction Day, you acknowledged that you understood, if only unwittingly, that you was prepared to get one yourself as you moved seats within the line.”
Whitney’s heart sank as she felt the firm grip of his hand on her shoulder. She had been so caught up in her curiosity that she had missed the subtle cues. She looked around the room for help, but the other men remained silent, their eyes either on her or the ground. They seemed to be waiting for the same fate.
With a tremble in her voice, she tried to protest once more, “Please, I just need a trim. I don’t want a buzzcut.”
Logan’s smirk grew. “No exceptions today,” he said, and then turned her to the mirror to meet her eyes. “Besides, a trim won’t get you out of the heat like a proper Induction cut.” He raised the clippers and Whitney felt a cold touch of the metal on her forehead.
Logan made a pass down the middle of her head, dark brown curls fell from her head as the clippers made their way from her forehead to crown and left a wide path of stubble behind.
Whitney’s eyes grew wide with shock and fear as she watched her hair fall to the floor. She had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. She reached up to touch the path, the stubble was rough against her fingertips.
Logan pushed her hand down and made another pass over the top of her head next to the first one. More of her curls fell, and Logan could be seen smirking at them falling. He made a few more passes, reducing the top of her head to a uniform stubble, before moving to the sides.
Whitney felt the cold steel of the clippers against her right ear, and she flinched, a silent tear rolling down her cheek. She had always loved her hair; it was her crowning glory, a symbol of her youth and freedom. Now, it was being stripped away from her, pass by pass of the clippers, and she could do nothing but watch in horror.
The men In the waiting area remained stoic, their eyes focused on their phones or the floor. No one offered her a comforting word or a reassuring smile. They seemed to be lost in their own thoughts, preparing for the same fate that was currently befalling her.
Whitney’s breathing grew shallower with each pass of the clippers. The reality of her situation was setting in, and she felt a wave of panic wash over her. This wasn’t a game; she was really getting the same haircut as these cadets. Her heart raced, beating like it wanted to come out of her chest, as her head was forced forwards and the clippers ran up the back of her head, where the last of her long curls resided.
The sound of the clippers was deafening, echoing in the barbershop as they cut through her thick hair. Each pass seemed to be a declaration of her newfound vulnerability, a stark contrast to the confidence she had felt moments ago. She felt the hairs fall away in clumps, and she squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to watch the destruction of what had once been a source of pride.
Whitney’s thoughts raced as the clippers ran up the back of her head. She was trapped in this chair, unable to escape the cold, unforgiving metal that was redefining her. Her heart felt like it was in her throat, and she swallowed hard, trying to push back the tears that threatened to spill over.
The vibrations grew to a close as the last of her curls were buzzed away. She felt a sudden urge to scream for happiness that it was over. But the clippers had done their job, and her once luscious curls was now a mere memory scattered across the floor.
Logan stepped back, and she looked in the mirror. The reflection staring back was almost unrecognizable. Her head was shorn to a uniform buzzcut, not a single curl to be seen. Her face was flushed and eyes red, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or the shock.
The room was silent, the only sound the faint whir of the electric fan and the distant hum of traffic outside. The men in line hadn’t moved, their gazes still averted. It was as if they were paying respect to the gravity of the moment, the transformation she had undergone.
Whitney’s eyes remained glued to her reflection, her heart hammering in her chest. She reached up tentatively to feel the stubble that now covered her scalp. The sensation was foreign and unsettling, but there was also a strange sense of relief. The heat that had been oppressing her outside was now a distant memory, replaced by the coolness of the clipped hair.
Whitney looked down at her hair, now a pile of dark brown curls on the floor around her. The shock was starting to wear off, and she felt a strange mix of emotions. Anger at being forced into this situation, fear of the unknown, and a strange, almost liberating sense of freedom from the burden of her long hair in this heat.
Logan leaned in, his face just a few inches from hers, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re looking pretty sharp, cadet,” he whispered, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You’ll get used to it.” “Next!” He added, telling her it was time to go.
Whitney stood up on shaky legs, the cape falling away to reveal the full extent of her new look, which showed a girl with a uniform buzzcut haircut wearing a sweat-soaked pink tank top that cling to her body and white booty shorts. She felt naked, exposed, and the air conditioning in the shop was suddenly much too cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to regain some semblance of dignity as she made her way to the door.
The men in the line remained silent, not even looking up to acknowledge her departure. They were too lost in their own thoughts, anticipating their own turn in the chair. As she stepped outside, the heat slapped her In the face like a wet towel. The sun seemed to shine brighter now, reflecting off her stubble head. The world looked different without the curtain of hair to frame her vision.
Whitney walked away from the shop, her head feeling lighter with every step. The buzzing from the clippers still echoed in her ears, and she could feel the eyes of passersby on her. They took in her new look, some with curiosity, others with a hint of pity. She tried to ignore them, focusing instead on the sensation of the breeze kissing her bare scalp. It was a strange sensation, but not entirely unpleasant.
Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and anger. How could this have happened? She’d only wanted a break from the heat. But as she walked, she began to feel a strange sense of belonging. The line of cadets, the Induction, the clippers—it was all so intense, so real. And she had been a part of it, even if it was against her will.
Whitney’s eyes darted to the bus that the other men had boarded. It was a stark reminder that she was out of place here, a girl with a man’s haircut. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had crossed some invisible threshold. The clippers had not just removed her hair; they had also stripped away a layer of her Innocence, leaving behind something raw and untouched.
The heat of the sun was almost a balm to her shaved head, the warmth seeping into her skin, a stark contrast to the coldness of the clippers. She felt a strange thrill at the sensation, a mix of fear and excitement that she had never felt before. Her heart was still racing, but now it was not just from panic—it was from the adrenaline of surviving a situation that was so far outside her comfort zone.
Whitney walked aimlessly down the sidewalk, her eyes on the pavement as she tried to process what had just happened. Her mind replayed the moments in the barbershop, the feel of the cold metal on her skin, the sound of the clippers, the smell of the stale aftershave. It was as if she had stumbled into a world she had never known existed, a place of clippers and submission.
The heat was less oppressive now, her buzzed head allowing the breeze to flow freely over her scalp. She felt a strange lightness, as if a heavy weight had been lifted. The hair that had once been a source of pride was now a distant memory, and she couldn’t help but feel a sense of liberation. But she was also aware of the stares she was receiving, the whispers that trailed behind her as people passed by.
She had been lost in her thoughts so long, she didn’t hear someone yelling her name until someone grab her shoulder and turned her to face them, revealing it was her best friend Sarah.
“Whitney! Oh my god, what happened to your hair?” Sarah’s eyes were as wide as saucers, her mouth gaping open in shock.
Whitney looked at her, the reality of her new haircut hitting her once again. “It’s… it’s a long story,” she mumbled, feeling the stubble on her head with trembling fingers.
Sarah’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god, are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.
Whitney nodded, still in a daze. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just got a little… haircut.” She managed a weak smile, trying to play it cool, but her voice wavered.
Sarah’s eyes searched hers, looking for the truth. “Come on, let’s go get some ice cream,” she suggested gently, guiding Whitney towards a nearby parlor. Inside, the cold air washed over them, a welcome change from the oppressive heat outside, for Sarah, who’s thick black hair fell straight to her thighs. They found a table in the back, and Whitney finally broke down, recounting her surreal experience at The Dominating Clippers.
As the cool mint of the ice cream touched her tongue, she felt a bit of the weight lift off her shoulders. Sarah listened, wide-eyed, her shock slowly morphing into fascination. “It’s like you’ve been through something… intense,” she said, her voice a mix of amazement and sympathy.
Whitney took a deep breath, the coolness of the mint chocolate chip ice cream soothing her frazzled nerves. “Intense is one word for it,” she murmured, taking another spoonful. “But it’s more than just a haircut, you know? It’s like… a rite of passage. For those cadets, it’s their first step into a new life, a declaration of their commitment.”
Sarah nodded, her gaze lingering on the shaved stubble that stood out starkly against Whitney’s pale skin. “But for you, it was forced. That’s not fair,” she said, her voice filled with indignation.
Whitney sighed, her spoon clinking against the emptying bowl. “I know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s done now. And… I don’t know, maybe there’s something to it.”
Sarah looked at her skeptically. “What do you mean?”
Whitney shrugged. “I mean, it’s like… it’s a fresh start, you know? A clean slate. And I’ve always been the girl with the long hair, the one who everyone expected to be all sweet and innocent. Maybe this is my way of showing everyone that there’s more to me than that. That I can be tough and strong .”
Sarah’s eyes searched hers. “But you don’t have to prove anything to anyone, Whit. You’re already awesome.”
Whitney managed a smile, feeling the first stirrings of a newfound resolve. “Thanks,” she said, taking a deep breath. “But maybe this is my way of proving it to myself.”
The two friends sat in companionable silence, the only sound the clinking of spoons against the emptying bowls. The cold sweetness of the ice cream helped to soothe the ache in Whitney’s heart, and she felt a strange sense of camaraderie with the young men she had shared this experience with.
After their ice cream was done. Whitney decided to head home and wash off the day’s sweat and lose hair. Sarah hugged her by and headed off the opposite direction as Whitney, going toward The Dominating Clippers.
Whitney walked home with a mix of emotions: anger, shock, and a strange sense of liberation. She knew she’d have to face her parents, who were likely going to be livid about her hair. But she also felt a kind of rebellious pride. She’d survived something that none of her schoolmates could ever imagine.
The coolness of her shaved head was a constant reminder of her ordeal, but with each step, she grew more accustomed to the sensation. The air conditioning in her house was a relief from the outside heat, and she quickly showered, feeling the water wash away the last remnants of hair from her body.
As she stepped out of the shower, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her reflection was stark and almost alien—the girl with the buzzcut. The shock of her new look had worn off, and in its place was a simmering anger. She had been violated, her personal boundaries crossed in the most public and humiliating way.
But as she towel-dried her scalp, she felt something else. A strange thrill, a hint of excitement. The sensation of the soft towel on her bare skin was oddly comforting, and she found herself running her hand over her head again and again, feeling the stubble. It was as if she had shed a layer of herself along with her hair, and what remained was raw, untouched, and new.
Her thoughts turned to the cadets she’d seen earlier, and she wondered if they felt the same way she did. If their induction haircuts were more than just a uniform requirement, if it was also a symbol of strength and unity. A part of her envied them that camaraderie, that shared experience of transformation together, while she was alone, or so she thought at the time.
-character switch-
Sarah stormed into The Dominating Clippers right as Logan finished the last of the cadets for the day. He looked at her through the mirror, and noticed the long thick mane of black hair. “What can I do for you miss?” He asked calmly.
“What the hell did you do to Whitney?” She demanded, her voice echoing with anger.
“Who?”
Logan’s question hung in the air, taunting Sarah, but she wasn’t about to back down. “The girl who was just in here, with the dark brown curls down to her waist,” she spat. “Don’t play dumb with me.”
Logan’s smirk grew as he turned to face her. “Ah, the little tourist,” he said, his tone mocking. “She got what she waited for.”
Sarah’s anger grew, her hands balling into fists. “You had no right to do that to her,” she said through clenched teeth. “She didn’t know it was Induction Day.”
“There’s a sign out front that says it in big bold letters. Did you miss it too as you stormed in here?” He asked watching the last cadet leave, before his eyes flicked to her and her hair.
“That’s not the point!” Sarah exclaimed, her voice echoing in the now empty barbershop. “You can’t just do that to someone, especially without their consent!”
“One, the board is says that all who enter, willingly, give their permission to receive an Induction haircut today as part of the Induction day.” He replied to her with a bored tone.
“But she didn’t know!”
“And that’s on her miss. She could have taken the time to read the sign outside before coming in and waiting with the cadets who were here for their Induction haircuts. She made her choice and now she’s got to deal with it.” Logan told her while walking up to her calmly and slowly.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not fair!”
“Life’s not fair at times.” He retorted, as he laid a hand on her shoulder gently. “I know you’re worried about your friend and want what’s right for her.” He told her gently leading her to the barber chair. “But like I said she unwittingly came in, waited, and received an Induction haircut of her own choice.” He added, pushing her into the chair and retrieving his cape, before throwing it over her and fastening it snugly around her neck, after throwing her thigh length hair over one of her shoulders to get it out of the way.
“What are you doing?” She yelped, her eyes wide with fear.
Logan smiled and turned her to face the mirror. “Oh I figured while we were talking, I’d give you a little trim.” He answered her innocently.
Sarah’s eyes widened in horror as she felt the cape being secured around her neck, her heart racing. “What? No!” She struggled to get out of the chair, her long hair cascading down her back.
Logan gripped her shoulders and pushed her back down into the chair easily. “Now do behave like a lady you are and not a child to be punished.”
Sarah felt a shiver run down her spine. “Let me go,” she said firmly, trying to keep the fear out of her voice.
Logan leaned in closer, his breath hot against her ear. “You know, I’ve always had a soft spot for women with spirit,” he murmured, his eyes on her reflection in the mirror. “But sometimes, a spirit needs to be tamed.”
Sarah’s eyes searched the room for an escape, but the barbershop was empty except for the two of them. The door was too far, and she knew she wouldn’t make it before he could stop her. Her heart raced as she watched him pick up a pair of clippers off the hook.
He moved behind her and grasping the top of her head tightly, he pushed her head forwards while turning on the clippers. “This are special clippers. I realize now they are needed for a special woman like you.” He told her, parting her hair in the back and running the clippers up the back of her head and over her crown, leaving pale bald skin behind as her long black tresses fell to the floor.
Sarah’s screams of protests were muffled by the cape and her own hair, which she hadn’t realized had fallen over her face. She could feel the cold steel of the clippers against her skin, the vibrations sending shockwaves down her spine.
Whitney had warned her, but she hadn’t believed it. Now, she was experiencing it firsthand. The sound of the clippers was deafening, the buzzing filling the empty barbershop like an angry swarm of bees. She felt the hair fall away from her head, each pass a little victory for the barber, a little piece of her dignity lost to the floor.
Logan made another pass up the back of her head, revealing more of her pale bare skin to the world as more of her tresses where buzzed away. He decided to go slow with her haircut, not having to rush cause of other customers, and was enjoying, watching her hair fall from the back and crown of her head, leaving her bald there.
Sarah’s eyes were wide with panic as she felt the weight of her hair lighten, the clippers’ cold embrace inescapable. She couldn’t believe this was happening to her. But even as the fear and anger raged within her, she couldn’t deny the strange, exhilarating rush that accompanied each pass of the clippers.
A few more passes and the black tresses were no more on the back and crown of her head. Only a pale baldness remained there. He tilted her head to the right and held a good handful of her black tresses in his hand from the left side of her head, before running the clippers up the side of her head and removing the hair he was holding. He dropped the handful of her infront of her eyes, smiling at her wide eyes and gasp.
Sarah felt the tears stream down her face, mixing with the sweat from the heat outside. “Please,” she begged, her voice muffled by the cape and her own hair. “Please stop.” But Logan’s grip was unyielding, and the clippers continued their relentless march up the side of her head.
He chuckled darkly, his eyes never leaving her reflection in the mirror. “You know, this is what happens when you meddle in things you don’t understand,” he whispered, sending chills down her spine. He rounded her left ear and finished the left side by taking the hair infront of her ear and sideburn.
He tilted her head to the left and tackled the right side with the same speed as the rest he done so far.
Sarah’s sobs grew louder, the reality of her situation setting in as her once-beautiful hair lay in a tangled mess around her. But the clippers didn’t stop, their relentless buzzing a grim reminder of the power dynamics at play.
Logan enjoyed her despair and tears. He dropped more hair infront of her eyes as he round her right ear and removed the rest from the side.
Finally at the last part, Logan grabbed a thin, flat comb and slid it into her hair at her forehead. The comb was only 1/8 of a inch thick, which meant her hair would be that length when he was done with the top of her head. He made sure she was watching as he ran the clippers over the comb, cutting all the hair above the comb down to a 1/8 of a inch long. He repeated this process all the way back to her bald crown and repeated it until all the hair on top of her head was a uniform level, flat 1/8th inch.
The tears streaming down Sarah’s cheeks were not from pain, but from the sheer violation of her body and her identity. The clippers had taken more than just her hair; they had stripped her of her sense of self. She felt naked, exposed, and utterly powerless in the face of this man’s will.
Logan stepped back, admiring his handiwork. “Ah, much better,” he murmured, his eyes raking over her shaved sides and the stark contrast of the short, stubby hair on top. “You’re looking like a real little marine now.”
Sarah’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, but she glared at him through the mess of hair that still covered her face. “You’re sick,” she spat.
Logan chuckled, unfazed by her words. He took a step back and admired his work, nodding in satisfaction. “You know, you’re the second civilian girl to get a haircut on Induction Day. I decided to give you a high and tight flattop haircut instead of a Induction like your friend. Thought you need something special. “
Sarah felt the rage boiling in her chest, but she was too stunned to speak. The cold reality of her new haircut was setting in, and she couldn’t believe she had fallen for the same trap as Whitney. She looked down at the pile of her once-long, thick hair on the floor, and felt a part of herself die.
Logan removed the cape, throwing any hair that gathered in her lap to the floor with the rest, before admiring her in the mirror. This girl new haircut clashed with the short, flowery, femine summer dress horribly, but Logan didn’t care. He rubbed her new flattop and dusted the long strands off her face for her.
“You can thank me later,” he said with a wink. “But for now, I suggest you get used to your new look. After all, it’s not like you can hide it.”
Sarah stood, trembling, and stepped out of the chair. Her legs felt wobbly, but she forced herself to stand tall, not wanting to give Logan the satisfaction of seeing her break down completely. She reached up to touch her shorn head, the bristly stubble rough under her fingertips. It was a stark contrast to the soft, flowing hair she’d had just moments ago.
The barber smirked as he swept up the remnants of her hair, tossing it into the bin with a flourish. “Remember, miss, this was your choice,” he said, his voice taunting. “You chose to come in here on Induction day.”
Sarah stumbled out of the shop, her hand still hovering over her shorn head. The world spun around her, and she felt like everyone on the street could see her humiliation. She tried to pull her dress down to cover her legs, but it was no use. The dress was too short now, exposing the bare skin of her thighs.
Her mind raced, trying to understand what had just happened. How had she ended up in this situation? Her anger towards Logan was a raging inferno, but it was tinged with a sense of betrayal. How could she have been so naïve to think that she could change things? That she could somehow fix it for Whitney?
But as she walked away from the barbershop, Sarah felt something else stirring within her. It was a strange kind of empowerment, a rebellious fire that burned in the pit of her stomach. Despite the horror of what had just transpired, she couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of kinship with Whitney.
The shock of her new haircut had not fully worn off, and she found herself running her fingers over the bristly stubble again and again, feeling the cool breeze on her scalp. It was as if she had been initiated into a secret club, a club of civilians with military haircuts.
As she walked home, the reality of her situation sank in. She would have to face her parents, explain her new look, and deal with the whispers and stares around town. But a part of her felt a strange exhilaration, a sense of rebellion she had never experienced before.
When she got home and explained her decision, as she had come to realize it was, to get her hair cut like it was, she went to her room and called Whitney.
The phone rang a few times before Whitney picked up, her voice sounding shaky. “W…Whitney?” Sarah asked nervously.
“S…Sarah?” Whitney responded, her voice filled with a mix of shock and concern. “What happened?”
Sarah took a deep, trembling breath, her hand still resting on her newly shaved scalp. “I went to The Dominating Clippers,” she whispered. “To confront that barber, Logan. But he… he did it to me too.”
Whitney was silent on the other end of the line, and for a moment, Sarah wondered if she had misunderstood. But then she heard a gasp. “You got a buzzcut?”
“No, not exactly,” Sarah said, her voice shaking. “It’s…he called it a high and tight flattop. Like the back, sides and crown of my head is bald, while the top is about a 1/8th inch long. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen on a girl before.”
Whitney was silent for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. “Oh my god, Sarah. Are you okay?”
Sarah’s voice wavered. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m…I’m just so confused. Angry. But also… I don’t know, a little bit excited?”
Whitney’s grip tightened around the phone. “Excited? What do you mean?”
Sarah took a deep breath, her voice shaking slightly. “I don’t know. It’s like… we’re in this together now. We’re both part of something we didn’t sign up for, but we can’t take it back. And it’s weird, but I kind of feel… alive,” she whispered.
Whitney was silent for a moment before she spoke. “I know what you mean,” she said slowly. “It’s like we’ve been through a battle, and we’re both scarred. But it’s our secret battle, our secret victory.”
Sarah felt a strange sense of comfort in her friend’s words. “Yeah,” she murmured, running her hand over her head again. “It’s weird, but I think I get it now. We’re not just two girls who got their hair cut short. We’re warriors.”
