One Snip Is All It Took

“Hey Maya, Heather wants to see you in her office when you’re done with lunch,” Jenny said as she made her way into the break room.

“I’m just finishing up now,” I said as I swallowed my last bite of pizza and tossed the napkin into the trash, “what’s it about?”

“Sounded like it was time for your drug test,” Jenny said, “you haven’t gotten one yet, right?”

“Right you are,” I replied as I stood up and grabbed my purse, “no time like the present I suppose, I did just down a whole bottle of Pepsi.”

I took my leave of the break room and made my way down the hall towards the HR department with a smile and a spring in my step. I was an avid shooter, and loved guns, and I had started my new dream job at the corporate office of Century Arms of America three months ago. In that time, I had already really come to love what I do and the people I did it with. I had just turned 23, but I already wanted to make this the company I retired at.

My “official” job was as an armorer at the factory and a standards inspector for the weapons we made, but my REAL position was as a floor model for trade shows and demonstrations, as well as being a model for our official magazine and catalog. I loved it, and actually came over to the company after being a model for several other gun magazines, in which my photo shoots had been featured several times.

I was a humble girl, but I was honest enough to admit that I certainly had the looks to be a very successful floor model. I stood short at 5’4” with large, deep brown eyes, flawless olive-tan skin, and a round face which usually sported a playful smile. I had a solid, fit body due to years of military training and modeling, with curves in all the right places, including a big, but very firm butt and an hourglass figure. I also had a very ample chest, and rivers of lush, silky brown hair that was currently put up in a bun. I had a few tattoos from my time in the IDF, mostly rifles and some Hebrew writing. While I preferred live shows and demonstrations for the trade shows, I knew that I was also VERY photogenic for the camera, as many photo shoots had proven.

My first big trade show was coming up in few days, and I was flying out to Vegas for it tomorrow, so Heather probably wanted me to conduct my drug test before the big show.

I knocked on the door leading into Heather’s office, our HR manager, and she looked up with a smile. I smiled back and waved.

“Wanted to see me?” I asked at the door.

“Yes, please come in Amy,” Heather said, waving me in and motioning to a nearby chair. Heather was a very cute woman in her late-30s with a somewhat “out there” personality, but behind that spacey appearance was actually a very sweet lady with a professional demeanor I had come to really like and respect over the last few months. She was in good shape for someone in their late 30s, had an open, friendly face which was very accustomed to wearing large smiles, and shoulder-length, shiny brown hair that she wore in the shaggy “Rachel” style that always signified somebody who was in the process of trying to grow their hair out. She looked quite cute today in a flowy white cotton tunic over black pants and black heels, her thick hair falling around her face in a way that framed it adorably.

I sat obediently and crossed my legs, one of them bouncing nervously despite the fact that I knew what this was likely about.

“So, what’s up?” I asked anyways.

“Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble,” Heather said as she reached into her desk for something, “unless you’ve taken any drugs recently.”

“Not to my recollection,” I chuckled and shook my head, a long lock of my hair falling loose from my bun and falling in front of my face, which I tucked behind my ear, “just a lot of coke and heroin last night, but that’s not a problem, right?”

Heather chuckled back, and pulled a small baggie and small pair of scissors from her desk.

“As long as it was in moderation,” Heath joked back, “Otherwise, all you have to worry about is parting with a small lock of your hair,” she said as she flicked her own brown hair behind her back with a practiced snap of the neck, then quickly walked up behind me in a few quick steps.

“Oh!” I exclaimed as she got behind me and placed the scissors and baggie down, “you don’t do like, a urinalysis or anything?”

“Not anymore,” Heather chuckled as she reached up and quickly undid my massive bun, “but don’t worry Amy, I’ll take care to make this as painless as possible, don’t want anything to happen to hair as beautiful as yours.”

My hair tumbled free of its constrictive bun and spilled down my back. My hair was my pride and joy; a glossy shade of gorgeous, deep, rich brunette, with an absolutely unbelievable satiny sheen to it. It was lush, thick, and soft, with a slight, natural wave, that tumbled past my waist and rested at the middle of my shapely butt. I loved each and every strand, and while Heather joked with being able to part with a tiny lock of it, the idea of losing even a single strand of my mane made me shudder inwardly, but I repressed it as an unfortunate part of my job.

“OK I guess,” I said as I swallowed and she began fluffing up my hair to get it settled, which was unnecessary since my hair was always perfect, “so how much do you need? An inch? Two?”

“I need the WHOLE thing sweety,” Heather said as she separated a lock from the back of my head, just under the crown, “but don’t worry, you won’t even notice it’s gone.”

“You sure?” I asked, feeling panicked at the idea of losing something so small.

“I’m sure, just don’t feel it, and it will grow back in time completely unnoticed,” she said, but there had been something under her words… the slightest of pauses, probably imperceptible to anyone who wasn’t as panicked as me, “OK, hold still for a second.”

I shut my eyes as I felt the blades close around the lock. I heard a sickening crunching noise for what felt like an eternity as the blades sliced through the silken tress, far too long for such a tiny portion of hair, and then a loud SNICK as they closed, along with a slight pressure vanishing from my head as the hair came free.

“Aaaaaand, we’re done,” Heather said happily as she slid my long, shining lock of hair into her bag, “that wasn’t too painful, right?”

I reached up and gasped as I felt the cut area. She hadn’t been kidding, the area was chopped down to the scalp, and my fingers kept brushing a tiny patch of rough, prickly stubble, barely the size of a pea, surrounded on every side by the rest of my lush, thick, silky hair.

“Wow,” I said, continuing to feel the rough area in horror, but also something else. Inquisitiveness maybe? Curiosity? Heather watched me continue to feel the area, her brows furrowing as she watched.

“Just a piece of advice,” she said as she wrote my information on the bag, “you shouldn’t keep feeling it, it’ll drive you crazy.”

“Crazy?” I said, my hand dropping away from my head, “like how?”

“Hard to describe,” Heather said with a shrug, but there was a peculiar look on her face as she reached up and tucked a strand of her own mousy brown hair behind her ear, “just… trust me on this one.”

“Sure thing,” I said, my hand obediently dropping to my side.

If I knew what was going to happen, I would have stitched my hands to my waist.

I took her advice… for the rest of the day at work.

When I got home though, my hand kept drifting up to the tiny, bare area. It was so small, yet my fingers kept being drawn to it for some reason I couldn’t explain, and my revulsion at that missing lock kept hitting me full force.

As I laid in bed, trying to drift off to sleep, it took me longer than normal as my fingers continued to brush that spot, and I finally forced myself to turn off the light and go to sleep.

“Feels so weird…” I said quietly as I felt the velvety patch one last time and shut my eyes.

The next day I was in my “airport attire”, basically shorts and a tank top, with my hair thrown up into a messy bun as I made my way through the security and the plane ride. We got to our hotel and checked in with just enough time to shower and get ready for the show. I got dressed in my “CAA” cropped white silk polo shirt and a pair of form-fitting black tactical pants, then spent a good hour lightly curling and styling my hair. When we got to the show they handed us our gear for display and I knew I looked good, DAMN good. My make-up was immaculate, and my hair was absolutely flawless, as always, lightly swept to the side and glamorously curled to add that extra body and volume.

The event ended at 6, and after it wrapped up, there was a special feast for all the demonstrators, models, and event booth managers. We ate, drank, and painted the town red, then got back to our rooms around 3 AM, my bald patch temporarily forgotten as I climbed into bed and passed out.

The next day I was getting ready for our flight home, and actually putting some effort into looking nice for a change. I slipped into a pink ribbed zip-up tank top over a pair of form-fitting jeans, making sure my hair and makeup looked immaculate.

As I was finishing up my hair however, my hand brushed past my bald patch, and my mind stopped working for a second. I felt the revulsion I had felt when it happened, but it passed much quicker this time, now replaced with something else entirely… but I couldn’t figure out what.

The trip home was the same, my hand reaching up to feel that patch of missing hair every couple minutes, many times unconsciously. I did it on the plane, waiting for my luggage, and on the Uber home. I couldn’t stop, the sensation was terrifying, and all-consuming, like an itch that was impossible to scratch. The obsession only got worse, and it wasn’t long before the strange feeling began to manifest into something even stranger. I didn’t know what it was, but for some reason, I felt frightened by it.

After a while lounging back home and being unable to think about anything else, I pulled out my laptop and did something very bizarre. I began to search images and videos of women getting drug tests done the same way I did. Before long I was searching out videos of women cutting off their long hair… and then, women shaving their heads. I couldn’t stop myself, I sat there, watching every video I could find with wide eyes and an open mouth, when suddenly I looked at the clock in the corner of my computer and saw that I had been doing so for nearly 2 hours!

“Oh my God!” I said out loud as I slammed my laptop shut and looked at myself in the mirror, my fingers once again going straight to the bare patch of scalp on the back of my head, “what… what’s happening to me?”

The next morning I awoke on my own nearly an hour before my alarm was supposed to go off. The sun wasn’t out yet, so with nothing to do, I immediately picked up my phone and continued looking at pictures of women shaving their heads seemingly on auto-pilot, unable to stop as I sat there comfortably in bed. As I watched, my hand kept reaching up and feeling that awful, hairless area that Heather had created… that stupid area that had started this bizarre sensation, that had infected my brain with this strange obsession, that was making it worse with every passing moment. I knew I had passed some point-of-no-return by now, but where would it lead? Where would the final stop of this journey take me?

Things didn’t get much better at work. My mind was distracted, elsewhere, simple tasks took nearly an hour to accomplish as I was unable to think of anything other than what was happening to me, and those women who had so happily shaved their heads.

Just when I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse, things took a dark turn and that strange, vague sensation began to manifest into something awful. As I thought about all those women losing their hair to the clippers, I began to feel a part of me… wanting to join them! It was a tiny part, and I knew that I loved my treasured locks far too much to indulge it… but it stuck there like a splinter in my mind, unmoving.

Two days later I was starting to get scared. REALLY scared. The thoughts and desires to shave my head were plaguing me more and more, to the point where it was even overtaking my unequivocal love for my mane. I felt like if I didn’t do something fast, my beautiful hair wasn’t going to be around much longer, so I invited Heather out to lunch to talk to her and see if she had ever seen someone go through something like this with an earlier drug test.

We were sitting at our favorite Mexican restaurant, El Chicharron, waiting for our food.

Heather looked adorable in a flowery summer dress, and I was dressed comfortably for work in a simple pair of jeans and a white polo shirt, my long, shiny hair contrasting beautifully with the stark white color of my shirt.

“Hey Heather, weird question,” I started, not quite sure how to phrase it, “but when you’ve cut women’s hair in the past for the drug tests, has it ever led to anything… strange?”

She looked up at me suddenly, alarm in her eyes, and then her eyes narrowed at me suspiciously.

“Strange… how?” she asked cautiously, suspiciously.

“I don’t know, just… strange,” I replied.

She looked at me over the rim of her glass as she took a sip, making me afraid to move. I sat there motionless for several moments, then reached up to feel my bald patch almost unconsciously. That was when she slammed her glass down on the table with so much force that it made me jump, the contents sloshing around the sides violently.

“God dammit Maya,” she said angrily, but I could tell the anger wasn’t directed at me, “god dammit! You want to shave your head, don’t you?”

“I… I was… how did…” I stammered, reaching up and stroking my long locks protectively, my fingers fiddling with the bare patch completely on their own, “I mean, NO! I don’t want to, but I… how the heck did you know that?”

“Oh honey,” Heather said as she pulled out her phone and began looking for something on it, “I see the way you’ve been fiddling with your bald patch more and more, I’m honestly amazed that you’ve lasted as long as you have.”

“What do you mean ‘lasted’? Heather, what’s happening to me?” I pleaded, any attempt to remain subtle completely lost, “I don’t want to lose my hair! I love my hair! But something is wrong with me! How do I save it?”

“I’m going to be honest honey, I don’t know if you can,” Heather said, still not looking up from her phone, “once the desire hits you, it just grows and grows. I wish you hadn’t felt that patch over and over, that seems to be what triggers it.”

“So you’ve seen this before?” I asked.

“Oh yes, indeed,” she said, finally putting her phone on the table and looking at me, “you know, I had pretty long hair my whole life … except for one time.”

She slid the phone my way and I picked it up. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at, but once I did the shock hit me full force.

“Oh my GOD!” I exclaimed, “when was this?!?”

“Four days after I got my drug test,” she responded as I continued to look in shock at the picture.

It was a before and after picture. On the left was Heather, who looked a few years younger in the photo. Her hair was longer than it was now, hanging down to her shoulder blades and fanned over her shoulders, styled in adorable, thick curls, just as thick and shiny as her hair was now. She was smiling, but it almost looked forced, like there was immense nervousness lurking just underneath it.

The next picture showed why. Gone were Heather’s long, curly brown locks, replaced with a bare head that she still managed to look cute with. She looked like she was in the middle of talking when the photo was taken, and there was a hint of sadness in her face, probably because she realized her lovely hair was nothing but a memory.

“How long ago was this?” I asked, unable to tear my eyes from the picture.

“Almost three years ago,” she replied, reaching up and gently stroking her long brown shag, “my hair still hasn’t recovered from it, I still have a few more inches to go before it gets to the length it was before the cut, and then I have to grow out the layers like I had in that photo.”

“Has it happened to anyone else?” I asked her, nervously twirling a lock of hair around my finger, “have you seen others go through the same thing you did?”

“One other girl,” she replied, “her hair wasn’t like ours, it only fell to her shoulders… but after her snip, I saw the same thing happen to her that happened to me… and I see happening to you. First, the constant feeling of the snipped area, then the vacant look, then one day she showed up… and no more hair.”

“What happens?” I asked, my desperation growing to overcome this awful thing slowly awakening in me, “how does it progress?”

“I’m sure you have a good feeling of how it goes,” she said honestly as she reached out and gently tugged on one of my long, silky brown locks, “first… the revulsion, mine lasted about a day. Next came the acceptance, then the curiosity. Before long I felt the first tugs of desire begin welling up in me. I tried to fight it… I loved my hair then as much as I love it now, and as much as I’m sure you love yours, but two days later, it was too strong, and that afternoon… well… you saw the pictures.”

“I can feel the desire growing in me now,” I said, reflecting on the strange, powerful animal I could feel coiled in my stomach, desperate to be let out, “it’s getting stronger by the day.”

“I don’t know how you’ve lasted so long,” Heather said, continuing to smooth my long locks, “it must be sheer willpower… or love for your hair keeping it in place.”

“So… how do I stop it?” I asked, my hand going straight to my stubble patch, “how do I keep my hair?”

Heather let out a long sigh, and that was the moment I died inside because I realized what she was trying to tell me. There was no stopping this… my hair was as good as gone, living on borrowed time, and there was nothing I could do about it. I hung my head in defeat, my long brown locks tumbling onto the table, shining beautifully in the sunlight. It wasn’t fair!

“Hey, don’t be so glum…” Heather said as she stroked the crown of my head like a pet, “there’s always a chance you beat this… there’s a first time for everything after all. And even if you… don’t, the desire passes instantly, and you can start growing your hair back like I did.”

“And it doesn’t come back after the next drug test?” I asked, in my head I was thinking of and cataloguing the ways I wanted to spend my final days with my hair, “it doesn’t happen all over again?”

“Well… to be honest, I only had the one drug test,” Heather shrugged, “and to be extra honest, I don’t know what will happen if I get another.”

“Heather, what do I do?” I pleaded, holding back tears, “my hair is doomed, what should I do?”

“Enjoy it dear,” she replied honestly, stroking my hair again, “enjoy every single second with it while you can.”

I tried to take Heather’s advice, I really did. I spent the next few days allocating extra time to make my hair look as beautiful as it could, and to enjoy it for as long as I could. I deep conditioned it every night, and brushed it for hours at a time, making it as soft and shiny as possible. It really looked otherworldly, but as much as I tried to enjoy it, there was always that lurking, nagging sense that soon it would be gone, punctuated more and more every day as I felt that awful, primal desire continuing to grow.

10 days after Heather had taken my drug test, I was working my ass off at the armory. I was wearing a tight black low-cut tee tucked into a pair of skintight high-waisted jeans, my makeup immaculately done. My hair was perfect, absolutely perfect, long and loose, lightly curled and fluffed up to add just the right amount of volume and body, shining beautifully in a way I haven’t seen in a long time, possibly ever, and softer than silk to the touch thanks to the deep conditionings I had been using on it.

I wore a smile most of the day, but it was much more subdued and distracted than it normally was, and for good reason. I plunged myself into my work that day, desperately trying to distract myself, and dreading the moment 5 o’clock rolled around. I was going to try and stay late, I was going to try and keep busy for as long as I could, because I was dreading the moment I finally had to go home.

Because I knew that tonight was the night I was going to shave my head.

I had known the second I woke up that morning. I had opened my eyes, the sun being filtered through my dark, silky tresses, and the horrible desire larger than ever in my chest… and I just knew that this was it. I felt confident that I could fight it a little longer, put it in one more style, enjoy it one last day at work, brush it a few more times… but I knew that this was it, and that my hair would be gone by sunset.

I had to call in late to because I had sat in my bed and cried for nearly an hour… shedding tears over my beautiful, chocolate locks, which would soon be gone forever. My hand reached back and felt than damned patch… that tiny imperfection that had started this all, and I wondered if I was just a little stronger, if I could have lasted long enough for it to grow out until it was no longer noticeable, if that would have changed things. Would I have been able to keep my gorgeous hair? It didn’t matter because now I would never know.

So here I was, 4:54 PM, just six minutes left in my shift. The anxiety and terror I had felt had grown steadily through the day, and even as I looked down to inspect and weigh the blue plastic pistol I held for the workshop, I knew my time had run out. The inevitable was here… and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

When 5 o’clock hit I walked the factory, asking every single person I saw if there was something I could help them with, an extra task I could do, ANYTHING to delay the horrible fate that awaited me at home, but everyone told me “no thanks” and “have a good night”, if they only knew. As I walked by Heather’s office, she looked up at me and I gave her a slow, sad nod. She stood up and made her way over to me for a big bear hug, softly running her fingers through my hair sympathetically, the last time someone else would ever do so.

As I drove home I opened the window, letting the wind billow through my hair and making it dance wildly in the breeze. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to feel this sensation again, if I would be able to grow my hair out as long and as beautiful as it was now, if it would even be the same texture if I had to start growing it all over again from scratch. Would I look OK with a shaved head? Would I look hideous? My remarkable hair was one of my largest assets as a model, my agent had even told me as much (she even referred to it as “princess hair”), so even if I did look alright, would CAA want to keep using me as a model without this amazing long hair? Would I have to wear a wig for the photo shoots? Should I have bought a wig beforehand? There were so many things scaring me at the moment, and I felt helpless as I dragged my hair towards its impending destruction

I got home and I felt that awful desire pulling me to immediately go into the bathroom, plug in the clippers, and shed this glorious mane once and for all, but I forced myself to push it down… and brush out my hair one last time. I knew my hair had just a few minutes left on my head, the die had been cast, the outcome was inevitable, but I was going to make sure I gave it all the love and pampering it deserved… one last time… and to cherish this last time I would ever brush it.

So I changed out of my clothes and put on a zippered ribbed tank top that I knew would be able to flick loose hair off of, then made my way to my vanity, and sighed heavily as I looked at myself in the mirror and snacked on a rice cake. I looked beautiful, and my hair seemed to look even more magnificent than normal. It shined beautifully in the lights, bounced playfully as I moved in my chair, and swished gently as I turned my head side to side to take in my last, painful looks. I finally picked up my brush, and began to run it through my beautiful locks for what I knew would be the last time.

I brushed and I brushed and I brushed, then I brushed some more, letting the bristles slide softly through my long tresses without hitting a single snag. I closed my eyes as I tried to commit the feeling to memory, listening to the gentle whisper as the brush effortlessly slid through my hair, like the sound of expensive silk rubbing against itself. As I brushed, I was surprised that I didn’t feel the urge to cry. I wasn’t sure if that was because I had finally accepted the fate of my hair, or because I was completely cried out. I had bawled my eyes out this morning as I had brushed my hair before work, crying uncontrollably as I realized that I was mere hours away from losing my treasured hair. It had been embarrassing, but a much needed therapy as I realized I was about to be separated from my beloved security blanket. The tears had flowed freely, splashing in my lap next to my impossibly long, incredibly soft locks. I brushed my hair for over forty minutes, refusing to put the brush down because I knew the second I did, my hair would be gone moments later.

I brushed my hair for almost 45 minutes before it just became too much for my arm, and with a loud, sad sigh I placed the brush on the table. I picked up my rice cake and took a quick bite as I prepared for the plunge I had been dreading for so long, and took one last look in the mirror. My hair shined beautifully and brilliantly, looking gorgeous after its nearly hour long brushing session, I decided that as horrible as this was going to be, if I had to lose my hair, this was how I wanted it looking in its final moments on Earth… perfect.

I picked up the clippers I had bought specifically for this event. Freshly oiled and razor sharp, I knew my hair wouldn’t stand a chance against them, despite how thick and soft each and every strand was. I snapped them on and repressed the urge to shudder at the horrible sensation of them vibrating in my hands. Last night had been my moment of weakness, right now I was going to be strong, I was going to be tough… and I was going to lose my hair with my head held high.

I had spent an injured month in the military giving new recruits clean shaves, so I knew what I was doing. While I had initially thought of doing this shave slowly and deliberately to fully absorb the experience of something I never thought I would go through, I had quickly decided against it. I didn’t want to dwell this horrible action that was about to occur. I loved my hair, I loved it more than anything I owned or would ever own, and if it were up to me, I would have kept it just like it currently was until the end of my days. This was going to be unpleasant, VERY unpleasant, there was nothing to absorb other than pain and sadness, and I wanted this horrible punishment to be over as fast as possible.

So I took a deep breath… pulled my hair back from my head with my free hand… told my hair “I’M SORRY!” in a near-yell, and plunged the clippers into the front of my hairline with a speed that surprised even me.

I gasped loudly as the clippers plunged straight into my thick, lush hairline, and as I felt the clippers chew through the front of my soft, delicate mane of ravishing locks, the pitch barely changing thanks to all the oiling I had done to the blades, I knew that as much as it hurt knowing that I had just begun the inevitable destruction of my precious hair, the pain, anxiety, fear, and dread I had been experiencing over the last ten days was finally gone.

Just like my hair was about to be.

That month of stripping young soldiers of their hair was paying off, and I felt the blades glide through my impossibly soft and thick locks like a red-hot poker through butter. It reached the back of my head in a fraction of the time those girls online had taken, and I refused to dwell on what had happened as I moved the clippers to the side and plowed them right through another thick tangle of silky, shiny tresses.

The second pass was even faster than the first, and that was when I noticed the first locks of shining brown waves begin falling to the floor, glistening brilliantly in the lights as they did so, defiant of the horrible fate that had befallen them, and so impossibly heavy that they made a quiet, but audible “THUMP” as they hit the floor.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice cracking slightly, but I refused to cave into the tears, and instead plunged the clippers further down the side of my head, removing another massive batch of shimmering, living silk, and then another, taking almost the last traces of hair from the left side of my head, and leaving the wondrous jungle of lush flowing satin still covering the right side.

Eight seconds had passed since the clippers had first nibbled their way into my hairline, and I was already missing nearly half of my hair.

But I didn’t slow down… slowing down would have forced me to realize what was happening to my beloved hair, would have forced me to realize what this horrible curse Heather had unwittingly placed on me was forcing me to do.

So I kept moving, taking a few more swipes to remove the stray hairs that were still attached to my head, then moving onto the other side.

It was impossible not to notice the piles of hair falling around me in curtains, and before long, the pristine white floor was covered in dark, thick locks that glistened like oil in the lights. Pass after pass on the right side, and my hair quickly melted away… replaced with the rigid, hard stubble that had once covered a tiny fraction of my head less than a minute ago. Moments later, the job was more or less done, so I turned off the clippers, slipped into a flannel buttoned shirt to absorb the incoming bits of hair, and looked at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, and I gently reached up with my hand to feel the horrible remains of my once-glorious head of hair.

28 seconds ago my hair had been nothing short of a miracle; a shimmering, shining jungle of the softest, silkiest, gentle waves imaginable. Heather had snipped a tiny portion of that beautiful hair, probably not even 0.01% of my hairline, and completely indistinguishable when surrounded by the rest of my treasured locks.

But the damage done by that 0.01% had been unimaginable. It had slowly and methodically infected me, until I had given in and destroyed my most cherished possession, and even though the shave had taken less than 30 seconds, I knew that in reality that this shave had actually begun 10 days ago. That 0.01% of my head that had been sheared had now come full circle, with maybe 0.01% of my hair still remaining on my head.

It had been hard… so hard… and I wondered what would become of my once flourishing modeling career. I looked like a freak, so I wasn’t expecting the jobs to come flying my way.

But Heather had been right about one thing… the desire to grow my hair back, to replace the beautiful treasure that was now lost… was stronger than ever… and grow it back I would.

“Aaaaaaaaaand we’re done!” Mark, my photographer, exclaimed, and I lowered my right arm, which was holding an AR-15 pistol platform for a photo shoot, “you look great Maya! These came out really well, wanna see?”

“You bet,” I said as I laid the weapon on the table and trotted over to where he was flipping through the photos, “oh hey, I really like that one! My hair looks great in it.”

It certainly did, fluffed up, glistening, and falling to the middle of my butt, it may have been the best my hair has looked since… well… EVER! And definitely the best it had looked since… the incident.

It had been four and a half years since the night of my shave, and while I had dreaded going into work the next day and explaining to the photography crew why I had shaved off one of my greatest modeling assets, things didn’t work out the way I expected.

As it turned out, the shave was a blessing in disguise. After seeing me newly shaved head, the bosses LOVED it. They were excited to have a bald model working for an armory, as they had wanted to try and appeal to the militaristic culture that a shaved head usually brought to mind. In fact, I was awarded multiple new photo shoots and lucrative contracts, and after they proved to be a massive success, I was asked to KEEP shaving my head for three months in exchange for an exclusive (and incredibly well-paying) modeling contract with. It was something of a tough decision, since all I wanted to do was be re-united with my beloved head of hair, but I had decided that I had come this far, might as well go a little bit longer.

Almost overnight I became one of the most well-known models in the gun community. I was featured on the front of tons of magazines, and at trade shows I was known colloquially as “The Bald Gun-Bunny”. It was a wild ride, and the money flowed in.

But as fun as the money and fame were, I found them paling in comparison to my lost locks. Every morning when I woke up I would constantly reach for hair that was long gone, wishing more than anything to feel those glossy, silken locks one last time.

So at the end of the three months, I decided not to renew the contract. The company understood and kept me on as their official go-to model, and I was allowed to grow my hair out once again. I had committed myself fully to the cause of growing my mane back to its former glory over the years, spending a good chuck of the fortune I had made with my exclusive contract to purchase the best treatments, deep-conditioners, and products on the market to grow it back in better health and condition than it had been before, and the work had paid off!

Now here I was, over four years later, at the age of 27, with a brand new head of hair even longer and more beautiful than it had been on that night I had lost it. Whether the act of shaving it had done something, or being a few years older, my hair was a little bit different than it had been when I had shaved it, but in a GOOD way.

While it still possessed the rich, beautiful color and otherworldly sheen it had earlier, it was now even softer, thicker, and healthier than it had even been on its best days in the past. It now had a bit more of a natural wave to it, giving it more natural body and “oomph”, and was impossibly soft and silky to the touch, noticeably softer than it had been years ago when I had grown it out WITHOUT the help of all these top-of-the-line hair products. I had added a streak to the front of my bangs and it looked good… REAL good, and it was longer than it had been, now falling to the middle of my butt (or the bottom on the odd days I straightened it) rather than the top. In a nutshell, my hair was healthier and more beautiful in every way now, and as much as I had loved my hair back in the day before losing it all, I loved this hair even MORE!

“Oh, by the way, Heather said she wanted to see you,” Mark said as he packed his camera, “something about her new job.”

“OK, cool, thanks,” I said, then trotted out of the room towards Heather’s office.

Heather and I had become good friends over the years, and hung out a lot in our spare time as well. I had been saddened to hear that she had taken another, better job at a different company, but I knew this was a great step up for her, so I was happy overall. I walked down the main corridor towards her office, feeling my long, thick waves bouncing playfully and heavily against my back with each step. I smiled to myself at the sensation, as back in the day I had always loved the feel of my long hair swishing against my back as I walked, but now my new, thicker waves produced a much more playful, pronounced bounce to them. I loved this sensation even than the swishing sensation I had gotten used to back then, yet another reason I preferred my new, longer, more voluminous hair over my former, long-lost locks.

I knocked on her door, and Heather looked up with a smile and stood up to hug me.

“Hey beautiful,” she said as we embraced, “I simply cannot get over how gorgeous your hair looks now.”

“It took long enough,” I said with a chuckle as I sat in the chair opposite her and fluffed up my mane, “over four loooooooong years to get it here.”

“Your hair must grow way faster than mine, It feels like it took me forever just to grow mine back to this length, so I can imagine the pain,” Heather said, reaching up and running her fingers through her own hair. She looked adorable in the same white, flowy tunic she had been wearing when this entire adventure began years ago.

“Personally I love it,” I told her honestly, “did you do something different? It looks bigger… and I like it!”

Her hair was longer than when we had first met, and longer than it had been when she had been forced to shave it as well. It now fell several inches past her bra, and she wore it in an adorable, poofy style similar to those “wolf cuts” that were so popular now.

“Oh, I’ve got some very interesting news about my hair,” she said as she sat back in her seat, “but that can wait. First, tell me about this rumor I’m hearing about you and a new contract. 1-year exclusive? With a 50,000 signing bonus?!?”

I chuckled and shook my head slowly, my soft waves swishing around my head with the movement.

“It’s true,” I said slowly, “but there’s a big stipulation that made me turn it down.”

“What was that?” Heather asked, leaning forward, “what in the name of God could have made you turn down THAT offer?”

“Simple really, they want to bring ‘The Bald Gun-bunny’ back on the cover, which means aaaaaaaall of this…” I reached behind me with both hands and dug them deep in my hair, then lifted my mane on either side of my head for emphasis, “would have to go.”

“And that’s a deal killer?” Heather asked.

“Yeah, that’s a deal killer,” I chucked as I let go of my hair and let it softly fall back into place, “I spent way too long growing it back to this length just to lose it again, so I had to pass.”

“Well, speaking of hair, I’ve got a surprise,” she stood up and walked over to me, “close your eyes.”

I obliged, and she took my hand. I heard a soft whisper of something, then she placed my fingers on the back of her head. I wondered what was going one as she maneuvered my fingers through her long locks, when suddenly my fingers grazed by something and my eyes shot open.

“NO!” I nearly shouted in disbelief, “that can’t be what I think it is. I don’t believe it!”

“Believe it,” Heather said as she tossed her hair back behind her head, hiding the bare patch of rough stubble I had just felt, “new job required that I get a drug test before I start, and get one they did.”

“So does that mean you’re going to… you know…” I mimed running clippers over my own long brown hair, and she nodded sadly.

“Yep,” she said, somewhat quickly, “I can already feel it, not much use denying it.”

“Oh honey, when?” I asked, shocked that I would soon be seeing Heather look like that picture she had shown me four and a half years ago, especially after she had spent so long getting it to the fluffy, adorable style she was currently rocking.

“I don’t know… tomorrow? Maybe tonight?” she shrugged as she reached behind her head and gently poofed up her already big hair, “I don’t have your fortitude, so I seriously doubt I’ll make it 10 days like you did, in fact, I’d honestly be surprised if it made it through the night.”

“Oh Heather,” I said sadly, not quite believing that all that thick, lovely hair would shortly be hitting the floor, “I’m going to miss playing with your hair… now who’s hair am I going to braid? Or brush out? Or experiment on?”

“Ah, don’t cry for me honey,” she said sweetly as she rolled her eyes at me.

“Don’t you roll your eyes at me young lady!” I said in mock anger, “all your beautiful hair…”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she shot back, “I may not make 50 thousand bucks off it like you would if you did it, but it’s just hair, it’ll grow back. Which reminds me… I don’t know how to say this, but you should really start to consider taking them up on that offer.”

“Now it’s MY turn to roll me eyes,” I chuckled as I draped my own long, soft waves over my shoulder and began petting them lovingly, “I did not spend the last four and a half years working my ass off to grow my hair back like this… just to shave it all off again, I’m just not up to the task, my heart just can’t take it.”

“Well, think about it this way,” Heather said, tucking a lock of her own doomed hair behind her ear and leaning over her desk at me, “when I’m gone, they’ll have a new HR person come in, and do you know what the first thing they’ll want to do is?”

“What’s that?” I asked, smiling broadly as I reveled in the sensation of my long, soft hair sliding gently through my fingers.

“A drug test,” Heather responded.

My smile vanished.

“That’s not funny,” I said as my long lock dropped from my fingers.

“I know,” Heather said sadly, “and I’m so sorry honey. I didn’t even consider this consequence for leaving my job.”

“But… but I…” I was speechless, and I planted my face in my hands in utter defeat, my angelic hair spilling around my head with the movement. Was this it? Did I spend all these years growing my hair back to the healthiest, shiniest, softest it’s ever been, just to have it stolen away once again? “It’s not fair… it’s not fucking fair! Oh God Heather, what do I do?”

“The way I see it, you have three options:” Heather said, holding up her hand to count on it, “one, accept the contract and shave your head now.”

My eyes grew wide and I shook my head vigorously, inadvertently sending my soft waves flying around my head in a storm of shining silk.

“Two, you leave the company, and look for another job,” she continued, “but more than likely, they’re going to want a drug test too.”

“And even if they did, I don’t know if I could,” I replied, “I really love it here.”

“Or three,” she paused slightly, knowing I wasn’t going to like what she said, “you roll the dice. You get the drug test, and hope against all hope that lightning doesn’t strike twice, and that you overcome that horrible desire this time around.”

I sat there quietly, considering my options. None of them were very good, and the chance that I would still be in possession of all this beautiful, luscious hair by this time next month had just gone from an absolute certainty to a near-impossibility. It wasn’t fair. Why did I have to be like this? Why was my brain wired like this?

“What do you think?” I asked Heather, desperate for some… for ANY semblance of advice, “do you feel any different since the first time this happened to you?”

She shook her head sadly.

“Nope, not at all,” she told me, her poofy, shaggy hair swishing softly around her head with the movement, hair which would be nothing but a memory in a matter of hours, “but everyone is different. I know my hair is already doomed, but there’s a chance… no matter how slim… that you’ll be different. And as long as there’s a chance… I think we both know that you’ll do anything it takes to save your hair, no matter how slim that chance may be.”

I sighed and looked down at the mass of rich, curly, living silk piled in my lap.

“I can’t lose my hair again Heather, I just can’t…” I said sadly as I continued to watch and admire the way my hair shimmered in my lap, “but… I don’t think I’m going to have a choice much longer. I can hope for the best… but something inside me feels like it’s false hope.”

My friend reached out and placed her hand over mine.

“There’s ALWAYS hope,” she said smiling.

After work I changed into a comfortable shirt and tiny denim shorts, and decided to go for a walk in the park. It was a recent activity I had come to love, and I adored the way my hair bounced and billowed in the afternoon breeze with every step. I also allowed myself to indulge in the fact that without fail, I always seemed to get countless compliments on my hair from strangers during these walks, and by the time I found a bench to sit on to watch the sunset, three women had already stopped to ask me how I managed to get hair like I did, as well as the multiple male heads I turned.

My hope had been slowly draining out of me since my discussion with Heather, like a balloon with a miniscule hole in it, and I couldn’t help but feel like the setting sun was symbolic for my time with my beautiful new head of hair. The day was coming to an end, the sun slowly disappearing from the sky, and these coming days could very well be my twilight hours left with my hair, its proverbial curtain call, its swan song. In fact, if what Heather said was true, there was no “very well may be” about it. My hair was as good as gone, and the time I had left with it was nothing more than borrowed time.

The sun finished setting, leaving behind the purple hue in the sky of twilight, and I wondered if Heather’s soft, fluffy hair was still attached to her head, or if it had lost the battle by now and fallen to the floor… like I felt mine would soon be doing.

I shook my head slowly, clearing depressing, self-destructive thoughts from it the best I could. My hair was most likely Schrödinger’s hair, both alive and dead, simultaneously doomed and more beautiful than ever, but I couldn’t let myself just become resigned to that fate. At the very least, I had to enjoy my time left with it, before any thoughts of shaving it once again inevitably made their way back into my head.

I stood up and made my way back to my car. I would go home and brush my hair for hours tonight. Tomorrow, I would go to my salon to pamper it and make it look as lovely as I could, no matter how much it cost. The day after that, I would have lunch with Heather, who would most likely be sporting a shaved head once again (if she didn’t already), while my own gorgeous locks would shine beautifully in the noon sunlight. The day after that… I would return to work and meet our new HR manager… and my hair’s fate would be taken out of my hands for good.

As I walked, I smiled as my voluminous and soft, curly hair delicately bounced and gently sprang off of my back with every step. The ultimate fate of my hair by this time next week was uncertain, and in all likelihood, it wasn’t going to end well… but at that moment, I committed that wonderful sensation of my softly bouncing hair to memory, steeling myself for the worst-case scenario that was waiting around the corner.

And I prepared myself to say goodbye to my beautiful hair once again very soon.