Liz`s Vacation Haircut

Liz and Brad had been counting down the days to their beach vacation—a rare week away from the grind of work and the sticky summer heat of their cramped apartment. They’d rented a little bungalow a few blocks from the shore, packed their beat-up hatchback with sunscreen and cheap beer, and hit the road for a coastal town known for its laid-back vibes and endless boardwalk. Liz had been buzzing with excitement, not just for the waves or the salty air, but for a secret mission she’d been plotting: a fresh, short haircut. Her hair had grown out again—past her shoulders, thick and wavy from months of neglect—and she was itching to feel the clippers on her scalp. She’d promised herself she’d find a local barbershop the minute they arrived, imagining the cool relief of a buzz to match the ocean breeze.

The first morning, after dumping their bags and cracking open a couple of beers, Liz dragged Brad into town. “I need a haircut,” she declared, her eyes scanning the sleepy streets. “Something short—real short. It’s too hot for this mess.” Her hair was already sticking to her neck, and she kept rubbing the spot where her old undercut used to be, craving that familiar prickle.

Brad grinned, sipping his beer as they wandered. “You and your haircuts. I’m not carrying you back if you pass out from excitement.” He knew her history—how she’d turned trims into full-on shaves, how she lit up every time she went short. He was along for the ride, as always.

They found a barbershop a block from the beach—a weathered shack with a faded sign that read “Sal’s Cuts.” Inside, it smelled like sea salt and pomade, and an old guy with a comb-over waved them in. Liz plopped into the chair, her voice firm. “Short as you can go. Buzz it all off—tight and clean.”

Sal nodded, grabbing his clippers, but when he started, Liz’s heart sank. He used a #3 guard—leaving a quarter-inch of fuzz—and stopped there, brushing her off with a gruff, “That’s short enough, kid.” She ran her hands over it, frowning. It was shorter, sure, but not short—not the bare, electric feel she craved. She paid the $15, muttering a thanks, but as they left, she nudged Brad. “That was weak. I wanted it gone, not just trimmed.”

Brad laughed, slinging an arm around her. “You’re insatiable. Let’s hit the beach—maybe the salt water’ll make it feel shorter.”

They spent the day swimming and sprawling on the sand, Liz’s half-hearted buzz drying into salty spikes. She tried to enjoy it, but her fingers kept drifting to her head, disappointed. By evening, the itch was unbearable—she needed the real deal. After dinner, they decided to stroll the boardwalk, a neon-lit stretch of arcades, fried food stands, and sunburned tourists. The air was warm, the sky streaked with pink, and Liz was about to give up her quest when she spotted it: a pop-up street barbershop. Just a folding chair, a battery-powered clipper setup, and a wiry guy with a shaved head of his own, offering cuts under a string of fairy lights. A handwritten sign read, “FLATTOPS $10—SHORTEST IN TOWN.”

Liz stopped dead, grabbing Brad’s arm. “That’s it. That’s my guy.” Before Brad could protest, she marched over and sat down, her eyes gleaming. “Flattop,” she said. “Shortest and flattest you’ve got. Don’t hold back.”

The barber—Joey, he said—grinned like he’d been waiting for her. “You got it, lady. This’ll be the flattest flattop you’ve ever seen.” He didn’t mess around—clippers on, no guard, buzzing the sides and back to bare skin. Liz shivered as the cool metal grazed her scalp, hair falling in soft piles around her feet. Joey worked with precision, sculpting the top into a razor-sharp plane, so flat she could’ve balanced a dime on it. He even shaved the edges clean, leaving her head a stark, geometric masterpiece—shorter than she’d ever gone, shorter than Gus’s wildest cuts.

When he handed her a cracked hand mirror, Liz’s jaw dropped. Her scalp was smooth as glass on the sides, the top a perfect, bristly shelf. She ran her hands over it—up the buzzed sides, across the flat crown—and a laugh burst out. “Holy shit, this is it! This is what I wanted!” She couldn’t stop rubbing it, the texture electric under her fingers, cool and raw and alive.

Brad stepped closer, running his hand over it too, his grin widening. “Damn, Liz. You look like a punk rock goddess. Told you you’d find it.”

Joey smirked, pocketing her ten bucks. “Best flattop on the boardwalk. Enjoy it.”

They wandered back to the bungalow, Liz still touching her head every few steps, buzzing with energy. The night air felt sharper against her scalp, the ocean’s hum louder without hair to muffle it. By the time they stumbled through the door, she was practically vibrating—half from the haircut, half from the way Brad kept stealing glances at her, his eyes dark with that look she knew well.

Inside, the tension snapped. Liz grabbed his shirt, pulling him close, her hands still roaming her own head as she kissed him hard. “You like it?” she murmured, breathless, already knowing the answer.

“Love it,” Brad growled, his fingers tracing her flattop as he backed her toward the bed. They tumbled onto the creaky mattress, a tangle of sunburned skin and salt-streaked clothes, making love with the windows open and the waves crashing outside. Liz kept one hand on her head the whole time, rubbing the buzz, the sensation amplifying everything—her origin story reborn in the shortest, flattest cut she’d ever had.

After, they lay sprawled in the dark, her head on his chest, still stroking her scalp. “Worth the wait?” Brad asked, voice lazy.

“Every second,” Liz said, grinning into the night. She’d found her fix, and with Brad beside her, the beach vacation was already unforgettable.