Six Weeks, Shorter (Part 3)

previously…

A secret changes shape when you carry it long enough.

Not heavy. Not guilty. Just… private. Like something folded neatly into a drawer that only I know how to open.

My curls have softened a bit since the last appointment. They’re still springy, still wide around my face, still impossible to ignore in mirrors—but they’ve become familiar in a way that makes me itch. Not because I don’t like them. Because I do. Because Claire likes them too much, and now I’ve started to crave that moment when she sees me and has to re-learn me again.

That first second.

That intake of breath she tries to hide.

The way her hands lift before she even asks.

She touches my hair constantly now. When she kisses me, one hand almost always ends up in the curls. When we’re watching telly, she scrunches at the sides like she’s testing the spring. When we’re in the kitchen, she’ll step in behind me and press her mouth to the back of my neck and slide her fingers into my halo like it’s her right, like it’s a habit she’s earned.

And she always asks—quiet, casual, as if it’s nothing. Can I?

Even when she already knows the answer.

It does something to me. Every time.

Today, she’s in the shower when I slip out.

I don’t make a big show of it. I don’t slam drawers or over-explain. I just dress quickly—jeans, boots, a clean top that makes me look like I’m going somewhere ordinary—and I pull my hair back just enough that I won’t be tempted to fuss with it on the walk.

My phone sits in my palm like a live thing.

Claire’s singing faintly behind the bathroom door, something half-remembered and off-key. It’s domestic, warm. It makes me hesitate for a fraction of a second, guilt trying to edge in.

Then I picture her face when I come home later.

And the guilt dissolves into anticipation.

I’m out the door before the shower stops running.

—

Roxy is already on the floor when I arrive, moving between chairs with that calm purpose she has. Her hair looks slightly different again—still short and spiked, still her, but the highlight placement has shifted so it’s brighter at the front, like she’s made her own face a little sharper.

When she spots me, her expression changes in a way I’ve started to recognise. Not surprise, exactly. More like satisfaction.

“Alright,” she says, as if we have an arrangement. “Come on.”

My stomach flips, bright and ridiculous.

At the chair, she settles the cape around my shoulders with a practised snap and tucks it at my neck. Her fingers brush the skin there—brief contact—and I feel it like a spark.

“You’ve been behaving,” she says, combing gently through my curls.

I blink. “How do you mean?”

“No panic trims. No emergency straightening,” she says, amused. “Most people go home and immediately try to tame what they’ve asked for.”

“I didn’t ask for it,” I remind her, because it matters. Because it’s the truth I keep coming back to.

Roxy’s hands still for half a beat. In the mirror, her eyes meet mine.

“No,” she agrees. “You didn’t.”

My throat tightens. I let out a breath, slow.

Roxy resumes combing. She lifts the curls at the crown, tests the shape, then lets them drop. “So,” she says, conversational, as if we’re discussing weather, “are we still chasing surprise?”

“Yes,” I say, and it comes out too quickly. I try to soften it. “If you’re still… willing.”

Roxy’s mouth curves. “I’m willing.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Deliberate.

She leans closer, voice quieter now, pitched so only I can hear it over the salon hum. “And you’re still alright with not knowing?”

My pulse hits my throat.

“Yes.”

“Okay?” she asks, gentle but firm.

“Yes,” I repeat, and this time it’s steady.

Roxy nods once, as if she’s confirmed something important. Then she sections my hair with quick, neat movements. The comb scrapes lightly at my scalp. My eyes flutter shut for a second before I catch myself.

“Eyes open,” she says, not unkindly.

I open them.

Roxy smiles like she’s pleased I obeyed.

Then she begins—scissors first.

The sound is sharp, clean. She starts at the sides, taking off careful amounts, tightening the line around my ears. Curls lift away from my jaw in small releases, the silhouette drawing in, becoming more precise.

“You’re going shorter,” she says, not as a question, but as a fact. “But not losing the drama.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

Roxy snips again, and a small cascade of curls lands on the cape. I watch it fall, and the sensation in my body isn’t fear. It’s relief. It’s that drop you get when you step off a ledge into water and realise you aren’t going to drown.

“You’ve got a very honest face,” Roxy says, circling behind me.

I laugh weakly. “Is that good?”

“It means I can tell when you want me to stop,” she says, and then adds, almost casually, “and you haven’t wanted me to stop once.”

My cheeks go hot. “That’s—”

“True,” she finishes for me, and I can’t argue.

She works the shape slowly, building it. More stacking at the crown, careful rounding so the hair sits like a sculpted cloud rather than a loose ringlet bob. She doesn’t describe the end result. She never does. But she keeps telling me what she’s doing in those small, sensory declarations that make my nerves settle.

“I’m taking bulk out of here.”

“I’m lifting this.”

“This bit needs to breathe.”

Her fingers press lightly at my scalp when she wants my head to stay still. When she moves around to my front, she cups my jaw for a moment—not romantic, not lingering, just steadying—and the intimacy of it still makes my stomach flip.

Then, when the cut feels nearly finished, she stops.

I look at her in the mirror, waiting without knowing what I’m waiting for.

Roxy’s eyes narrow slightly in thought. She reaches for the front section, the curls that usually frame my cheekbones, and separates them with the end of the comb.

“Alright,” she says softly. “This is the part you’re going to feel.”

I go very still. “Okay.”

Roxy’s gaze lifts to mine. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

She nods, then takes the scissors and makes a small, careful cut right at the front.

Something shifts. Not dramatic—at first. Just a new weight. A new boundary.

She cuts again, slightly higher, shaping shorter curls forward.

My breath catches. “Roxy—”

She pauses immediately, hands still. “What?”

I swallow. My scalp tingles. “I can feel it.”

Her mouth curves. “Good. That’s the point.” Then, gentler: “Too much?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, and continues.

She builds it slowly, a short band of curls that sits forward at my forehead—not straight, not blunt, but undeniably there.

A curly fringe. A new line across my face.

When she sets the scissors down, she steps back and studies the overall shape—halo rounded, crown lifted, fringe forward like a decision.

“Good,” she says quietly. “Now we make it dangerous.”

My stomach flips again. “What does that mean?”

Instead of answering, she turns and begins mixing colour.

I watch her hands move—bowls, brush, gloves—and my heart picks up.

“Colour too?” I ask, and it’s not nervous so much as hungry.

Roxy glances up. “Mm.”

“Big change?”

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You’ll like it.”

That’s all she gives me. And it’s enough.

When she paints the colour on, she does it like she’s sculpting light—only this time it isn’t warmth or honey or anything gentle. It’s rich. Dark at the roots, glossy and dangerous.

The kind of red you only see in velvet curtains and expensive lipstick.

A burgundy-wine colour.

Not bright cherry. Not cartoon. A deep merlot that sits close to brown until the light hits it—then it flares, wet-looking, like a glass tipped toward a candle.

The crown goes first, saturated and heavy, like an anchor. Then she drags the brush through the outer curls, feathering it so the ends catch a slightly brighter garnet, a hint of sangria. Dimensional. Intentional. Intimate.

It’s subtle in the way that makes it worse—because it looks like it belongs on me. Like it’s always been mine and I just never knew the name for it.

When she rinses, the water runs tinted for a while, then clear. She towels carefully, presses product through, and blow-dries with a diffuser just enough to show me what she’s done.

The colour blooms under the lights.

My skin looks brighter. My mouth looks redder. My eyes look like they’ve been outlined.

I don’t recognise myself for a second.

Then I do, and the recognition hits hard—like a slap of pride.

Roxy watches my face. “Okay?”

My voice comes out soft. “Yes.”

Her mouth curves. “Good.”

Then she guides me back to the wash station again, and this time she doesn’t reach for shampoo.

Not yet.

At the basin she tucks the towel snug at my neck and studies my reflection like she’s judging sculpture.

“Your curls have gone a bit… polite,” she says.

My stomach flips. “They have.”

Roxy hums. “We can fix that.”

I wait, breath held.

“Perm,” she says, simple as a verdict.

The word hits hard anyway.

“I already have curls,” I manage, like that should protect me.

“I’m not giving you curls,” she replies, calm. “I’m tightening your pattern. Resetting it. Your halo holds, your fringe sits forward and stays there. Less… soft collapse.”

My pulse jumps. I can almost feel it already—my hair behaving with intention instead of familiarity.

Roxy leans in slightly, voice lowering so it feels private. “This is chemical. It’s a commitment. Not forever, but not nothing.” Her eyes lock on mine in the mirror. “Still chasing surprise?”

“Yes,” I say, too fast.

“And you’re still alright with not knowing exactly how it’ll sit?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

She doesn’t move until she hears it properly. “Okay?” Gentle, but firm.

“Yes,” I repeat, and it steadies into something that feels like a choice.

Only then does she start.

She smooths protective cream along my hairline—forehead, temples, behind my ears—thumb dragging softly over skin that suddenly feels too sensitive. Then she sections my hair with brisk precision. The comb scrapes lightly at my scalp.

“Small rods at the front,” she says, already working. “I want the fringe compact. Coiled. Obvious.”

My throat tightens. “Okay.”

The first rod clicks in near my forehead. The wrap pulls—tight, controlled tension that makes my scalp prickle. End papers, a neat roll, the small snap of the clip. Another. Another.

The sensation builds until my whole head feels held in place, curl by curl, like she’s replaced softness with structure.

I catch myself gripping the chair.

Roxy’s gaze flicks to my hands. “Breathe.”

I do.

Then comes the solution. Cold against the rods, sharp in the air—clean and chemical, the kind of smell that makes the process feel real. My breath catches on instinct.

Roxy pauses instantly. “Too much?”

“No,” I say, and it’s honest. “Just… new.”

Her mouth curves, pleased. “Good.”

She saturates each rod evenly, methodical, making sure nothing’s missed, then caps my hair.

“We wait,” she says, setting a timer, like it’s a promise she intends to keep.

The minutes stretch. I watch myself in the mirror: my face framed by a plastic cap, my hair hidden in a secret project. Roxy stays close, glancing at my expression now and then, her attention steady.

“Still okay?” she asks once.

“Yes,” I whisper.

When the timer finally beeps, my whole body reacts like it’s been holding itself ready.

Roxy rinses thoroughly, warm water rushing over my scalp, then applies neutraliser—gentler scent, same precision. More waiting, shorter this time.

Then she starts unrolling.

The first rod releases with a tiny springing snap I can feel.

Roxy unwinds the curl into her palm and lets it drop.

It isn’t just curlier. It’s tighter. Denser. More deliberate—like my hair has learned a sharper language.

My breath leaves me in a soft, helpless sound. “Oh.”

Roxy hums, satisfied, and keeps going. Rod by rod, the halo returns—plusher, more compact, with a new sense of control. The fringe coils forward into small, obedient spirals that sit where she wants them, like they’ve been trained.

When she’s done, she towels carefully—no roughness, no disruption—then guides me back to the chair.

Back at the chair, this is where she finishes it—shaping, refining, making the whole thing sit like it was always meant to.

She doesn’t comb through it like before. She works product in with slow palms and scrunches upward, coaxing definition until the curls stack neatly and the fringe sits forward like a statement.

Then she diffuses—patient, methodical—until the shape holds: springy, sculpted, almost lacquered in its discipline.

Roxy steps back and assesses, eyes narrowed in approval. She lifts one curl at the fringe, lets it spring back.

“That’s going to last,” she says quietly.

I swallow. “It feels… different.”

“It is,” she agrees, watching my face. “Okay?”

“Yes,” I whisper, and it’s not just permission anymore. It’s pride.

Roxy’s mouth curves. “Good.”

She shifts her weight, hands on her hips, taking in the full effect like she’s signing her name.

“Alright,” she says at last. “Look.”

I look.

My hair is rounder now. Fuller at the sides, higher at the crown, a near-perfect soft sphere of tight ringlets around my head. And at the front, a dense band of curls sits just above my brows, framing my eyes in a way that makes them look sharper, clearer—almost too exposed.

The burgundy makes my skin look brighter. My mouth looks redder. My eyes look like they’ve been outlined.

I don’t recognise myself for a second.

Then I do.

And the recognition hits hard.

I swallow. “Oh.”

Roxy watches my face closely. “Okay?”

My voice comes out soft. “Yes.”

“Still with me?” she asks, and there’s something warm in it now. Not just professional checking. Something like… partnership.

“With you,” I whisper.

Roxy’s smile is small, satisfied. “Good.”

She reaches forward and lifts one curl at my fringe, then lets it spring back.

“You’ll drive her mad,” she says again, quieter this time. Like it’s a private joke between us.

My stomach flips. “She has no idea.”

Roxy hums, pleased. “That’s your favourite part.”

It is.

And the fact that she knows that—knows me that well now—makes my chest tighten.

I pay, thank her, and leave with a halo on my head and a pulse under my skin that doesn’t settle for hours.

—

At home, Claire is in the living room, one leg tucked under her on the sofa, scrolling on her phone. She looks up casually, expecting me to be normal.

Her expression changes so fast it’s almost funny.

Her mouth parts. Her eyes go straight to my forehead—then flick, startled, through the halo like she’s trying to make sense of what she’s seeing.

“Vesper,” she breathes.

I stand in the doorway and let her look. I don’t rush her. I’ve learned to let the moment land.

“You—” She rises slowly, as if she doesn’t want to spook me. “You did it again.”

“Did I?” I try to tease, but my voice is already shaking with excitement.

Claire crosses the room and stops close. Her eyes track the fringe like it’s magnetised, then lift to mine, searching my face. “Can I?”

“Yes,” I say, and my throat tightens on it.

Claire’s hands lift and sink into my curls. This time her fingers catch the fringe first, and she makes a sound—small, involuntary, like surprise has slipped past her control. Then she catches the light on the colour and freezes again, like her body’s lagged behind her brain.

“What—” She swallows. “Your colour—”

I smile, helpless. “It’s… different.”

Claire’s fingers comb through the outer curls, and the burgundy flashes. She stares like she can’t stop herself. “It’s like wine,” she says, awed. “It’s—God.”

She scrunches gently at the front, then slides her hands around the sides, lifting the halo.

“You’ve got… bangs,” she says, like she’s tasting the concept.

I smile. “Curly ones.”

Claire laughs softly, but it’s breathy, charged. “Oh my God.”

She leans in and kisses me.

It’s slow. Not a greeting. Not a peck. The kind of kiss that takes its time, that says I need to feel you rather than hello. Her hands stay in my hair, one at the side of my halo, one at my fringe, as if she’s anchoring herself.

When she pulls back, her eyes are bright. “How does it feel?”

I swallow. “Like… I can’t hide.”

Claire’s thumb grazes my lower lip. “Good.”

That single word goes straight through me.

After, we sit on the sofa, and Claire keeps touching my fringe like she can’t help herself. She lifts a curl, lets it spring. Lifts it again.

“You’re obsessed,” I murmur.

Claire doesn’t deny it. “I am.”

It should feel silly. It doesn’t. It feels like a confession.

Later that night, I’m in the bathroom brushing my teeth when I hear her behind me.

She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her mouth to the back of my neck. Her lips are warm. Her breath makes my skin prickle.

“You’ve done something to me,” she murmurs into my throat.

I lean back into her. “Have I?”

Claire’s fingers slide up into my hair from behind, sinking into the halo, scrunching gently at the crown. The colour shifts under the bathroom light—dark, then suddenly red. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she says. “All day. At work. In meetings.” A soft laugh. “It’s embarrassing.”

I turn my head slightly so I can kiss her. Just a quick press, toothpaste-mint and warmth.

“You’ll live,” I whisper.

Claire’s mouth curves against my cheek. “Barely.”

—

A few days later, a small parcel arrives.

Plain cardboard. My name printed neatly. Nothing about it to give it away.

I carry it upstairs like it’s contraband.

In the bedroom, I close the door and open it quickly, heart thudding, as if someone’s about to burst in and catch me. Inside is a matte-black wide-tooth pick.

It’s simple. Light. Innocent-looking.

But my fingers curl around it and my stomach flips anyway, because I know what it means. I know what I’m planning to do with it. I know I’m not going to tell Claire.

Not yet.

I slide it into my travel toiletry bag and bury it under a hairbrush and a folded pair of tights.

Then I go downstairs and let Claire kiss me in the kitchen like I’m not hiding a secret tool of mischief in our bedroom.

—-

Weeks later, Barcelona comes the way good things do—half planned, half gifted by luck.

A long weekend. Harbour air. Warm nights even when it’s meant to be cooler. The kind of trip that feels like permission.

The day before we leave, Claire disappears for most of the afternoon with a too-casual I’ve got an appointment and a smile that doesn’t quite settle.

I try not to read into it.

I fail.

The flat feels wrong without her—too quiet, like everything’s waiting. I repack the toiletries bag, fingers brushing the buried pick, and then I stop because if I keep moving I’ll start pacing.

My phone buzzes.

Running late. Don’t be nosy.

I snort, despite myself.

Another message, ten minutes later.

I’m doing it. Don’t panic.

My stomach flips. I type three replies and delete all of them before I send: Okay. I’m here.

When I finally hear her keys, I’m in the kitchen pretending to be normal.

The door opens. Claire steps in still wearing her coat and scarf looped high around her neck like she’s hiding contraband. Her cheeks are pink from the cold, eyes bright and nervous.

“Hi,” she says, careful.

“Hi,” I echo, and my voice comes out softer than I mean it to.

She hangs her coat with too much precision, buying time. Then she pulls the scarf away in one smooth motion.

The hair appears like a clean line.

Blonde still, but cut into a sleek blunt bob that sits at her jaw, shining. Her fringe is fuller, skimming her eyebrows, making her face look suddenly open—sharp in the best way.

I stop breathing for a second.

“Oh,” I say.

Claire’s mouth twitches. “Good ‘oh’?”

“Very good ‘oh’,” I manage, already stepping closer.

She watches me like she doesn’t trust the moment not to vanish. “Is it… too much?”

“No,” I say immediately. “It’s perfect.”

Something in her shoulders drops, relief slipping through. “I’m tired of being the same,” she admits, eyes flicking to my burgundy curls. “I keep watching you come home different, and I—” She swallows. “I wanted to feel new too.”

My chest goes warm.

I lift my hands the way she does with me. “Can I?”

Claire nods. “Yes.”

I touch the ends first—blunt, silky, precise—then skim the fringe lightly. She inhales like it hits somewhere deep.

“You look bold,” I murmur.

“That was the point,” she says, a small laugh, still keyed up.

I meet her eyes. “You got your first second.”

Claire’s lips part, pleased. “Did I?”

I let my gaze drag over the line of the bob, the fringe, the way it changes her whole posture. “You did.”

She smiles, real now, and leans in to kiss me—quick, then slower when my hands cup the back of her head and the bob brushes my fingers like a soft sweep.

When we break apart, her hand lifts toward my hair and pauses, waiting.

“Can I?” she asks, quiet.

“Yes,” I breathe.

Her fingers sink into my halo, careful and reverent, and the contrast between her sleek cut and my wild burgundy ringlets makes me feel suddenly, stupidly proud of us.

“We should pack,” she says, still touching me.

“We should,” I agree.

Neither of us moves for a beat.

—-

Barcelona smells like salt and sunscreen and perfume drifting out of open doors.

The harbour is bright, boats bobbing, the water glittering like it’s trying to show off. We walk hand-in-hand down narrow streets, stopping for coffee, for pastries, for no reason at all. Claire’s bob swings when she turns her head. I keep watching it because I can’t help it. She’s newly sharp. Newly bold.

And people keep looking at me, too—quick glances that snag and slide away. The burgundy catches sunlight in sudden flashes, like the city keeps tipping me toward a brighter angle. In the shade it goes almost black, then I step into a patch of sun and it turns to wine again, rich and wet-looking.

It makes me feel… chosen.

We cut through a plaza where music is playing from someone’s speaker, thin and tinny, and there—passing us on the steps—is a woman in a white tank top with a buzzcut so close it looks like velvet. Her head is bare and shining. She’s wearing huge gold hoops and she looks stunning, effortless, like she’s never once been afraid of being seen.

A few streets later, another one—older, sharper, an undercut grown out into a soft fuzz, sunglasses, red nails. She laughs at something her friend says and tilts her head back, exposing her neck like it’s nothing.

And then another, outside a bar—bleached buzz, dark brows, lipstick, the whole look balanced on the simplest possible hair.

It’s everywhere once I notice it. Not a trend, exactly. More like a quiet confidence the city wears openly.

My fingers twitch at my own nape.

Under my halo, I can feel the place where hair meets skin. The weight of the curls. The way they hide the line of my neck unless I lift them.

I catch my reflection in a shop window as we walk—Claire’s blonde bob, my burgundy ringlets—and for a second my brain does something it shouldn’t: it swaps my silhouette. Imagines the red gone from the ends and instead sitting close to my skull. Imagines the colour as a stain against bare scalp. Imagines the shape—my face with nothing framing it except air.

My stomach flips. Not fear.

Interest.

A seed.

Claire squeezes my hand, and I realise I’ve slowed.

“You okay?” she asks, gentle.

I blink, smile. “Yeah. Just—looking.”

Claire follows my gaze without me meaning her to. She sees the woman with the buzzcut across the street, sees the way she moves like she owns her own body.

Claire’s mouth parts slightly, thoughtful. Her eyes flick back to me.

It’s only a second. But it’s enough.

Something warm slides through my ribs. A little spark of later.

At the hotel, we drop our bags and stand in the middle of the room for a second, both slightly breathless—not from the walk, but from the fact that we’re here, away from our routines, away from neighbours and colleagues and the familiar.

Claire crosses to me and kisses me as if she’s checking we’re real.

It starts soft. It deepens. Her hands go into my hair immediately, as if she can’t help it. As if the trip has lowered some restraint she usually keeps neat.

I kiss her back and feel her smile against my mouth.

“God,” she murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak, “I love your hair.”

I laugh quietly. “I know.”

Claire’s eyes sharpen. “Do you?”

The question catches me. Not accusatory. Curious. Hungry.

I swallow. “Yes,” I admit. “More than I thought I would.”

Claire’s hand slides to my fringe, scrunching gently. The burgundy flashes as her fingers move. “It’s like… it’s a thing.”

“It’s a thing,” I agree, and the way she looks at me makes heat gather low in my stomach.

We end up on the bed without discussing it. Not falling—just… gravitating. The hotel duvet is crisp and cool against my legs. Claire crawls up beside me, her bob brushing my cheek as she kisses along my jaw.

“Okay?” she murmurs, breath warm at my ear.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Claire’s fingers sink into my halo again, and she exhales like relief. Like she’s been holding herself back all day and can finally stop pretending she isn’t obsessed.

She kisses me slowly, unhurried, as if there’s nowhere else to be. Her mouth is gentle, but her hands keep moving—scrunching curls, lifting at the crown, feeling the spring at the fringe like she’s memorising it.

I make a small sound into her mouth before I can stop myself, and Claire pauses immediately.

“What?” she asks softly.

I shake my head, embarrassed. “Nothing. Just—”

Claire’s thumb strokes my cheek. “Tell me.”

I swallow. My voice goes quiet. “It feels… good.”

Claire’s smile softens. “Better than good?”

I nod.

She kisses me again, slow and meaningful, and then she shifts so she’s partly over me, her hair swinging forward. The bob is silky against my skin when she moves, and I can’t help running my fingers along its line, feeling the blunt ends at her jaw.

“You did this for you,” I murmur.

Claire’s gaze holds mine. “And for you,” she admits.

The honesty of it makes my chest tighten.

We stay like that for a long time—kissing, touching, breathing each other in—until the room feels warm and small around us. Until I’m drowsy and bright all at once, my body softened into the bed, my hair a halo between her hands.

Eventually Claire rests her forehead against mine, just like she does at home, and laughs quietly.

“We’re supposed to go out,” she murmurs.

I smile, eyes half-closed. “We can.”

“In a minute,” she says.

“In a minute,” I agree, and kiss her once more, slow and sweet.

When we finally drag ourselves up, it’s with the reluctant amusement of two people who know they’ve nearly ruined their own plans—and don’t regret it.

That evening, we dress for tapas and sangria.

Claire wears a dress that makes the blonde bob look even sharper, her fringe a clean line above her eyes. She looks luminous in the warm hotel lighting, cheekbones catching highlights, mouth glossy, relaxed and confident.

I stand in the bathroom and look at myself.

My curls are round, perfect, almost too tidy. The fringe sits forward like a polite statement.

And tucked into my toiletry bag is a matte-black wide-tooth pick.

My pulse kicks. Hard.

I don’t tell myself not to. I don’t pretend I’m debating.

I just take it out.

The pick is light in my hand, teeth wide and blunt. I slide it into the roots at the side of my head and lift gently. The curls resist at first, then loosen, expanding outward. Not frizzing into chaos—just blooming. Becoming bigger. Wilder. More spherical.

I work slowly, careful, lifting at the roots, teasing the shape into a fuller halo. My fringe puffs slightly, forming a thicker curly canopy. The silhouette grows until my head looks almost perfectly round, my face sitting inside it like a window.

And the colour—God.

With the volume, the burgundy looks even deeper, like a storm cloud with red lightning inside it. In the bathroom light it shifts from near-black to wine to something almost plum at the edges, glossy and decadent.

I stop and stare at myself.

It’s… dramatic.

It’s also unmistakably me, just with less restraint.

My breath catches. I feel exposed and powerful at once, which is a strange combination that makes my skin prickle.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door.

“Babe?” Claire’s voice. Warm. Curious. “You alright in there?”

My heart thuds. “Yeah,” I call, trying to sound casual. “Just—finishing.”

I set the pick down on the counter, like it hasn’t just changed the evening. Like it isn’t evidence.

I open the door.

Claire is standing there in her dress, earrings catching the light, bob swinging slightly as she tilts her head. She looks up—and freezes.

Her eyes go straight to my hair. Her mouth parts.

For a second she doesn’t speak at all.

Then, softly, like she can’t help it: “Vesper.”

I lean against the doorframe, pretending I’m calm. “Too much?”

Claire takes one step closer, then another, slow, as if she’s approaching something that might disappear if she moves too quickly. Her hands lift, hover.

“Can I?” she asks, voice low.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Her fingers sink into my hair and she makes that same sound she made the first time she touched my curls—small, involuntary, stunned. Only this time it’s deeper. Hungrier. Like the volume has tipped something over in her.

“Oh my—” She laughs softly, then stops laughing because her breath catches. “It’s… it’s huge.”

“I know,” I murmur.

Claire’s hands move around the halo, feeling the breadth, the plushness, the way it sits outward from my head. Her eyes look almost dazed.

And then her fingers catch the light on the colour and she stills, staring.

“It’s so dark,” she whispers, like she’s speaking to the hair itself. “And then it’s… red. Like—like—”

“Wine,” I supply, voice too soft.

Claire’s throat moves. “Yes.”

“We’re meant to go out,” she says again, but she doesn’t move away.

“We can,” I repeat, and my voice is too soft to be convincing.

Claire’s gaze flicks to my mouth. Then back to my hair. Then back to my mouth again, like she can’t decide what she wants more.

She chooses both.

She kisses me—slow, deliberate, mouth warm, hands still buried in my halo. The kiss is unhurried and full of meaning, like she’s telling me without words that she’s grateful. That she’s undone. That she wants me exactly like this.

When we pull apart, she keeps her forehead close to mine, breath mingling.

“You didn’t tell me,” she whispers.

I smile faintly. “That’s the point.”

Claire’s laugh is soft and broken. “I can’t—” She swallows. “I can’t stop touching you.”

“Don’t,” I murmur again, and the permission in it makes her eyes darken.

She kisses me once more—shorter, but no less charged—then steps back, reluctantly, as if she’s forcing herself to remember the world outside this hotel room.

“We’re going,” she says, and it sounds like she’s convincing herself.

“Yes,” I agree, and reach for her hand.

We make it out.

Barely.

At tapas, Claire sits close enough that her knee brushes mine under the table. Every so often her hand drifts to my hair, a small squeeze at the side of my halo, a gentle scrunch at the fringe. She doesn’t even notice she’s doing it until I raise an eyebrow at her.

“What?” she asks, innocent.

“You,” I murmur.

Claire grins, shameless. “I’m enjoying my holiday.”

Later, walking back along the harbour with sangria warmth in our veins, we pass a group of women outside a club, laughing loudly, all legs and perfume and confidence. One of them has a buzzcut—dark, glossy—another has a bleached one that makes her earrings look sharper. They tilt their heads back in laughter and the city lights catch the shape of their skulls like jewellery.

I feel my own hair shift in the night breeze—big, red, unapologetic.

And somewhere under the sweetness of Claire’s arm around my waist, something else stirs.

Not a plan. Not yet.

Just the quiet certainty that hair is a language, and I’ve only just started learning how fluent I want to be.

Back in the hotel room, when Claire falls asleep with one hand resting lightly in my hair, I lie awake for a while and stare at the ceiling.

My halo is still huge from the pick, slightly softer now from the night air. The fringe tickles my forehead when I breathe. In the dark, the burgundy looks almost black; when a car passes outside and throws a strip of light across the room, it flashes red again—brief, secret, beautiful.

I think about Roxy’s hands. Her calm voice. The way she asked, Still with me?

And the way I answered without hesitation.

With you.

I close my eyes and let the thought settle like a promise.

Shorter.

Soon.

… to be continued