ShreyF
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The sun was beginning to dip below the tree line of the Viridian Forest, casting long, stretching shadows across the path. It was that ambiguous time of day when shapes became indistinct, which was perhaps the only reason Ash Ketchum didn’t immediately recognize the trio blocking the road until he walked right into them.
“Oof! Watch where you’re—Ash? Twerps?!”
The voice was familiar, shrill, and dripping with disdain. Ash rubbed his nose, stepping back. “Team Rocket? What are you guys doing here? Planning to steal Pikachu again?”
“We were having a lovely evening stroll until you ruined the ambiance,” James sniffed, dusting off his white uniform.
“Yeah,” Meowth added, stepping out from behind James’s leg. “Can’t a villain get a little peace and quiet?”
It was then that Misty, standing slightly behind Ash, noticed the third member of the group. Or rather, she noticed the silhouette. It was wrong. Usually, Jessie’s silhouette was defined by that impossible, sweeping curve of magenta hair that defied gravity and logic in equal measure. But today, the silhouette was… square.
“Is that… Jessie?” Serena whispered, clutching her Fennekin.
Jessie stepped forward into the last shaft of sunlight. The shock was immediate and visceral. Gone was the comet-tail of hair. In its place sat a hairstyle so severe. It was a flat top. A pristine, military-grade, pink flat top that stood three inches high off her skull, the sides buzzed down to the pale skin.
There was a beat of silence—a heavy, pregnant pause where the wind rustled the leaves and a distant Pidgey called out.
Then, the dam broke.
“PFFT—” Ash clamped a hand over his mouth, his cheeks puffing out.
Misty wasn’t so polite. She let out a snort that escalated instantly into a full-blown, doubled-over cackle. “Oh my gosh! Jessie! What happened?!” she wheezed, pointing a trembling finger at the Team Rocket executive. “Did you… did you lose a fight with a lawnmower?!”
Ash fell to his knees, slapping the ground. “It looks like a landing pad! Can I land Charizard on your head?”
Jessie’s face turned a shade of red that clashed violently with her pink buzzcut. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, shaking with a tremor of pure, unadulterated rage. “It is couture!” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “It is high fashion! It is aerodynamic! You tasteless brats wouldn’t know style if it bit you on the nose!”
“Style?” Misty wiped a tear from her eye, straightening up but still giggling. She flipped her own signature side-ponytail haughtily. “Jessie, that’s not style. That’s a tragedy. I’d rather go completely bald than be caught dead looking like a toothbrush.”
The insult landed with the precision of a Critical Hit. Jessie went rigid. Her eyes narrowed into slits of cold, calculating malice. The heat of her anger seemed to cool instantly into something sharper, harder.
Rather go bald, you say? Jessie thought, her gaze locking onto Misty’s orange ponytail. We’ll see about that.
“Come on, guys,” Jessie said, her voice dangerously calm. “We’re leaving. I refuse to cast pearls before Swinub.”
As the Meowth balloon ascended into the twilight, Jessie didn’t look down at the shrinking figures of the twerps. She stared at her reflection in a pocket mirror, running a gloved hand over the prickly, velvety bristles of her flat top.
“Meowth,” she said softly. “Find out where the brat is staying. And find out what her schedule is for tomorrow.”
The next morning, the air in Cerulean City was buzzing with excitement. Banners for the “Annual Princess Festival Tournament” fluttered from every lamppost. In her hotel room, Misty stood before the vanity mirror, frowning.
She pulled the yellow elastic tie from her hair, letting the short orange strands fall into their natural bob. It barely grazed her jawline. She shook her head, frustrated.
“It’s just so… practical,” she sighed, grabbing a handful of the short hair. “It’s Gym Leader hair. It’s ‘tomboy’ hair. Serena, look at the other contestants. They have these flowing curls, these elaborate updos. I look like I’m ready to clean a pool.”
Serena, who was brushing her Fennekin on the bed, looked up sympathetically. “I think your bob is cute, Misty! It suits your energy.”
“Cute doesn’t win the Princess Crown, Serena. Drama does.” Misty picked up a glossy flyer she’d found slid under the door earlier that morning. It was an ad for L’Elegant Salon, boasting “Royal Transformations for the Modern Princess.”
“I’m going to do it,” Misty decided, slamming the flyer down. “I booked an appointment for noon. I’m getting extensions. Waist-length. I want to look like a completely different person.”
Outside the window, perched in a thick oak tree with binoculars, Meowth grinned. “Bullseye. She’s goin’ to L’Elegant.”
Jessie lowered her own binoculars, a sinister grin stretching across her face. “Extensions, is it? She wants length? Oh, we’ll give her length. And then… we’ll take it all away.”
By the time Misty arrived at L’Elegant, the real staff was securely bound and gagged in the basement, and the “new management” had taken over.
Jessie stood behind the reception desk, unrecognizable in a chic blonde wig, oversized rhinestone glasses, and a stylist’s black apron. James was posing by the shampoo station in a beret and a fake mustache, looking every bit the pretentious artiste.
“Welcome, chérie!” Jessie cooed as Misty entered, the bell chiming above the door. “You must be the Misty! The one seeking the… royal treatment?”
“Yes!” Misty beamed, clutching her Togepi. “I want extensions. Long ones. The longest you have. I want to look elegant.”
“Say no more,” James—or ‘Jean-Luc,’ as his nametag read—swooped in, draping a silk cape over Misty’s shoulders. “We shall make you the envy of every Rapunzel in the region.”
The next two hours were a blur of indulgence. To Misty’s surprise, the stylists were incredible. Jessie worked with a focus Misty had never seen, weaving high-quality, vibrant orange synthetic hair into Misty’s natural roots. The smell of expensive bonding glue and lavender hairspray filled the air.
Jessie played the part perfectly, complimenting Misty’s bone structure, telling her how the “added weight” would give her a “majestic posture.”
When Jessie finally spun the chair around to face the mirror, Misty gasped.
The transformation was stunning. Thick, glossy orange hair cascaded all the way down to her waist, styled in a traditional “Hime” cut with straight bangs and face-framing sidelocks. She looked regal. She looked mature. She looked nothing like the tomboy who traveled with Ash Ketchum.
“It’s… it’s beautiful,” Misty whispered, touching the ends of the hair.
“It is perfection,” Jessie said, her voice tight with suppressed glee. “Now, go win that tournament. And remember… beauty is pain.”
As Misty paid, James pressed a golden card into her hand. “A special gift for our VIP. Come back after the tournament for our ‘De-Stressing Removal Service.’ 50% off. Trust me, after carrying that mane around all day… you will want it off.”
The prophecy, as it turned out, was accurate. But the victory was not.
The tournament was a disaster. Misty had underestimated the sheer physical impracticality of three pounds of synthetic hair attached to her scalp. During the semi-finals, a gust of wind from a Pidgeotto’s Wing Attack whipped the long extensions across her face, blinding her at a critical moment. Starmie missed a command, took a Hyper Beam to the jewel, and it was over.
Misty walked out of the arena at sunset, not as a princess, but as a loser. Her neck throbbed. Her scalp burned from the tension of the weave. The hair that had felt like a crown now felt like a heavy, suffocating curtain.
“I hate it,” she muttered to herself, trudging back toward the salon. “I just want it off. I want my bob back. I want to feel the air on my neck.”
She pushed open the door to L’Elegant. The shop was dim, illuminated only by the ambient streetlights filtering through the blinds.
“Madame Jess? Jean-Luc?”
“We are here, ma petite,” Jessie’s voice came from the shadows. She stepped out, still in disguise, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “The tournament… did not go well?”
“I lost,” Misty said, her voice trembling. She grabbed the mass of orange hair in both hands and lifted it off her neck. “It was in my eyes. It’s too heavy. Please, just take it out. Use the voucher. I just want to go back to normal.”
“Normal…” Jessie tasted the word like it was spoiled milk. “Of course. We have prepared the VIP Zen Room just for you. Total silence. No mirrors. Just relaxation.”
Misty followed them into the back. The “Zen Room” was a small, windowless space with soundproof tiling and a single, heavy-duty hydraulic barber chair in the center.
“Sit,” Jessie commanded softly.
Misty sank into the chair, letting out a groan of relief as her head hit the headrest. James appeared instantly with a steaming cup on a silver tray.
“Special herbal tea,” he murmured. “To relax the scalp muscles and loosen the glue.”
Misty drank it greedily. It was sweet, cloying, with a strange, dusty aftertaste. “Thanks,” she said, handing the cup back. “So, do you use a solvent to dissolve the glue? Or pliers?”
“We have… specialized tools,” Jessie said, moving behind the chair.
The room began to swim. The edges of Misty’s vision blurred. The tea—laced with a generous dose of Sleep Powder—hit her system like a freight train. Her limbs felt heavy, detached.
“Whoa…” Misty slurred, her head lolling to the side. “Feelin’… dizzy…”
“Just close your eyes, darling,” Jessie’s voice echoed, sounding far away. “Let us take care of everything.”
“Kay…” Misty mumbled. Her eyes fluttered shut. “Just… my bob… keep the… bob…”
Her breathing slowed. She was out.
The moment Misty’s chin hit her chest, the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. Jessie reached up and tore the blonde wig from her head, tossing it into the corner. Her pink flat top gleamed in the low light, casting a harsh, square shadow on the wall.
“James,” she barked. “Cape her. Tight. I don’t want a single orange hair on her clothes. I want her to leave here clean.”
James whipped a black nylon cape around Misty’s neck, fastening it snugly. He tightened it a notch further than necessary. “She is secured, Jessica. The canvas is ready.”
Jessie reached onto the counter and bypassed the extension removal pliers. Instead, her gloved hand closed around the cold, heavy body of a pair of industrial-grade electric clippers. These weren’t salon trimmers; these were beastly machines meant for shearing Mareep.
She flicked the switch. THWACK-BZZZZZZZZZZZZT.
The roar of the motor was loud in the small room, but Misty didn’t stir. Jessie stared at the sleeping girl, at the luxurious long orange hair that spilled over the back of the chair like a silk waterfall.
“You wanted to look like a Princess,” Jessie whispered, leaning close to Misty’s ear. “But you’re a soldier now.”
Jessie didn’t bother unweaving the extensions. She grabbed the entire ponytail—synthetic and natural hair alike—in one fist, twisting it into a thick rope. She brought the clippers to the base of Misty’s neck.
SHHHH-CHUNK.
The blades bit into the thick mass. Jessie sawed back and forth. With a wet, crunching sound, the entire ponytail was severed. Jessie tossed the severed tail onto the floor with a wet thud. Misty’s head bobbed slightly from the force, now relieved of the weight, but she slept on.
Now, Misty’s hair was a jagged, hacked-off mess, barely an inch long in the back. But Jessie was just getting started.
“Sides first,” Jessie muttered, tongue poking from the corner of her lips in concentration.
She pressed the flat metal head of the clippers against Misty’s right temple, right at the hairline. The cold steel made Misty’s nose twitch in her sleep, but she didn’t wake. Jessie pushed the clippers upward.
ZZZZZRT!
A strip of pale skin was revealed as the orange hair vanished. Jessie didn’t use a guard. She was taking it down to the wood. She worked with ruthless efficiency, carving a high, stark line above the ear, curving up toward the crown. The orange clumps fell like rain onto the black cape, sliding down to pile in Misty’s lap.
She moved to the left side. ZZZZZZRT!
“Look at those ears,” Meowth snickered, hopping onto the counter to watch. “They stick out like a Mankey’s!”
“Hush,” Jessie snapped. “I’m sculpting.”
She moved to the back, pushing the clippers up the nape of the neck. The vibration shuddered through Misty’s skull. Jessie shaved upward in smooth, aggressive strokes, merging the back and sides into a continuous, high-walled undercut. The back of Misty’s head was now completely bare, rising up to a sharp disconnect near the top of her skull.
Misty moaned softly in her sleep, shifting. “Cold…” she murmured.
“It will be colder soon,” James chuckled, sweeping the fallen hair away from the chair base.
Now came the masterpiece. The top.
Jessie switched the clippers to a lower setting. She grabbed a fine-toothed comb. She stood directly in front of Misty, eyeing the remaining tuft of jagged orange hair on top of her head. It was messy, uneven, and soft.
“We need structure,” Jessie declared. “We need discipline.”
She inserted the comb horizontally into the front of Misty’s hair, lifting it straight up. She leveled the comb until it was perfectly parallel with the floor.
SNIP-BZZZ-SNIP.
The clippers rode the comb, slicing the hair into a flat, level plane. Jessie moved back, repeating the process. She was turning the chaotic mop into a geometric plateau. She carved the corners, making them sharp, right angles. She buzzed the front hairline into a harsh, straight line across the forehead—no bangs, no softness, just a cliff edge of orange hair.
She pulled a yellow ruler from her pocket. She placed it against the side of Misty’s head.
“Two inches,” Jessie read. “Perfectly square. Not a millimeter of variance.”
She stepped back to admire her work. It was breathtakingly severe. Misty, the girl who loved her cute bobs and ponytails, now sported a haircut that would make a drill sergeant weep with joy. It was a block of bright orange cheddar cheese sitting on a shaved head. It mirrored Jessie’s own style exactly, down to the millimeter.
“Blow dryer,” Jessie commanded.
James handed it to her. She blasted the loose itchy hairs from Misty’s face and neck. The sudden rush of air stirred Misty. Her eyelids fluttered. The drug was wearing off.
“Time for the reveal,” Jessie grinned. She spun the chair around 180 degrees. James stepped forward, holding a full-length mirror directly in front of the chair.
Misty groaned, lifting her head. Her neck felt impossibly light. “Mnngh… Madame Jess? Is it… is it out?”
She blinked, her vision clearing. She saw the figure in the mirror. A girl with a shaved head and a flat, orange box on top.
“Who…?” Misty squinted. She raised a hand to touch her hair, expecting the familiar swing of her bob.
Her palm made contact.
Scritch.
It didn’t feel like hair. It felt like a stiff, prickly brush. It was flat. Perfectly, horribly flat. She ran her hand to the side—nothing but skin. She ran her hand to the top—a sharp, 90-degree corner.
Misty froze. Her hand stayed resting on the flat top of her head. Her eyes met the eyes in the mirror.
“No,” she whispered. The realization hit her like a Hydro Pump. “No, no, no…”
“Do you like it?” Jessie’s voice came from right beside her ear. “It’s the latest trend. I call it… The Twerp Fade.”
Misty screamed.
It was a scream that rattled the bottles of shampoo on the shelves. “AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”
She grabbed the arms of the chair, staring in horror at the orange landing strip. “MY HAIR! WHAT DID YOU DO?! I LOOK LIKE A BRICK!”
Team Rocket threw off their disguises, laughing maniacally. Jessie leaned in, pressing her cheek against Misty’s so their twin flat tops—one pink, one orange—were side-by-side in the mirror.
“We match!” Jessie squealed. “Prepare for trouble!”
“And make it flat!” James cheered.
Misty’s eyes rolled back in her head. The shock, combined with the lingering sedative, was too much. She slumped forward, fainting dead away into the pile of her own severed hair.
Ten minutes later, the door to L’Elegant swung open. Ash and Serena, who had been waiting on a bench outside, jumped up.
“Finally!” Ash groaned. “Did you buy the whole salon or wha—”
The words died in his throat.
Misty stood in the doorway under the harsh glow of the streetlamp. She was trembling. Her face was a mask of pure humiliation. And on her head, glowing like a beacon in the night, was the Flat Top.
Ash stared. Serena stared. Pikachu stared.
Ash’s knees gave out. He collapsed onto the pavement, clutching his stomach, tears instantly spurting from his eyes. “BAHAHAHAHA! NO WAY! IT HAPPENED! THE LAWNMOWER GOT YOU TOO!”
“Ash!” Serena gasped, horrified, though she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the architectural marvel on Misty’s head. “Misty… it’s… it’s very… aerodynamic?”
Misty didn’t cry. She didn’t run. She walked up to Ash, grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and lifted him off the ground. Her flat top seemed to vibrate with intensity.
“Not. A. Word,” she hissed, her face inches from his. “It’s practical. It’s for battle. And if you say ‘cheese,’ ‘block,’ or ‘toothbrush,’ Starmie will blast you into orbit.”
“You got it, Flat-top—I mean, Misty!” Ash choked out, struggling to breathe through his laughter.
From the roof of the building across the street, Jessie watched the scene, stroking her own pink hair with satisfaction.
“Revenge,” she whispered to the night air, “is a dish best served square.”
