New beginnings

At the age of 22 I moved halfway across the world, leaving my life in Peru and starting afresh in Sweden. Why do this, you might ask. The answer was simple. Love. 

It was during this same year of my life that out of desperation I made a dramatic change to my appearance. Why did I have to make such a dramatic change to my appearance? Keep on reading. 

18 months prior I had gone on exchange to Prague. I was only 3 weeks into my year abroad when I fell hopelessly in love with a fellow exchange student, Daniel. The next year went by in an instant, we spent almost everyday together. It was a connection I had never felt before. When our year came to an end and we both returned to Sweden and Peru respectfully, it weighed heavy on my heart. Daily facetimes were a cheap replacement to actually being in the presence of my lover. It didn’t surprise either of us that almost immediately after we separated we made plans to be together again. 

I decided to defer my last year of school and move to Sweden for Daniel’s final year of his bachelors. After this year was up, Daniel would follow me back to Peru for me to complete my studies. The plan seemed good enough. My parents seemed to take the news okay. My mother was concerned I would never end up finishing my degree and my father was sad to lose me to Europe for another full year. Regardless they came to grips with my decision and I again send goodbye to my home in Peru and boarded my flight to Stockholm. 

I arrived in late July. The first 2 months were magical. Daniel and I spent most of our days biking to parks, visiting museums or taking day trips to visit relatives of his who had summer homes. Just being with him was enough to keep a smile permanently plastered to my face for most of this period. 

September began with us still beginning our days swimming in the cold water of the local dock. It ended with the days filled with rain and a stiff cold breeze. Daniel had begun classes again. I had just begun a job at a local cafe. 

We lived together in a small apartment located in the centre of the city. We had agreed to spilt the rent. I had blown through a good chunk of my savings during the first 6 weeks of my time in Sweden. In my head I would work a few days per week in a restaurant or cafe, alongside the odd modeling or acting job. 

Growing up I was always complimented on my looks. From the age of 6 I had modeled, even appearing in a few TV advertisements and sporadic episodes of a soap. I was under the impression that I would easily be able to pick up the odd job here in Sweden. 

I was somewhat embarrassed to realize I had overestimated my abilities. Casting rejections came and went faster than I could keep track of. By late November the only booking I had made was for a low budget shoot for an energy drink company. The rebursment was barely half a days salary at the cafe. 

It was during this time I found myself scrutinising my appearance. My olive skin gave me the illusion of being tanned all year round. I had soft, dark, almond shaped eyes and a petite frame. My hair had always been long. Reaching the middle of my back in luscious waves, it was the darkest shade of brown before black. I had never struggled with booking in Peru, how could it be so different here in Stockholm I often asked myself. 

As my inability to get bookings compounded, more issues arose. I was given less hours at the cafe, my decision to sign a zero hour contract to give myself more flexibility had come back to bite me. As I tried to search for a new job with better hours I came to the damning realization that I was approaching a world in which I would struggle to pay my end of the rent. Daniel came from a wealthy family, he could surely help cover my end if needed but I was desperate to not have to ask. I was an adult and I didn’t want to be financially dependent on him so early into our relationship. 

December had just begun. My life was riddled with anxiety. I was afraid to admit to Daniel that I was dangerously low on money. I found myself lying to him. I began telling him I had booked shoots when in reality I hadn’t. 

It was during this phase that I heard about a shoot being organized by Vogue Sweden. 

I was on set for a minor role in an advertisement. During hair and makeup I started a conversation with the stylist. 

“Such beautiful hair you have.” The stylist smiled as she applied concealer to my face. 

“Thank you.” My hair was probably my most complimented feature. I loved wearing it down. It’s heaviness against my back was a familiar and reassuring presence. 

“Even though sometimes I can’t tell if it’s a bit too boring.” I begun to speak without being entirely sure where my train of thought was going. “Like… I don’t know if maybe I should one day add some layers or bangs even.” 

“That could be cute.” The stylist nodded. “I’m always for change.”

“My hair is something I have never really changed.”

The stylist made a face as if she just remembered something. 

“You know I’m working next week at a shoot that might be interesting to you. If you’re looking for a bit of a change.” 

My ears perked up. Curious, I had the stylist explain the shoot. 3 celebrity hairstylists were to give 3 models a ‘complete transformation’ as the stylist put it. I felt my head beginning to shake a no. Maybe I wanted a bit of a change but the word ‘complete’ was too much for me. 

I had a complete reversal of heart however once she mentioned it was organized by Vogue Sweden. The shoot would be displayed in a 4 page article in a following month’s edition. Weighing up everything that seemed to be against me recently I thought I would at least try to apply. 

The stylist sent me the casting application. The explanation of the shoot seemed to match what the stylist had mentioned. 

Vogue Sweden is seeking dynamic models for an exclusive editorial shoot that will appear in the next edition of our magazine. In collaboration with three renowned celebrity stylists, we will be selecting three models to undergo complete makeovers as part of a bold, high-fashion transformation. This is an incredible opportunity to work with some of the best in the industry and be featured in one of the most prestigious fashion publications.

Models must be prepared to give full creative license to our stylists, who will shape each look with their vision. Whether you’re looking to reinvent yourself or embrace a daring change, this is your chance to shine.

If interested, please submit your portfolio. More information regarding the contract can be found attached below.

The idea of this shoot scared me on many levels. I had never done anything with a company as renowned as Vogue. I had never worked with renowned celebrity stylists before. And maybe most importantly I had never made any sort of major change to my hair. Despite this I almost immediately sent in my portfolio. 

The casting was at a large studio in city center. It was like nothing I had ever done before. I met more people than I could keep track of. The creative director, head photographer, casting director, I shook all their hands with a smile plastered to my face but inside I was a nervous wreck. The casting took almost half the day. Towards the end I was explained the contract. 

“Essentially if they wanted to dye your hair bright pink… they could. If they wanted to give you something where they shave all the sides off… they could.” A smartly dressed man explained to me. My stomach was rising at an alarming speed.  “Will they? I highly, highly doubt it. Their foremost aim is to create something that will upgrade your look. They are industry experts, I think that’s important to understand. These aren’t the people that keep up with the latest trends, they create the latest trends.”

I thanked him for the explanation, trying to suppress a feeling of nausea growing inside me. 

“And of course there’s the monetary compensation.” He tapped his pen on a piece of paper. The number he was indicating covered 3 months of my rent. 

As I left the studio I realized my shoulders had been tense most of the day. I exhaled deeply. This was the opportunity I had been desperate for. Not only did it pay handsomely, but it would hopefully catapult my career here in Sweden. 

Despite the obvious benefits, I found myself almost relieved when 3 days later I was emailed that they would move forward with other candidates instead. Relief, mixed with disappointment.

A week later, I was relaxing at home when my phone began to ring. 

“Hello?” I said cautiously.

“Hi, is this Maria Alvarez?” a cheerful voice asked.

“Yes, this is Maria.”

“Hi Maria, this is Stephanie from Vogue Sweden. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

My heart skipped. “Oh! No, not at all. Hi!”

“Great. So, I’m calling because there’s been a last-minute change with the shoot we’re doing tomorrow—the one you applied for recently. One of the models has had to drop out unexpectedly, and we were wondering if you’re still interested in being part of it?”

I froze. “Oh, um…wow. I wasn’t expecting this! I mean, I was a little disappointed about not getting it before, but—” I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, we’re absolutely sure,” she said warmly. “One of the stylists actually mentioned your name specifically and thought you’d be a perfect fit. We were really impressed with your application, and this is a fantastic opportunity.”

I gripped the edge of the table. “It’s…tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Stephanie confirmed. “I realize it’s very short notice, but the shoot will take place in Stockholm, starting in the afternoon. We can arrange your transport if you’re not already in the city. It’s going to be an amazing feature, and I know you’ll do great.”

My stomach twisted. “And, um, about the makeover part—there’s still full creative license, right?”

“That’s correct,” she said, her tone professional but encouraging. “The stylists will have complete freedom to transform your look, but you’ll be working with some of the best in the industry. I know it can feel like a big step, but it’s an incredible opportunity to make a statement and really stand out in Vogue.”

I hesitated, glancing at my reflection in the window. My long hair hung over my shoulder, suddenly feeling heavier. “Okay…yeah, I think I can do it.”

“Fantastic!” Stephanie said, her enthusiasm contagious. “I’ll email you all the details shortly. Be sure to get a good night’s sleep—you’ll need all your energy for tomorrow. And Maria? Congratulations!”

“Thank you so much,” I said, trying to sound confident despite the swirl of nerves in my stomach. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I set the phone down on the table, my hand lingering on it for a moment as if I might pick it up again and call Stephanie back to change my answer. But what would I even say? Sorry, I don’t think I can do this after all because I’m scared of a haircut? I shook my head at myself, forcing a shaky laugh.

Crossing the room, I stopped in front of the mirror. The afternoon sunlight was streaming in, catching on the strands of my hair, turning the dark brown into something warmer, almost golden at the ends. It spilled over my shoulders in soft waves, still slightly damp from my morning shower.

It had always been long. For as far back as I could remember, my hair had been the one thing I’d never changed. I’d never had the nerve to cut it short or dye it. I reached up and ran my fingers through it, letting the strands slide through my hands. The idea of someone else touching it, cutting it—transforming it into something unrecognizable—made my stomach twist.

But I was being ridiculous, wasn’t I? They probably wouldn’t even do that much to it. Stylists loved to talk about “creative freedom,” but that didn’t mean they’d buzz it all off or dye it neon green. This was Vogue, not some experimental art school project. I was sure they’d keep things elegant. Sophisticated. I tried to picture it. A few subtle adjustments, something chic but still me. I could work with that. The more I thought about it, the more I clung to the idea.  

“Maybe they’ll just trim it,” I said out loud to the empty room, my voice unconvincing even to my own ears. “Or give me some layers. Maybe it won’t even look that different.”. 

This was a huge opportunity. I needed to focus on that. This wasn’t about hair—it was about being seen, being remembered. Vogue Sweden. The words felt surreal.

I turned away from the mirror and forced myself to take a deep breath. I was being overdramatic. I needed to trust the process. I’d said yes, and now I had to commit to it.

When I heard Daniel’s keys in the lock, my stomach flipped. I knew I had to tell him about the shoot, but the thought of actually saying it out loud made my chest tighten. Once I told him, it would feel real.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside and dropping his bag by the door. He leaned down to kiss my forehead. “How are you?”

I gave him a small smile. “Pretty good. What about you?”

“Same.” He stretched and yawned as he walked toward the couch. “The roads are pretty icey now, I think the whole time I was biking back I was just fully focused on not falling on my face.”

I laughed, though it felt forced. “Sounds like fun.”

“Not quite,” he said, flopping onto the couch beside me. “What about you? Did you do anything exciting today?”

I hesitated for a moment, twisting my hands in my lap. “Actually…yeah. There’s something I need to tell you.”

He tilted his head, suddenly looking more focused. “Okay. What’s up?”

“Well,” I started, avoiding his gaze. “You remember that Vogue shoot I applied for? The one with the makeovers?”

“Yeah,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t you say you didn’t get it?”

“I didn’t. At first,” I said, taking a deep breath. “But they called me today. One of the models dropped out, and they asked me to fill in. The shoot’s tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” He sat up straighter, his expression hard to read. “That’s…sudden.”

“I know,” I said quickly. “It’s really last-minute, but it’s such a big opportunity, Daniel. It’s Vogue Sweden. This could be huge for me.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice careful. “But…what exactly does this shoot involve? The makeover part—what does that mean?”

I hesitated, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Well, they’re giving three models a hair transformation”

“Hair?” His tone sharpened, and his gaze locked onto me. “What does that mean for you? Are they talking about cutting it?”

“I don’t know,” I said quickly, trying to brush it off. “Not necessarily. They didn’t say anything specific. It’s just…creative freedom for the stylists. But it’s not like they’d do anything crazy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Maria, you’re telling me you’re giving them full control, and they might not cut your hair? They could cut it all off if they think it fits their ‘vision.’”

I bit my lip, my stomach tightening. “I don’t think they’d do that. They’re professionals, Daniel. And it’s Vogue. It’s not like they’re going to make me look bad.”

He gestured toward me, his hand almost brushing my hair. “You have amazing hair. Isn’t that, like, part of why you’re a model? Why would you risk losing it over some…artistic experiment?”

“I get it, okay? I do,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “But this is Vogue. It’s a huge deal.

He sighed, running a hand through his own hair. “I don’t know, Maria. This just seems like a lot. What if they do chop everything off? What if you hate it? What if you regret it?”

“Then I’ll grow it back,” I said, though the words felt fragile, even to me. “Hair grows. And this could open doors for me. I can’t afford to wait around for something else to come along.”

He studied me for a moment, his eyes searching mine. “I get why you’re doing it,” he said finally, his tone softer but still laced with doubt. “I just don’t want you to end up regretting it.”

“I won’t,” I said, though my voice wavered. “I promise.”

He sighed again and reached for my hand. “Okay. Just…think about it tomorrow, alright? If it doesn’t feel right, don’t let them push you into something.”

“I will,” I said, managing a faint smile. “Thanks for…understanding. Kind of.”

He smirked. “I’m trying. But I still think you’re crazy.”

I let out a nervous laugh. “You’re probably right.”

As he headed into the kitchen, I leaned back against the couch, exhaling shakily. Telling him had made it feel real, and the doubts he voiced were the same ones I was trying so hard to push down.

The next morning I woke up to the soft glow of morning light spilling through the curtains. Daniel was already getting dressed, moving around the room with quick, purposeful motions. He leaned down to kiss me, his lips soft against mine. “Good luck today,” he said, smiling at me before pulling away.

I smiled back, but my stomach twisted in knots. The bed felt too warm, too inviting. My long hair, still tangled from the night before, kept me cozy and reluctant to leave the softness of the blankets.

But eventually, I knew I had to get up. I rolled out of bed, my feet hitting the cold floor. It was a stark contrast to the warmth I had just left behind. I walked to the bathroom, the quiet hum of the house the only sound filling the space. The hot water from the shower hit me like a wave, soothing but also sending my thoughts spiraling.

What was going to happen to my hair today? I ran my fingers through the length of it as I lathered up, and for a moment, I froze. Was I being overly attached to my hair? Was it normal to care so much about something so temporary?

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around me, standing in front of the mirror. My fingers reached for my long hair, combing through it gently, trying to smooth out the knots.

“You’re overthinking this,” I whispered to myself, watching my reflection. I’d seen these transformations before. Stylists promised that everything would work out, and the results were never as dramatic as they seemed. A few layers, some highlights, maybe a trim. Nothing to panic over.

Still, I imagined what it would look like—some layers, maybe a pop of blonde highlights, just a subtle change. I had considered something like this myself before, so why was it so hard now? Maybe I needed the change. Lately, everything felt a little too routine. This could be the fresh start I was looking for. I was always expecting the worst, but what if today the best happened instead?

After a few deep breaths, I pulled on some comfortable, neutral clothes. Nothing flashy, just simple and relaxed. I didn’t have long to think about it before a sleek black Mercedes pulled up outside. A car waiting for me—Vogue was picking me up. No more buses, no more crowded subways.

I slid into the back seat, feeling a little lighter. The car moved smoothly through the streets, and I looked out the window, letting the rhythm of the city calm me. Today could be different. Today could be my moment.

When the car stopped in front of the building, I took a split second to compose myself. The cold, glass doors to the studio loomed in front of me. I could feel my pulse quicken, but I steadied my breathing before pushing them open.

The receptionist, a woman with an effortless air of authority, greeted me as soon as I stepped inside. “Take the elevator up to the fifth floor,” she said, nodding towards the sleek, metallic lift in the corner.

I gave her a brief smile and followed her direction, my heels clicking against the polished floor. The elevator ride felt too short, my thoughts swirling as I ascended. When the doors opened, I stepped out into a vast space. The studio was everything I’d imagined—open, airy, and somehow both calming and intimidating at the same time.

The room was bathed in natural light streaming through tall windows. People moved around, their voices a quiet hum against the backdrop of music playing softly. The smell of coffee and fresh flowers lingered in the air. In the center of it all were three salon chairs, all facing large mirrors on a white canvas backdrop. 

It was exactly what I’d hoped for—everything was professional, polished, and buzzing with energy. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being slightly out of place. I took a deep breath, stepping into the studio, feeling the weight of the moment settle in.

As soon as I step into the studio, I feel the buzz of energy around me—people moving with purpose, the chatter of voices, and the rhythmic hum of hairdryers in the background. A young assistant with a clipboard approaches me, offering a polite smile.

“Hi, you must be Maria,” she says, her tone friendly but professional. “Welcome! I’ll take you to Malin. She’s expecting you.”

I follow the assistant across the sleek, open room.We reach a woman in her late 40s, dressed in a sharp, tailored suit. Her blonde hair falls neatly to her shoulders, and she stands with the kind of poise that commands attention without being overbearing. She turns as I approach, offering a warm, welcoming smile.

“Maria,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “Thank you so much for being flexible and coming in last minute. We’re thrilled to have you here today.”

I manage a nervous smile. “Thank you for having me. I’m excited.”

She steps closer, her smile never wavering, and she appraises me for a moment before speaking again. “I’m Malin, the creative director. Are you ready for a change today?”

I hesitate, feeling my nerves tighten in my chest. “I think so,” I say, trying to sound confident. “I’m a little nervous, though. I’m hoping it’s not too big of a change”

Malin’s smile flickers slightly, but she quickly smooths it out. “Well, the reason you’re here today is for a change,” she says, her voice still polite but her words slightly colder now, almost a touch clinical. “That’s the whole point of the shoot, after all.”

I nod, feeling a sudden chill in the air, despite her warm expression. She doesn’t respond to my hesitation, just gently places a hand on my shoulder. “We’ll make sure you look amazing,” she says, her voice back to its bright, upbeat tone. “Now, let’s get you ready for the next step.”

Without another word, she passes me over to the makeup team. I feel a little lighter as I move toward the next part of the process, but something about Malin’s response sticks with me. Maybe it’s the reminder that I’m here to be transformed, not just pampered. I swallow hard, but I try to push the worry aside.

As I walk into the makeup area, the soft smell of cosmetics fills the air. A long row of mirrors stretches along the wall, each one occupied by a stylist carefully tending to a model. The makeup team is busy but calm, their movements fluid and practiced.

Two girls are sitting in chairs near the end of the row. One has bright blonde hair, pale skin, and striking blue eyes. She gives me a polite, friendly smile as I approach. The other girl is slightly darker-skinned, with long black hair and delicate features. 

“Hey, you must be Maria,” the blonde girl says, her Swedish accent soft but clear. “I’m Freja.”

I nod and smile, taking the seat next to her. “Nice to meet you.”

The other girl, with the dark hair, turns to me with a warm smile. “I’m Anna,” she says, her voice gentle but confident. “You’re looking great.”

I thank her, feeling a little more at ease in their presence. They chat for a moment, and I learn that Anna’s mother is Vietnamese, something she mentions when Freja asks if she’s from Sweden. Anna laughs, explaining how her Swedish and Vietnamese heritage always makes for interesting conversations.

The small talk flows easily as the makeup artists start working on our faces. The girls swap stories about previous shoots and makeup tips while I focus on the brushes and palettes being applied to my own face. It’s clear that they’re used to this world, the easy way they speak to each other in Swedish, their relaxed confidence as they go through the motions of getting ready for a shoot like this.

Freja talks about some of her past experiences in the industry, her voice animated as she recounts a recent campaign she’d done for a high-end fashion brand. Anna listens attentively, occasionally chiming in with her own thoughts. They both seem genuinely kind, not dismissive in any way, and for a moment, I forget about the nerves that had been gnawing at me all morning.

As the makeup artists finish blending foundation into my skin, I feel the tension in my shoulders begin to melt away. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. The girls’ casual chatter makes me feel like I’m part of the group, as though we’ve all been in this position before and know exactly what to expect.

Once the makeup is done, the three of us are escorted to the photoshoot area. The space is sleek, all clean lines and bright, white lighting. The photographer, a man with a calm, focused demeanor, directs us to stand in front of the backdrop. We’re dressed in simple yet elegant Scandinavian-style clothing—tailored blazers, high-neck sweaters, and neutral tones that add to the clean, minimalistic vibe of the shoot.

The shoot begins with us individually. Freja steps up first, her blonde hair shining under the lights. The photographer clicks away, directing her to shift her gaze just slightly or adjust her posture with gentle precision. I watch for a moment, feeling the hum of anticipation buzzing in the room, but soon enough, it’s my turn.

As I step in front of the camera, I try to focus. The flashes are blinding, and the photographer gives me soft instructions—look to the left, now relax, chin down slightly. I try my best to follow along, but my mind keeps drifting back to my hair. It feels so long, so present around my shoulders. 

After a few more clicks, we move on to the group shots. We’re asked to stand together in a relaxed but still composed pose, our gazes directed at the camera. We’re like a perfect little trio, matching outfits but distinct in our own ways. Despite being part of the shoot, I’m not fully present—my thoughts are elsewhere.

Freja’s radiant smile and Anna’s quiet, almost mysterious expression make me wonder if they’re more comfortable in this world than I am. Is this how they always are? But, despite it all, I still can’t shake the feeling that I haven’t met the hairstylists yet. They’re a part of the transformation, part of the plan that I’ve been vaguely told about, and yet, they’re nowhere to be seen.

I try to push these thoughts aside, focusing instead on the moment at hand.

After a few more minutes of shooting, Malin steps back into the room, a warm but professional smile on her face. “Alright, girls,” she says, clapping her hands together. “We’re going to take a short break. Get comfortable, and then we’ll begin the haircuts.”

I let out a small breath, half-relieved, half-nervous. The thought of the haircut is becoming so real now, and the idea that I’m about to sit in the hands of a famous stylist doesn’t make me feel any less anxious. But at least there’s a break, and a chance to relax, even if just for a few minutes.

Malin glances at me. “You’ll be working with Sven, an award-winning hairstylist. He’s the owner of one of the most prestigious salons in Malmö, so you’re in great hands.” Her tone is calm, but there’s something in her smile—like she’s genuinely proud of the team here—that makes me feel a little better, even though my heart is still pounding in my chest.

The girls and I head over to a small lounge area to change back into more comfortable clothes. The break gives me a moment to breathe. We all sit down with cups of water, and the chatter picks up again, light and easy. Freja, in her usual carefree style, lounges back and throws a glance at me. “So, what do you think will happen?” she asks, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

I shrug, unsure of how to answer. “I don’t really know. I’ve been told it’s going to be a change, but I’m just hoping it’s not too drastic.”

Freja nods. “I get that. I’ve done a lot of different looks. My hair is… well I’m open to anything, really. I’ve had everything from short cuts to layers, so I’m pretty used to change.” She flashes a grin, clearly unbothered by whatever will come her way. Her shoulder-length hair, light and soft, falls around her face in natural waves.

I glance at Anna, who’s sitting quietly next to Freja. Her hair is almost as long as mine—straight and glossy, flowing like a perfect sheet of silk. My first thought is that she’ll be just as attached to her long hair as I am, but when I turn to her, I’m surprised by her answer.

“I’m actually hoping for a change too,” Anna says, her voice steady but soft, as if she’s unsure of how it will be received. “I used to have my hair up to my chin, but I grew it out for my boyfriend. He loves it long, but… I’m kind of over it.”

I blink, taken aback. Anna’s demeanor is usually so reserved, and she seems quieter than Freja. I would have never guessed she’d be ready for a change. But she says it with a quiet confidence, a calmness that surprises me.

“Really?” I ask, a little unsure how to follow up, but genuinely curious.

She shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know. It’s not like I’m doing it just for me, but… I think I’d like a change. I just haven’t figured out what kind of change yet.”

Freja laughs softly. “See? Everyone thinks they’re so attached to their hair until they just… let go. You’re going to look amazing, Maria. Don’t stress it.”

I nod, trying to take in the calmness of their attitudes. It’s easier said than done, but I have to admit, their relaxed energy is making me feel a little less on edge. Maybe this is the change I need, even if I didn’t realize it before.

As the break wraps up, the thought of sitting in Sven’s chair suddenly doesn’t feel so bad. I still don’t know exactly what’s going to happen, but the girls’ openness, especially Anna’s, gives me a tiny spark of courage. Maybe this change is something I’m ready for after all.

A few moments later, the stylists approach us, and the energy in the room shifts. There are three of them: two men and a woman. They carry an air of confidence, each of them walking as though they’ve owned every room they’ve entered for years.

One of the men is tall with sharp features and a dark, neatly combed hairstyle. The woman has large red framed glasses. The other man, though, immediately holds my gaze as he steps forward. He’s older, in his 50s, with a distinguished, almost commanding presence. His salt-and-pepper hair is neatly styled, a stark contrast to the casual elegance of his black turtleneck. There’s something about the way he stands that makes me feel both intrigued and slightly apprehensive.

“Maria,” he says, his voice is smooth. He steps forward, extending his hand. “I’m Sven.”

I take his hand, the firm grip surprising me with its strength. His eyes hold mine a little too long, assessing, as if he’s already sizing me up for the transformation ahead. There’s no warmth in his smile, just a sharp, almost clinical focus.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he says, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that feels more like an evaluation than a greeting. “Excited to work with you today.” His words are polite, but there’s a sense of control in his tone, like this is all part of a well-rehearsed plan.

A flicker of doubt passes through me, but I manage to keep my composure. “Thank you,” I say, though it comes out a bit softer than I intended.

Sven doesn’t seem to mind. He gestures toward the other stylists who are already leading Freja and Anna to their chairs. 

“You’ll be in good hands. Let’s get started,” he says, almost too casually, as if this is already decided. There’s a finality to his tone, and I know—whether I like it or not—that the change is coming.

I look toward Freja and Anna, trying to steady my breath. They’re calm, collected, their faces betraying none of the same nerves that are churning inside me. I follow Sven, trying to maintain some semblance of confidence. 

I settle into the chair, the cold leather squeaking slightly as I shift, trying to find a comfortable position. I look at myself through the mirror. My hair is streaming down my front and I run my fingers over the ends instinctively, as if anchoring myself to something familiar. Anna sits on the chair to my right and Freja to my left. I notice a photographer snapping pictures of the three of us as we sit in our respective chairs. 

Sven stands behind me, his hands resting lightly on the back of the chair. He meets my gaze through the mirror, his expression calm but utterly unreadable. For a moment, the room feels smaller, quieter, as if all the noise around us has been muted.

“So, Maria, Maria, Maria,” his voice is deliberate, almost like he’s tasting the sound of my name. His hands move, trailing along the top of the chair before coming to rest gently on my shoulders. “When I first saw your portfolio, I immediately had an idea for you,” he begins, his words measured, his tone matter-of-fact. “An image came to mind—a vision, if you will. And now, seeing you in person, I can tell I was right.”

He pauses, his eyes scanning my reflection. My stomach twists. There’s no warmth in his words, no reassurance, just a quiet confidence that makes it clear he’s already made up his mind.

“You’re petite,” he continues, gesturing slightly with his hands. “Very petite. And there’s nothing wrong with that, of course, but…” He steps closer, his hand reaching up to gather a section of my hair. The sensation of his fingers moving through it sends a shiver down my spine—not the good kind. “Your hair, as beautiful as it is, overwhelms you. It’s too much. It drowns you.”

The words hang in the air, stark and blunt. I want to say something, to argue, but my throat feels tight, and no sound comes out. Sven’s hands move through my hair again, pulling it lightly away from my face, lifting it as though weighing it, testing it. The tactile way he handles it makes my skin crawl, though I try my best to stay still.

“It’s lovely, don’t misunderstand me,” he says, though his tone suggests he’s not as impressed as he claims. “But long hair like this—this much of it—doesn’t belong in high fashion. It belongs somewhere else.” He gives a faint shrug, his fingers sifting through the lengths before letting them drop against the back of the chair. 

I grip the armrests of the chair, my knuckles whitening. My breathing feels shallow, and my head starts to spin. 

Sven moves to the side, still focused on my reflection. “There’s something about you, Maria,” he continues. “You have a delicacy, a presence that’s completely buried right now. It’s hidden under all this…” He gestures vaguely toward my hair. “And I think it’s time we let it out.”

His voice is steady, even kind in its own way, but the words themselves feel anything but. It’s as though he’s speaking about me like I’m a painting he’s been asked to restore, something impersonal to be fixed or improved. I glance at Anna and Freja in the mirrors, but they’re caught up in their own conversations with their stylists, oblivious to what’s happening here.

Slowly he collects my hair in his hands and gathers it at the back of my head with a firm grip. 

“Look,” he says, tilting his head as he examines my reflection. “Do you see how your features stand out like this? Your jawline, your neck—it’s all much more defined. This,” he says, gesturing with his free hand to the sleek, imaginary crop he’s mimicking, “is where we need to go.”

I freeze. My heart pounds so loudly I can barely hear the next words as they leave his mouth.

“We’ll be cutting it all off,” he announces, his tone cool and matter-of-fact, as if he’s commenting on the weather. “Short, chic, and modern. Exactly what you need to elevate your look.”

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat as his words hit me. Cut it all off? The phrase reverberates in my mind, louder than the hum of voices around us. I can’t believe this is happening. I kept telling myself it would be fine, convincing myself that whatever change they had in mind would be manageable, even flattering. But now, sitting here, staring at my reflection and hearing Sven’s calm declaration, I feel like the floor has been yanked out from under me. Cut it all off. The words echo in my mind.

Sven chuckles softly, as if he’s already picturing the end result. “You might hate me for a moment,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “But once we’re done, you’ll wonder why you ever kept it this long.”

“Okay but how short?” I finally mustered a reply. 

He releases my hair and flicks it back over my shoulders. 

“Well, this length will be gone. We’re going for a pixie. Dramatic I know, but it’s really what I think you require.” 

I stare at him in disbelief, my voice catching in my throat before I manage to push the words out. “I’ve always had long hair,” I say, the protest sounding weaker than I intended. “It’s… it’s too dramatic. This isn’t just a haircut. It’s—”

“A transformation,” Sven interrupts smoothly, his tone unyielding but not unkind. He steps back slightly, his hands now resting confidently on the back of the chair. “I understand why you’re scared. Change is uncomfortable, and cutting your hair like this feels monumental. But you agreed to this—to step out of your comfort zone. This is my vision for you, Maria. And trust me, it’s what you need to elevate your look, to reinvent yourself.”

I feel as though I might throw up. How had I been so daft to think they wouldn’t do something dramatic to my hair. The level of panic I felt was immeasurable.  

“What do you like about your long hair?” Sven asked. 

“It’s… It’s feminine firstly—”

“What you think of as ‘feminine’ is limited to your past.” He cuts in. “Here, in the world I’m working in, short hair means confidence, power, and freedom.” He stands tall and gives her a calculating look. “And you? You have all that inside you. You just need the right look to bring it out.”

I can’t find a response. The way he talks is as if there is no other way around it. My mind starts racing to the contract I signed. I don’t even fully understand what would happen if I pulled out now at this moment. 

Sven watches me carefully, as though he can see the battle raging in my mind. He steps closer, his voice lowering but gaining an intensity that pulls my attention. “Maria, I’ve worked with hundreds of models. I’ve seen transformations that scared them in the moment but defined their careers afterward. Right now, you’re thinking about the hair you’re losing. But I’m thinking about the woman you’ll become. Strong, striking, unforgettable. This isn’t just a haircut. It’s a statement.”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. My fingers instinctively curl around the ends of my hair again, a futile attempt to hold on to what feels like a lifeline. “But what if it doesn’t work?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. “What if I just… hate it?”

“You won’t,” Sven replies, his tone firm, almost daring me to doubt him. “And even if you do, hair grows back. What doesn’t come as easily is the chance to step into something bigger—to take a risk that sets you apart. You’re here because you want more than to blend in, Maria. Let me help you do that.”

His words hang in the air, pressing down on me. I glance at Anna and Freja again, both engrossed in their own transformations, their faces calm, even excited. My reflection, however, looks anything but. I run my hands through my hair. My heart races as I weigh my options, but deep down, I know there’s no real choice. I agreed to this, to push myself into something new. 

I exhale shakily, letting my hands fall away from my hair. My voice trembles as I force the words out. “Okay.”

Sven steps back, his smile deepening as if the decision has already transformed me in his mind. “This is going to be incredible,” he says, his voice carrying an almost celebratory finality. “You’ll see.”

Before I can dwell on the comment, he gestures toward the row of sleek basins at the back of the room. “Let’s get you prepped,” he says, his tone brisk but not unkind. “Come with me.”

I follow him, my legs feeling heavier with every step. The basin chair is plush, the leather cold as I settle into it. Sven adjusts the headrest with precision, tilting my head back until the stream of warm water hits my scalp.

The sensation is soothing, and for a fleeting moment, I almost convince myself to relax. But the thought gnaws at me—this is it. The last time my hair will be washed at this length, cascading down the sides of the basin like a dark curtain. The idea twists in my stomach, making it impossible to enjoy the gentle pressure of Sven’s fingers as he massages shampoo into my roots.

I close my eyes, trying to block out the room around me, but my thoughts race faster. What will Daniel say when I return home? He’s always loved my hair, running his fingers through it absentmindedly whenever we’re together. I imagine his face when he sees me—shock? Disappointment? Will he even recognize me?

And then there are my parents. My mother, who used to braid my hair every morning before school, always calling it my crowning glory. What will she think when she sees it gone? Will she understand why I let it happen, or will she see it as something reckless, a betrayal of everything she’s instilled in me about beauty and femininity?

I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, gripping the armrests of the chair as Sven rinses away the shampoo, the water now running clear. I try to tell myself it’s just hair, that it’s not the end of the world. But no matter how hard I try, the knot in my stomach refuses to loosen.

“Almost done,” Sven says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. He moves with calm efficiency, wrapping my hair in a towel before straightening up. “Let’s get you back to the chair.”

I take my place back at the chair. As Sven unfurls the white cape and drapes it over me, the cool fabric settles heavily around my shoulders, adding to the suffocating feeling growing in my chest. I glance up at the mirror, my face framed by the edges of the towel, and watch as Sven pulls his trolley closer.

He places the tools onto its surface with deliberate care: a gleaming pair of scissors, a sleek razor, and a handful of clips that clink softly against each other. They seem innocuous enough, but to me, they might as well be weapons. These are the tools he’ll use to end my long-haired days.

Without a word, Sven unwinds the towel from my head. My wet hair tumbles free, landing with a heavy, damp thump against the back of the chair. I flinch at the sound, a startling reminder of its weight and length—of everything I’m about to lose.

Sven picks up a wide-toothed comb, his movements steady and deliberate. He starts at my roots, carefully working his way down to the very tips of my hair. The comb glides smoothly at first, then catches on a tiny tangle near the ends. He doesn’t tug or rush—just pauses, working through the knot with patient precision before continuing the rhythm.

Root to tip. Again and again.

The motion is hypnotic, almost soothing, but each pass of the comb feels like a countdown. I’m acutely aware of the weight of my hair, the way it gleams under the bright lights. Sven doesn’t speak as he works, his concentration unshakable, as though this moment requires his full attention. The silence presses on me, and I can feel the urge to bolt rising in my chest.

Just stand up, I tell myself. Say you’ve changed your mind. No one’s forcing you to go through with this.

I shift slightly in the chair, my hands gripping the armrests tighter. My eyes dart to the mirror, then around the room, searching for a way out. Freja catches my eye. She’s leaning back in her chair, scrolling through her phone while a stylist carefully wraps foils around sections of her hair. Her lips curl into a relaxed smile, as though she’s already envisioning how great she’ll look when it’s done.

Next to her, Anna’s stylist snips away at her dark hair, the cut pieces falling lightly to the floor. She laughs at something the stylist says, her face glowing with excitement. They all seem so… calm. Confident. Like this is just another part of their job.

Meanwhile, I feel like I’m about to jump out of a plane without a parachute. 

Sven’s comb catches on another small knot, pulling me back to the present. I force my gaze forward again. The last thing I want is to cause a scene. To have everyone turn and look, judging me for not being able to handle something as simple as a haircut. I take a deep breath and try to push the thought down, letting it sink into the pit of my stomach with everything else.

Sven picks up a few clips and gathers the top section of my hair. His fingers move deftly, twisting and securing the thick layers in place, leaving the rest of my hair to cascade over my shoulders. 

The hair hangs loose, damp and heavy, clinging to my cape. Sven smooths it with his hand before resuming his combing, the rhythm slower now, as though he’s savoring these last moments of length.

Sven takes a step back, his eyes flicking between my reflection and the sectioned-off hair hanging down my back. His voice is calm but edged with anticipation, as though he’s been waiting for this moment.

“We’ll start with the bottom section,” he announces, lifting the comb and gliding it through the thick curtain of my hair. “I’m taking it down to just a few inches. It’ll be a bit of a shock, I won’t lie, but it’s all part of the transformation.”

The word shock hangs in the air, prickling at my skin. I swallow hard, my hands gripping the edges of the chair. “I’m just… worried I won’t even recognize myself,” I admit softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

Sven pauses, the comb momentarily still in his hand as he studies my face in the mirror. His expression doesn’t change—if anything, he looks faintly amused. “That’s the point,” he says simply, as if it’s obvious. “Why would you want to look like everyone else when you can stand out?”

I don’t respond. For a moment, everything seems to slow. I watch as his fingers move with deliberate precision, reaching for the razor resting at the top of the neatly arranged tools.

The metallic gleam of the blade catches the light as he picks it up, testing its weight in his hand. My breath catches in my throat, my gaze locked on the razor as though it’s the only thing in the room. Sven keeps talking, his tone smooth and measured, but I barely register the words.

“This first cut is always the most dramatic,” he says, holding the razor up with a slight flourish. “Once the length is gone, we’ll have a clean canvas to work with. From there, it’s all about sculpting something modern, bold, and unforgettable.”

My heart pounds as I watch him turn the razor in his hand, his movements almost hypnotic. I can’t look away. 

“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice breaking through the haze.

I force myself to nod, even though I feel anything but ready. My grip on the chair tightens as I brace myself for what’s coming, my reflection staring back at me with wide, uncertain eyes.

Sven steps to my right, close enough that I can feel the faint presence of his breath near my temple. My heart is hammering, each beat echoing in my ears. His comb moves with mechanical precision, separating a small section of hair just in front of my ear.

“Let’s begin,” he says, his voice low but steady, as if to himself more than me.

I feel the pull of the comb against my scalp, followed by the slight tug as he traps the section between his fingers. My vision in the mirror is partially obscured by his hand, but I see enough—the wet, dark strands stretching down almost to my waist. 

Without ceremony, he brings the razor to the base of the section. I barely have time to process it before the sound cuts through the silence: a harsh, rhythmic shhk-shhk-shhk as the blade begins sawing back and forth through the thick tendril.

The sensation is startling—a firm, vibrating pull at the root. I blink, trying to keep my eyes focused on the mirror, but all I can think about is the sound, sharp and relentless. Shhk-shhk-shhk.

Then, suddenly, the pulling stops. There’s a heavy, sliding sensation against the side of my cape as the severed section of hair slumps forward, past my shoulder. I catch a glimpse of it—a thick, dark rope of hair—before it falls to the floor with a soft, wet thud.

The sound sends a jolt through me. My breath catches as I realize the weight on that side of my head has vanished. I lift my eyes to the mirror again, but the angle of Sven’s hands still blocks the view. All I can do is feel the absence, the lightness where there was once heaviness.

I try to gather myself, feeling the tremors in my hands slowly ease, but it’s no use. The reality of what’s happening keeps pushing its way back to the surface. I can still feel the weight of that first cut on my right side, but it’s too late to undo it now. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves as Sven moves to the next section.

He slides the comb through my hair again, this time just behind my ear. He lifts the section, his fingers firm and confident. There’s a moment’s pause—just enough for me to brace myself—before I hear that same shhk-shhk-shhk sound of the razor at work.

The noise is sharper this time, more pronounced as it moves through the thick section of my hair. I can feel the razor tugging through, the pressure light but unyielding. This time, I’m more prepared for the weight to drop, but it doesn’t make it any easier. The section falls away, as thick and heavy as the first.

I can see it now. My hair, no longer long and flowing, but ragged and cut to a few inches. It looks raw—unfinished. It’s almost as though the length was hacked away in a rush, leaving behind something unpolished and jagged. 

Sven isalready moving on, methodical in his work. Comb. Fingers. Razor. Over and over, as though it’s nothing more than routine for him.

I glance up at the mirror again, the reflection showing the growing disparity between what’s left and what’s gone. I swallow hard, but before I can say anything, Sven speaks up.

“You’ll love it when we’re done,” he says, his voice calm and reassuring, but there’s a flicker of something almost teasing in it. “Trust me, this is what will set you apart. You’re going to look stunning with the finished look.”

I want to argue, to tell him that I’m not sure I’ll ever love this, but the words get caught in my throat. I can barely recognize myself in the mirror now, and I can’t imagine what the finished product will look like. But Sven doesn’t seem to notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s too focused on making his vision come to life.

Sven moves around to my left side now, methodical as ever. The razor slices through the sections of hair, and with each stroke, more and more of my length disappears. I can feel the weight shift again, this time on the other side of my head. Each slice of the blade against my hair is met with a sudden lightness, and I feel it drop away, landing softly against the floor. 

My eyes drop to the floor and I can see it now—the piles of wet, dark hair collecting beneath me. The heaps grow larger with every stroke, and a sickening realization twists in my stomach. This is really happening.It’s like watching someone else’s reflection in the mirror—a person who doesn’t look anything like me.

I can’t help but think about how long it will take to grow all this out. Will it take months? Years? I can’t stop myself from imagining how different I’ll look in the meantime. My hand clenches the armrest again as I fight the urge to pull away, but I’m frozen in place.

Then, from somewhere behind me, I hear a familiar voice—Malin’s.

“Wow, that’s some change,” she says, her tone a bit more cutting than I would have expected. I don’t look at her, but I can hear the surprise in her voice. “I can’t believe Sven convinced you to go through with it.”

I feel her presence shift next to me, and before I can stop her, I hear the soft rustle of hair being picked up. Malin’s fingers lift one of the strands, holding it up to examine it.

“How long is this?” she asks, a slight edge to her voice, more curiosity than concern. “30 cm? No, maybe 40, actually. This is a lot of hair.”

I don’t answer her, though I feel a pang in my chest at the sight of the hair in her hands. 40 centimeters. That’s a lot. It’s strange hearing someone else measure it, knowing that now it’s not on my head. It’s just a pile on the floor.

Sven doesn’t pause in his work. He simply nods in agreement. “Yes, quite a bit,” he says, his voice clipped as he continues his task.

Malin leaves us and for a moment the only sound I hear is the sound of the razor removing the last of the bottom section. The weight of the last section is lifted as he runs the razor through it, each stroke final. And then, just like that, the last of my long hair is gone.

But then, as if trying to comfort myself, I glance up at my reflection. The top section—my last bit of length—still piled ontop of my head. For a brief second, there’s a flicker of comfort in seeing the hair still there. 

Sven uncaps the clips with a smooth motion, and for a moment, I’m caught off guard as the last bit of length falls around my shoulders and neck. The wet strands feel heavy, clinging to my skin, and I can almost pretend that my hair is still long, if only for a few seconds.

Sven doesn’t give me time to process. His comb work through the section carefully. And then, without warning, he lifts the section higher, pulling it away from my scalp. The comb still clutched in his other hand, he picks up his scissors with a practiced ease, their cold steel glinting in the soft light.

 In one quick motion, he brings them down, and with a sharp snip, the whole section is severed.

I don’t even have time to brace myself as the length, a good foot of my hair, slides down through the air, landing softly in my lap. It’s wet and heavy, a lifeless pile of hair, no longer part of me. 

He ruffles what is left of my hair. The top still has some length compared to the sides, reaching to around my ears. 

Sven moves to the top section with his usual precision, lifting it piece by piece. He works methodically, removing another 3 or 4 inches with each section, and I watch as the damp strands tumble down. Some land heavily on the cape, while others slide to the floor, joining the growing pile of what used to be my hair.

I’m resigned now, too tired to fight against the inevitable. My reflection in the mirror looks unfamiliar, stripped down to something I don’t recognize. There’s no trace left of the long hair that used to frame my face and spill down my back. It’s all sprawled out on the floor around me or weighing heavily on my lap, soaking into the cape like a quiet reminder of what’s gone. What’s left is the briefest of pixie cuts. 

I catch myself wondering what Daniel will think. He always loved running his hands through my hair, absently twisting it around his fingers as we sat together. Now, there’s nothing left for him to hold. No softness, no weight. I try to push the thought aside, but it sticks, gnawing at the edges of my mind.

Sven doesn’t pause. His razor moves quickly and efficiently, working through the last sections until almost everything is cut to the length he envisioned. The heavy curtains of hair I’d always known are gone, replaced by an unfamiliar lightness.

Still seated in the chair, I glance around the room, trying to ground myself in the bustling activity. Freja is across the way, her head now free of the foils, her hair transformed into a striking shade of ginger red. It glows under the studio lights, giving her an almost ethereal aura as she tosses it back, laughing at something Malin says. Anna, meanwhile, has had her long hair shaped into a sleek, shoulder-skimming shag. The layers frame her face beautifully, softening her features and giving her a polished, effortless look. She runs her fingers through the ends, smiling as she admires her reflection in the mirror.

I glance back at my own reflection, the stark contrast almost too much to bear. Freja and Anna look different but still themselves—refined, enhanced versions of who they were before. I, on the other hand, hardly recognize the person staring back at me.

Anna catches my eye and smiles, tilting her head toward me. “How do you feel, Maria?”

I hesitate, gripping the arms of the chair to steady myself. My mouth feels dry. “Still in shock,” I admit quietly, my voice strained.

She nods, her expression sympathetic. “It’s a big change, but you’ll get used to it. It suits you.”

I force a small smile in return, but the words don’t sink in.

Sven claps his hands together, interrupting my thoughts. “Alright, Maria. Time to get up and stretch those legs,” he says, his tone light, almost celebratory. He pulls off the cape, sending more hair to the floor. 

I rise slowly, and my eyes are drawn downward. The floor beneath the chair is littered with thick, dark tendrils of my hair, a striking contrast against the light tiles. There’s so much of it—far more than I imagined. Piles of damp strands, tangled and lifeless, sprawled out like evidence of some irreversible event.

I step back gingerly, careful not to step on the hair, but I can’t tear my eyes away. It feels surreal, as if part of my identity lies discarded on the floor.

Freja and Anna join me in the makeshift photo area, and I can’t help but notice how at ease they seem. Freja’s fiery new color gives her a bold confidence, and Anna’s layered cut bounces lightly as she moves, exuding elegance. I, on the other hand, feel exposed, almost vulnerable, as the camera flashes.

Instinctively, I reach up to adjust my hair, my fingers moving to push back a strand that’s no longer there. My hand freezes in midair, brushing only the short tufts that frame my face. The realization hits me again—there’s nothing left to adjust. My stomach churns as the jarring sensation sinks in, a hollow reminder each time my hand moves out of habit.

“You look amazing,” Anna says warmly, nudging me slightly.

“Yeah, you’re rocking it,” Freja adds with a wink. 

Others on the set chime in with compliments, their voices overlapping. I nod and smile mechanically, unable to shake the feeling that their words must be forced. No one could possibly mean them.

The camera flashes again, capturing me in this new state, but all I can think about is how different I’ll look in the final shots. How different I’ll look to everyone, including myself.

Freja looks incredible with her fiery red hair, bold and commanding in front of the camera. Anna’s layered, shoulder-length cut has softened her look, giving her a confident edge. I glance at them, envying how comfortable they seem with their changes. Meanwhile, I’m still fighting the urge to reach for something that isn’t there anymore.

When we take the final photos, I instinctively lift my hand to adjust my hair, only to stop midway as I remember—there’s nothing to fix. It’s an empty, jarring feeling that hits me again and again. The others laugh and chat with the crew, relaxed and happy, while I force myself to stand still, wondering if anyone can tell how out of place I feel. Sven, of course, looks thrilled, his smile plastered across his face as though he’s just won an award.

By the time I step out of the studio, the cold air hits me like a slap. The chill bites at my neck, sharp and unforgiving. I hadn’t realized how warm my long hair used to be. I pull my coat tighter, shivering as I glance down the street.

A car is waiting for me by the curb, the driver already holding the door open. I take a step forward but hesitate, my hand resting on the edge of the door. I don’t want to go home.

Home means seeing Daniel. No one at the shoot really knew me; they could compliment the transformation without much thought. But Daniel will know. He’ll see the absence of what used to be, of the girl I was this morning. I can already imagine him reaching for my hair, only to stop short when he realizes it’s gone. I don’t think I’m ready for that moment.

I step back, my breath curling in the cold air. The driver notices and clears his throat, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Miss? Are you getting in?”

I nod quickly, forcing myself to move. “Yes. Sorry.”

Sliding into the backseat, I glance out the window as the door shuts behind me. The city lights blur past as the car pulls away, but I can’t stop my hand from reaching up to the back of my head. My fingers brush against the short strands, foreign and strange.

I lean back, closing my eyes. My chest feels tight. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be now. The girl I was this morning is gone, left behind in a pile of dark hair on the studio floor. Now, I’m left with this—a new face staring back at me. 

Clearly the model trope is my favorite. Hope you enjoy! 

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