BarberBrad
For six months, Liz had been growing out her hair, a rare stretch of patience for someone who’d spent the last year bouncing between buzzcuts and flattops. Her sister, Emily, was getting married in late August, and Liz had promised to show up with something “elegant”—which, in Emily’s world, meant long enough for an updo, not a stubbly scalp. So, Liz let her dark waves creep past her shoulders, inch by inch, until they brushed her collarbone in a soft, unfamiliar cascade. It was the longest her hair had been in years, and she hated admitting it, but part of her liked the change—the way it swished when she moved, the way it softened her sharp edges. Still, she couldn’t let go of her old thrill entirely. Hidden beneath the growing length, she kept a small undercut at the nape of her neck, a secret patch of buzzed hair she’d sneakily maintained with kitchen scissors. Every time she ran her fingers over it, she’d smile—her little rebellion against the wedding mandate.
But summer hit hard that year, the kind of sticky, relentless heat that made her long hair feel like a wool blanket draped over her head. By mid-July, Liz was over it—sweaty strands clung to her neck, and the humidity turned her waves into a frizzy mess. She’d catch herself rubbing that undercut more often, craving the cool, prickly relief of a fresh buzz. One sweltering Saturday, she flopped onto the couch next to Brad, fanning herself with a takeout menu. He was sprawled out, shirtless, playing some game on his phone, the window AC wheezing in the background.
“Babe,” Liz said, tugging her hair into a sloppy bun to expose her neck, “this heat’s killing me. Can you trim my undercut a little shorter? It’s getting shaggy, and I need some air back there. Just keep it small—I’ve gotta keep the rest long for Em’s wedding.”
Brad set his phone down, raising an eyebrow. He’d been with Liz long enough to know her tricks—the “accidental” cough that led to her first buzzcut, the way she’d roped Sophie into shaving her head, the late-night flattop fiasco. He smirked, leaning closer to inspect the fuzzy patch at her nape. “Trim it shorter, huh? You sure that’s all you want?”
“Yeah,” Liz said, too quick, avoiding his eyes. “Just a little. You know, tidy it up. Wedding’s in a month, and I can’t mess this up for Em.” But her voice had that edge, that barely-contained itch she got when she was scheming.
Brad grabbed the clippers from the bathroom, the same trusty pair that had seen them through every hair adventure. Liz sat on a kitchen stool, pulling her hair up to reveal the undercut. The buzz of the clippers kicked on, and she closed her eyes, savoring the familiar vibration as he ran them over the nape of her neck. The first pass felt like a cold drink on a hot day—sharp and refreshing. She sighed, louder than she meant to. “Mmm, that’s perfect. Maybe a tiny bit shorter?”
Brad paused, the clippers humming in his hand. He knew that sigh. He’d heard it before—every time she’d “accidentally” pushed a trim into something bigger. “Liz,” he said, his tone teasing, “you don’t want it shorter. You want it all gone. Admit it.”
Her eyes snapped open, and she twisted to glare at him, cheeks flushing. “No! I told you, just the undercut. I’ve been growing this out for six months—I’m not ruining it now!”
“Uh-huh,” Brad said, grinning like he’d caught her red-handed. “Six months, and you’re still obsessed with that buzz feeling. You’ve been rubbing that spot all week. I know you, babe—you’re dying to shave it off. Wedding or not.”
Liz opened her mouth to argue, but the words stuck. He wasn’t wrong. She’d been daydreaming about it—how light her head would feel, how the summer heat would vanish with one sweep of the clippers. She crossed her arms, huffing. “Fine, maybe I miss it a little. But I can’t. Emily will kill me.”
Brad shrugged, twirling the clippers like a cowboy with a pistol. “Your call. But I’m not buying the ‘just a trim’ act. You want out of this heat, and I’m not gonna half-ass it.” Before she could protest, he flicked the clippers back on and ran them straight up the back of her head, past the undercut, carving a wide stripe through her precious six-month growth. Hair rained down in soft, dark clumps.
“Brad!” Liz shrieked, half-laughing, half-panicked as she slapped her hands over her head. “What the hell? I said trim!”
“Too late now,” he said, already buzzing the sides with ruthless precision. “You’ll thank me in ten minutes.” He worked fast, the clippers stripping away her waves until her scalp was a uniform stubble. Liz squirmed, torn between outrage and a giddy rush she couldn’t suppress. When he switched off the clippers, she bolted to the bathroom mirror, Brad trailing behind with a smug grin.
Her reflection stared back—bald, bold, and buzzing with energy. The long hair was gone, replaced by a smooth, #1 fuzz that gleamed under the light. She ran her hands over it, slow at first, then faster, a laugh bubbling up as the coolness hit her palms. “Oh my God,” she said, turning to Brad. “I hate you… but I love this so much.”
“Told you,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “You were never gonna last ‘til the wedding. Heat or no heat.”
Liz couldn’t stop touching it—the prickly softness, the weightlessness. Every pass of her fingers sent a shiver down her spine. “It feels so good,” she admitted, grinning like a kid. “Screw the heat, this is worth it. Emily’s just gonna have to deal.”
That night, she lounged on the couch, still rubbing her head, reveling in every second of it. Brad tossed her a cold beer, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless, Buzzcut Bandit. What’s the plan for the wedding now?”
Liz shrugged, popping the cap. “Wig? Hat? Or maybe I’ll just rock it and tell Em it’s avant-garde. She’ll get over it.” She leaned back, fingers tracing her scalp, already plotting how to spin this to her sister. But deep down, she didn’t care—she’d missed this feeling too much to regret a thing. And with Brad smirking beside her, she knew he’d seen it coming all along.
